#dress like the night but light up the day

[casssmalefantasy]

you, me, and ted's tuesday - paige bueckers x reader!

s: the team’s back at uconn for summer training, and one thing leads to another… and another… and suddenly you and paige bueckers are making out at ted’s on live.

w: drinking, alcohol use, suggestive flirting, public kissing, instagram live chaos, drunk, but consenting adults, fluff, soft morning after vibes, team teasing, and cursing.

word count: 5.6k?

it all starts with paige lounging back on your couch, one leg over the armrest like she owns the place, which is funny because it’s your team apartment, not hers. she’s casually sipping from a water bottle like she didn’t just loudly say…

”we should go to ted’s tonight.”

you blinked up from your phone. “ted’s? it’s a tuesday.”

she grinned. “exactly. it’s like, initiation or whatever. welcome the freshmen. it’s a team bonding rite of passage.”

“you just wanna drink,” azzi called from the kitchen.

“and dance,” paige said, unbothered, already pulling out her phone.

it didn’t take long before everyone was on board. especially the freshmen. it’s hard to say no to paige when she turns those blue eyes on you, even harder when she’s grinning like she knows you’re gonna say yes.

so now, you’re standing in front of your mirror, keeping it casual.

ted’s isn’t anything to dress up for—you throw on a white tank top, grey sweatpants that hang low on your hips, and your go to pair of jordans. a little makeup, a little lip gloss, and you call it a day.

when you walk out into the living room, azzi immediately whistles.

“oh we’re in trouble.”

you roll your eyes. “this is literally sweatpants.”

“yeah, and somehow you still look hot. unfair.”

you flip her off as you slide your phone into your back pocket. most of the girls are ready, still waiting on kk and yanna.

paige’s already by the door, leaning against the wall, eyes flicking up to you when you walk in. slow. lingering, but she doesn’t say anything.

she never does.

—

ted’s is... not that bad tonight.

still full, but not suffocating like it usually is. mostly locals and a few straggling summer students. the air smells like beer, faint sweat, and cheap tequila. the lights are dim, neon signs glowing red and blue. music’s loud, mostly drake and hip hop remixes.

you’re one shot in and already loose. second shot has you laughing with your head tilted back. by the third, you’re behind the bar for some reason, helping the bartender pass out drinks like it’s your job.

and the more drunk you feel, the more it’s hitting you.

paige.

paige bueckers is attractive.

she’s always been attractive, obviously. but usually you can compartmentalize it. bury it under practice schedules, team meetings, and shared snacks on the bus. not tonight.

tonight she’s in a fitted white tee, hair down, dancing in the corner with ice, rapping along to “headlines” by drake like she’s performing at the fucking grammy’s. drunk paige is loud, giggly, and clingy as hell—which you learned your freshman year.

maybe it’s the tequila, or the way her voice drops when she sings the bass notes, or how she keeps glancing over at you like you’re a secret only she knows. either way, you’re staring.

ice has her phone up, and you assume she’s taking a pic until—

“wait—” you squint. “is that tiktok live?”

ice grins. “say hi to the people.”

“absolutely not,” you mutter, waving anyway.

paige catches sight of you and immediately yells, “YOOOOO LOOK WHO IT IS.”

you want to disappear into the floor.

“she’s lying,” you say, still smiling.

“nah nah nah, don’t be shy now,” paige’s grinning, stumbling toward you, clearly tipsy and glowing.

“WHO ORDERED SHOTS?”

you laugh. “you did, two seconds ago.”

she turns to you, eyes all shiny, drunk, and happy.

“you having fun?”

you nod. “yeah. it’s a good night.”

“hell fucking yeah it is,” she yells, throwing an arm around your shoulders.

you don’t even flinch when her hand slides to your waist.

you don’t realize how close you’re standing until she leans in and whispers, “you look really good tonight.”

your stomach flips.

you swallow. “you do too.”

paige smiles slow, and then her hand’s trailing down your arm again. “don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“say it like that. i’m drunk and you’re pretty and this is dangerous.”

you laugh, nervous. “well maybe you shouldn’t be this close then.”

“you want me to back up?”

“…no.”

she tilts her head, eyes locked on yours, and then ice yells from behind her, “yo the live wants more paige!”

paige turns, facing the camera, yelling “WASUUPPPPP!” with a crooked grin, clearly drunk.

you grab your drinks and nudge her. “your shots are here.”

she doesn’t hear.

“PAIGE!” and she finally turns.

“huh?”

you hand her the shot. “cheers.”

you both take your shots—her hand lingers on your hip.

and then she looks at you like she needs you. eyes hooded, lips parted. she leans in, voice barely audible.

“kiss me.”

your brain short-circuits.

“what?”

“make out with me,” she says, bolder now.

“come on.”

you shake your head, smiling. “paige this is ted’s.”

“so?”

“we shouldn’t,” you say, but it’s weak. very weak. especially when she grabs your face, thumb brushing your jaw.

“i want to,” she says, and she’s got that look again, the one that’s ruined you since freshman year.

her hand’s on your cheek now, thumb brushing just below your lip. “please,” she whispers.

and you cave. obviously.

you kiss her.

it’s quick at first, like you’re testing the waters. then she pulls you closer and you both lose yourselves in it, years of tension unraveling with one messy, breathless kiss.

neither of you notice ice glancing back at the live, the camera accidentally catching the way paige’s hands are on your waist and your fingers are buried in her hair.

“OH SHIT,” ice yells. flipping the camera around fast.

you pull back, startled. paige’s lips are flushed. your hands are still on her cheeks.

“that was not supposed to be on live. i didn’t even realize.” ice says to caroline

you and paige don’t hear her. not really. you’re too busy looking at each other. drunk and caught and smiling.

paige pulls back, breathless, lips curved.

“again?”

you nod, and she kisses you again, slower this time. like it means something.

when she finally pulls away, she grins.

“i’m gonna say hi to the live again.”

you blink, dazed, watching her bounce back to ice and caroline like she didn’t just change your life.

the rest of the night is a blur of touches and stolen kisses, fingers brushing yours when she passes by, her arm around your shoulder while you laugh into her neck. you’ve never felt more like hers.

—

you don’t even remember the ride home. someone drove. maybe caroline? you’re buzzed and giggly in the backseat, paige’s head on your shoulder.

she ends up in your bed somehow. she curls up beside you in one of your old uconn shirts, makeup smudged and hair messy, and she’s out before you can even say goodnight.

—

you wake up tangled together.

her arm’s around your waist, your leg’s over hers, and you both blink into the soft morning light filtering through your blinds.

“morning,” she mumbles, voice rough.

“morning.”

you hesitate, unsure what to say. unsure if she remembers.

but of course she does.

“so…” she says, stretching. “last night?”

you hum. “yeah…”

“i don’t regret it,” she says.

your heart stutters. “what?”

“i don’t regret kissing you. or making out with you. or telling you you looked hot.”

you go quiet, taking it in.

“do you?” she asks, suddenly serious. “regret it?”

you shake your head. “no. not even a little.”

she smiles, all soft and sleepy. “i’ve always had feelings for you, you know.”

your eyes flick to hers. “you have?”

“since the day you joined the team. you were the only freshman who didn’t get nervous around me.”

you laugh. “i was nervous as hell, paige.”

she grins. “could’ve fooled me.”

you pause, then admit, “i’ve always liked you too. i just… didn’t wanna ruin what we had.”

she shifts closer. “can i kiss you again?”

“yeah.”

and she does. slow and sweet and a little bit sleepy.

—

when you walk out of your room, azzi’s at the kitchen counter sipping coffee, and she looks up immediately.

smirking at the two of you.

“morning,” she sings.

you flush. “don’t.”

“what? i didn’t say anything.”

“it’s not what it looks like.” you say smiling.

paige stretches behind you, shirt riding up just a little, completely unbothered. “unless it looks like we made out at ted’s,” she says.

ice glances up from the couch. “had a good night, didn’t y’all?”

paige grins. “i mean… yeah. let’s just hope no one screen recorded the live or CD is gonna kill me.”

ice makes a face.

paige turns to her. “wait. bro don’t tell me—.”

“about that…” she says.

paige frowns, walking over to ice. “what? did they post it already?”

“yeah,” ice says. “but that’s not the bad part.”

“what’s the bad part?” paige asks clearly confused.

ice winces. “i might’ve accidentally shown the live you guys making out for like… two seconds.”

you choke on your coffee.

“what?!” paige laughs, eyes wide. “ice—”

“i didn’t mean to!” ice yells. “it just… happened! i flipped the camera and didn’t realize what y’all were doing!”

you cover your face, mortified.

paige shrugs. “whatever. we were drunk. it’s fine. as long as it’s not everywhere.”

paige then laughs and says “you’re banned from being anywhere near us when we’re drunk and live streaming. deal?”

“deal.”

you just shake your head, smiling as you take another sip of coffee.

paige glances back at you, eyes soft.

you can’t help but smile.

summer’s off to a wild start—and you have a feeling it’s only just beginning.

[urmommysfavkisserrr]

Sin Of Sunshine.

°•☆•° - Paige Bueckers x Ex-Wife Reader (Brazilian)

°•☆•° - No matter how long and stressful her day had been, she knows she could always come back home to you, even if you look like a goddamn sin in the sunshine.

°•☆•° - I’m procrastinating the new series, and I wanted to play around with this little family some more soooo. lowkey hate how this ended. like a lot.

°•☆•° - 3213 words,

°•°•☆°•°•°•☆•°•°•°☆•°•°

Paige couldn’t remember the last time her body felt this tired, but she knew she couldn’t deny it. Her bones felt like they were made of lead, her muscles like jelly, ready to give in and fall to the ground at any given second. 

The added ten minutes to her drive home didn’t help at all. There were multiple moments where she’d stop at a red light and zone out so hard that the cars behind her would honk when it turned green again, but the second she walked into the house, it was all worth it.

The smell hit her first. 

Warm vanilla wafting through the entryway from what she noticed was coming from a candle she had gotten you back in college for a birthday, and an added hint of oranges from what she could have guessed was from a diffuser.

Then the sounds. 

Zahria’s giggles and breathless words as she tried to speak in your native language of Portuguese, with an added melody of some random song in the background, and your gentle corrections.

And as she followed the sounds down the hall and into the kitchen, she found the sight that made every ache in her bones worth it. She’d take every ounce of pain humanly possible if it meant she could come home to this every damn day. 

Zahria sat criss-cross on the island counter, hunched over a stack of notebooks. Most of them were homework from school, the others were homemade packets you had made for her to help her learn more about where you came from. It was an obsession that started when she was five and heard you speak in something that wasn’t English, but it made her heart feel warm.

Zolani was sitting in one of the four bar stools, hands playing with some odd purple sand that Paige had yet to figure out. The occasional lisped word falling from her lips as she’d try and repeat something that Zahria had just said in Portuguese.

And then there was you. Your back to Paige and the rest of the house as you stood behind Zolani. Carefully working product into her damp curls and braiding it good enough to not have to be dealt with for at least a week. 

You were in a plain burnt orange dress. Spaghetti straps, thigh slit, ruffled and dropped bodice. The same dress that your sister had given you after cleaning out her closet over a year ago.

Simple nude heels and gold jewelry. Stacks of it on every place where it could be put, your ears, neck, wrists, fingers, hell, you even had an ankle bracelet.

Your hair was down and in your natural curls, the style Paige loved so much that she spent days watching you do your routine just so she could do it for you when you were too tired.

Even your nails were done. Plain nude with gold chrome tips that shone in the right lighting. Something Paige had insisted you get done at least once a month after she saw you eyeing down some cheap ass press-ons in CVS one night. That was a big no in her books.

The blonde made her way to the far end of the island first, hands slowly slinking around the small body propped up in the high chair. Messy blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a gummy smile beamed up at the blonde the second the baby realized it was Paige holding him. 

Andre Thomas Bueckers.

Andre after your older brother, and Thomas from Paige’s little brother. The one-year-old was a carbon copy of Paige and her ride-or-die partner in crime.

“Ah-Ah!” The boy babbled, hands clapping together before reaching out to touch the blonde's cheeks. 

The sound also alerted the three other girls to the new figure in the room, which ended up echoing into a blend of “Mommy!”, “Mommy’s home!”, and “Don’t ruin your hair, Zo!”

You sighed as the kids ran to swarm Paige, arms crossed as you leant your hip into the counter, head slightly cocked. You couldn’t help the small smile that curled on your lips at the sight, even if you knew your last hour of work on Zolani’s hair would get messed up. 

Paige knelt with Andre still in her arms and resting on her left hip. Zahria stood on her right, hands on her shoulder, while Zolani stood in front of her, babbling on about something with her lisp.

Zolani jumped up and down, her little arms waving by her sides as a wide smile took over her face, minus the two missing front teeth. “Mommy! Look! I lost my other tooth! Mama said I might get money from the Tooth Fairy if I go to sleep early tonight.”

“Mama’s right, babe. The Tooth Fairy only comes to see good little girls and boys, and only if you’re asleep.” Paige responded softly, using her free arm to gently grab Zolani’s to try and prevent her from accidentally hitting the baby or her sister before standing up.

“Go on, go back to Mama and let her finish your hair. I’m gonna go put little mister here in a clean diaper.”

The girl did as told, bounding back over to the island where you were and climbed back up into the chair, as Paige left the room and Zahria grabbed her packets and snuck up the stairs, most likely to her room. “Mommy said I had to let you finish my hair.”

“Did she now?” You hummed with a small smirk as you picked up the comb and gel once again.

Zolani nodded, crossing her arms with a huff. Something she claimed ‘helped her focus’, aka, just kept her from reaching out for other things to fidget with. “Mhmm. I wanna show her my pigtails.”

Your smirk immediately fell, along with your hands that dropped to your sides. “Pigtails? No, mama, we’re doing braids.”

The six-year-old had never spun around to face you faster than she just did. Her little hands clamped onto the back of the chair as she shifted onto her knees. “No! I want Piggys Mama!”

A deep sigh fell from your lips, rubbing your forehead with the back of your hand, the same hand that held the comb. “Babe, come on, we’ve talked about this already. If we do the braids, which I already started, then we don’t have to worry about it in the morning.”

“Piggys.”

“Zo.”

“Piggys.”

“Eu juro por Deus, eu vou machucar essa criança.” (I swear to god, I’m going to kill this child.)

“Mommy likes my curls, Mama!”

That earned another sigh from you, this one much more saddened yet understanding. “Is that what this is about? Mommy liking your hair?”

“...I just want her to smile at me.” Seeing that look in your youngest daughter's face broke something inside of you, your heart, maybe your soul.

You moved from behind the chair to the side of it, kneeling to be more level with Zolani. Your hand softly resting on her knee. “Baby, Mommy will always smile at you, she loves you. You’re the light of her life, just like your sister and brother are, okay? Mommy will like whatever you want to do with your hair. So, what do you wanna do?”

Zolani sat there for a second, eyes drifting to the messy pile of purple sand as the thoughts worked through her brain, and you let her. “The braids.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Cuz then I can have more playtime in the morning.” Zolani nodded firmly, that all too familiar sass coming back to the front. 

“That’s right, baby.” You hummed as you stood back up, moving to stand behind the chair once again and finally get these braids finished. 

°•°•☆°•°•°•☆•°•°•°☆•°•°

It was later that night, after all the kids got put to bed. A soft, golden glow floated through the house that lit everything up as if it came down from heaven itself.

You stood in front of the sink, washing up the containers from the kids' lunches and any leftover dishes that couldn’t go in the dishwasher. Still in the same dress, same everything.

Your mind zoned out to the point of being locked in on what's in front of you, but unable to hear anything around you, a song you heard hours earlier on the radio playing over and over as if it was playing out loud.

And from the kitchen entryway, Paige swore she was about to bust. 

She has no idea how long she’s been standing there, just watching you. 

It’s creepy, yeah, but you were like a drug to her. Like a parasite in her brain. Like that dumb mouse from that kids' movie Zolani loved to watch, where he controlled the guy by pulling his hair.

The way you stood in that direct stream of glowing sunlight, like it didn’t bother you, the way it lit up every inch of your skin, your hair, your jewelry. It made you look like you didn’t even belong in this cruel world, like you were carved from marble and coated in gold.

Yeah, Paige was fucked. Completely and utterly fucked.

Hands sliding around your waist from behind is what brought you back to the present, a warm face nuzzling into your neck as your body leaned back into Paige’s without a second thought. The plastic plate slid from your hands back down into the soapy water.

“Hi, Mama.”

“Hi, Mommy.”

The blonde huffed, her hands sliding to rest over your stomach as she placed soft kisses on your neck. “How’re you feeling?”

You hummed, a smirk crawling up onto your lips. “You do know I had the baby a year ago already, right? You don’t have to fuss over me anymore.”

Paige did not like that. 

She brought her hands back to your hips before gently turning you around so now you faced her, and your back was to the sink. “I do. I do have to fuss over you. I want to fuss over you. I did with Zahria, with Zolani, with Andre, and I plan to do it again if we ever have another one, and until the day we die.”

Your head tilted with a knowing look, “You just like seeing me pregnant.”

And the blonde couldn’t deny your words. “That...I do. Yeah.”

“Mhm.”

She squeezed your hips to get your attention back on her, “But I also enjoy seeing you happy. I love watching you glow, Ma.”

You huffed, “Glow?”

“Mhmm.” Her hands roamed over your sides, eyes darting down to trace along your body before looking back up at you. “You glow when you’re happy, Mama, and god is it a sight. I’d die to see it forever.”

A soft laugh fell from your lips as you leaned forward, hands sliding from the blonde's shoulders to wrap around her neck as your head landed on her chest. “You’re so sappy.”

“For you I am.” And she tightened her hold on you, keeping you there for a beat before pulling back to eye you up and down again. 

Her eyes dancing over every inch of you, like she wanted-no, needed to commit it to memory. “Also, this fucking dress? Shit, Ma. Where you been hidin’ this shit, huh?”

Your lips curled, a faint blush blooming on your cheeks. “You like it?”

“Like it? Fuck, baby, I fucking love it. You look fuckin’ good. My god.” Paige couldn’t tear her eyes away from you.

You laughed again, louder and more genuine. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Nah, I’m turned the fuck on.” The blonde shamelessly admited, her eyes lingering on your boobs and hips, even your stomach. Part of her wondered what the dress would look like had you worn it a year ago, while you were still carrying Andre.

“Paige!”

She huffed, her gaze finally moving back up to look at you, after another lingering glance at your tits. “What? I’m serious. I’ve had the worst fuckin’ day, and I had to prepare myself to deal with screaming kids the whole drive here, yet when I walk in they’re all smiles and laughs and then there you are looking like a goddamn sin.”

“You say that about everything I wear.”

“Cuz it’s fuckin’ true. You could be wearing nothin’ and i’d still wanna fuck you down.”

A shocked laugh bubbled out of you, your hand swatting at her chest. “Oh my god- Paige, I just had a baby.” “So what?” The blonde just scoffed, like that would have no effect on her and what she wanted to do to you.

“So…I look different now.” You spoke hesitantly, that hint of insecurity flashing behind your eyes as you did.

Paige noticed, she always did.

She shook her head, hands tightening on your waist before loosening again. She knew the last thing you needed in this moment was to feel trapped, so she made sure her grip was loose enough that you could slip away if you wanted. 

“Nah, fuck that. You look good, so fuckin’ good. Fuck, baby, I could do so many things to you right now. I don’t care about none of that baby weight bullshit. You don’t feel pretty? I’ll fuckin’ remind you. I’ll do it all day, every day, till you believe it.”

She knew you didn’t fully believe her, you never did, but that’s okay. Because she was going to make sure you understood that you knew how she saw you, and that's all that mattered. 

“You looked beautiful before any of the kids, you looked beautiful after Zahria, after Zolani, even after Andre. Baby, you’re the most fucking stunning girl i’ve every laid eyes on, I swear on my fucking life.”

“Paige..”

Paige shook her head, grabbing her hand and already starting to walk out of the kitchen and up the stairs. “Nah, come on. Upstairs. I’m gonna show you how fucking beautiful you are.”

°•°•☆°•°•°•☆•°•°•°☆•°•°

“You still with me, baby?”

Paige’s voice was the first thing that pulled you out of your blissful stupor, her now cool hands against your heated body being the second. “Hm?”

“I asked if you were with me, here on earth.” Her voice was soft, soothing. Almost guiding you back to that blissed out place, had you not wanted to hear more of it.

“...mhm.” You hummed out through slightly parted lips and closed eyes.

She laughed softly, her hands sliding up from your thighs to your hips, then waist, then the sides of your ribs. “You sure about that, Mama? You’re spacin’ on me.”

After a beat, you finally opened your eyes. Lazily blinking up at the blonde above you. Your words loose and heavy. “Just…feels good.” Paige’s lips curled, one of her hands moving to press into the sheets to hold herself up while the other gently brushed your hair away from your face. “Yeah? I bet it does. That’s what happens when we use our words and say what we want.”

You grumbled at the cockyness in her tone, your eyes slipping shut once again as your lips curled to a pout. “Shhh…”

“No, no. Hey, no. Stay with me, Mama. I gotta get you cleaned up, hm? You wanna get in the bath?” She tapped your cheek, not hard, just enough to break that sleepy daze you were in.

Your brows furrowed as your lips curled into a faint pout, “Wanna cuddle...”

“We can, we will. We just gotta get you cleaned up first, okay? Just stay there and look pretty for me, try to stay awake, okay?”

“Mhm.” You nodded, eyes still closed, and lips still pouted.

Paige softly huffed at your actions, her hand patting your hip once before she carefully got off the bed and padded into the bathroom. “Keep bein’ a good girl for me, yeah? You’re doin’ so good, baby.”

°•°•☆°•°•°•☆•°•°•°☆•°•°

You very much failed at being a good girl, because the next thing you remember was your eyes fluttering open as you were being lowered down into the tub full of warm water. Paige’s body carefully sliding in behind you. “Hmm..”

“Hey, there you are. Welcome back, baby.”

“Hi..” You mumbled, body melting back into the blonde’s front as your head fell to her shoulder.

Paige left soft and warm kisses on your jaw and cheek, her hands rubbing your hips and upper thighs. “You feel okay, baby? Was it too much?”

“Hmm...a little, but it was good. M’good. S’good.” Your eyes softly fluttered shut once again, just soaking in the moment.

Paige’s touch grew a little firmer at that. “You shoulda said somethin’, Ma. I woulda stopped, or slowed down. You know that.”

You faintly nodded against her shoulder, “I know…I know, but it was good. I liked it, needed it.”

“Oh. You needed it, hm?”

You could hear the smirk on her lips and the cockiness in her tone. “Mhmm...”

“You needed a reminder, or to feel good?” Her hands resumed their movements up and down your sides.

You hummed, “Both. A reminder, and to feel good. To just..let go ‘n trust for a little bit.”

Paige’s face softened at that, and so did her touch. “You can always trust me, baby. You know that, right?”

Hearing the hidden fear and vulnerability in Paige’s voice made your heart twist. You turned your head just slightly, enough to press a kiss on her jaw and leave your lips there as you spoke. 

“No, I know, I do. It’s just..” You sighed. “Zolani has been on this...kick...lately. Everything she does, she thinks about how it’ll affect you, how it’ll make you feel, if you’ll like it. She’s scared, P.”

Her head tilted, “Of what?”

Your eyes blinked open and landed on the blonde, looking up at Paige the best you could from the odd angle. “You. She thinks that if she does something wrong, you’ll leave again. That it’ll be her fault, again.”

Paige’s brows immediately furrowed, her body tensing. “What? Why would she think that?”

You sighed, guilt lacing every inch of your voice and face. “Zahria and I. We’d both talk about you. She’d see pictures. Eventually, she asked, and we told her. I explained how she wouldn’t remember you, cuz she was two when we split, and she was too young to remember when you’d still pick them up. So she thought you left because of her.”

“Oh…sweet girl...” Paige’s lips parted as she took everything in, her eyes trained on a single tile on the bathroom wall.

You hummed in acknowledgment, rolling your head to look up at the ceiling instead of Paige as you let the blonde think everything over. “She just started it after you moved in.”

Paige’s voice dropped to a whisper as the pieces started clicking together, everything suddenly making sense. “That’s why she’s been so moody.” 

Your lips quirked up just slightly as you thought about your earlier conversation with your daughter, then they dropped back down. “She wants to ‘see you smile at her.’  Her words, not mine.”

“I do smile at her.” Was the last thing you heard before you slipped out again, the mix of the bath and Paige’s body against yours was enough to put you right to sleep.

“She’s my light, and you’re my world.”

[wileys-russo]

my mummy II l.williamson

part of the milaverse my mummy II l.williamson

"okay which one bubba? red or black?" you questioned, holding up the tiny arsenal jerseys and doing a little shimmy making your daughter giggle.

her tiny hand stroking her chin thoughtfully made you shake your head with an amused smile as she mulled over her options.

"black." mila eventually decided, finger pointing to the jersey in question, leahs number and williamson sprawled on the back.

"good pick babe. arms up please!" you instructed, quirking an eyebrow when the four year old shook her head in response. "i wanna dress myself today please mumma." she informed crossing her arms over her chest with a determined nod.

“mila are you-“ “im nearly five now, a big girl. i can do it.”

"very true i’m sorry. but its cold and its windy today, so dress warm please!" you warned, moving to sit down on the edge of her bed. "no mumma, by myself!" the four year old pointed to the door and hurried over, pushing impatiently at your legs.

"okay okay! jesus i thought i'd get a few more years before i got kicked out of your room, this hurts mila." you gasped dramatically as she shoved you from her room, only met with a door slammed in your face.

"was that-" you turned around and nodded to your wife. "she wants to dress herself today." you informed with a chuckle, moving into the blondes waiting arms which wrapped around you.

"we've told her she isn't allowed to grow up right?" "nearly every day since was born my love, she just does not want to listen."

~

"-are you done now?" you called out with a sigh, leaning against the wall by your daughters door which you'd tried to open several times. only met with a shout and it pushed closed again, mila firmly stating she wasn't ready and you weren't allowed to see until she was.

leah had already left as to not be late and you shook your head as you checked the time again already knowing the two of you would be stuck in traffic and miss kick off if you didn't leave soon.

you'd decided to give the goalpost a kiss in training and were on concussion watch, the knock was nothing serious enough to warrant medical treatment but it was enough to mean you'd be watching todays match from the stands.

"okay mila my love. we have to go and i'm coming in!" you warned, though before you could even grab the handle the door it flew open and a bundle of colour and blonde hair came zooming out.

"like it?" your daughter beamed, bouncing happily on the balls of her feet as you bit your bottom lip taking in her choice of outfit, trying really hard not to bust out in laughter.

she had on a pair of light up trainers alessia had gotten her for her birthday, pale yellow nike joggers with a pair of lime green bike shorts over the top.

on her top half she had on a red hoodie with a pink wälti jersey over the top and a white arsenal beanie on her head, with its matching scarf tied around her hips like a makeshift belt.

"well...i'm not going to lose you in the crowd, thats for certain." you admitted, knowing no matter what you said or tried there wasn't a chance you'd be getting your daughter changed without a fight.

"you don't wanna wear mummys jersey?" you tried, knowing your wife would kick off and lia would be absolutely beside herself with glee in your daughters current choice.

"nope! aunty wally was sad last time i saw her so i thought this would make her happy, cause you and mummy always say pink is a happy colour!" mila explained and your heart melted.

the last time she had seen lia was after a particularly rowdy team night out where she'd wound up crashing at your place, you the designated driver and your wife a key influence in just how many shots lia had downed which you'd told her off for afterwards.

the two had wound up crying crocodile tears on the living room floor as you disallowed them to see mila when the three of you returned home and swapped over with the babysitter around 11 at night.

trying to remind them it was hours after mila's bedtime and the two of them were very drunk it was like arguing with two overgrown toddlers.

which had in turn had woken your daughter up who'd come to investigate, not understanding why she wasn't allowed to say hello when you tried to usher her quickly back to bed before either of the lw's sobbing in the living room could get their hands on her.

"we do say that don't we." you agreed with your daughters words, shaking your head in amusement at her outfit but giving in, not wanting to fully squash the independence you and leah were trying to instill in her.

"at least you listened about the weather and did lots of layers bubba."

~

you sent polite smiles to the strange looks you received walking your daughter through the tunnels of the emirates, meeting up with leahs mum and wordlessly shaking your head at her questioning stare as she scooped up her granddaughter and the three of you made your way to your seats.

"do you like my outfit nana?" your daughter chirped for the third time in the hour as you waved to your wife who was very clearly looking around stressed that she'd not spotted you yet, sighing in relief once she had.

"don't ask." you mouthed at her perplexed look toward your daughter stood up in your lap furiously waving her and her team mates down. "wally!" you cupped your hands over your mouth to gain the midfielders attention as she began to walk off the pitch after warm ups.

vic heard you and grinned before tapping lia's shoulder and gesturing toward you as you spun mila around to show her last name plastered on your daughters back. her face lit up and you laughed as she raced right over to almost tackle your wife, no doubt about to lay into her about it.

now mila was older she'd become a different sort of handful to take to games, especially when both you and leah were playing and had to trust her in someone elses care.

normally your poor mother in law who insisted leah was much worse at that age, which never failed to rile the blonde up who argued her brother was the handful and she was the golden child.

gone were the earmuffs, dummy and baby blanket mila had needed to settle previously, where she'd often sleep the whole way through the match happily bundled up in someones arms.

but nowadays she was a little unstoppable bundle of energy who often required distraction or bribery of some sort to sit still for prolonged periods of time.

which is how you found yourself racing off midway through the first half to sort out some food, having left in such a rush you'd completely forgotten the bag of snacks and toys you normally carted along with you whenever you left the house with mila in tow.

much like her other mother your daughter had the stomach of a bottomless pit, though gratefully she'd taken after you with what she was happy to put in that pit and was nowhere near as fussy as leah.

sometimes when you made dinner and mila ate what you did but leah required a separate meal you really questioned who was the four year old between them.

thankfully once she'd been fed and watered mila settled a little. with her nana more than happy to listen to her chatter and answer her millions of questions you made it through the entire match without a single issue.

the problems started when the game finished, mila starting to go on the turn when you wouldn't allow her to run down the stairs toward the barriers to see leah or any of her aunties, far too many people around and worried you'd lose her or she'd be crushed in the crowd.

it would seem though that patience was not on your daughters agenda today.

"i wanna see mummy now!" the girl whined, wriggling furiously to try and yank her hand out of your grip as you sighed and took a deep breath.

"mummys just saying hi to some people first bubba, thats part of our job! remember?" you tried to explain, even offering her an ice cream as a last minute ditch to distract her but it was to no use.

not even alessia could capture her attention for more than a few minutes as your daughter grew more and more fussy and inpatient the more time passed.

"it'll be fine." you forced a smile toward your friends and team mates who'd all taken turns trying to distract mila as the two of you stood in the tunnel now, leah signing autographs and taking photos with a larger crowd than normal.

"wanna come kick a ball tiny?" beth offered in a last ditch effort and that seemed to work as your daughter nodded eagerly and latched onto the taller girls leg, her giggles echoing around as beth zoomed off back onto the pitch.

you kept them in clear sight as you hung on the sidelines now, waving to a few fans who called out your name, sending an apologetic shake of your head when they asked for your signature and photos too, your focus needing to on your daughter today.

but that tiny lapse in attention was all it took for mila to break away from beth, sprinting off toward leah who had her back turned and ignoring the older girls calls after her which gained your focus back right away.

intercepting her quickly you scooped the four year old up into your arms and sat her on your hip. "i wanna see mummy!” you winced as she smacked your chest a few times and pushed away alessia who'd appeared to try and help, and you could tell from the wobble of her bottom lip that she was a few moments away from a total meltdown.

"hey mila, baby look at me please." you dropped to your knees and stood her on her feet, your hands on her shoulders stopping her from running off.

"we don't hit people, okay? i know you're having some really big feelings and you miss mummy but-" you started, yelping as your daughter suddenly clawed at your hand, racing away toward leah.

you shouted after her, leah looking up a second too late as her daughter barreled into her. "my mummy! mine!" she snarled at a young girl who leah was trying to take a picture with.

the defender quickly picking her up and apologizing to the fan and her dad right as mila started to have a meltdown.

apologizing to the crown still awaiting her attention leah turned heel and headed toward you, the two of you falling into step as you made your way into the tunnel and down the hall toward the change rooms.

"bubba-" you started as her screams turned into sobs and she buried her face in leahs neck who winced with one final scream sounding in her ear.

"off!" mila demanded, pushing away your hand which tried to rub at her back as you inhaled sharply and paused.

catching your wifes eye who nodded in understanding, you stayed outside and she disapeared into the change rooms to try and calm your daughter down.

"hey, you alright?" you glanced up to meet concerned blue eyes and nodded, exhaling deeply as your best friend pulled you into a hug. "thanks less." you mumbled as she rubbed your back, assuring over and over that you were the best mum ever.

promising her you were okay but that you'd need a rain check on dinner plans you all had tonight she gave you another hug and headed off to see her family.

with another deep breath you headed into the change rooms, only a few of the girls remaining as you spotted leah by her cubby. you caught her eye again and raised an eyebrow as she nodded, your daughter still tightly clinging onto her.

"mila. what do we need to say to mumma please?" leah started firmly, bouncing her knee up and down gently to gain your daughters attention as she pulled her head out of your wifes neck.

"im very sorry for scratching and yelling." the girl apologised softly, climbing off leahs lap and moving into yours, warmth flooding your body as she hugged you tightly and you kissed the top of her head.

you melted even further as your daughter grabbed your hand, carefully kissing over where she'd scratched you before clambering right back into leahs lap.

"i'll shower at home." leah chuckled, gesturing to the way your daughter clung onto her like a monkey, refusing to loosen her grip as you took your wifes bag for her and the three of you waved goodbye to the few girls left and headed for the car park.

"mummy sit in the back with me, please?" mila ordered with a pout once you reached the car.

"alright kid, just this once." leah gave in clearly picking up that mila was being abnormally clingy today, something the two of you would need to speak with her about another time.

and for the rest of that night it was the same story, your daughter refusing not to have some part of her in contact with leah at all times.

so much so that she'd stayed in the bathroom while your wife showered, insisting you sit with her as well as she held leahs hand through the shower door as much as she could making you smile in amusement.

"my mummy." was all that seemed to be repeated, the possessiveness also something new but a conversation for another day as leah waved off your concerns, too thrilled with having your daughters full focus and attention all night.

"for god sakes." you'd mumbled later that night at the sight before you. your wife having spent an abnormal amount of time putting mila to bed you'd wandered up to check in.

only to find leah dead asleep in the tiny single bed belonging to your daughter, long limbs hanging off the sides with mila curled into her still very much so awake.

"sh! mummy is very tired." the four year old warned with her finger over her lips as you entered the room.

"you should be asleep little miss, not mummy!" you reminded quietly as she gave you a cheeky smile looking far too much like leah, holding up the book which was previously laid open on your wifes chest and patting the mere centimeters of space left on her bed beside her.

"one more story, please?"

[viridianriver]

You inspired me to write <3

Wizard Fic - Part 1

It had been a few years since Lydia had cast a good curse. A good honest curse, on a deservingly cruel host. One that would nourish her, provide for her, and provide for her host as well. Her curses carried the ability to command another to spend their ill-gotten coin on seeds, to step outside humbly before a heavy rain, kneel on the ground, plant the seeds. Harvest the crop when the time came, when the sun was low in the morning sky. Nourish themselves, and her. Let her walk away with a full pack of bread and preserves, returned to themselves, as if they had woken from a long restful sleep.

She cast healing curses, on cold hearts that needed healing. Or at least that’s how she justified it to herself - she wasn’t casting a curse as much as blessing a wayward soul with the gift of growth. Taking a bitter, destructive, selfish person, and forcing them to implant the ground with new life, cultivate, cherish, and nourish.

It was a nasty thing, putting another under your thrall. Before new life would bloom in their fields, their eyes would go dark as night - the pupil expanding supernaturally to subsume the iris, the whites of the eye. They would walk as children do, unfamiliar in their own bodies, stumbling, grasping, falling.

She carried a pair of tinted looking-glasses, dark emerald to protect the darker eyes from the harsh light of the sun. And protect the thralled from the fearful stares of passerby. She was a wizard, yes, but a kind one. She told herself that gentle lie every time she lifted her staff.

A kind wizard only curses the deserving. A kind wizard protects the enthralled from those who look upon them with fear. A kind wizard looks away when casting, lest she sees the fear in the eyes of the host. And again when cursebreaking, to allow herself the kind fantasy of imagining the host wake as if from a restful sleep. She doesn’t rejoice in suffering, she only curses when absolutely necessary.

Lydia was hungry. Ravenously so, having spent her morning scrounging enough nuts from the forest floor to roast over a small campfire. Her magick was weakening, spent from hunger and exhaustion. Her velvet dress dragged in the soil, an ombre of violet to ashy-tan, to muddy brown. Water clung to it, seeping into the heavy fabric just as the cold did.

She needed a host, and soon. Her thin fingers wrapped around the gnarled wood of her staff, and she whispered a quiet charm. The rich velvet of her dress morphed into a threadbare beige wool, damply clinging to her curves. She glanced at her leather boots, worn through from walking, and stood upon one foot, then the other, pulling the damp old things off and tossing them to the forest. “One must feed the forest to be fed by it…” she whispered, hoping the worn leather would be a decent enough offering for a creature more desperate than even her. She gazed into the mirrored crystal upon her staff. Horridly destitute, she thought. Nearly-bared by mothholes scattered across her chest and waist, ferociously beautiful. She grinned, with the satisfaction of a trap well lain.

Another quiet charm, and her adorned staff shrunk to half its height, a simple, well-worn cane fashioned from a tree branch.

It was a day’s walk before Lydia came upon the castle, turrets high enough to be lost in the evening mist rising from the swampland below. She had cherished the feeling of mud between her toes, the forgiving softness and patient power of the Earth imbuing her with the energy she needed to keep walking. Feeding from the Earth this way was slower than finding a good host, but it was enough.

The castle stood on a rocky outcropping, rising above the damp marshlands. There was no moat, it instead relied on the unforgiving climb up slippery moss-sprinkled rock to seclude itself from all but the most determined invaders.

Lydia cast a subtle protection charm on herself, a faint ripple in the air like the wavering vision of heat rising above a fire. Enough to inflame an arrow before reaching her, allow boiling oil to flash-burn inches above her flaxen hair, leaving it uncharred. She lashed her staff to her back, wrapped with a thin strip of rawhide. And she began to make her way up the cliff face.

It was slow going, but Lydia could see worn handholds, footholds, gaps in the thick moss where others had tread. She dirtied her hands wrapping them around the exposed roots of scraggly spruces, clinging onto the cliffside with more strength than Lydia could muster herself. She left bits of herself as she climbed, a broken nail on a rough stone, a trailing drip of blood from a scratch on her ankle. “One must feed the mountain to be fed by them,” she grunted with a pained look in her eyes.

Sweat dripped off of her fine brow, into her deep brown eyes. Grasping onto the stone and roots as she was, she couldn’t wipe it clear, couldn’t see clearly more than a few feet ahead. Still, she continued, one handhold at a time.

The precarious ledges leveled off, until the stones seemed more like a rough-hewn staircase than a ladder. Lydia bounded up them, towards the heavy oaken door, studded with iron reinforcements.

There was no knocker.

She wrenched a stone loose from the hillside and began to pound on the door. Dents appeared in the weather-smoothed wood, yet nobody answered. “Serves the rich bastard right” she grumbled, twisting the stone against the doorway in frustration. “To kill an old tree like this, just for a door larger than any man or beast!”

Still, she was met by silence.

She flung the stone at the door, where it collided with an iron beam, ringing with a loud bell-like clang.

It echoed off the distant hills, a mocking sort of music, until the mountaintop faded back to silence. Lydia sank to her knees in the rocky soil, hot tears budding from her eyes. They rolled down her grimy cheeks, spilling to the ground. Dashing against the rocks like rain, dripping to the soil between.

“One must feed the Earth to be fed by it” Lydia wept, in desperate hope that the old tales were true, that all that is given to the world would be returned twofold when the time was right. All she had to offer were her tears. She hoped that was enough.

The wind picked up as Lydia wept, and the first few drops of rain fell from through the heavy clouds that wrapped the castle above. She cried out in exhaustion and fear, her moth-eaten dress providing little comfort from the windswept rain. The artifice of desperation was quickly feeling far more real.

The rain mingled with her tears on the jagged stones, and washed away, diluted, into the cracks between.

A moment later, a flickering lantern appeared in an arrow slit above. Lydia saw only the stone below, darkening with the increasing deluge.

Wizard disguised as a harmless beggar showing up at a castle and doing everything in their power to make themselves an obnoxious guest so that when the master of the house finally snaps they can declare them a poor host and put a curse on them, but nothing is working, and they're starting to wonder who's really fucking with whom.

[rhaenyraeri]

blood benediction - remmick

minors dni, 18+!!

• heavily inspired by Wolf Moon (Including Zoanthropic Paranoia) - Type O Negative (yes it’s about werewolves and yes, i’m ignoring that), i recommend listening as you read hehe •

Pairing: whiny!remmick x fem!reader

Summary: remmick visits you every month on the 28th as you begin to bleed, and month after month you deny him.

Warnings: no smut actually happens but comes very close, mentions of fem!recieving oral while on her period, whiny and desperate remmick!

Word Count: 679

each month on the 28th day, remmick came to your house, right through the wooded land you lived beside. you’ve never let him in, leaving him to pace the front porch as desperation coursed through his body. he smelled your blood, he smelled your arousal, he smelled you. the way your body called out to him each month like an invitation but he could never get in. you would just stand there, so close to him being able to touch you, yet so far away.

“darlin’ will you please just let me in, i- i- i can’t take it much longer,” he begged. the drool frothing out more and more with each word, dropping down to the ground below. with each passing moment, he felt your body antagonizing him more and more. months of him coming to your home just for you to deny him access to the feast you laid out for him had finally taken its toll.

tonight, you sat right behind the door frame in an old wooden chair, your dress hiked up around your waist, legs spread just enough, bleeding freely for him to see. his pacing picks up, putting his dirt covered hands over his face. “please, honey, please.. i just want a taste, is all.” he rubbed his eyes with his hands before turning to stomp up the wooden stairs, causing them to creak with the ferocity of each step. he fell to his knees before you, just maybe a little over a foot away. the drool now salivating out of mouth, his chest heaving up and down as tears pooled in his eyes. “what do you want me to do, huh? how’re you gon’ agree to let me in? you can’t leave me out here to starve!”

you sat a moment, crossing your legs together and blocking his view. he clasped his hands together and shut his eyes tight, before practically praying, “please i ask you let me have a taste, i’ll be good, i’ll treat ya real good, i promise. i’ll worship you like a god for the rest of your days if you please just let me in.” tears now fell from his piercing red eyes as they opened, looking at you with prayerfulness, and closing again. he just muttered praise and words of desperation as you thought about it, looking at his pathetic state. you had a powerful, centuries old vampire at his knees at your front door, begging and pleading to a mere human to let him have a taste of her blood and pussy. slowly, you raised a leg up to touch his shoulders, bringing his face closer to you. your other leg helped you scoot the chair closer to the door frame. your knee now resting on his shoulder, the scent of you stronger than ever before filling his surroundings. his muttering stopped, his eyes opened, and he was in tongues length of you. but you never said the words, and that half inch saved you from being in his grasp. his arm grabbed your other leg, throwing it over his other shoulder. a whiny sob left him, his breath blowing right over your pussy. he turned his head to kiss the little bit of your leg that he could, before resting his forehead on your thigh.

“please, darlin’. i’m so close to you, please. i can’t take this anymore, you’re torturin’ me sweetheart.”

your right hand reached out to touch his hair, running your fingers through it before giving a light tug. he whimpers and cries at the touch, now that it’s the first time he’s had any part of you on him ever. the whimpers sound like a kicked animal, wailing in pain and true to the night, begging for mercy. the saliva makes him look truly feral, the pent up desire overthrowing him.

you scratch his head, then behind his ear, causing him to look at you. pity covered your face, and your lip pouted with sympathy.

“you poor thing, who could ever deny such a pathetic creature a meal? come on in.”

[mydearzero]

The Babysitter | Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x fem!Reader - Chapter 5 | City Lights

Summary: You didn’t have any superpowers, nor were you even qualified for the position, yet somehow a mishap between Alexei and Yelena ends up in getting you a new job. Bob-sitter. 

Contents: No Y/N, fem!reader, college student!reader, themes of depression

Read it on AO3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 4

1.9K words

It was nearing nightfall, and the team had yet to return from whatever it was they were doing. Bob also had yet to return from his bedroom. For a man who claimed to always be hungry, he was staying suspiciously far from the kitchen. You tried to coax him out twice, but knew not to push it. 

You were sitting on the couch watching a movie when you got a text from an unknown number:

We won’t be back tonight. Can you stay the night? There’s a free room next to Bob’s

It’s Ava btw

Yeah sure. Anything else? 

Not for now, we’ll keep you updated and let you know when we’ll be back. 

Well, you might as well get comfy and put on some sweatpants. Maybe have a shower while you were at it, too. You gathered the extra clothes you’d packed in case something like this were to happen and walked down the hallway, past Bob’s room. You contemplated knocking on the door, but due to your little mishap this afternoon you knew you didn’t have to knock, really. He’d probably heard you already. Your fist ghosted in front of the door, but before you could knock, it opened. 

“Ava texted me. You’re staying the night?” Bob asked, not addressing the fact he’d avoided you pretty much all day. You nodded and held up your clothes. 

“Was just about to go take a shower. You got any spare towels?” You looked him over now that you had the chance. His hands were noticeably shaking. You had to suppress the urge to just give him a hug and tell him it was all gonna be okay. 

“Yeah, there should be a few in the bathroom. I think we share one, assuming you’re next door?” 

“Ava said the room next to yours, so I’m guessing we’re neighbours, yeah,” you confirmed. You knew there was a bathroom for every 2 rooms. Rich people bullshit. Well, you could’ve had your own bathroom, that’d be even richer. 

“You can use some of my soap, if you want. Should all be there. Enough towels to go around, too.” Bob offered. You thanked him and made your way next door, checking out the bedroom before heading into the bathroom and locking both entrances. 

You turned the shower on and got undressed as you waited for the water to get warm. The shower was nicer than any one you’d been in before. You could get used to this. Probably Tony Stark’s doing while this was still his tower. 

The hot water took some of your worries with it, relaxing your muscles. You still couldn’t keep your mind from Bob and what had happened. The cut on your cheek stung when the warm water hit it directly, but other than that was completely fine. You understood his worries, but he couldn’t live in fear they’d happen or he’d never leave the house or talk to a soul again. Valentina also didn’t seem like a very intimidating threat. The team had her wrapped around their fingers, even if it was unwillingly. She couldn’t bribe you to sell out Bob to her grimy hands. 

You were appalled at the sight of the 3-in-1 body wash and shampoo Bob apparently settled on for his routine. Men. You’d have to take him shopping sometime soon and buy him some actual shampoo, conditioner and soap. It did smell nice, you had to give him that. Smelled like him. 

You turned the shower off and toweled yourself dry. You quickly got dressed and made your way back to what would be your bedroom for the night. A long sigh escaped your lips as you let yourself fall on the luxurious bed. Soft, but not too soft. Sturdy enough to support your back but more pillows than a girl could ever need. Good bed. 

Your mind wandered to Bob once more. He could likely hear you in the room, you realised. 

“Bob? I know you can hear me, so I’m gonna talk even if you don’t want to face me to hear it,” you tried. Worth a shot. You got no reply, not that you’d expected one. 

You sat up on the bed and gazed at the clock. 10 P.M. 

“I get that you’re afraid and that there’s parts of you I don’t understand yet. I also know there’s parts you’ll never let me see, but you can’t coop yourself up in your bedroom and just hope everything and everyone goes away until all eternity.” It felt strange, talking into an empty room. 

“I don’t have any intentions of hurting you, or handing you over to someone who might have such intentions. If I’m being realistic, I’m being paid to keep you company and I’m not really succeeding at that right now. So if you’ll just let me do my job and not get me fired, that’d be great.” 

You heard shuffling on the other side of your door, followed by a small, hesitant knock. You opened it in an instant, faced with a timid Bob. He was obviously feeling conflicted. 

“Can I come in?” He asked. You nodded and gestured for him to sit on the end of the bed. You joined him, pulling your legs up and facing him to let him talk. 

“It’s sweet, what you’re doing. Even if you’re being paid to do so. I just can’t see how this arrangement can work longtime. I appreciate that you’re keeping me company and I know what the team is trying to do. I know I need help, I just-” he looked at his hands, which up until now had been folded in his lap. They were still shaking. 

He took a deep breath before he continued. “I needed help even before all this. I’m not… I don’t wanna put everything on you right now. This team? These people? They’re trying to be the best people they can, despite their pasts. I know they’re trying their best for me, too, but I don’t deserve it.” 

You moved to put a comforting hand on his hunched shoulder, but he flinched away violently. You quickly put your hand back on your lap. “And you. You’re just a part of this all. I don’t need a babysitter. I don’t need someone on suicide watch.” He scoffed. Something was off. He was starting to sound different. He’d refused to look at you up until now. His expression was one you hadn’t seen from him before. You couldn’t place it. 

“And really, what are you gonna do? When it goes wrong, you can’t stop me. None of them can. It’s only a matter of time. I’m a walking time bomb and you’re only putting yourself in the area of detonation.” He got up off the bed and walked back to the hallway, slamming the door as he went. It fell off the hinges, wood splinters falling to the floor. 

You let out a shaky breath. Bob had scared you. This was not what you’d intended when you tried to coax him to talk to you. Was this what Yelena had talked about? Was this what happened when he was alone for too long? Was this why you were here in the first place? 

You tried to push the fear down as far as it would go and got off the bed. You stepped over the splintered door and looked down the hallway. Bob hadn’t gone into his room, the door still wide open. 

You walked back to the living room, with the penthouse windows overlooking the city. Bob was standing there, still as a statue, looking outside. You kept your distance, but you knew. You knew that he knew you were right behind him. 

You wanted to speak. Wanted to tell him it was all going to be okay. Ask him if he’d just go to bed and sleep it off. No sound left your lips. 

“Have you ever felt so empty you don’t think you’re actually feeling anything? Like you’re slowly being overtaken by a parasite that takes control and no matter what you do, your conscience gets sidelined by this being that’s hellbent on breaking you down bit by bit? Yet you know, logically, there’s no parasite. It’s all just… you. And the only way to make it stop, to finally make it quiet…” 

He didn’t have to finish for you to understand. You wish you knew what to say, how to make the pain go away. Wish you’d kept him distracted and engaged long enough to stop him from spiralling.

“Have you ever wondered about the meaning of life?” Bob finally turned around to look at you. His eyes… They were different. 

“Hasn’t everyone?” You finally answered. 

“There is none. An answer, I mean. Because there is no meaning to life. You get born, deal with the cards you’re dealt, live life and then you die. Your memory lives on for a couple of generations, if you’re lucky. But most of us? We’re like a nostalgic scent you pick up on a random afternoon; You know you remember the smell, but won’t ever remember what it is.” He rambled. He turned back to look out the window. He gazed at the cars passing, the lights in the buildings. 

“Nothing matters. Yet everything does. I just want it to stop,” his voice cracked. You felt tears well up in your eyes. He understood his feelings, yet the thought of them ever changing was inconceivable. 

He’d appeared angry before. What you were scared of initially was his anger. You knew now there was only one thing you had to fear. The darkness. The heartache. The hopelessness. 

Spiralling was easy. Climbing back up? That was the hard part. 

You walked into the kitchen and put on the kettle, pulling out two mugs and dropping teabags into them. You added an extra teaspoon of sugar into his before pouring the boiling water. He didn’t speak as you made the tea. 

You walked back into the living room and handed him a mug, joining him in gazing out the window. He took the mug and when you sat down on the cold floor, he joined you. 

You sat there in silence, looking out on the New York skyline, for what felt like hours. There was nothing you could say, nothing you could do that would solve what he was going through. 

He drank the tea when the temperature allowed it. You sipped your own and tried to find a constellation in the sky, but no stars were visible above the bright city. It was ironic, in a sense. All Bob had to do was find the stars to guide him home. But how could he do that when the sky was polluted with light? 

It was on the floor where he eventually fell asleep. You felt your own eyes drooping, too. You kept watch over him as he slept. He needed it. You grabbed a few pillows from the couch along with a blanket and made him as comfortable as you could without waking him up. 

Your tea had long gone cold when you placed your mug on the counter along with Bob’s. The loud city was somehow peaceful when you looked at it from this high up. You could understand why he sought it out as a place of solace. It could’ve been minutes or hours before the night finally took you, but you stayed right there by his side, on the floor.

TAGLIST: @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @hopes-peak-akademy @rattheraddestrat @i-shall-abide @puer-aurea @kennywantskfc69 @spectacled-studies @hiddlebatchedloki @chimchoom @spidermiraculous-blog @s00ty-feet @28cnn @tinythebunni @softpia @roeroeroeyourboet @secretkittydreamland @cultish-corner @greenbean-4ever @t-rexs-world @thebitchiestnerdtowalktheearth @ifilwtmfc @renren-006 @10ava01 @kawaii1369 @hawkinsavclub1983 @paleepeaches @lnmp89

[supernovafics]

𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄

pairing: bestfriend!steve harrington x fem!reader

word count: 3.2k words

summary: in which a middle of the night conversation with steve reminds you both that things are changing 

warnings: explicit language, mixed pov, a bit of drunk!reader, one sided pining (allegedly), very angsty

author’s note: i’ve been working on a really long steve fic (which is like 90 percent done and will hopefully see the light of day very very soon) and i took a break from it and somehow this was born in a matter of days. inspired by the song midnight blue by electric light orchestra. enjoy<333

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“You wanna get out of here?”

The music was loud, even as the night started to finally come to its end, but you still heard Steve clearly. 

“I thought you’d never ask, Harrington,” You turned to him sitting next to you at this empty table in the backyard of your aunt’s now husband’s house. 

The little smile you gave Steve made his eyebrows furrow. “How drunk are you right now?”

You scoffed as you shook your head. “Not at all.”

Your words were pretty much immediately proven opposite when you stood up from the table and stumbled a bit. Steve was by your side immediately, grabbing your arm to keep you from falling. 

“So, what was that you were saying about not being drunk at all?”

“Okay, that only just happened because of how long this stupid dress is, no other reason.”

Your bridesmaid dress had been the bane of your existence all day— it was way too long and designed to be tight in places that made everything more difficult— and then coupled with the heels you had to wear with it, you were honestly surprised you hadn’t toppled over sooner. You didn’t expect a wedding taking place in a backyard, even as huge and spacious as this one was, to be so incredibly fancy, but it was. 

Steve didn’t say anything in response to your previous words and instead simply slipped his hand in yours as you two started walking away from the table.  

“Do you wanna say bye to your mom before we leave?”

“No thanks,” You shook your head. “I’d rather her not see me drunk right now.”

Steve smiled at you. “Hey, that’s progress, at least you’re admitting it now.”

You only rolled your eyes at him as he led you two out of the backyard and toward his car. 

“This is your fault, by the way.”

The laugh Steve let out was immediate. “Ah yes, because I’m the one who kept giving you glasses of champagne, and it definitely wasn’t you grabbing one every time a server passed by.”

“I’m glad you’re taking full responsibility,” You said, smiling at him as you got into his passenger seat. 

The drive to Steve’s place managed to sober you up for the most part, and it also made you very tired. 

“Okay, here’s a t-shirt and shorts,” Steve said, holding the clothing items out for you to grab, but you didn’t because you were sitting at the foot of his bed, trying, and failing, to unzip the zipper at the back of your dress. He gave you an amused smile. “Do you need help?” 

“Yes, please,” You nodded as you stood up from his bed and turned around so that he could do it. You started slipping the straps off your shoulders once he was done.

“I’ll be right back,” Steve said, leaving you to change into the clothes he gave you. 

You were in his bed with the Hawkins High t-shirt on along with the basketball shorts that you tied tightly at your hips when he returned with two glasses of water.  

You turned on your side to face him once he was changed out of his fancy wedding clothes and slipped into bed next to you.

“This is the second time in a row that you’ve been the sober one taking care of me. Next time you have to get drunk so I can take care of you,” You said and then booped the tip of his nose with your finger. “Things are starting to feel a little unfair in this friendship.”

Steve let out a laugh, and you figured he was thinking back to last week when you two went to a party at some old high school friend’s lake house; the punch had been lethal, to say the least. “Okay, I promise to get super drunk at your going away party next week.” 

At the mention of your goodbye party— which was meant to be a happy and joyous occasion to celebrate you moving to Chicago— your smile faltered. Hearing about the party, reminded you that things were changing; that everything was going to be entirely different soon. 

And you’d been avoiding that thought a lot lately, even as you slowly started packing up your childhood bedroom, and found a place in Chicago with the help of your mom because a friend of hers was renting a place out.

Pretty much everyone in your life knew that you weren’t the best with change, and you’d avoid it at all costs if you could, but that didn’t mean that you didn’t understand that sometimes it simply had to happen. It was a contradictory mindset— you hated change, but it also made sense to you. 

It did still really suck, though. 

You suddenly sniffled and one of your hands came up to wipe at your face, and you quickly turned around so that you weren’t facing Steve anymore.

“Hey,” His voice was soft. “Are you crying?”

You didn’t outwardly answer his question. “It’s stupid, but I’m just now realizing that this is the last time we’ll do this. After next week, there’s probably not gonna be another night like this one.”

What you didn’t tell him was that you had a feeling that once you left, your friendship wouldn’t be the same anymore. And how could it be when you were moving to a different state and you were going to go from seeing him almost every day to probably only a handful of times a year?

The pros were supposed to outweigh the cons, and on paper, they did. You had always wanted to live in Chicago, and you were moving there for what was essentially your dream job— two very solid pros. However, the biggest con was leaving Steve, and that suddenly felt like it outweighed everything. 

“It sucks, but in a good way, if that makes sense,” Steve told you as he shifted closer to wrap a comforting arm around you. “It really sucks that you’re leaving, but you’re leaving to do something that you really want to do, so that’s great.”

“It’s bittersweet,” You said the word he was looking for. Your hand found his beneath the blanket and intertwined it with yours. His words were completely right, and in a way, they did comfort you.

“Yeah, exactly,” Steve responded, giving your hand a light, reassuring squeeze. 

“You should come with me,” You whispered to him. It was the first time you offered, and you slightly regretted not asking sooner. 

But, you hadn’t because you knew how much he really liked his life here— working at Family Video with Robin and driving the kids around everywhere (which he claimed he hated, but you knew he secretly loved it). And then there was a part of you that wanted to pretend that things weren’t really changing, so that was another reason why you hadn’t asked him. 

“I can’t,” He whispered back. “It just wouldn’t make sense, y’know?”

You simply nodded, even though he probably couldn’t see you. His words shouldn’t have hurt you, and you really shouldn’t have suddenly felt so sad about everything and so scared about the future too, but you still kind of did. 

Suddenly, you were no longer tired, but you truly wished that you could force yourself to sleep. And when a few minutes of keeping your eyes shut and hoping that would make you fall asleep didn’t work, you pulled the blanket off of you and got out of bed.  

“Where are you going?” You heard Steve ask from behind you. 

And when you didn’t answer and instead continued walking out of his bedroom, he got out of bed to follow you.

Steve hadn’t wanted to say no to you. If the circumstances were different, he would’ve said yes and uprooted his entire life to move with you to Chicago in a heartbeat. But, he couldn’t do that. 

And he was glad that you didn’t push further on the topic because if you would’ve asked him what he meant when he said, “It just wouldn’t make sense,” he wasn’t sure what he would’ve said with in response; if he would’ve lied or mustered up the courage to finally tell you the truth. 

However, he knew that there was really no point in being honest anymore. He loved you, but you were leaving, so what would be the point of finally admitting it to you? 

This secret that he had been keeping tight to his chest for years at this point would only complicate things, and probably confuse you, and definitely ruin the friendship you two had if he told you. 

He’d gotten good at pretending that nothing had changed on his side of things, and he was okay with continuing to pretend if that meant keeping things good between you and him. 

In this moment, though, he wasn’t sure if things were good between you two. 

He wondered if you were pissed at him for saying no to moving with you to Chicago and if that was why you left his room. He followed you out into the hallway and down the stairs and then out into his backyard. 

You sat down at the edge of the pool and put your feet in. Steve didn’t question you— although he did want to ask where this sudden energy had come from because he could’ve sworn that you had been falling asleep in his car barely an hour ago— and instead simply followed suit. 

The water was warm because of the heater that his parents never turned off, and Steve watched as you kicked your legs every now and again. Neither of you said anything, and it was hard for Steve to tell if this silence was comfortable or not. 

After what felt like an hour’s worth of silence, he asked, “Are you mad at me?”

You shook your head at him as you sighed. “I don’t think I could ever be mad at you, Steve.” You kicked your legs again. “Things are just feeling a lot more bitter than sweet right now.”

Before Steve could say anything in response to that, you were standing up and then looking down at him. “It’s barely midnight. Let’s get in the pool.”

“Um, okay. You wanna change? I think you left your swimsuit here from when we swam a couple of days ago.” 

“No, it’s fine,” You said and then proceeded to jump in. 

“You sure you’re not still drunk?” Steve asked with an amused smile when your head emerged from the water. 

You playfully stuck your tongue out at him. “I’m as sober as a baby, Harrington. Now get in.” 

He smiled wider at you, things felt okay again. He jumped in the pool fully clothed as well, and you were smiling at him when his head popped up. 

You quickly complained about how heavy your clothes felt, and you pulled off the soaked t-shirt and shorts and set them on the ground next to the pool, leaving you in just your bra and underwear. Steve made a point of keeping his eyes locked on yours. On paper, this wasn’t that different from the many times he’d seen you in a bikini, but something about this felt a little different.

He, of course, pretended that it didn’t, though. Mainly because of how unfazed you seemed. 

Both of you ended up floating on your backs and looking up at the stars. There was a night back in middle school when you two had done exactly this, minus the pool. You two had been in your backyard staring up at the sky, and you rattled off the constellations you knew and then proceeded to make up names for others, but Steve thought you were telling the truth. And he probably would’ve thought that way forever if you hadn’t told him the next morning that half of the names weren’t true. 

He still remembered most of the fake names, and in this moment, he reminded you of them. 

You laughed immediately. “I can’t believe you still remember that.” 

“How could I ever forget the first lies you ever told me?” Steve joked.

“That was early on in our friendship. I wanted you to think I was cool.”

He let out an amused sound. “Oh, yes, because you knowing the name of every constellation would definitely make me think you’re cool and not the biggest nerd ever.”

“Shut up,” You told him, but still laughed. “My logic wasn’t all that great back then.” 

Steve only hummed in response and turned his head to look at you for a second. You were still looking up, but there was a certain look on your face that he couldn’t decipher.  

“You know the worst part about cities?”

Steve’s eyebrows furrowed at your question and how random it seemed. “What?” 

“You don’t get to see this every night.” 

He nodded even though you couldn’t see him. “You should add that to the cons.”

“How do you know I made a pro-con list?”

“Because I know you and every big decision you make has to have a pro-con list.” 

You got quiet, and Steve worried that he offended you, but he wasn’t making fun of you at all. He loved you and your lists. 

“Well, you should also know that you’re at the top of the con list,” You told him, and moved so that you were no longer looking up at the sky but instead looking at Steve, and he followed suit. “It says ‘There’s no Steve’ in all capital letters.” 

He could feel his heart squeeze in his chest upon hearing you say that.

“I feel honored. Truly,” He responded and gave you a playful smile because he didn’t want things to turn too serious again.

“I’m really gonna miss you,” You said softly, stepping closer and wrapping your arms around him. “A lot. So much. Maybe even too much.” 

Steve’s attempt at keeping things light failed, but he didn’t care. His arms immediately circled your waist. “I’m gonna miss you too.”

Things became quiet again, and when you pulled away, you splashed him with water. 

“What was that for?” He asked with a laugh as he wiped at his face. 

You gave him a small, sad smile. “Maybe I am a little mad at you.”

Your joking words came out soft, almost as if they weren’t entirely a joke, and Steve immediately felt bad. 

“I would go with you, and a part of me really does want to. Seriously. But, it’s just that…” He trailed off, not knowing the best way to say what he needed to. The words just wouldn’t form on his lips.  

You shook your head. “It’s okay, you don’t have to say it. I know that you like your life here, and you don’t wanna move to a city. Chicago has always been my “dream,” not yours. It’s okay. Honestly.” 

It’s not that, was what Steve wanted to say in response to your words. It was probably what he should’ve said. However, he realized that everything would be a lot easier if you just believed that.

“I’ll visit you all the time,” He promised instead. 

That made you smile. “Good.”

You two ended up back in his bed half an hour later. With dry clothes on and a comfortable silence lingering in the air. You fell asleep quickly, but Steve couldn’t, for some reason. 

His mind was running a million miles a minute, and his thoughts were going back and forth. For the first time, he was actually considering going with you to Chicago. He thought about how fun it could be; how new and exciting. 

His head became an unending push and pull. One side of him was telling him that he should do it and go, but everything else in him was saying the complete opposite. 

Being hopelessly in love with you here in Hawkins felt like one thing; he could pretend that he wasn’t pining, like he’d been doing for the past couple of years. But, if he moved with you to Chicago— just you two in a new city— he felt like it would be damn near impossible to not blurt it out and potentially fuck up everything. 

However, even though he knew that, he also kind of wanted to just lean into the part of him that was saying, “Do it. Go with her and see what happens. Maybe she even feels the same way.”

Sometimes Steve liked thinking about the moment things had changed for him; he could recall it quite easily. It was a month after his breakup with Nancy, and you dragged him to a random classmate’s party to help cheer him up because you knew that he was still feeling a little melancholic about it all. The party sucked so you ended up going to the movies, a midnight showing of some terrible horror film and you two were the only ones in the theater. 

You made jokes the entire time, trying to keep things light and fun, and something shifted inside of him. He suddenly felt so fucking grateful for you, that you were in his life and had been since middle school. He always felt lucky to have you in his life, but that time in the empty movie theater felt different.  

That time when your hand instinctively found his during a part of the movie that actually was pretty scary, all he could think was, I love you. I’m in love with you. 

It hit him so abruptly, and he initially chalked it up to still being sad about his breakup, but even after he felt entirely over Nancy, these new feelings for you never went away. And it was as if he instinctively knew that he could never tell you; it felt like no question that he’d have to keep it a secret.  

In this moment, Steve turned on his side away from you and closed his eyes, hoping that he could just force himself to sleep.  

But, no, he instead thought about something from earlier at the wedding, you and him dancing to a slow song that neither of you recognized. It was early on in the reception, before you started accepting every glass of champagne that came your way. 

You thanked him for coming with you to the way too fancy wedding— you had asked him last second when you realized just how many estranged and random family members you’d see and have to talk to and you couldn’t bear the thought of suffering through that alone, and he found someone to cover his Family Video shift when you called him in an anxiety-induced panic. 

Steve immediately told you that there was no need to thank him because he would always be by your side whenever you needed it, and you pulled him in for a hug and told him that you’d do the exact same for him too. 

“This is gonna sound super cliche and stupid, but hear me out. This is the best part about being best friends,” You had also said. “We’ll always be there for each other, and I don’t think anything’s gonna change that.”

Steve nodded and gave you a small, amused smile. “That is very cliche, but you’re also very right.”

He remembered how true his words felt in the moment. 

He now fully understood that he couldn’t let a confession potentially change everything that was so right and good between you two. It made sense why his initial thought when he realized how he felt was to bury it down and keep it a secret.

This, what you two had, was enough. 

And it felt okay continuing to believe that. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

let me know ur thoughts<333

[barnesonly]

A Night from the Past

bucky barnes x reader

trope: friends to lovers, fluff to smut

summary: you take bucky to 40s’ themed bar

word count: 2355

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, dirty talk, praise kink, oral (f receiving), PiV.

Bucky Barnes was not a man easily surprised. Nor was he particularly enthusiastic about surprises.

But you were different. You always had a way of sneaking past his defenses with that damn smile and eyes full of mischief and sunshine. Usually such behavior annoyed him (as If annoyed wasn’t an understatement) but when it came to you… It was different. So when you told him to “wear something nice” and refused to explain anything else, he grumbled, groaned, and did it anyway.

Now, standing outside a nondescript building in Brooklyn with the soft golden glow of vintage sconces lighting the sidewalk, Bucky’s brow furrowed.

“This better not be a cat café again.” He muttered.

You snorted, tugging at his hand. “You liked the cat café. Mr. Whiskers fell asleep on your lap, remember?”

“That demon scratched me.”

“Because you tried to move!” You giggled. “Come on, Buck. Trust me.”

He sighed dramatically but followed. As you pushed open the door, the soft croon of Billie Holiday spilled out, rich and warm like honey in the air.

Bucky stopped in his tracks.

The inside was like stepping into 1941 — velvet booths, checkered floor, amber lights swinging low, couples swaying slowly to the music. A jazz trio played onstage in front of a deep red curtain. Waitstaff in suspenders and old-school dresses weaved through the crowd. It smelled like bourbon, lavender, and nostalgia.

“Surprise!” you whispered excitedly, smiling up at him.

Bucky’s throat worked, but no words came out. He just stared, wide-eyed.

“I found this place a few months ago,” you continued, gently tugging his hand. “Thought you might like it. I know it’s not the same, not really. But I wanted to give you a little piece of… before.”

He turned to look at you, eyes softening. “You did all this for me?”

“Well, yeah.” you said, beaming. “You deserve a night where your world makes sense.”

Something cracked open in him then. Maybe it was the music, or the effort you made, or the way you looked at him like he was still the man he used to be.

“…You’re gonna make me dance, aren’t you?” he muttered, lips twitching.

“Obviously.” you said, already dragging him toward the floor.

He let you lead at first, all stiff limbs and awkward fidgeting. But the music started to seep in. So did the memories. The rhythm. The feeling. And soon, Bucky Barnes — grumpy, tired, sarcastic Bucky was spinning you under warm lights, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re not too bad, Sergeant.” you teased as he twirled you.

“You’re lucky I like you.” he said, but it came out soft. Fond.

As the song slowed and faded into another, he didn’t let you go. Just held you close, one hand on your waist, the other tangled with yours. His forehead pressed lightly to yours.

“Thank you.” he murmured. “For reminding me I’m still part of the world.”

You leaned into him, swaying gently. The night wore on, but Bucky didn’t let go of your hand. Not once.

He wasn’t sure if it was the music, the golden haze of the place, or just you, but the weight he always carried felt a little lighter tonight. Like your presence wrapped around him like a warm coat on a cold day.

You had insisted on staying until the last song, and he didn’t even argue. That surprised both of you.

As the final notes drifted through the air and the band packed up, Bucky helped you into your coat with surprising tenderness. The walk back to your place was quiet, but not in a bad way — comfortable, like shared silence between two people who didn’t need to fill it with anything else.

When you unlocked the door to your apartment, Bucky hesitated on the threshold. You turned back, quirking a brow.

“You comin’ in, or are you going to brood outside like Batman?”

He huffed a laugh and stepped in. You grinned, throwing your keys in the dish and flicking on a lamp. “So, was it too much? The bar, I mean.”

Bucky shrugged off his jacket and set it neatly over the back of your couch. “It was… perfect.”

You blinked. “Perfect?”

“Yeah… Perfect.” he said, quieter now. “You made it feel like home. Like… like something I didn’t think I’d get back.”

You stepped closer, smile gentling. “You’ll always have a home here, Buck. You know I’m here for you, right?”

His eyes met yours, something fragile flickering in them. “You mean that?”

You reached up, fingers brushing his cheek. “Of course I do.”

Bucky exhaled a shaky breath he didn’t even know he was holding. His gaze flickered to your lips for just a tiny second. He leaned closer, and you didn’t even realize you did the same.

And suddenly you were kissing. Soft, sweet, a little unsure at first until Bucky’s arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you flush against him like he’d been waiting years for this. He kissed you like you were something he thought he’d never deserve but finally, finally had the courage to want.

When you broke apart, breathless and a little dazed, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I wanted this for so long.” he whispered.

“I know…” Your palm caressed his cheek. He leaned into your touch almost immediately. „and you’re really bad at hiding how much you like me,” you teased.

He smirked. “I never stood a chance, did I?”

“Not for a second.”

You tugged him gently toward the couch, and he followed without protest. Eventually, you both ended up tangled together beneath a blanket, your head on his shoulder, his metal arm wrapped around your waist like it belonged there.

For once, Bucky didn’t feel like the Winter Soldier. He didn’t feel broken. He felt human. Warm. Real. And maybe that was all because of you?

His fingertips brushed lazy circles over your hip as his flesh hand tucked under your chin, coaxing you to look up at him.

There was a beat of silence.

“You know…” he murmured, voice gravelly from the hour. „if you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna do something about it.”

You raised an eyebrow and your smile curled slow and inviting. “Oh yeah…?”

He studied you for a moment, like he was making sure — really sure — but once he saw the certainty in your eyes, something shifted in him. His lips were on yours again, deeper this time, slower, like he had all the time in the world and planned to use every second kissing you breathless.

His hand slid up your thigh under the blanket, warm and deliberate. You gasped softly as his metal fingers cupped your jaw, angling your head just right as his mouth moved against yours with growing hunger. The kiss turned messier, needier, as he pulled you into his lap, your legs straddling him.

“You always this sweet,” he whispered against your mouth, “or do I just bring it out of you?”

“You bring out a lot of things.” you breathed.

He smirked, but it was soft around the edges, adoring. His lips trailed down your neck, kissing and nipping gently as his hands pushed under your shirt, fingertips warm and reverent. When he reached for the hem, you lifted your arms to help him peel it off.

“Fuck,” he exhaled when he looked at you — bare, blushing, trusting. “You’re beautiful.”

Your skin tingled as he kissed down your chest, his voice dropping low. “Been thinkin’ about this… thinkin’ about how you’d sound…”

Your hips shifted on his lap, and he groaned quietly, fingers gripping your thighs. “Lay back for me, doll.”

You obeyed, settling on the couch as he pulled the blanket over you again, shielding you from the cool air. His hands dragged your pants down slowly, reverently, kissing every inch of newly revealed skin.

“Gonna take my time with you,” he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh. “Make you feel real good. You okay with that?”

You nodded quickly, breath catching. “Please, Bucky.”

The way you asked — so sweet, so open — he couldn’t resist. He spread your thighs, settled between them like he belonged there, and pressed a warm kiss to your core over your underwear.

“You’re already wet for me,” he rasped, dragging the fabric aside to run his tongue over your slick folds. “Such a good girl…”

The first touch of his tongue was slow, deliberate, like he wanted to memorize every part of you. He licked a long stripe up your pussy, then circled your clit with just enough pressure to make your hips jerk.

“Stay still for me,” he said, voice thick. “Let me take care of you.”

And you did. You let him eat you like he needed it — like he was starving. He used his fingers to part you, tongue flicking and sucking at your clit, slow at first, then faster as you moaned his name like a mantra. His metal hand gripped your thigh, anchoring you, keeping you right where he wanted you.

“Fuck, Bucky—don’t stop, please—”

He didn’t. He kept going, praising you and murmuring sweet nothings between kisses and licks.

“Sound so pretty when you beg,” he groaned. “Taste even better than I imagined…”

Your back arched, fingers gripping the couch as the tension coiled in your belly. He felt it, sensed it and doubled down, tongue moving in perfect rhythm until you shattered with a cry, thighs trembling around his head.

He stayed there through your orgasm, easing you down, licking softly as your body twitched with aftershocks. Then he kissed the inside of your thigh and rested his cheek there, content.

You blinked down at him, dazed and warm and utterly loved.

„Atta girl…” He chuckled, then crawled back up to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his lips. „You’re so perfect like this… So fucking perfect.” His voice rumbled low against your skin as he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like he was trying to tell you without words just how much he needed you.

Bucky brushed your slightly disheveled hair back from your face, metal fingers lingering at your jaw while the warmth of his flesh hand traced a line down your ribs. You shivered under his touch, still sensitive from his mouth, still floating in that hazy space between pleasure and craving.

“I want you, Buck…” you whispered, impatient and still needy.

He looked into your eyes like he was memorizing the way you said it. “Yeah?”

“Need you inside me, Bucky. Please.”

A sharp breath left him, almost a groan as he kissed your neck and said against your skin, “Fuck, baby…”

You watched him sit up enough to shrug out of his shirt, revealing strong shoulders and scars that told stories he never had to explain. He leaned back down to kiss you again, slow and messy, as he guided himself between your thighs. You could feel him now — hard and heavy against your thigh and your hips shifted instinctively, seeking more.

“Condom’s in my wallet.” he muttered against your lips, gesturing for you to reach his jacket that was laying somewhere beneath you.

You reached blindly for the jacket and found the wallet, and passed it to him with a grin. “Prepared, huh?”

“Wasn’t gonna assume,” he said, tearing the wrapper with his teeth, “but I hoped.”

You laughed softly, breath catching as he rolled the condom on. He kissed you through it — slow, grounding and when he lined up at your entrance, he paused, eyes locked with yours.

“Tell me if anything doesn’t feel good,” he said, voice serious beneath the arousal. “I mean it.”

“It’s you,” you whispered, hands cupping his jaw. “Everything with you feels good.”

With a low moan, Bucky pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you in the best possible way. “Take all of it, baby… I know you can. You’re so good for me.” He whispered and your nails dug lightly into his back as he sank into you, filling you completely.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You feel like heaven.” He stilled once he was fully inside, breathing hard against your shoulder. “Can I move?”

“Please…” You moaned out with furrowed brows from the overwhelming sensation.

He pulled out almost all the way, then rolled his hips back in with a slow, fluid thrust that made you gasp. He did it again — slow and deep and perfect. There was nothing rushed about it. He made love to you like it meant something, like he wanted you to feel every second of it.

“You’re takin’ me so well, sweetheart.” he murmured into your ear, voice thick with praise. “So warm… fuck, this pussy’s perfect.”

You whimpered under him, lifting your hips to meet each thrust. “You feel so good, Bucky—don’t stop, please, don’t stop—”

His rhythm stayed steady, controlled, but his grip on you tightened, like he was holding himself back from giving in completely.

“Could stay buried in you forever,” he whispered against your neck. “You’re so fucking tight.”

You met his mouth again, the kiss turning feverish, messy with love and heat. Every time he rolled his hips, he hit that spot that made stars explode behind your eyes.

“I’m close.” you breathed.

“Yeah? Let me feel you come again, baby. Wanna feel you flutterin’ around me.”

He brought his fingers to your clit, rubbing gentle circles as he fucked you just right, coaxing your orgasm with filthy praise and that relentless, perfect rhythm.

“That’s it… there you go… come for me, doll.”

And you did. With a cry muffled by his mouth, your body arched, pulsing around him, and he followed with a broken moan, hips stuttering as he came hard, buried deep inside you.

He collapsed over you with a quiet laugh, brushing your hair off your forehead.

“You okay?” he whispered, still breathless.

You smiled up at him, blissed-out and glowing. “Better than okay. I think I saw God.”

Bucky huffed a laugh and kissed your cheek. “Nah. Just me.”

[fieldofdaisiies]

Shadows of Dawn II

"During Amarantha’s reign, she would delight in ripping out the feathers of Peregryn she was displeased with - one by one. She once made a dress out of the feathers."

first part / story masterlist / azriel taglist

You force your eyes shut the moment the sun peeks over thick clouds hanging in the sky. They have started to burn but not from the light, rather from staring at one point for too long. From looking at the sky for too long and the pain that comes with it. Yes, you survived, yes, you lived and yes, she didn’t break you, but every glance at the sky feels like a wound being ripped open over and over again, a reminder that your freedom was stolen by the hand of Amarantha. 

You’re still strong but you will never be able to fly again. You will never experience the feeling of wind in your wings again.

The scars that mark your back are nothing compared to the ones adorning your heart, your soul, about losing the one thing that brought you so much joy. Flying.

"Y/N?"

Your head whips to the side and you know there is now a rosy splotch on your chin from where you have rested it on your hand.

"Do we need to leave already?" You are a little dazed, having been caught in daydreams (rather nightmares during the day) of what had been done to you … and what you can no longer do, only staring out of the window, thinking and replaying the moments of her cruelty in your mind.

"Yes, we do. My husband is getting a bit... impatient since fae from all the courts are starting to arrive already."

A slightly silly grin spreads across your face, chasing away the former gloom. "I’m sure you’ll think of something to help him forgive me for the delay." Winking, you eventually rise from your chair and watch your younger brother blush like a cherry tomato.

Your brother Esren who is the general of the Peregryn armies and mated to the High Lord, alongside the High Lord and your dear friend Nuan are the sole reasons for your happiness these days. Your family, the people that mean the most to you in this world.

Esren flips you off, but instead of a retort, he asks, "Are you alright?" He has probably noticed your expression when he entered, and can now feel the chill of your skin as you slide your arm around his, linking yours with his.

"I am." You say and look up at him. "Don’t worry about me."

You turn back towards your desk once more, checking that you didn’t forget anything and catch sight of the window and the landscape beyond.

A few rays of sunlight after days of rain fall cautiously through the parting clouds, painting the Dawn Court in hues of gold and somehow give you hope. They seem like a flicker of hope in the midst of your desperation—maybe today is going to be a good day.

“I’m going to the south entrance, as I’ve been told that High Lord Tamlin has just arrived,” Esren says and smiles down at you, yet something cold sparks in his eyes when he continues, “Thesan told me to inform you to greet the Night Court at the North entrance. You shall welcome them and escort them to the meeting room.”

>>>>>>>>

The palace in the Dawn Court is just like Azriel remembers, built high in the mountains so it touches the clouds. The sunstone, a near-opalescent golden stone seems to be holding the gleaming of a thousand sunrises within it. 

Azriel is once more mesmerised by the beauty of it.

He knows the Night Court is the most beautiful court there is in Pythian, but there’s something within this Court, Dawn, that is stunning beyond comparison. 

Multiple steps, balconies, archways, verandas, and bridges link the towers of the palace together and periwinkle morning glories climb the pillars. And as they wait, Azriel lets his eyes travel over all the small details, fighting the urge to reach out and trace the delicate carvings of the palace walls.

"You will be escorted to the meeting room shortly," a sentry tells them from one of the doorways. "But with the pressing dangers from all around, more safety measures needed to be taken."

"We understand, and we can wait," Rhysand bows his head and turns to his family. There’s understanding in his eyes, but also a hint of fear. The approaching dangers and war leave no one untouched these days. A feeling of apprehension is always present, looming at every corner.

However, Azriel has no time to dwell on the dangers of the future, because his attention is suddenly drawn to a movement behind the sentry.

A Dawn Court female steps forward behind the male. Your presence is nothing but breathtaking. The sunlight reflects on your skin, your thin, white dress slightly flowing in the soft breeze, your smile radiant. He is rendered speechless.

"Welcome to the Dawn Court," you greet them warmly, your voice steady and calm. "I hope you had a safe journey."

Your eyes move over the people gathered in front of you, and as your eyes lock onto Azriel’s, he feels as if lightning zips through his entire body. A jolt of electricity fills his entire being, coursing through his veins as he forgets how to breathe.

It can’t be. It can’t …be. 

You smile at him, but Azriel is unable to return it. Your eyes, too, widen slightly in surprise, as if you too sense something extraordinary, but the moment is gone too quickly. His mind is a whirlwind, making it impossible for him to even think about it. He’s struck dumb, his mind going blank, unable to focus on anything but you.

"I will escort you to the meeting room," you continue, your voice a soothing melody that washes over him, brushing his skin with the softness of a Peregryn’s wings.

He wants to get drunk on it, and listen to it forever. 

Azriel calls upon his rationality, he needs to keep the perfected mask in place, to act like he always does — cool, casual, nonchalant. But his gaze stays fixed on you, no longer listening to what you are telling them, his eyes taking in every detail of your face—the delicate arch of your brows, the sparkle in your eyes, the fulness of your lips.

His heart races, pounding in his chest as he struggles to maintain his composure, feeling as though the ground beneath him has shifted. The rest of the Night Court follows you, but Azriel lingers, needing another moment to collect his thoughts. It can’t have happened. Not with a female from another court. Not when he thought …

This is impossible. It can’t be. 

"Beautiful, huh?“

"Mhm," Azriel answers Nesta, absentmindedly.

"I’m not talking about the female your gaze is fixed upon, you know? Although she’s stunning. I was talking about the palace."

Azriel’s eyes open wide, staring down at his best friend’s mate with a frown. "I was talking about the palace too," he grumbles and knows his own voice betrays him. So he looks away from Nesta, from all of them and focuses on the paintings on the wall, the long corridor until they finally arrive in the meeting chamber. 

The floor, like Azriel remembers, is made of marble, there are many cushioned chairs arranged in a circle in the middle of the room, just like last time. Even the chairs that are shaped to accommodate wings are in the same places. And lastly, the point Azriel’s eyes now fixate on is the circular reflection pool that was carved into the floor with fish and water lilies.

When all of the High Lords have arrived, also Tamlin and this time even with a small entourage, everyone claims their places and Thesan starts the meeting. This meeting is even more tense than the last one had been. Already in the beginning there are discussions about alliances and threats with Tamlin saying is completely left alone and Eris stepping in to say that the Autumn Court will provide him with soldiers and help him out if he is attacked. 

Azriel, as much as he tries to listen to everything that is said, finds it hard to do so. He cranes his neck and his mind wanders, unable to focus. The pain has returned once more. Azriel consulted Madja, who did a thorough examination of his back but found nothing amiss. She was unable to find a cause for his suffering and suggested that he simply needed more sleep, believing it to be a … mind issue. But Azriel knows better. The pain is real and intense, regardless of the healer's words.

The phantom pain surges through his back right to the tip of his wings, sharper and more relentless than before. He winces, moving a hand to his back and pressing down on the juncture of his right wing.

His breath hitches sharply, grinding his molars together as sweat beads on his forehead. The pain is overwhelming, an awful wave that threatens to drown him. He wants to cry out loudly, but bites the insides of his cheeks to hold back from doing so, and his vision blurs. Desperately and trying to do it secretly, his fingertips dig into his back, pressing hard until the pain eases just the slightest bit.

Azriel's eyes dart around the room, searching for something, anything, to anchor him in the present. And then he finds it. Or rather, he finds you.

His gaze locks onto you, a sense of calm begins to settle over him. You are focused on taking notes, probably for Thesan—a protocol of the meeting. Your lower lip is caught between your teeth, brow furrowed in concentration. The sight of you calms him. The pain lessens, though it does not disappear entirely, and his inner turmoil begins to quiet down.

He keeps his eyes on you, letting the sight of you distract him until Thesan announces a break. Seizing the opportunity, Azriel rises quickly and mutters a quick excuse as he makes his way to the nearest open door. The fresh air hits him like a shower of rain after months of drought. It’s what he needs in this very moment. He needs to catch a breath, to fill his lungs and for the pain to fully fade.

He takes deep, shaky breaths, each inhale like balm to his insides. His hand moves to his back, massaging the tense muscles with a mix of frustration and hope, seeking any bit of relief. Hoping for the pain to fully vanish. Closing his eyes, he focuses on the sounds that surround him, of the birds chirping and the soft breeze rustling the leaves of the large trees surrounding the palace.

Just as he realises the pain has almost fully vanished a voice interrupts the silence, "My lord.“ He remembers the voice, soft and sweet, a wonderful melody. His heart slams to a halt, then picks up in pace and races.

His eyes snap open, and he turns around, heart then skipping a beat at the familiar sound. The familiar, beautiful sight. 

It's you, standing in the door with a small smile on your lips. "The meeting is about to continue, my lord," you say.

Azriel nods in acknowledgement and thanks, unable to speak as a rush of heat flows through his entire body. He wants to correct you that he is no lord, but it’s not the right moment to do so now. Later. Later he will find a chance to talk to you, to hear your voice once more, see you smile.

He follows you back inside, his heart racing but steadier and just before you step away, allowing him to walk up to his chair, he finally finds his voice.

“Thank you, my lady.“ 

You send him a small, polite grin and it is his undoing. He knows he is falling, deeper and faster than ever before because this is not just love, this is something far deeper. Something far more profound.

story tag list: @apenasandorinha @i-am-infinite @shinyghosteclipse @whoreforfictionalmen18 @aevoit @sstrohma @readingintooblivion

tags (crossed-out I couldn't tag) : @juulle987 @marimorena06 @danikasthings @younxii @nightcourtwritings @mrofontaine @lunalilyf @whor-3-crux @tired-all-the-time @anni-was-here @ummmmmwat @azbracadabra @j-pendragonx @hollyismentallyillhelp @famousbasementpainter @bsenpai @lena-davina @red-highlady @thesugatoyourtae @azrielsbabyg @aroseinvelaris @moony-thoughts @wrensical003 @cherryjain17 @moonfawnx @crushedcloudsx @devilsfoodcake22  @valeridarkness @azrielscertifiedslut @mulansaucey @cynicalpotato95 @hanasakr @high-bi-andreadytocry @eerievixen @feyretopia @moonlightazriel @randomness-it-is @brekkershadowsinger @eliieee23 @girasoli-e-sorrisi @illyrianvalkyriecarynthian  @kennedy-brooke @highladyofillyria @theworthlessqueen @marina468 @topaz125 @illyrian-dreamer @azriels-mate123 @eos-princess @courtofjurdan @a-frog-with-a-laptop @insufferablebookaddict @cadiawrites @bookishbroadwaybish @tele86 @fuckingsimp4azriel 

[devilishvalentine]

OP forgive me for I'm about to go insane over this masterpiece—

The unholy hyena cackle I made when I read the warning ☠️

"Jason having a bad time" is an understatement like holy shit our boi's really going through it. And I'm in love with the way you wrote the hurt/comfort here, especially in Reader's POV. The fact that she can read him so well is amazing and how they speak without words, just knowing the meanings of each gesture they make for each other to understand– IT'S ABOUT THE TRUST. THE UNDERSTANDING. THE LOVE. THE TYPE OF DYNAMIC THAT GETS ME F E R A L

"His hands, that could break bones but also mend and heal the most broken parts of yourself.

Despite what those hands either curled into fists or holding a gun could mean to other people, they’re precious to you. And one of the many wonderful parts of him. To you, they mean soft caresses while you’re laying in bed. They mean warmth when winter comes and he rubs them against your arms. They mean comfort, and safety, as he holds your sobbing body when you break down.

Their roughness both from handling dangerous weapons and using a pan to make you dinner. Jason Todd has a duality that still amazes you to this day, but you love all the multitudes that he contains all the same."

Bro. B r o. AAAAAAAAAAAAA DESCRIBING HIS DUALITY FROM HIS HANDS AND HOW ROUGH THEY CAN BE WITH WEAPONS AND PUNCHING CRIMINALS, AND CONTRASTING IT WITH HOW GENTLE THEY ARE WHEN HANDLING YOU– THE WAY YOU DESCRIBE IT IS BEAUTIFUL, ABSOLUTELY B E A U T I F U L

Don't get me started on Jason holding her wrist.

"Stay."

And I'm gone. I have ascended. My heart is a puddle and my soul is full. The way I MELTED whenever I see a Jason Todd x Reader fic with this bit, Jason begging Reader to stay, even communicating without words but actions???

And the story. Omg THE STORY OF HOW THEY MET?!?!?! IT'S SO ADORABLE AND I COULD PERFECTLY VISUALIZE IT IT'S ONE OF THE CUTEST MEET-CUTE I COULD FRICKIN IMAGINE WITH HIM AAAAAA!!! And the way Reader described Jason when narrating the story, I can legit feel her swooning there bc THAT PERFECTLY DESCRIBED HOW I FEEL ABT HIM!!!!

Just. The amount of trust and love you described between Jason and Reader is amazing.

Also holy shit. Jason my boi. The angstiest hurt in this beautiful hurt/comfort is delicious. The incident that made Jason go through absolute agony and despair left a lot to my imagination. The fact that it haunts him so bad despite Reader's assurances is heartbreaking and I wanna wrap him up in a comfiest blanket burrito and give him a hug and a kiss and some food and water and a hug and kiss and some food and water and a hug–

I couldn't help but think the incident that left him feeling so guilty, depressed and despairing is basically because of Batsis' death. Idk why ( yes I know why, I like seeing my blorbos suffer bc why not >:3 ), but I just imagined that's the case and that's why he couldn't bring himself to tell Reader abt it 'cause it chokes him up (and the agony. I wanted the agony. I just read another angsty Batfam fic and it's the agony.)

Oh and also this:

"You help him get dressed and all the while his fond gaze follows you. He’s sure that the best feeling in the world is being taken care of by you. That sunshine feeling blooming again in his chest. You’re so bright and he’s just so- No. He’s promised that he isn’t going to think like that anymore. At least not more tonight."

At least not more tonight??? Jason. Baby don't make me do a 200+ page Powerpoint presentation abt why you're the light of MY LIFE EVEN WITH YOUR FLAWS AND ALL!!!

Fr tho, reading your fics of Jason Todd here is such a wonderful read and I couldn't help but lose my mind over them like–

Live footage of me reading your fics

Hope you have a wonderful day/night yourself dear author! Sending my best wishes to you!!! 💖💛💜💝💖

The Word of Your Body

Jason Todd x reader one shot

Summary: Jason comes back from patrol, but something is keeping his mind still somewhere out there. You're always there to bring him back and let him know he's safe. At home. With you.

Word Count: 5.8K

Category: Angst-ish because Jason is going through it but fluff because reader is there to comfort him

Warnings: Jason having a bad time

Author’s note: I know, I know, three fics in one year?? Who am I? Jsjksks truly an achivement for me, very happy and very proud hehe. Thank you for sticking with me and supporting my fics, I love you all. That said, enjoy!

It’s really incredible how much one can know about a person just by their body. From the way they move, to how they carry themselves, to the small gestures that they make in their day to day that reflect who they are, to the little telltale signs of how they’re feeling. A smile, a wrinkle between the eyebrows, a twitch of their hand.

And not just the movements of the body but you can also learn a lot from the singularities and marks that one has on their skin. A child with a scrape on their knee from running too fast on the playground. A chef with hundreds of small cuts on their hands from mastering the use of a knife. A ballet dancer with wounded toes. A painter with watercolors under their nails. A piano player with soft and delicate hands.

You can have a lot of information about a person just by observing them, knowing how they move and how their body reacts to things. A flinch from fear at the threat of danger. A shiver at the gentle touch of a lover.

That’s how you immediately know that something’s wrong when Jason returns from patrol. And you don’t even need to see him.

You’re reading in bed when you hear him come in. Always waiting up for him whenever you can. It isn’t difficult for you since you’ve always preferred staying up late rather than waking up early. Unless you have something to do early the next morning, you always wait for him to come home, to come to you, liking to see him as soon as he returns to make sure that he’s made it back to you safe and sound.

You either read or watch something on TV while you wait despite how many times he’s told you that you don’t have to wait up for him, that you should sleep. And every time you shake your head and say, “And go to sleep without you next to me? Never.” And every time Jason rolls his eyes at your stubbornness while his heart thrums in his chest at how much he loves you and then gently cups your face in his hands and kisses you softly.

And even when you can’t help it and you do have to go to sleep earlier or exhaustion wins over you and brings you to the depths of slumber without warning, Jason always approaches you quietly so as to not disturb you and kisses your forehead to let you know he’s home. If you’re on the couch he brings you to bed, and if you’re already in bed, he settles the covers better over you, just the way you like.

And those times you always smile in your sleepy state and unless he’s injured and needs your help patching him up, you follow semi consciously the sound of his footsteps around the apartment. The sound of the shower as he steps inside to rinse away the Gotham night clinging to him, the sound of rustling sheets as he finally climbs into bed with you, and are finally lulled back to sleep when warmth surrounds you as he brings you into his arms.

You’re no metahuman but you’ve developed a sixth sense for everything regarding Jason Todd. You would be able to easily spot him in a crowd of thousands after having just faintly heard his voice in the distance even if he didn’t have that white tuft of hair singling him out, all your senses zeroed in on him. It’s like your body and mind are always tuned to find him, like tweaking the dial of the car radio to find your favorite station and finding it on the very first try.

You have a master’s degree on Jason Todd and all of his movements, small gestures and twitch of expressions that he doesn’t even realize that he’s doing, you know it all by heart. You know that when the right side of his smirk pulls slightly at his cheek as he’s admiring you doing something mundane, he’s going to kiss you. You know that when he flexes his hands at his sides something is bothering him. You know that he’s going to laugh loudly and wholeheartedly when the sound makes his shoulders shake slightly before making its way up his throat, as if he’s trying to contain it but the laugh is so strong and spontaneous that he can’t fight it. And you know he’s in pain from a bruise on his ribs when he shifts his weight on his feet and a grimace appears on his face for just a second.

That’s how you know that something’s up when you hear him climb through your living room window and his steps don’t sound as if he’s trying to not make too much noise in order to not wake you up in case that you’re asleep, but as if he's trying to make himself as small as possible. It’s a subtle difference but it’s there. You know it because you’ve encountered it before.

Your worry only increases when in the next four seconds that it takes you to find your bookmark between the sheets and place it in your book, you don’t hear him move at all. He doesn’t come find you and he doesn’t call your name.

When you exit the bedroom you find him in the middle of the living room. He just stands there, shoulders hunched, red helmet gripped tightly in hand, head looking down, his hair falling over his forehead.

Something has happened. You don’t know what it is but your first worry right now is making sure that he’s okay. If he heard you come into the room he doesn’t show it. You take a couple of small yet purposeful steps towards him, making sure that they can be heard so that you can alert him of your presence, not wanting to startle him.

But nothing. He stays frozen.

You take a deep breath as your heart clenches at seeing him like this. It’s bad. Whatever has happened is really, really bad and it seems like Jason’s mind is still there. He’s not fully present with you right now.

But you know what you have to do. You have to bring him back here with you. Help him to separate himself, your loving, wonderful, and kind Jason from the horrors that Red Hood has to face every day.

You take another step in his direction. “Jason?” you whisper softly.

He doesn’t react. But he doesn’t flinch either. That’s good. He knows he’s somewhere safe. But he still needs to distance himself from whatever was out there. You finally come to stand in front of him, still not touching him. “Jay?” you try again while assessing him over, trying to pinpoint if he’s injured.

Again, nothing. But the hair that hangs over his forehead moves ever so subtly, almost in an imperceptible way, but you catch it nonetheless. The hair moved because he tilted his head in the slightest of ways. He’s listening to you. Knows that you’re there. You sigh in relief when you see his grip on the helmet lessen too. Good signs.

“I’m going to touch you, okay?”

He releases a deep breath, slowly allowing himself to let go, the tension that his shoulders held not as tight as before. Leaving his body slightly, leaving him at your mercy. He’s saying, Okay. Satisfied at that and at finding that he doesn’t seem to have any major injuries, you nod. Then, you gently and very slowly take his face in your hands to look at him. His eyes acknowledge you for a split second but then his emerald gaze returns to the floor, and you feel a crack forming in your heart at the utter sadness, desperation, and despair that you find in it.

Still, you feel him melt into your touch at his cheeks. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re home,” you offer softly.

He closes his eyes in response, reveling in the comfort that you bring him. Next, you take the helmet from his hand and set it on the kitchen counter before moving to the holster with his guns and very carefully unfastening its belt and leaving it all on the table. Helping him that way to step out of the Red Hood persona and everything that claws into it.

“Let’s take a shower,” you say, wanting to keep him informed of your every move. You take his hand and pull him with you towards the bathroom. He lets you guide him, fully trusting you but still not reacting to anything much.

You don’t ask him what’s happened. You don’t need to know. There are things that Jason doesn’t tell you about patrol. And you have no problem with it, knowing that he wants to separate those two parts of his life. But no matter what it is, you always let him know that he can come to you about them, that you’ll listen. That you’ll always be there for him. Always.

The other few times that you have seen him come home like this, slouched over and not talking much, you later learn, either by context from what you hear on the news and the streets, or by Jason directly telling you about it when he needs to let go and finally feels able share it, that the people he was after got away, that someone got hurt, or something like that.

But this time… This time something’s different. You have never seen him as bad as this. At least not from coming back from patrol. And it worries you. It worries you a lot and it kills you that you can’t do anything more than just be there for him. But it seems that that’s all that he needs right now so you settle on focusing on him.

From the guiltiness that hangs over him, tensing his shoulders and keeping his eyes down, and the distress and sorrow that you see in his gaze, you have a feeling that something terrible happened. Something that he couldn’t prevent. He couldn’t save somebody.

You can almost see how he’s replaying it in his mind, the shame and regret swirling in his head until they stiff all of his body. You need to reassure him, make him see how it isn’t his fault, how he did everything he could, and how he gave his all but how sometimes, despite how much you fight it and try to stop it, Gotham doesn’t let you escape the rot that runs through its streets.

Once you two reach the bathroom, you flick on the mirror light above the sink, casting you two in a soft golden light, not wanting to overwhelm him with the overhead one and its strong intensity.

You stand in front of him and help him take off his jacket before taking his hands in yours. He still doesn’t look at you as you take off his gloves. Once they’re gone, you take a moment to examine his hands, and you let out a sigh of relief at seeing that his knuckles aren’t wounded. Your thumbs softly trace the marred skin, small scars and irregular healing adorning his hands. You can’t help but bring them to your lips and press a long kiss to them, closing your eyes, trying to will away all the mental scars that they hold too just by the touch of your lips.

His hands, that could break bones but also mend and heal the most broken parts of yourself.

Despite what those hands either curled into fists or holding a gun could mean to other people, they’re precious to you. And one of the many wonderful parts of him. To you, they mean soft caresses while you’re laying in bed. They mean warmth when winter comes and he rubs them against your arms. They mean comfort, and safety, as he holds your sobbing body when you break down.

Their roughness both from handling dangerous weapons and using a pan to make you dinner. Jason Todd has a duality that still amazes you to this day, but you love all the multitudes that he contains all the same.

You then begin to remove his equipment. The chest armor, the knee pads, and any other protective gear, putting it all on the pile that you started with his jacket and gloves on top of the laundry basket to sort out later. Jason doesn’t move, only doing the movement necessary to help you undress him, like lifting his feet so that you can slip his boots off after having unlaced them.

But still, his gaze remains lost.

You set the boots to the side and get back up to your feet again. You walk around him to get the tub started for a bath, adding some oils and soap. You pass by him to exit the bathroom and grab some comfortable clothes for him after. Most of the time, unless it’s very cold, he normally sleeps shirtless with some sweatpants or even just his underwear during the hotter months, but you know that tonight he needs to feel covered, enveloped, protected. You begin to plan in your mind. A comfortable old shirt and sweatpants will do.

However, before you can even reach the doorframe and begin your walk to the bedroom, a hand wraps gently around your wrist. You whip back around, both surprised and glad at the same time that Jason has finally interacted with you on his own accord, this being the first contact with the outside world initiated by him. Another good sign.

You see Jason’s eyes fixed on your wrist before lifting his gaze to lock with yours.

Stay.

Your gaze softens and you take another step closer to him, almost being chest to chest. You lift your free hand to caress his cheek. “Of course,” you whisper. “I’m just going to grab you some clothes, okay? It’ll be five seconds.”

As you assure him, without realizing it, your thumb traces his cheek in the exact same motion that he has begun to rub soft circles into your wrist. He nods slowly.

“Okay,” you say and Jason releases his hold on you just enough for you to quickly slip to the bedroom. And just like you promised, you’re back just as fast, closing the door behind you so that the steam from the tub can warm up the room, starting to fog up the mirror too, and setting the clothes on the counter. And Jason still hasn’t moved an inch.

You stand in front of him again and delicately grab the hem of his shirt before looking up at him. And you don’t need words to understand each other. Can I?

Jason’s chin tips slightly. Yeah.

You slowly lift the shirt up his body and he raises his arms to help you. Once off, you leave the shirt with the rest of his discarded clothes. Then, with your hands in front of you so that Jason can see what you’re doing and anticipate your movements, you rest them on his shoulders and then gently slide them down his chest, feeling his well-worked muscles and creases from the scars on his skin.

Jason lets out a deep breath, the skin to skin contact grounding him. His eyes never leave you now, following every single one of your actions. And not because he needs to see what you’re doing in order to prepare himself, not anymore, but because you’re the only thing that seems real right now. The only thing tethering him to Earth.

Because to him, you’re his center of gravity. No matter how far he went, both in distance and into the depths of his mind, he will always come back to you.

You lean forward and press a tender kiss between his pecs. Jason shudders, feeling warmth, comfort, and light blooming from the spot that you kissed and extending through all of his body, from his torso to the ends of his limbs. Your touch like the first rays of sunshine after the coldest and longest night of the year in a frozen landscape, melting the frost and bringing everything back to life. Chasing away the Gotham chill clinging to his bones and the rigidness that holds him hostage. Replacing it all with you, just you. The warmth and safety that you provide.

Jason thinks that he wasn’t actually brought back to life all those years ago, just went through some kind of purgatory on Earth again until he reached his very own personal heaven. You. And he still has no idea what he did to deserve it.

Then you help him out of his pants until he’s standing in his underwear in front of you. His back is hunched, making him lean towards you but this time it’s not because of all the negative thoughts hanging over him, but because of the pull that you have over him, your gravity drawing him in.

You round him again to check the temperature of the water in the tub, though this time, Jason rotates his body to follow you, like a sunflower chasing the sun. Satisfied with both the water’s temperature and quantity, you close the tap.

“You want me to get in with you?” you ask, not minding that you have already showered for the day. Jason nods.

You nod to yourself and peel the shirt of his that you wear to sleep off your body, leaving you just like him, wearing only your lower underwear. And even with how exposed you two are, you’re not vulnerable. The air in the room thick not only with humidity but with the intimacy between you two. A kind that can only come from honest love and a complete feeling of trust.

But the air isn’t humming with electricity like in the other situations in which you two find yourselves with as little clothing as right now. Instead, the air is lulling, like a soft and warm wave gently rocking your body when you lay with your eyes closed in the sea. Comforting and lightening.

You discard both your final pieces of clothing and step into the tub, holding a hand out to Jason so that he can step in in front of you. When he joins you, you two finally sink your bodies in the warm and bubble covered water. You lean back at the edge of the tub with Jason between your legs, his back pressed to your chest, his head resting on your shoulder and your arms draped over his chest, all of you surrounding him, enveloping him, protecting him.

Even though the tub is relatively big, considering Jason’s huge frame, it wasn’t exactly meant for two, so you’re a mess of tangled limbs and warm bodies, but you can already feel Jason relaxing against you. You kiss the crown of his head and he finally closes his eyes.

You two lay there for a while, enjoying the hot water and letting it wash your worries away, the scent from the lavender oil that you used hanging in the air, calming your minds. You’re glad to see how the bath is helping Jason to let go of the events of the night, the remaining tension that clung to his body stripped by the water, and the memories from the night relegated to another place as you see the crease on his brows disappear as you draw gentle caresses on his chest.

You grab the shampoo bottle and start to wash Jason’s hair, working the roots and massaging his scalp to help him relax even further. Soon, hundreds of tiny white bubbles replace the sight of his black locks. You work on his hair longer than necessary but you can see how much it’s helping him, his breathing becoming even more deeper and slower. The only sign that he hasn’t fallen asleep, the hand that settles on your knee at his side.

You then rinse his hair, his white streak majestically poking between the black again. With a sponge you start to wash his body where you can reach, his shoulders, his upper arms and torso. When you’re done you maneuver yourself to sit in front of him, facing each other now. As you start to wash the rest of his arms, you see in his eyes that his thoughts are beginning to slip away, the events of the night calling him again. But you’re not having it. Nothing is taking Jason away from you tonight. Your goal, making him focus on you and only you.

“Can I tell you a story?” you say softly, your voice and the soft splash of water at the slightest movement the only sounds in the room.

Jason just shrugs his shoulders slightly. You nod as you focus on passing the sponge over his hands.

“It’s the story of a boy and a girl. About a wonderful boy and a girl who couldn’t believe her luck,” you begin. “One freezing winter afternoon, the girl slipped on some ice and the guy caught her by the waist, saving her from a pretty hurtful fate, though she almost brought him down with her. She apologized profusely as her cheeks warmed not only because of the embarrassment but because the man who’d caught her was the most handsome one she’d ever seen. But in her haste to step back from the stranger to try and save some embarrassment, she slipped on the ice again and he saved her once again.”

Jason can’t help the small smile that pulls at his lips. Because the story that you’re telling isn’t just any story. It’s your story. The story of how you met.

He wonders how you always knew exactly what to say. Hell, you could just be reading the grocery list out loud and he’d think that you deserved a Nobel Prize in Literature just because it came from you.

The sight of Jason’s smile pulls your lips into one too, and it warms your heart just like his worried gaze had done to your cheeks that very first day.

Both of you remember that day as clear as day, though neither of you could have ever anticipated how important it would be, how it had changed the course of your lives. You can still perfectly recall how he had cleared his throat awkwardly after catching you for the second time and his You alright, miss? How breathy his voice had sounded, as if something had taken his breath away, his heavy lower Gotham accent that had both surprised you and stirred something within you, and how vivid the green in his eyes was.

Just as bright as it is now as you continue the story. The shine that was always there whenever he looked at you.

“She had been pretty awkward, and she still can't believe how she’d managed to pull the kindest and hottest man in all of Gotham, the world even.” Jason snorts and you throw him a look, telling him not to question you because if there is one universal truth in this world—apart from the fact that a single man in possession of good fortune, must be in want of a wife—is that Jason Todd is the kindest and most gorgeous man that you have ever met.

“Though later he would reveal that he had found her nothing but endearing, despite what she might say about her awkwardness,” you continue.

Something about you already drawing him in. But just as quick as it all had happened, the moment passed by, and you two went your separate ways. Though not for long, because some time later, another afternoon, you were walking home when a running figure turned the corner and clashed into you. As you took a couple steps back to stabilize yourself you realized that you were head to head with the Red Hood. Which was strange since the sun was still setting and he had never been seen other than at night.

Jason hadn't planned on starting patrol so early but Tim had tipped him that some guys that he was after were having a meet up and Jason decided to give them a little surprise. Though that plan flew out the metaphorical window in the room of his mind as soon as he saw you again.

He had tried to forget the encounter in which he had saved the most beautiful girl that he’d ever seen from tumbling to the ground, and just as it seemed like he was about to succeed (not really, but at least manage to push the encounter to the back of his mind instead of your soft voice plaguing his every waking moment), he ran into you.

He stared at you bewildered, not believing that it was you, the sweet girl from the ice, and he was at a loss for words.

“Sorry,” you had said and at the sound of your voice he finally came out of his daze and shook his head.

“No need, it was my fault." He tilted his head. “You okay, miss?” You nodded, trying to ignore the shiver that ran down your spine at how similar he had sounded to your ice savior, his voice ingrained in your mind. And as much as Jason would have loved to stay there with you for a bit longer and hopefully learn your name, he had to get going, so he apologized again and you watched as he left.

And that should have been it. But somehow, it seemed like the universe had other ideas, crossing your paths later once again. And then one thing led to another and here you were now, sharing laundry and rent. Who would have thought? Certainly not you, when those strong arms caught you and you had no idea that they would become the place where you would feel the safest in.

Home.

Jason keeps listening as you finish recalling the start of your relationship. “And so their adventure together began. The clumsy girl from the ice and the boy that despite his rough exterior, had the gentlest, bravest, most selfless and most beautiful heart that she’d ever come to know.”

You finish the story with an enamored smile on your lips, the sweet memories fueling even more your love for him. A love and reassurance that you hope you have been able to convey in the story.

Jason sits in front of you with a small smile of his own, his heart beating golden light through his body, the love that you put there. His body finally relaxed and at peace, your hands holding his.

But then the smile falls from your lips as you see his eyes glass over. And even before he starts to tremble you pull him into you, wrapping your arms around him, his face hidden in your neck, his own arms snaking around you, holding you tight. And as the first tremors shake his shoulders, the first tears start to fall.

And you hold him through it. Taking everything that he needs to let go of in stride.

Because without the armor that he had built to keep his emotions at bay, swimming in the guilt and regret, once he finally relaxes, accepts that he’s safe and allows himself to be vulnerable, the dam breaks. And all the feelings come tumbling over.

The impotence. The sadness. The failure.

He’s not outright sobbing, the feelings working slowly but surely through him one by one. His body trembles slightly, a few tears falling onto your shoulder and a couple of sniffles here and there.

“I- I couldn’t-” He shakes his head and keeps silent once again. The first words that he’s said since he came home. The cracks in his broken voice forming ones in your heart. It stings more than salt in an open wound. You hold him as tight as you can. It’s like he needs to exteriorize these feelings and his body is allowing him to, but his voice can’t even go further than repeating that phrase over and over again. You shush him gently, letting him know that he doesn’t need to force himself to say anything. You’re here for him and that’s all that matters.

“It’s okay. You did everything you could, Jason. You’re a good man,” you whisper, trying to soothe the torture that he’s submitting himself to. But he shakes his head even more vehemently at your reassuring words and beautiful thoughts of him. Right now they don’t make any sense to him with how much he failed tonight. He’s not brave. He’s not kind. And he certainly isn’t good. He doesn’t know how you can say all of those things about him when he couldn’t-

You feel his internal monologue with how the time between his trembles, tears, and sniffles stretches. He’s lost in his head again. Thinking instead of feeling.

“Jason, hey, no. Stop,” you whisper gently but firmly. You unwind your arms from around him and take his head in your hands, holding his forehead to yours, looking into his eyes though his gaze avoids you.

“You are good. You’re kind, stubborn, funny, brave, determined, sarcastic, gentle, and loving. You’re all of those things. And sometimes things just go wrong and you can’t do anything to prevent them. You didn’t make any mistakes tonight, okay?” You don’t actually think that he can do anything wrong but you keep that to yourself. “Not being able to prevent something bad doesn’t make you any less of a good person.”

You can see how the thoughts race in his eyes.

“Jason. Look at me.” He finally locks eyes with you. “You know I’m not good at lying so listen to me when I say this. Whatever happened tonight is not your fault. You can cry. You should cry. You have to let go of everything that is storming inside you. What I’m not letting you do is convince yourself that you’re not good enough. Because you are, you hear me? You are.” You can’t help the tears that begin to prick at the corners of your eyes.

“I love you and I’m always going to be here for you for whatever you need, okay?” As a tear slips from your eye, Jason nods and hides in your neck again, letting his tears flow again. Letting himself feel. You envelop him in your arms once again.

“Okay,” he mutters against your skin. You sigh in relief and start to trace long shapes on his back.

You two stay there for a while, until both of you stop crying and his breathing returns to normal. And then you stay a little longer, just holding each other, Jason letting himself get lost in your soft skin and soothing scent, finally, finally, letting the night go. At least for now.

And then even a little longer, until the water turns lukewarm and a chill runs through your bodies.

“Want to go to bed?” you ask softly, threading your fingers through his hair, brushing away the damp strands falling on his forehead.

He nods slowly, lifting his head from your neck. “Thank you,” he whispers. You shake your head and he knows what you mean, You don’t have to thank me, I’d do anything for you.

“Come on,” you say and get up, offering him your hands. He takes them and gets up as well. You let the tub drain and step out of it, Jason following you. You quickly wrap Jason in a towel and then do the same with yourself. When you're done, he takes one of your hands gently and, while looking deep into your eyes, he kisses your knuckles. Thank you.

This time your gaze softens and you rest your hand against his heart. Of course.

After drying off you put your sleeping clothes back on and when you see Jason with the briefs that you brought already on and reaching towards the sweatpants, you gently swat his hand away. Let me take care of you.

He raises his hands in surrender and takes a step away from his clothes. Yes, ma’am.

“Are you hurt anywhere? Do you need me to patch you up?” He doesn’t seem to have any injury but you want to make sure. He shakes his head. You arch an eyebrow. It wouldn’t be the first time that he’s tried to lie to you about that. He nods, extending his arms so that you can examine him, showing how he doesn’t have any wounds. You wait for a beat before nodding.

You help him get dressed and all the while his fond gaze follows you. He’s sure that the best feeling in the world is being taken care of by you. That sunshine feeling blooming again in his chest. You’re so bright and he’s just so- No. He’s promised that he isn’t going to think like that anymore. At least not more tonight.

He follows your directions as you make him sit on the toilet and watches as you comb his hair. But then he can’t help but close his eyes at how relaxed he feels under your care. When you’re done you kiss his forehead and he hums as you run your hand through his hair. When he opens his eyes again, you’re extending a hand to him and he takes it without hesitation.

You turn off the bathroom light and guide him to the bedroom. You climb into bed, your side always the furthest one from the door, no matter where you are, at home, at the manor, or traveling, Jason makes sure of that, and you open your arms, inviting him into your embrace. Jason gets into bed, laying half on top of you, and wraps his arms around your waist as he nuzzles into your neck, your legs tangled. You drape the covers over you both, practically burying yourselves under them and wrap your arms around him, protecting him from anything that could hurt him. Your very own cocoon.

He gives your waist a slight squeeze. I love you. You kiss his hair in return, hugging him even tighter.

And as you hold him tight, the two of you know that what happened tonight out there would still haunt Jason despite all your reassurances. But just as you know that, you also know that you’re always going to be there for him. To love him and care for him. So, for tonight, Jason lets himself be lulled to sleep by the sound of your heart. Each rhythmic thump thump telling him, I got you, you’re okay, I love you, over and over again.

Just like for you with him, your arms the place where he feels safest in. Home.

Please let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!

[cup1drul3z]

★ — What She’ll Become

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ: ᴘᴀɪɴᴛ ᴍᴇ ɪɴ ʀᴇᴅ ʟɪɢʜᴛꜱ

ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ x ᴋɪᴅɴᴀᴘᴘᴇᴅ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | 5.5ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

TAGS ; Age gap, KIDNAPPING, stockholm syndrome, Sevika is an evil rich lady, emo reader, psychotic episode, SELFHARM MENTIONED, blood mentioned, dark romance, CNC, Dubcon

CW ; lets not forget this is fiction guys!!

Summary ; You slip out of your house with a fake ID and a plan, chasing escape in a haze of smoke and flashing lights. What starts as a risky night out spirals into something much darker when you catch the attention of someone powerful—someone who doesn’t let things go. By the time you realize you’re in too deep, it’s already too late.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

“You’re actually doing this,” your friend says flatly, voice crackling through the phone pressed to your ear. “You’re seriously going.”

You dig through your closet, shoving past a pile of black hoodies and old concert tees. “I told you I was.”

“Yeah, I just didn’t think you’d be dumb enough to follow through.”

From downstairs, muffled yelling cuts through the walls—your mom’s voice sharp, your dad’s louder. You flinch, jaw tightening, and pull out the red and black striped top like it’s armor.

“I’ve got the ID. It scans. It’ll be fine.”

“You don’t even like crowds. Or people. Or noise.”

“I like vodka.” You peel off your oversized sleep shirt and tug the striped top over your head. The fabric clings just right, sleeves hanging past your wrists. You glance at the mirror—eyeliner smudged from earlier, lips dry, expression dead-eyed. You look like someone else. That’s the point.

The yelling downstairs spikes—glass shattering, something heavy hitting the floor.

“You hear that?” you ask quietly.

Your friend pauses. “…Yeah.”

“Exactly.” You step into your black cutoff shorts, tug them up over your hips, then reach for your knee-high black Converse. “I’d rather be blackout drunk in a sketchy casino than stuck in this house another second.”

“I swear to god, if you get arrested—”

“Then I’ll finally have a cool story to tell.”

“You’re not funny.”

You smirk as you lace up your shoes. “I’m hilarious. I’ll text you when I get in.”

“You better. And don’t talk to anyone. Don’t let anyone buy you a drink. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“No promises,” you say, grabbing your fake ID and slipping it into your bra.

Another scream echoes from downstairs. You don’t even flinch this time.

“I gotta go,” you mutter. “Wish me luck.”

“I wish you had better coping skills.”

The bouncer looks down at your ID, then back at your face. His eyes narrow.

You keep your expression blank, even as your heart slams against your ribs. He flips the card once, twice, like it might change if he stares long enough.

“This doesn’t look like you,” he says.

You shrug. “I lost weight.”

His eyes flick downward—just for a second. You catch the hesitation. You don’t move, don’t breathe.

Then, with a grunt, he steps aside. “Don’t cause trouble.”

You flash him a practiced, lazy smile and slip past the velvet rope, pretending you don’t feel like screaming from how fast your pulse is racing. The second you’re out of view, you yank your phone from your pocket and type fast.

got in. holy shit.

The club swallows you in red lights and bass. It smells like smoke, sweat, and expensive liquor. You bite your lip to hide your grin as you move deeper inside, shoulders relaxed for the first time all day.

Across the room, in a low-lit corner of the bar, Sevika sits with a half-empty glass of whiskey and a pounding headache. Her jacket’s open, collar loosened, sleeves rolled up. Her tie’s long gone, and the buttons of her shirt are undone just enough to hint at the ink sprawling across her collarbone. The day had been hell—meetings, threats, numbers that didn’t add up.

She downs the last of her drink, signaling the bartender for another.

Then she sees you.

You don’t see her—not yet. You’re busy looking up at the lights, wide-eyed like you’ve never seen a place like this before. The way you move, the way you dress—too soft for this crowd, too new.

Sevika leans back in her seat, glass in hand, and watches.

Sevika tips her glass, lets the burn of the whiskey numb the throb at her temple. She tells herself she’s just people-watching, but that’s a lie. Her eyes haven’t left you since you walked in.

Too young. Too raw. Too fucking reckless.

The way you shift through the crowd, full of nerves and false confidence, makes something sharp twist in her chest. She hates it. Hates the way her mind spins with ugly contradictions. One part of her wants to drag you out of this place by your wrist, lock the door behind you, and make sure no one ever looks at you again. Another part wants to see you fall apart. To push, to test, to break you open just to see what you look like ruined.

Sevika swirls her drink, jaw tight. You're trouble. A walking vulnerability in knee-high sneakers and eyeliner. A problem. A weakness.

And still, she watches.

Too long.

When she blinks out of it, you’re standing next to her.

You lean on the bar, tiptoes barely brushing the floor, the edge of the counter awkwardly high against your ribs. You’re looking at the bartender like this is a fast food line.

“Can I have a drink?” you ask, voice casual but shaky.

The bartender chuckles, wiping out a glass with a towel. “What kind of drink?”

You blink, clearly thrown. There’s no menu. Of course there isn’t. Your mouth opens, then closes.

Sevika smirks before you can embarrass yourself further.

“She’ll have a Velvet Vice,” she says smoothly, voice like smoke. “Sweet, strong, and goes down easy.”

The bartender snorts and turns to start making it.

You glance at her, startled.

She doesn’t look at you. Just lifts her glass, eyes on the mirror behind the bar. “You’re not very good at pretending you belong here, sweetheart.”

You bristle, straightening up despite the counter pressing awkwardly into your ribs. “I didn’t ask for help.”

Sevika finally looks at you—really looks. Her gaze drags slow, heavy, unapologetic. “Didn’t say you did.”

You open your mouth to snap something back, but your voice dies in your throat. There’s something about her—messy suit, scarring around her metal arm, that unreadable calm in her eyes. Like she’s already figured you out, and she’s not impressed.

The bartender sets down a tall glass in front of you. Deep red, rim sugared. It smells like berries and poison.

You reach for it, but Sevika slides her hand over the base first.

You blink. “What?”

She leans in slightly, breath brushing your ear. “Rule number one, baby. Never drink something you didn’t watch get made.”

You glance at the bartender’s back, then down at the drink. “...You ordered it.”

“Yeah. And if I wanted to roofie you, you’d already be face-down in the booth.”

Your eyes snap to her.

She smiles. “Relax. I’m not into corpses.”

You stare for a beat too long, then grab the drink anyway and take a defiant sip. It’s strong. Sweet. Cold. It hits your tongue like velvet and slides down like fire.

Your lips curl. “Tastes like something that’d ruin my life.”

Sevika’s smile deepens. “Maybe that’s why I picked it.”

You turn your body toward her, shoulder brushing hers. “What’s your deal, anyway? You just sit here all night saving dumb girls from their first bad decision?”

She shrugs. “Only the interesting ones.”

You roll your eyes, but your face is warm. “That line works on anyone?”

“Don’t need it to.”

You raise your glass. “Well. Thanks for the drink. I think.”

“You’ll feel it in about ten minutes,” she says, watching you over the rim of her own glass. “That’s when you’ll realize you’ve stayed too long.”

You smirk. “Maybe I like staying too long.”

Sevika raises a brow. “Oh?”

Sevika gestures toward the back of the lounge with a tilt of her chin. “C’mon. I’ll show you something more fun than standing around pretending you know how to drink.”

You hesitate, fingers tightening around the cold glass. “What, like a tour?”

“Something like that,” she says, sliding off the barstool with a fluid grace that doesn’t match the disheveled mess of her suit. She walks without waiting, trusting you’ll follow.

You do.

The music dims as you move past velvet curtains into a more secluded part of the casino—low ceilings, warm lighting, smoke curling in the air. The poker tables here aren’t like the ones in movies. No glamour. Just sharp eyes, fast hands, and the faint metallic hum of tension.

She pulls out a chair at a private table, one hand on the backrest, the other holding her drink. “Sit.”

You hover. “I don’t know how to play.”

“I’ll teach you.”

You eye the chips stacked in neat little towers, the dealer already watching you both. “I don’t have money.”

Sevika smirks. “You will.”

You cross your arms. “Why? So you can watch me lose?”

“No,” she says, tone even. “So I can watch you learn.”

There’s something in her eyes—too calm, too knowing. You can’t tell if it’s a challenge or a trap. Maybe both.

“I’m not here to play games,” you murmur.

She leans in, voice low. “You want out, don’t you? Away from the screaming, the shit job, the tiny bedroom that doesn’t even feel like yours?”

You freeze.

She steps closer, one hand brushing your lower back—not enough to touch, just enough to feel the heat of it. “Win a few rounds. Pocket the cash. Disappear.”

You swallow. “Why help me?”

“I’m not.” She smiles. “I’m just curious what you’ll do when someone finally offers you a door.”

You look down at the chair, then at the dealer, who gives a small nod like this happens often.

Your hands shake as you sit down. “Fine.”

Sevika lowers herself beside you, close enough for her thigh to press against yours.

“Good girl,” she says, voice just for you. “Let’s play.”

You lose. Spectacularly.

Hand after hand, the chips disappear—slipping through your fingers like water. You’re not even sure how much you’ve lost by the end, but it’s enough to make your chest ache. The numbers blur. Your heart pounds. Your drink’s long gone, and Sevika hasn’t stopped smirking since the dealer collected your last chip.

“Well,” she drawls, swirling her whiskey, “that was entertaining.”

You glare at her. “You didn’t say I’d actually lose.”

“I didn’t say you’d win, either.” She tilts her head, eyes sharp and amused. “Time to pay up.”

You blink. “I don’t have—”

“Oh, I know.” She leans closer, her voice a purr. “But I think I’ll enjoy collecting.”

Your stomach drops. A nervous smile pulls at your lips, brittle. “I... I just need a second.”

She raises a brow. “To what? Cry?”

You bolt.

Your chair scrapes against the floor with a loud screech as you shoot to your feet and make a run for it, ignoring the startled shout of the dealer behind you. The place is a blur—flashing lights, gasps, footsteps.

You slam right into a waitress balancing a tray of champagne flutes. Glass shatters, bubbles fizz, and you squeak, stumbling back.

“I’m so sorry!” you blurt, already ducking past her.

The bouncers posted by the curtain react too slow—you dodge under one’s outstretched arm and squeeze past the other with a breathless laugh, adrenaline flooding your veins.

“Hey—!”

You don’t look back. You sprint through the main room, past the bar, past the pounding music, through the front doors and into the street.

The night air slaps you in the face, cold and real. You keep running, legs burning, lungs on fire.

A few blocks down, you duck into a narrow alley between two buildings and collapse against the brick wall, panting. The only sound now is the distant hum of traffic and your own heartbeat thundering in your ears.

You slide down the wall, knees to your chest, hands shaking.

“What the fuck was that,” you whisper to no one.

You notice it only once the adrenaline starts to fade—the sting in your palm, sharp and hot. You lift your hand and there it is: a sliver of glass, half-buried in your skin. It must’ve come from the champagne tray.

You swallow hard, fingers trembling as you reach to pull it out. It resists at first, then slides free with a sickening little tug.

Blood gushes instantly, thick and warm, running down your wrist in quick rivulets. You press your other hand over the wound and let out a quiet whimper, curling over yourself like that might stop the pain.

The street is mostly empty. No one stops. No one looks.

You force yourself upright, wrapping your injured hand in the sleeve of your hoodie, and limp toward the nearest bus stop. It’s a blur from there—coins dropped into the machine, a seat near the back, the cold window against your temple.

The blood keeps seeping, but you press harder, teeth clenched.

Outside, the city blurs by—neon signs, flickering streetlamps, people living their lives like none of it matters. You stare, unblinking, watching it all slip past. Your reflection is pale in the glass, eyes wide and rimmed in smeared black eyeliner.

You think about the table. About Sevika’s voice. About the way she looked at you like she knew everything.

You think about how stupid you were to go. How close you came to—

You shake your head, throat tight, and close your eyes.

Just a game, you tell yourself. Just a drink. Just a cut. It doesn’t mean anything.

But the ache in your palm says otherwise.

The front door is silent when you slip inside—your parents’ shouting finally fading into muffled echoes somewhere down the hall. You don’t even try to be quiet as you tiptoe to your window, pulling yourself up and sliding inside like you’ve done it a thousand times before.

Once inside, you drop onto your bed with a tired sigh, the rough fabric of your hoodie scratching against your skin. Your hand still stings, the blood soaking into your sleeve.

You reach into your pocket for your phone.

Nothing.

Your stomach drops. You pat your other pockets, then the floor beside the bed. It’s gone.

You must’ve dropped it at the casino.

You bite your lip, panic fluttering in your chest, but then steady yourself. They can’t get into it, right? You set a passcode no one could guess.

Still, the thought twists in your gut like a knot.

No texts. No messages.

You glance at the dark screen of the alarm clock across the room and then back at the empty space on your mattress where your phone should be.

You close your eyes, sighing again.

Tomorrow’s problems.

You don’t even change out of your clothes. You lie down, pulling the covers over your head, and fall asleep with the weight of the night pressing down on you.

Your alarm blares, shrill and merciless.

You groan, dragging the pillow over your head as if that’ll drown it out. It doesn’t. With a miserable whine, you sit up, hair a mess and mascara smudged beneath your eyes. Your whole body feels like it’s been scraped against the pavement.

Before you can swing your legs off the bed, your door bursts open.

“Get up! This room’s a disaster,” your mom snaps, already halfway inside, arms crossed. “You’ve got five minutes before we leave, and if you make me late for work again, so help me—”

You tune her out, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand.

She keeps yelling as she walks off, her voice muffled by the hallway. You sit there for a second longer, staring at the wall, then sigh and shove yourself off the bed.

You don’t bother changing out of your shorts—just yank off your hoodie and throw on a worn band t-shirt. The bloodstain on your sleeve is crusted now. You ignore it. Pull on your beat-up sneakers, grab your bag, and head for the door without brushing your hair.

No breakfast. No good morning.

Just another day.

The shattered champagne, the startled gasps, the echo of hurried footsteps—then silence.

Sevika stands by the table, one hand still wrapped around her glass, watching the mess you left behind. The smell of cheap alcohol clings to the air, and broken glass glitters like ice under the soft lights.

She’s not mad.

Not exactly.

She lets out a slow breath, jaw flexing as she tilts her head back and downs the rest of her whiskey. The burn is satisfying. A reminder that at least something tonight went down the way it should.

Of course you ran.

That’s what little animals do when they realize they’ve walked into a cage. They scramble. Scratch at the walls. Flee with panic in their lungs and glass in their hands.

But you looked at her like you wanted to trust her. Like you were desperate for someone to offer you a way out. That kind of vulnerability—it sticks. Gnaws at the back of the mind.

She sets her glass down and rolls her neck, the joints cracking faintly. The dealer and nearby staff are quiet, watching her out of the corners of their eyes, waiting to see if a storm is coming.

She doesn’t give them one.

Just steps back from the table and pulls a cigarette from her jacket, lighting it with a flick of her zippo. The smoke curls lazily around her face as she exhales and mutters to herself.

“Fucking idiot.”

Still.

Still, you were interesting.

She takes another drag, flicks the ash, then gestures over her shoulder without looking.

“Find her,” she says to one of her men, voice calm and low. “Tonight.”

She doesn't need to say what to do when they do. They know.

Sevika turns away, cigarette between her lips, and disappears into the dark.

The house is quiet.

Sevika wakes slowly, blinking against the soft gray light filtering through the blackout curtains. Her room is massive—walls a cool charcoal, ceiling high enough to echo. The king-sized bed is half-empty, sheets still rumpled from a restless night.

She sits up with a grunt, running a hand through her tangled hair. Her temples throb, the hangover dull but persistent. Another day.

She swings her legs over the edge of the bed, her metal arm catching a glint of light as she stands. The floor is cold stone, smooth under her bare feet. She stretches, bones popping, then pads toward the bathroom.

The shower is glass-walled and rain-style. Steam fills the space as she steps under the hot stream, letting it scald her skin, wash away the sweat and smoke from last night. She stands there longer than she needs to, hands braced against the tile, water beating against her back as the memory of your voice flickers through her mind.

She dries off with a towel the size of a blanket and wraps it around her waist, heading to the sink. She brushes her teeth, combs out her hair, ties it back in a low, loose bun. No makeup today—she doesn’t need it.

Back in the bedroom, she pulls on dark slacks and a plain black shirt, the sleeves rolled up past her forearms. She shrugs on a half-buttoned dress shirt, doesn't bother with the tie. Slides on her watch, her rings. A chain around her neck, just visible beneath the collar.

Downstairs, the house stretches open—polished wood floors, minimal decor, high windows letting in weak morning light. Her boots echo through the hall as she moves to the kitchen.

She makes coffee herself. No staff in the mornings. She likes the quiet. The routine. The smell of it—rich and grounding.

She takes her mug out to the balcony, overlooking the city. The skyline is hazy. The streets are already alive.

She sips once. Twice.

Then her phone buzzes on the table beside her.

She picks it up, scrolling past a dozen messages until she finds the one she’s waiting for.

"We know where she lives."

Sevika smiles faintly, thumb hovering over the reply.

“Good,” she mutters.

And she finishes her coffee

The day blurs.

Classes bleed together—white noise from teachers, the scratch of pencils, the low hum of fluorescent lights. You go through the motions, eyes half-lidded, head pounding. Every time someone speaks to you, it takes a beat too long to register. You just nod, fake a smile, move on.

Lunchtime comes and goes. You don’t eat. Just pick at an old granola bar in your bag, the taste dry and meaningless.

After school, you stay for yearbook club. It runs late—editing layouts, arguing over captions, flipping through photos of people you don’t care about. You’re too tired to contribute, too drained to fake it. No one really notices.

By the time you step onto the bus home, the sky is a muddy purple. You drop into a seat near the back, leaning your forehead against the window, and let the vibrations lull you into a trance.

Your thoughts circle back—again and again—to the casino. The table. Her voice. Her hand brushing yours when she placed a chip down. The way she looked at you like she knew how the night would end before you even sat down.

You rub your palm where the cut still aches, the bandage from the nurse’s office already stained through.

She let you run.

But she watched you go.

The bus pulls to a stop with a hiss of brakes, and you blink, startled. You stand slowly, shoulders heavy, bag dragging against your side as you step off.

It’s dark now. The streetlamps flicker. The neighborhood is quiet—eerily so. Just the rustle of leaves and the crunch of gravel under your sneakers.

You start walking.

The footsteps come too late.

You hear them—behind you, fast—but by the time you turn, someone’s already there. A sharp prick to your neck, quick and cold, makes you gasp. Your hand flies up to swat it away, but everything’s already going fuzzy.

You stumble back, heart racing, but your legs betray you. The streetlight above swims, warps.

“Wha—” you try to say, but your tongue is heavy. Numb.

Strong arms catch you before you hit the ground. You can’t move. Can’t scream. You’re weightless—dangling over someone’s shoulder like a ragdoll. The world tilts sideways.

Your head lolls.

The bus stop is still there—just down the road, neon glow buzzing faintly in the dark.

You blink, slow and sluggish. The stop sign blurs, then splits, then fades.

Your legs are bound quickly, rough hands moving fast. Your wrists follow next—plastic ties biting into your skin. You feel yourself being lifted, shoved.

The car door opens. The interior is dark, cold leather against your back.

Then it slams shut, sealing you in.

You try to fight. Try to scream.

Nothing.

And then—

Black.

The concrete is cold beneath you.

You wake with a jolt, eyes snapping open to the dim, unfamiliar ceiling above. A single bulb flickers overhead, casting long shadows that crawl along the walls. Your head throbs, your mouth dry, and for a second—just a second—you think you're home.

Then you see it.

A bug. On your hand. Crawling over your knuckles.

You scream—sharp, panicked—and fling your hand away, scrambling back with your breath caught in your throat.

But when you blink again, it’s gone.

Not squished. Not crawling.

Gone.

You freeze, chest rising and falling too fast, heart in your throat. The cold from the floor seeps into your bones, and you finally notice the clothes.

Not yours.

The hoodie, the shorts—they’re gone.

You’re in a black nightgown now. Thin spaghetti straps slip over your shoulders, the fabric soft and sheer, clinging like smoke. Tiny rosettes sit along the bust and hem, delicate and dreamy, like you were meant to be in a fairytale instead of a basement.

The skirt flows around your legs like water, but your skin is buzzing—numb and tingling all at once.

You try to stand. Your legs collapse beneath you.

You hit the floor hard, gasping, hands scraping against the rough concrete. A whimper escapes before you can stop it.

You’re alone.

You’re dressed like a doll.

And you have no idea where you are.

The cold bites through the thin fabric as you lie there, body trembling. You clutch your hands to your chest, your breath still uneven.

That’s when you notice.

Your palm—the one that had been bleeding—is clean now. The wound is neatly stitched, wrapped in soft gauze like someone had taken their time, like someone had cared. You stare at it, confused.

Then your eyes drift to your thighs.

The cuts. The ones you made the night before the casino. Bandaged. Carefully. Not just slapped on with tape, but cleaned. Dressed. Like someone had gone over every inch of you while you were unconscious.

You sit there in stunned silence, eyes wide and dry.

Your hair doesn’t feel like your hair. It’s soft. Detangled. Washed.

Your fingers lift slowly to your scalp, brushing through it like you’re afraid of what else might feel different.

It’s not just that someone touched you. It’s that they touched you gently.

But you’re on a basement floor.

Dressed like a doll in a black nightgown that isn’t yours.

And the silence around you feels so thick you could drown in it.

At some point, exhaustion wins.

You curl up on the cold floor, muscles aching, wrapped in silence and gauze and confusion. Your head rests against your arm, and your eyes close despite the fear clawing at your chest. The flickering light hums above you like a lullaby.

Sleep swallows you whole.

You wake to the sound of metal groaning.

The heavy basement door creaks open, the noise dragging you back to consciousness like a punch to the gut. Your eyes fly open.

Footsteps.

You push yourself up, back slamming into the wall as you scramble into the far corner. You press your hands to the floor, trying to make yourself smaller, less visible, like that might save you.

And then she steps inside.

Sevika.

Broad shoulders fill the doorway, backlit by soft light from the hallway beyond. She’s dressed differently now—dark slacks, a loose black blouse with the top buttons undone. Her metal arm gleams faintly as she steps into the room, calm and unhurried.

She closes the door behind her with a slow click.

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

You just stare.

She looks at you for a long moment. Not with cruelty. Not with pity. Just… focus. Her eyes sweep over you—your bandaged hand, the nightgown, your tangled body pressed into the corner.

“I see you’re awake,” she says finally, voice low and even.

You don’t answer.

“You were bleeding. Everywhere,” she continues, stepping further in. Her boots echo softly against the concrete. “Someone had to fix that.”

Still, you stay quiet, body tense.

“I had your clothes burned. They were soaked in blood and dirt. Trash, really.” She tilts her head. “The ones you have on now suit you better.”

You flinch as she stops in front of you. Her shadow stretches across your lap.

She crouches—slowly—bringing herself to eye level. Close, but not touching. She smells like clean leather and warm skin and smoke.

“You scared the shit out of me when you ran,” she murmurs. “Nearly gave my guy a heart attack getting you back.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

She studies you, something unreadable in her expression.

“You don’t have to talk,” she says. “Not yet.”

Then, with a quiet shift, she reaches into her pocket and sets something beside you on the floor. A glass of water. A protein bar.

“For now,” she says, rising to her full height again, “just eat. Rest.”

She walks to the door, but pauses before opening it.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she adds over her shoulder. “You’ve already used up your first escape.”

And then she’s gone.

The door shuts with a dull thud, and the lock slides into place. Again, you’re alone.

Your eyes stay on the water, the protein bar beside it. Perfectly placed. Like a gift. Like a favor.

Your stomach growls, but the sound makes your skin crawl.

It was her.

You knew it the second she stepped in—the voice, the calm, the way she looked at you like this was normal. Like she owned the moment. Like she owned you.

Sevika did this.

She drugged you. Stripped you. Changed your clothes. Touched your skin while you couldn’t move. She cleaned your wounds, yes—but she put you here. In this cold, quiet box.

This wasn’t mercy.

This was a cage.

You lunge forward suddenly and grab the protein bar, hand shaking with rage—and hurl it across the room. It hits the far wall and drops, the silence louder in its wake.

The water stares at you like it’s mocking.

You don’t touch it.

Instead, you press your hands into your scalp, fingers tangled in your hair, tugging until it hurts. You drag your knees to your chest, burying your face there, breath ragged and uneven.

The floor stays cold. The light keeps buzzing.

And you sit in the corner, trying to figure out what part of you she saw that made her choose you.

Time passes in fragments.

At first, it’s just silence. Cold and thick and suffocating. But as the fog in your body fades, the panic starts to rise.

You scream.

You scream until your throat is raw, until the sound barely comes out anymore. You scream her name, you scream for help, for anyone, for anything.

You claw at the walls. Bang your fists on the door. Kick it. Throw the water across the room, let it shatter and spill and soak into the concrete.

You wander in circles, arms crossed, pacing like an animal. Trapped. Starving. Furious.

You scream until your voice gives out.

And then—quiet.

You slump against the wall, lips cracked, breath shallow, too tired to cry anymore.

The door clicks open.

Your head jerks up.

Sevika steps inside, holding a tray. Real food this time—warm rice, grilled meat, steamed vegetables, and another glass of water. She pauses just long enough to look at the protein bar still lying on the floor, untouched, before bringing the tray closer.

She doesn’t say anything. She just kneels down and sets it near you.

You stare at it, then at her, breathing hard. Your brows furrow. Rage simmers just beneath your skin.

Then your foot snaps forward.

The tray clatters to the floor, food spilling across the concrete in a mess of color and steam. The water rolls and tips, spreading into a slow puddle.

Sevika pauses.

Then she smirks—small, tired, like she expected nothing less.

“Suit yourself,” she says, standing again.

She turns to leave.

Your body moves before you think.

You bolt after her, heart pounding, hand outstretched—but the door slams shut before you get there.

You hit it hard, shoulder first, the metal bruising your skin. The impact knocks the wind from you, and you stagger back, fists thudding weakly against the surface.

Nothing.

No response.

You slide down to the floor, trembling, the scent of spilled food thick in the air.

And you're alone again.

The warehouse is quiet except for the low hum of a fan spinning overhead and the clink of metal being sorted behind them. Sevika stands by the edge of the loading dock, cigarette dangling from her lips, dressed down in a white tank top and dark cargo pants. Her metal arm flexes absently as she listens to the conversation happening behind her.

Jinx kicks her boots up on a crate and groans dramatically. “That girl is hurting my ears. I thought someone was getting murdered down there.”

“She was,” Vi mutters, arms crossed. She leans forward, gaze hard. “Normally? Someone does that to you, Sev? They don’t walk away breathing. Hell, even if it was just a debt—someone with a face like that?” She scoffs. “They’d be in a penthouse across town, paying it off in other ways by now.”

Mel tilts her head, expression unreadable. “You’ve broken kneecaps for less.”

Ekko glances between them all, uncertain. “So… what’s the deal? She important or just a toy?”

Jayce shifts beside Viktor, trying to read Sevika’s silence.

Jinx rolls her eyes. “Oh no. She’s got that look again. She’s thinking. We’re gonna be here forever.”

Sevika finally speaks, voice low and even.

“She doesn’t get it yet,” she says, exhaling smoke slowly. “Not the way she looked at me. Not the way she begged. It wasn’t about the money. It was about control.”

She flicks the cigarette to the ground, grinding it beneath her boot.

“She walked into my place like she belonged there. Like she could handle what was on the other side of that door. She thought she could play grown-up for one night and then run away with her little secrets, her cuts and her eyeliner and that goddamn smirk.”

Her eyes narrow, jaw tightening.

“She’s fragile. But not weak. She’s wired for survival. You see the way she looks when she’s cornered? Like she wants to fight and cry and bite all at once. That’s not fear. That’s instinct.”

She starts pacing, voice gaining heat.

“Everyone else who’s ever owed me something? They break. They fold. They cry, beg, sell their souls to make it end. But not her. She throws food. She tries to run. She’d rather starve than take my kindness. She’s not scared of me yet.”

She turns to face them now, eyes hard, electric with obsession.

“But she will be.”

There’s a long silence.

Then she adds, almost too soft to hear:

“Or maybe she won’t.”

She shrugs.

“Either way… she’s mine now.”

COMMENT TO BE TAGGD!!

@violetsforroses98

[movingmusically]

Hello! I saw this prompt years ago but have never seen anyone actually write it. I think you'd be perfect for it! Austin and co-star (reader, obv) have a sex scene together that they're filming. It is so intimate and spicy that reader actually (accidentally) has an orgasm. No one knows except her and Austin. The film crew are oblivious. They just think the acting was phenomenal. She's super embarrassed and tries to avoid him after. But eventually, they have to talk about it, right? I'll let you decide how to end it. The only thing I ask is that Austin is a sweetie (cause we know he would be) and that it doesn't have a sad ending. Hope you will write this! If not, i understand. Thank you!

Word Count: 8.2k

Masterlist

Unspoken

You hadn’t known what to expect, exactly.

Austin had been friendly over Zoom, warm and low-key, but it was hard to tell what someone would be like in person—especially on a set like this. Small crew, no distractions, nowhere to hide behind glossy production. If it didn’t work between you, the whole thing would fall flat.

But it did.

From the read-through onwards, it had felt easy. Not instant chemistry—a quiet kind of comfort. The kind of working rhythm that didn’t need effort. He asked good questions, knew his lines without showing off, made quiet jokes when the room got too still. He was generous without making a show of it.

You got used to him fast.

By the end of the first week, it was already normal—splitting snacks, borrowing chargers, leaning your heads together over the sides of marked-up scripts. The film demanded closeness, and you slipped into it like it had always been there. Long takes, low lighting, scenes built on shared silences. Half your scenes were filmed with your knees touching.

It wasn’t flirty. You never caught him looking at you the way actors sometimes look when they forget where the cameras are. It wasn’t that.

He was just kind.

And that made it easy to match him.

You’d sit beside each other in makeup, legs stretched out, talking about nothing. Pass each other notes when the blocking didn’t make sense. Trade bad coffee on the days where breakfast had been skipped.

It helped that the film itself moved slowly. Years of friendship, worn soft around the edges, turning into something else. It was about trust. About timing. About all the ways people stop themselves from saying what they really mean.

And maybe that was why it worked so well between you.

You weren’t trying too hard.

You didn’t have to.

So when the call sheet landed in your inbox that Friday and Scene 87 was there—INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT—you tapped the attachment open, noted the time, flagged your sides, and closed it again.

You’d known about the intimacy scene from the start. It had been in the script, flagged clearly, nothing ambiguous about it. You’d spoken to your agent. Met with the intimacy coordinator, Lizzy. It had all been handled. Tidy. Professional.

You hadn’t thought about it in weeks.

The first rehearsal was set for late morning.

No cameras. No costumes. Just you, Austin, and Lizzy on one of the quiet rehearsal stages—black tape marking out the bed frame, a couple of chairs off to the side, printouts and notes and breath mints on the foldout table in the corner.

You’d dressed for comfort—oversized hoodie, joggers you could move in. Something low-effort. Unremarkable. You were early. Austin arrived a couple of minutes later, T-shirt soft and familiar, hair still damp like he’d only just rolled out of a shower and straight into daylight.

He gave you a smile.

“Hey,” he said. “You sleep?”

“Define sleep.”

He nudged your elbow with his. “You’ll be great.”

Lizzy talked you through everything. No acting yet. No emotion. Just spacing. Breath. Weight distribution. A choreography of intention.

This hand here. Pause. Step across. Sit. Press of the hips. Shift weight. Hold. Reset.

It was fine.

Fine in the way things are when you’re concentrating hard enough that your body doesn’t have time to interpret what’s happening. Every moment had a cue. Every touch was mapped. There was no room for awkwardness when there were angles to hit, timing to remember, direction to follow.

Austin was calm beside you. Clear. Always asking before he touched you. Always quiet when he did. “Here okay?” “This side?” “Let me know if anything’s off.”

It made it easier to breathe.

And then—somewhere in the second hour—your body slid into position over his, knees bracketing his thighs, hands placed exactly where Lizzy had marked, and your eyes met at the top of the next beat.

It didn’t last long.

Half a second, maybe less. Long enough for something to catch low in your throat.

It wasn’t his expression—it was the stillness. The weight of being seen from that close, that carefully. Like you were both holding a match between your teeth and trying not to breathe too hard.

Then Lizzy reset the moment. Adjusted the timing. Moved you on.

You exhaled. Stepped back. Pulled your hoodie on.

Your skin felt warmer than it had when you arrived.

You didn’t wake up thinking about the scene.

You had errands to run before your call time, and a voice note from your sister about some family drama you didn’t want to get dragged into. You had other things on your mind.

But your body remembered.

Not the shape of the scene, exactly. More the feeling of being in it with him—close and quiet and not entirely sure where your breath was supposed to land. You’d shaken it off last night, told yourself it was nothing, but something had settled low in your stomach and hadn’t moved since.

The second rehearsal was longer. Slower.

You got there five minutes early again. Austin was already inside this time, barefoot, stretching in that loose, lazy way that somehow made him look like he belonged there more than anyone else. He glanced up as you walked in.

“Morning,” he said, soft and a little rough around the edges.

You dropped your bag by the wall. “How’s the caffeine situation?”

He smiled. “Better than yesterday. Tastes like actual coffee.”

Lizzy appeared a moment later, warm as ever. “Alright, team. Let’s pick up where we left off.”

This session was about layering. You’d done the bones of it—now came the rhythm. More eye contact. Partial dialogue. Transitions between physical beats. Still clothed. Still private. But closer.

You moved through the choreography again, syncing your breath to his, feeling his hand find its place at the small of your back like it had always been meant to rest there. The movements were slow, deliberate. Lizzy’s voice floated in from the edge of the room, guiding but never interrupting.

“Let the hesitation sit. Don’t rush past it. You don’t know if you’re allowed to want this yet. That’s where the tension lives.”

You nodded. You did know that. You’d read it. Felt it. But when you looked up and found Austin’s eyes already on yours—steady, unreadable, entirely focused—it landed somewhere lower than the page.

His hand shifted slightly. Not new choreography. A gentle adjustment, thumb pressing into the curve above your hip. Your breath caught for half a second before you remembered what came next.

You hit your mark. Let him guide the movement. Said the line. All of it exactly as planned.

But it felt different now.

Not intimate exactly.

Kind of… charged.

Like your skin was paying more attention than it should.

You tried not to overthink it. You were tired. You’d had too much coffee. It was just a long week.

But when you stepped away during a break and uncapped your water bottle, your hands were shaking slightly. And when he brushed past you to grab a copy of the notes, your body tracked him before your eyes did.

It was only awareness, you told yourself. That’s all.

Still, when the rehearsal wrapped, you left without saying much. Just a wave. A quiet, “See you tomorrow.”

And when you got home, you didn’t turn the shower on right away. You stood there, in the centre of your bathroom, trying to name what you were feeling.

And failing.

By the third day, it was muscle memory.

The basic choreography had sunk in—weight, timing, the way your breathing had to shift depending on whose hand was moving where. It wasn’t second nature exactly, but it no longer required so much conscious effort. Your body knew what to do before Lizzy even called the beat.

You’d kept your hoodie on through warm-up. Stretched your arms, read through the notes again, checked your cue lines even though there weren’t many in this part of the scene. But when it came time to start, you pulled the hoodie off and folded it neatly to the side.

You were down to joggers and a sports bra now. Modesty garment already in place beneath the waistband—silicone-lined, taped down. It didn’t cover much, but it did enough. You were quietly grateful for it. That, and the way Lizzy explained everything like it was just another technical element—same as a light cue or a lens change.

She ran through the new additions with her usual steadiness.

“Austin, your hand will go under the waistband. Just placement—over the shibue. No movement. You”—she turned to you—“will roll your hips twice. That’s the entire rhythm for today.”

You nodded. “Got it.”

Austin looked over. “All good?”

“Yeah,” you said. “All good.”

You lay back, joggers soft beneath your fingers, and let your legs bend into position. Austin settled between your knees, braced one hand beside your shoulder, and waited for the mark.

On cue, his hand moved under the waistband—warm, steady, fingers spread wide enough to cover the space he needed to hit. The contact wasn’t rough, wasn’t wandering. Simply there.

You rolled your hips once.

Then again.

Not a grind. Not even a proper press. Only the motion. The suggestion. His hand stayed still.

It didn’t feel like anything, really. A moment of pressure and a reminder of how close the camera would eventually be. The modesty garment stayed where it was supposed to. That was the only thing you registered—that and the fact that your exhale felt a little too controlled when you came back down.

The scene paused.

You sat up and adjusted your waistband. The edge of the shibue tugged slightly where it had been taped, but it was fine. Not enough to worry about, but enough to feel it.

Lizzy marked the note, nodded once. “Again when you’re ready.”

You glanced at Austin. He gave the smallest nod.

You breathed out. Repositioned.

You were fine.

Just warm all over, and very glad the garment did what it promised.

You knew the choreography now.

Every beat had been mapped. You’d talked it through with Lizzy and Austin, with the director, with wardrobe. You’d written your own version of the scene in your notes—a series of bullet points, clean and factual, so it didn’t feel like anything else.

But standing on set that afternoon, barefoot on the edge of the taped-out space, it hit you that this would be the last time you ran it before the cameras were rolling. That the next time you did this, you’d both be fully undressed—just the modesty garments left between you, and not much else.

You adjusted the waistband of your joggers for the third time, even though it didn’t need it.

Austin was sitting on the edge of the bed frame, script in hand, thumb running a slow line down the margin. He looked calm. Focused. Not performing yet—allowing the moment to settle around him.

Lizzy’s voice broke the quiet.

“Alright. Today we’ll run the full scene, blocking and pacing. We’ll work in the breast contact—touch, mouth—if you’re both still comfortable. We won’t pause unless someone calls reset.”

You nodded. “Yep.”

Austin echoed it beside you. “All okay here.”

The hoodie came off before you stepped into place. You handed it to the wardrobe assistant and kept your arms folded across your chest until Lizzy gave the go.

Then you lay back on the bed. Arms at your sides. Skin already prickling from the air.

Austin climbed in carefully—one knee first, then the other. His hands moved with that same, steady confidence they always had. He kissed your shoulder first, then your collarbone. Not rushed. he eased you both into it.

Then his hand came up.

A cupped, warm press to your breast. Placed deliberately. You could feel the heat of it seeping through your chest in a way you hadn’t fully registered in the abstract.

His head lowered next.

He hovered above you—mouth angled toward your breast, close enough that you could feel his breath as it passed over your skin. He held that position while Lizzy circled behind the camera line, checking visibility, framing. You stayed still. So did he. No contact.

Only the space between.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just held the shape of it while Lizzy walked around the perimeter, watching angles, checking marks. Her voice was a background rhythm. Reassuring.

Then came the final cue.

Austin’s hand slipped under the waistband of your joggers again, warm and still over the modesty barrier. His other hand braced beside your shoulder.

You rolled your hips. Once. Then again.

You felt the pressure land the way it was meant to. Controlled. Calibrated. Friction implied, not enacted.

Then stillness.

Reset.

He pulled back carefully. Rolled off the mattress. Extended his hand without needing to ask.

“You alright?” he said, voice low, just for you.

You nodded as he helped you sit. “Yeah. You?”

He gave a small smile. “Glad it’s with you.”

You looked at him properly then. Not in character. Not through the lens of the scene. Him. Quiet. Steady. Present.

“Same,” you said.

And you meant it.

You got there early.

Not because you were nervous—more out of habit now. One last quiet moment before everything tipped into movement. The lights were set, soft and low, casting the bed in that kind of glow the DP loved. There was a stillness to it that felt almost too peaceful for what was about to happen.

You heard the door open behind you but didn’t turn right away.

Austin’s footsteps were familiar now. So was the quiet.

He came to stand beside you, hands in his pockets. Didn’t say anything for a second. He looked out at the space like you were both about to do something much simpler. Like any other scene. He was calm in that quiet, grounded way he always was right before a take.

He glanced at the bed. Then at you.

“Well,” he said, easy, “if this is the day I forget everything we rehearsed, now’s a fun time to find out.”

You huffed a soft laugh. “No pressure.”

“Nah,” he said. “We’ve got it.”

It wasn’t cocky. Just said with the kind of calm certainty that made your shoulders drop a little.

He looked at you properly then—a beat longer than necessary. Not searching. Simply present.

“We’re fine,” he said. “Feels like we’ve already done it a hundred times anyway.”

“We kind of have,” you said. “But clothed. And with a smaller audience.”

He smiled at that.

And that was enough.

When Lizzy’s voice came through the monitor—“We’re ready when you are”—he didn’t even blink. He tipped his head slightly toward the bed.

“Shall we?”

You nodded once. “Let’s go.”

And together, you stepped into the scene.

You were already on the bed when they called action.

Sitting near the edge, legs folded under you, fingers curled lightly in the hem of your t-shirt. This part of the scene didn’t ask much of you except stillness. Waiting. The kind that held its breath.

You heard the door creak softly as he entered.

The sound of him was familiar now—bare footsteps, quiet breath, that stillness he carried when the scene asked for it. You stayed still, like the script said. Eyes down. Shoulders held a little too tightly.

He stopped just inside the room.

“You left,” he said, voice low. Like it might break something if he spoke too loud.

You looked up.

He was already watching you. T-shirt rumpled slightly, hair a little messy like he’d been running his hands through it. His mouth opened, then closed again. You waited.

“I didn’t want to say something I couldn’t take back,” you said.

He nodded. Not because he agreed. Because he understood.

“I didn’t want it to end like that,” he said. “Not with you.”

That was the moment the scene turned.

The shift you’d rehearsed. The beat the whole film had been circling.

He stepped closer and sat beside you on the bed, steady and familiar. The mattress dipped under his weight. His hand found balance behind you. His knee brushed yours.

Neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t empty—it was full of every version of this that never happened. Every almost. Every nearly.

You turned toward him.

He was close. Closer than usual. The kind of close that made silence feel like a question.

His eyes flicked down—your mouth, your hands—then came back up to meet yours again.

You moved first—only slightly.

He met you without hesitation.

The kiss was soft. Gentle. A breath before it landed. You could feel the warmth of him, the way his lips moved against yours like he’d already memorised the shape of it. His hand rested lightly on your leg. Yours slipped up to his chest.

The second kiss came a little deeper. Not rushed. Certain. The kind of kiss that filled a room without raising its voice.

His mouth tasted faintly of mint.

You stayed with it, let it build, felt it start to root somewhere deeper than rehearsal.

Still in character. Still focused.

But something in your chest had shifted. Something slow and warm and creeping.

You weren’t tracking marks or pacing anymore.

You were just kissing him.

And he was kissing you back like it meant something.

His hand slid up beneath your shirt. Warm across your stomach, steady as he pushed the fabric up. He knew the beat. You’d rehearsed it. You shifted to help, lifting your arms, letting him ease the fabric over your head. He dropped it off the side of the bed. You were already breathing differently.

You reached for his shirt in return, fingers brushing his skin as you pulled it over his head. He let you. No pause, no shift in rhythm. Now skin against skin, your chest rising against his with every breath.

You kissed him again.

And this time, as your mouths met, you moved—slowly—easing one leg over his lap, settling against him.

The bed creaked softly beneath you. His hands came to your thighs, anchoring you there. One slid up, fingers splaying lightly at your waist. The other stayed low, grounding you.

You felt the shape of him under you. Not against your bare skin—not yet—but close. Closer than rehearsal. The weight of him, the pressure of his hands, the way his eyes kept flicking between your mouth and your eyes, like the scene was happening in two places at once.

His lips trailed lower.

Down your jaw, your throat, the curve of your collarbone.

You tilted your head slightly to give him room.

His hand came up to your chest.

Fingers spreading. Thumb brushing across your breast.

You felt your nipples tighten at the contact—part from the cool air, part from the way he touched you. Careful. Measured. You’d practised this, but it felt different now the barrier of your sports bra had disappeared. He cupped you fully in his palm, and then—

His mouth followed.

Warm, soft, unhurried. Lips closing around your nipple, tongue catching enough to make you shift slightly in his lap. You kept your breathing even, stayed in character, but your body was already reacting. The scene didn’t ask for more than this yet. But you could feel something gathering. Low and quiet.

Then he looked up.

His mouth still on your skin. His eyes meeting yours.

And for a second, everything else dropped away.

You were just watching him watch you.

You inhaled, chest rising against his mouth.

And you felt yourself begin to lean into it.

His lips lingered another second, then lifted.

His hand slid from your breast back down to your waist, and with a shift in his weight, you both began to move, easing back across the mattress. You stayed close, bodies aligned as you let him guide you down.

He hovered over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other trailing lightly over your ribs. The rhythm didn’t break. This was where the pause lived. A breath. Something unspoken passing between two people who’d been circling this forever.

Your legs bent beneath him. The sheet rustled.

Then his hand slipped lower.

Fingers sliding beneath the waistband of your shorts, past the edge of fabric, finding the smooth barrier taped carefully into place. His palm settled there, warm and solid. You’d rehearsed it, but it landed heavier now. Like your body had started listening more closely.

You rolled your hips—once.

Then again.

The pressure landed right where it was meant to. Precise. Calibrated. But sharper than you remembered.

You felt it instantly. A flicker of heat. Something low and tightening that hadn’t been there in rehearsal. Your body responding like it didn’t know the difference between performance and something else.

You blinked.

Tried to breathe through it. Tried to shake it off.

It’s choreography, you told yourself. Muscle memory. Contact over fabric. Nothing real.

But your chest felt tighter. Your limbs too aware of his weight above you, the way his gaze tracked every shift in yours.

You could stop. That thought surfaced—quick and quiet. If you tapped out, they’d cut. Reset. No one would question it.

But you didn’t.

Because nothing was wrong.

He hadn’t broken the scene. He hadn’t pushed or rushed or taken anything that wasn’t given. He was exactly where he was supposed to be, moving the way you’d rehearsed, watching you like he always did—with focus, with care, never with pressure.

You held still.

There was a flicker of heat low in your stomach. You noticed it. Filed it away. Only your body reacting to pressure, to breath, to rhythm. It would pass.

You’d trained for this. Layered every beat, anchored every moment. You could hold this.

Austin didn’t falter. His touch stayed steady. His eyes never left yours.

There was no hesitation in him. He was all presence, all intention.

So you stayed with him.

And he kept going—rhythm unchanged, breath slow, every movement shaped by the scene you were both holding in place.

He eased his hand back out from beneath your waistband.

No rush. It was part of the scene. The breath before the shift.

You let yours out slowly, fingers moving to the hem of your shorts. He reached for them too. Together, you pulled them down, until you had to lift your hips to help. They slid free with barely a sound. He tossed them aside.

Then he sat back on his heels and reached for his own waistband.

You stayed where you were, watching. A second too long.

His sweatpants came off easily, the soft fabric catching briefly at his knees before falling to the floor. You hadn’t meant to stare. But something about seeing him now—fully undressed except for the small, skin-coloured patch covering what the camera wouldn’t see—pulled your focus.

The shape of him. The way his body moved. The way he carried the stillness without tensing.

You’d never seen him like this. Not really. You’d mapped every moment, but now there was no extra layer. No fabric between the weight of him and the heat of you.

Your skin prickled. You blinked, looked away.

This was still a scene. Still choreography. You knew the rhythm. You knew your cues.

You lay back.

He followed.

Came over you slowly, hands bracketing your ribs, one thigh nudging between yours as his body lowered into place.

Then he kissed you.

It was meant to be soft. Familiar. A continuation of what came before.

And it was—until it wasn’t.

His mouth moved against yours like it always had, but this time, as his hips settled into position, his tongue brushed over yours.

The faintest flick. Tentative at first, then firmer.

You didn’t expect it.

The breath caught in your throat. A sound slipped out—half sigh, half noise you didn’t recognise.

You felt him pause, for a heartbeat.

Then the kiss deepened.

He held the shape of your mouth with his, steady and warm, letting the scene carry on like nothing had changed.

But something had.

Your fingers curled against his back. Your legs shifted slightly wider. The rhythm began—hip to hip, friction finding its place.

You were still in character.

Still hitting your marks.

But the sound you’d made hadn’t been planned.

Your body was reacting before your brain could reason with it.

He moved again.

Controlled. Deliberate. His hips pressing forward in the pace you’d agreed on, fabric brushing fabric, pressure steady between you. There was no rush, no fumbling. Only that quiet escalation the scene called for.

You felt him shift his weight slightly, adjusting the angle. His hand stayed firm at your waist, the other beside your head, fingers flexing once into the mattress. Your legs shifted higher, wrapping around his waist for the mark.

Then came the sounds.

Small, intentional—part of the scene.

His breath, unsteady but measured. A soft grunt on the next roll of his hips, just under his breath. The kind of sound meant to suggest release without exaggeration. Practised. Real enough to land.

You felt it all.

The weight of him. The tension in his arms. The way his jaw brushed yours when he dipped close, exhaling like he was on the edge of something.

He was performing it.

You knew that.

You’d heard it in rehearsal. You’d run it with Lizzy counting beats at the foot of the bed. But now—now with him above you, eyes flicking between your mouth and your face, his body rocking against yours like you were the only two people left in the world—it felt like more.

You lifted your hips to meet him again.

The friction was too good. Too exact. Every pass catching perfectly over the spot you were trying not to think about.

The heat bloomed fast.

You tried to breathe through it. Tried to stay with the scene. But your body wasn’t listening.

Austin let out another soft sound, low in his throat as he pressed into you again.

That’s what did it.

Not the contact. Not even the movement.

But that sound.

And then it hit.

A clench deep in your belly. Tight, hard, spreading in slow, impossible waves. Your legs tensed. Your breath caught.

It passed through you fast—quiet, sharp, almost invisible.

You didn’t cry out.

But your fingers curled. Your thighs trembled once. Your lips parted just enough to let something slip free—barely a sound.

Austin didn’t flinch.

He kept going. Perfectly on cue. Still in it. Still steady.

But in that second, as he looked down at you again, something in his eyes flickered.

And you wondered if he’d felt it too.

He kept moving, breath low and strained in his throat. You could feel the tension in his body—measured, deliberate—the kind of control that came from rehearsal, not instinct.

His hand slid from your waist to your thigh, anchoring you. His head dipped to your shoulder, and you felt his jaw flex as his body rolled once more into yours.

A soft sound escaped him. Weighted. Part of the scene. Part of the finish.

Then he kissed you again.

Gentle. Breathless. Like something settling.

His weight lowered onto you slightly.

You stayed still.

Your heart was hammering. Your skin flushed.

Shit.

Fuck.

No. No, no—

It had happened. You knew it. You could feel it still humming in your body, the aftershocks settling beneath your ribs. Nothing dramatic. Nothing obvious. But real.

You came.

On camera.

With everyone watching.

“Cut.”

The word sliced through the air.

Austin’s body stilled above you. He exhaled through his nose and lifted his head slightly, hands braced to push off without pulling too fast. You stayed perfectly still beneath him, blinking up at the ceiling, trying not to let the shape of what had happened show on your face.

There was a pause. One of those charged, still seconds where no one moved—only the buzz of silence settling into the space you’d created.

Then:

“Holy shit,” came the director’s voice from behind the monitor.

Sharp. Breathless. Immediately followed by, “That was beautiful.”

Chairs scraped. People exhaled. The moment broke.

“Let’s reset for coverage,” she called. “But I want that one in the cut. That was—” A pause. “It didn’t feel like acting.”

Someone nearby murmured agreement. You heard the script supervisor say “Gave me chills.” Another voice—camera maybe—added, “The eye contact? Jesus.”

Lizzy stepped in from the edge of frame, already talking through small adjustments for the next take. Her tone was warm, reassuring. “You okay?” she asked, gently, already reaching out with a robe for each of you.

You nodded. Managed a small sound—something halfway between a breath and a “yeah.”

Austin rolled off you slowly, bracing a hand beside your shoulder as he shifted his weight. You felt the air hit your chest and pulled the robe over yourself without looking up.

He stayed close for a second longer than necessary. Not hovering, but steady. Grounding.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low.

There was something in it. More than routine concern. Something deeper. He’d felt it. Knew, at least on some level, what had happened. And he wasn’t pretending otherwise.

You nodded too quickly. “Fine.”

He held your gaze for half a second longer—long enough to make your chest tighten—then gave a small nod and stood.

He offered his hand. You took it. Let him help you sit. Fingers clumsy at the robe’s tie.

Everyone else was still buzzing. Still riding the afterglow of a great take. Austin was already standing, sweatpants back on, robe loose around his shoulders, listening as Lizzy walked him through a minor camera shift.

He looked completely calm.

You tried to mirror it.

Tried to focus as someone handed you your shorts, your t-shirt folded neatly over them. You took them without speaking, your fingers trembling slightly as you clutched them to your chest.

“I mean it,” the director said again, her voice carrying across the room. “That was the best work I’ve seen from either of you. Whatever you tapped into—don’t let it go.”

The words landed too close. Too accurate.

You forced a smile. A nod.

Everyone read the look on your face as emotional exhaustion. Commitment. Like you were still in it. Someone even whispered, “She’s really gone there,” like it was a compliment.

And you didn’t correct them.

You kept your eyes on the floor. On the nearest mark. On anything but him.

The corridor felt too bright after the bedroom set.

Not blinding. Wrong, somehow. Like the light hadn’t caught up to the rest of you yet.

You kept your robe cinched tight, clothes folded against your chest. Someone passed with a clipboard. Another crew member rolled a rack of jackets toward storage. Everyone moved like the day was done.

You’d moved too. Through the coverage takes, through resets, through minor adjustments no one would remember tomorrow. They hadn’t needed the whole scene again—a few moments. Different angles. Fragments for the edit.

You’d hit every mark.

You’d said the line over his shoulder, felt his hand at your jaw, let him kiss the corner of your mouth while pretending your legs weren’t still shaking.

And you hadn’t looked at him once.

Not properly.

You’d seen him, of course—getting notes, sipping water, slipping back into his hoodie between takes. Once, you’d felt his gaze brush yours across the room and looked away so quickly you nearly knocked over a chair.

No one noticed.

They thought you were exhausted. Spent.

They were right, but not in the way they meant.

A PA held the door open as you stepped into wardrobe. You nodded in thanks and moved straight to your rail, pulling your hanger from the hook like you’d done a hundred times this shoot.

Shirt. Jeans. The things that made you feel like yourself.

You changed fast. Mechanically. Robe off, clothes on, avoiding the mirror. You didn’t want to see the flush still high on your chest, the way your eyes didn’t quite look back at you.

A voice echoed faintly down the corridor—low, familiar.

Austin.

You didn’t catch the words. Just the sound of him, talking to someone, maybe Lizzy or the director. You froze halfway through tying your shoe.

Then you turned—quietly—and slipped out the other way.

The hallway to the dressing rooms was half-lit, most of the crew already packing up elsewhere. You walked faster than you needed to, fingers still curled tightly around the edge of your script even though you hadn’t looked at it since morning.

Inside your room, the door clicked shut behind you.

No mirrors. No cameras. Just stillness.

And for the first time all day, you let yourself exhale.

You stayed in the dressing room longer than you needed to.

Not long enough for anyone to notice. Enough for the hallway to settle. The noise had drifted elsewhere—footsteps fading, radios crackling in the distance. Your bag was already packed. Your hoodie was looped over one arm. All you had to do was leave.

You pressed your palm to the door for a second before opening it. Breathed once. Then stepped out.

The lights were dimmed to end-of-day levels. Most of the crew had already headed out. You turned left toward the exit you knew would be quickest—then paused.

Austin was up ahead.

He stood near the back entrance, hoodie on, bag slung low over one shoulder. Talking to Lizzy in a low voice, both of them facing the far wall, mid-discussion.

He turned first.

Then Lizzy, already smiling as if to say goodbye. She peeled off toward the side hall.

And Austin looked at you.

His eyes met yours before you could drop them. Just a second. No expression. No smile. Only… watching.

You felt your whole chest tighten.

You shifted your grip on your bag and went back the way you came, turning right instead. Not the exit you’d planned. The long way round. The concrete floor echoed faintly under your shoes. You kept your pace even—steady, controlled.

And when you glanced back, he was still watching.

He didn’t follow. Didn’t call out.

He let you go.

You turned back, gaze low, and didn’t lift it again until the air hit your face. Then walked all the way to your car without looking back.

Your apartment was dark when you got in.

Not pitch black—a soft, shadowed quiet, the kind that comes from forgetting to leave a light on. You didn’t bother fixing it. You dropped your bag in the hallway, kicked off your shoes, and stood there for a second, still wrapped in the quiet.

The silence wrapped around you too easily.

You peeled off your hoodie. Slipped into the kitchen to drink half a glass of water you didn’t really want. Let the fridge hum fill the corners of the room.

Your phone lit up on the counter.

Austin: Hey. Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re okay.

No emojis. No overthinking. It was him—true to form. Simple. Present. Kind.

You stared at it too long.

Part of you wanted to reply. To say yeah, all good, or thanks for earlier. Something normal. Something easy.

But your fingers didn’t move.

Because nothing about today had been normal. And easy didn’t feel honest.

So you flipped the phone over.

Screen facedown. Lights off. Bedroom door shut behind you.

And you let the message sit there, unread.

You hadn’t slept much.

Every time you closed your eyes, it came back—his body over yours, the weight of his gaze, the press of his hand, the exact second your body slipped past the edge and didn’t come back.

And the way he looked at you after.

He knew.

You were sure of it. It wasn’t a guess. It was in his voice when he asked if you were alright. In the pause before he stood. In the way his eyes had stayed on you even as the crew moved around you, like they were part of a different scene altogether.

He knew.

And he hadn’t said anything.

Neither had you.

You’d run the pickups. Dressed. Walked past him. Left the message on your phone unanswered.

And now you were sitting in your dressing room with your script in your lap, pretending to focus, your coffee untouched, your stomach tight. Reading the same half-page of dialogue about burnt toast and unsaid feelings, over and over again.

Today’s scene was simple.

But facing him wouldn’t be.

The door was open. You’d left it that way on purpose—some part of you hoping someone else might fill the space first. A call time. A wardrobe check. Anything.

Instead, there was a knock.

Soft. Two gentle taps against the frame.

You looked up.

Austin.

He was leaning lightly on the doorframe, one shoulder braced, sleeves pulled down over his knuckles. He wasn’t smiling. He watched you, calm and still.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

His voice was steady. But you could feel something underneath it.

You didn’t answer right away.

You blinked slowly, heart thudding harder than it needed to, your fingers still curled loosely around the edge of the script.

He waited.

Didn’t fill the silence. Didn’t take a step inside.

You nodded—small, barely there—and lifted one hand in a quiet gesture.

Come in.

He did.

Closed the door behind him, soft click of wood meeting frame, and crossed the room with the kind of unhurried calm that made you want to both shrink into your chair and lean toward him at the same time.

He didn’t sit yet. He paused there for a moment, giving you the chance to change your mind.

You looked down at the pages in your lap, then folded them closed. Not because you were ready. Because there was no point pretending anymore.

Your voice came out quieter than you meant. “Sorry I didn’t reply.”

Austin gave a small shake of his head, stepping further into the room.

“You don’t have to apologise.”

His voice was gentle. Uncomplicated. Meant to land softly.

He sat down opposite you—not too close, not too formal. Elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped lightly, like he wasn’t sure how long this would take but had already decided to wait as long as you needed.

“I didn’t send it expecting anything,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You nodded—once—but it felt like too much and not enough at the same time.

He didn’t press. He gave you that look again—level and open, like he had time. Like there was no version of this where he walked away without at least letting you speak.

The silence held for a beat.

Then two.

You let out a quiet breath and glanced down at your script again, thumb smoothing the folded corner like it might give you something useful to say. Then back up at him—finally—and cleared your throat.

“Okay,” you started, already flushed. “I’m just gonna say it, and then maybe I’ll dissolve into the floor and we can pretend this never happened.”

He didn’t interrupt.

You kept going, even though your voice caught halfway through.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” you said. “I didn’t even realise what was happening, not really—not until it was already…”

You trailed off, the words stalling somewhere in your chest.

“I didn’t fake it, Austin. It happened. It caught me off guard. And I didn’t know what to do with that. So I panicked. And left. And ignored your message. And thought about quitting acting and taking up landscape gardening.”

The heat in your face was instant. Crawling up your neck, into your ears.

“I don’t know if you knew. I mean—I think you did. You looked at me like maybe…”

You didn’t finish.

You didn’t need to.

Because he was already smiling—soft, crooked, steady.

“Well,” he said, tilting his head a little, “if it helps… you were very convincing.”

Your stomach flipped. The colour in your face doubled. You let out the most horrified sound of your life and dropped your face into your hands.

“Oh my god.”

He laughed, warm and gentle. Like he wasn’t shocked. Like it really, truly was okay.

You kept your face in your hands for a full three seconds longer than necessary.

Then peeked through your fingers.

He was still smiling—steady, soft around the edges. Like you’d given him something fragile and he’d known exactly how to hold it.

“I’m never going to work again,” you mumbled into your palms.

“Pretty sure that’s not true.”

“I might actually be the least professional person alive.”

“That also seems unlikely.”

You let your hands fall into your lap, still half-hiding behind your hair.

“I mean… who does that?”

Austin tilted his head, like he was giving it actual thought.

“Someone really committed to the scene?”

You groaned and leaned back in the chair. “Stop.”

He laughed—quiet, shoulders shaking a little. Then softer, “I’m serious. I don’t think anyone on that set had a clue. And even if they did—” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “They’re not thinking about it the way you are.”

You looked at him. Properly.

“And you?” you asked, voice quieter. “How are you thinking about it?”

He didn’t look away.

“I think… it happened. That’s all. I think we built something that felt real, and that’s kind of the point, right?” His voice softened again. “And if it felt too real for a second—I’d rather that than the opposite.”

Your heart kicked hard in your chest.

You didn’t know what you expected him to say. But it wasn’t that.

Something in you eased.

Like maybe you weren’t going to break after all.

You let out a slow breath, eyes still on him. “I thought you might be weird about it.”

“I thought you might be,” he said, smiling gently.

You huffed a laugh, the sound catching at the edges. “I nearly sprinted out of here yesterday.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Okay—did sprint,” you admitted. “And yeah, I took the long way out so I wouldn’t have to walk past you.”

Austin gave a small, helpless shrug. “You know I saw that, right?”

You winced. “Of course you did.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “Wasn’t exactly subtle.”

You dropped your head back against the chair and groaned. “Kill me.”

“Nah,” he said. “I need you for the press tour.”

Then, after a beat—“I mean…” He leaned back in the chair, playful now. “If someone asks about chemistry, I feel like I’ve got material.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare.”

“I’m just saying,” he teased. “If anyone brings up method acting, I’ve got a pretty strong anecdote now.”

You grabbed your script and batted him lightly with it. “I will actually murder you.”

You pulled the script back into your lap, still half-smiling, still a little red.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward this time.

It was warm. Settled.

You watched him for a moment—he shifted into his chair bouncing his knee once before going still again. Like the nervous energy had nowhere left to go.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

He looked up.

“For being…” You shook your head a little. “Exactly like this.”

His smile faded a little—softened into something more serious.

“Of course,” he said. “Always.”

There was a knock at the door before you could say anything else. A voice from the hallway. “Ten minutes!”

You both nodded at the same time.

He stood first. Adjusted the hem of his shirt, then glanced at you again like he wanted to say one more thing—but left it unspoken.

“I’ll see you out there?” he said.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He paused in the doorway for a second. Long enough to make sure you were really okay.

Then he was gone.

And somehow, your chest didn’t feel quite so tight anymore.

*

The lights were flat and bright, designed for cameras more than comfort. The table was long — eight chairs wide — with placards lined in front of each seat and slim-necked water bottles sweating quietly beside them. The Cannes logo loomed behind like a watermark, and half the room was journalists with notebooks already open.

Austin sat third from the left. Y/N was to his right.

From where he sat, Austin could see the top of her knee bouncing—small, contained, but constant. A nervous tic she usually didn’t have. She was good under pressure, sharp during interviews, but something in her posture today was tighter. More alert. Like she was already rehearsing the answer in her head. The movement stopped the second someone asked about that scene.

“This one’s for Y/N and Austin,” the journalist said. “I wanted to ask about the intimacy scene. It’s a sex scene, technically, but it’s incredibly quiet. Almost reverent. There’s a lot of emotion but very little exaggeration. How did you approach that?”

Austin turned just enough to see her profile.

The stillness came first. Her inhale was shallow — barely there — but he caught it. That tiny moment of bracing. Like she knew this question was coming. Of course she did. They both did.

But it still landed.

He hadn’t forgotten what happened. Not for a second.

It was over a year ago now — and still, sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could feel it. The shape of her breath against his mouth. The moment her legs tensed. The sound she made, barely audible. So small he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t already been watching for it.

Not because he was trying to catch her out.

Because the second it started, he’d known.

The shift was subtle. A tremble just beneath the rhythm. The way her eyes lost focus for half a beat, like her body had slipped somewhere without her permission.

It had felt… private. More than anything else they’d filmed.

She hadn’t pulled away. Hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t asked to cut.

So he hadn’t said a word.

He stayed where he was, kept the pacing right, and pretended he didn’t feel her come apart underneath him.

But he had.

And he’d thought about it more times than he probably should have.

Across from him now, she leaned slightly toward the mic.

“I think that tone was always intentional,” Y/N said. “Our intimacy coordinator — Lizzy — was with us from the beginning, and we rehearsed it like choreography. Every beat. Every moment. Nothing was improvised.”

Austin watched her closely.

She sounded calm. Grounded. But there was something in the way she kept her eyes focused just above the crowd — like she was holding a line and didn’t want to step over it.

“I think because so much of the film is about restraint,” she went on, “we knew the payoff had to match that. It wasn’t about tension exploding. It was about the weight of finally letting go. And Lizzy really helped us hold that tone—technically and emotionally.”

His chest pulled a little at the last line.

She was still protecting it. The secret of what had happened.

No one else in that room knew what had really happened. Not the director. Not the camera op. Not even Lizzy.

Only them.

When the room quieted again, Austin leaned into the mic.

“Y/N’s right,” he said. “We built everything on that foundation. Trust. Patience. Rehearsing until the tension wasn’t coming from discomfort — it was coming from the story.”

Out of the corner of his eye, her hand shifted slightly on her lap.

His gaze flicked to hers — not a full turn. Enough to let her know he was there. Still holding it with her. Still following her rhythm.

“I think that kind of quiet is harder to get right than people realise,” he added. “It only worked because she was right there with me in every moment.”

“I think we got lucky. I don’t know if that kind of trust happens on every job. But Y/N made it easy. She made it feel… honest.”

He meant it.

Not only as an actor.

There was a version of him that had felt something real in that moment. More than the weight of her under him — it was the trust she’d shown by letting the scene keep going.

She could’ve stopped him. Could’ve paused. Could’ve broken the frame and called cut.

But she didn’t.

And he’d been in awe of her ever since.

The journalist smiled. “It really was beautiful.”

There were nods. The moderator moved on. Someone else raised a hand.

And under the table, he felt it.

The lightest pressure. Her knee nudging gently against his.

Not insistent. Not drawing attention.

Simply there.

Like punctuation. Like thank you.

He nudged back.

Didn’t look at her. Didn’t need to.

But he smiled at the tablecloth anyway.

And let himself wonder—

just for a second—

what it might feel like if the next time wasn’t for a scene at all.

Taglist:

@thefallofthedamned @saturnsdaughtr @bellesdreamyprofile @butlerrizz @myradiaz @chocolatetree222 @faegoddessog

[ikwon1c]

Inked (I)

inked 2

Characters: Kwon Jiyong x Y/N (Reader)

summary: all you wanted was a quiet night, not an idol with a staring problem. but when Jiyong finally worked up the nerve to talk to you, it was kind of… adorable.

tags: idolverse, fluff, light romance

warning: alcohol consumption, s**ngri mentioned. this fic was dated back in 2009’s.

—

The bar pulsed with low bass and dim neon lights that bounced off mirrors behind the shelves of liquor. Somewhere between a lounge and a late-night dive, it was exactly the kind of place you’d stumble into after a too-long day and stay longer than you meant to. It smelled of citrus and smoke and too much perfume.

You weren’t even supposed to be out tonight, not really. A friend had dragged you along last minute after a rough week, promising that “some industry people” would be there. You had half a mind to say no, but something about the way your sequined dress shimmered in the mirror when you slipped it on made you feel electric. Powerful, even. So you went.

You weren’t trying to turn heads, but heads turned anyway.

Your tall frame caught the light easily, your green eyes gleaming beneath the auburn waves tumbling past your shoulders. The dress clung to your figure like it had been tailored for you, all color and spark, like a living disco ball. You laughed at that thought, tipping your head back as you leaned against the bar, sipping something pink and overpriced.

You knew the group of guys the moment they walked in. Or rather, the ripple they caused gave them away. The DJ dropped the track just a little too perfectly, and a small group of girls whispered and pointed from the corner. BigBang.

You knew the name, of course. Anyone with a radio did by now. It was 2009, and they were blowing up. You weren’t a fan, not really, but you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t noticed them before. You just didn’t get the hype. They were good-looking, yes. Talented, sure. But you didn’t melt over celebrities. Not your style.

Still, you looked.

It was instinct, curiosity. They clustered near a booth in the back — Seungri loud and animated, Daesung with that wide, disarming smile, Taeyang nodding coolly to the beat, TOP lounging like the world was just background noise to his own thoughts.

And then there was him.

Kwon Jiyong.

He wasn’t the loudest, wasn’t even talking at first. He slid into the booth last, sipping from a drink someone handed him. His eyes scanned the room briefly, disinterested — until they landed on you.

He didn’t look away.

And neither did you.

There was a pause, subtle and quiet in the noise. Something charged flickered in the air.

Then Seungri leaned over and said something to Jiyong, grinning like a devil. Jiyong rolled his eyes, but a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was the smallest thing — a twitch of amusement, the barest hint of blush creeping up behind his sharp cheekbones.

Your lips quirked.

He’d been caught.

You turned back to your drink, amused. You didn’t need to hear what they said to know it was about you.

Jiyong’s POV

It wasn’t supposed to be a big night.

They’d just wrapped a brutal week of rehearsals and promo shoots, and honestly, all Jiyong wanted was to sit down somewhere dark, nurse a drink, and not think about the endless tightrope of image management for a couple hours.

He didn’t even fight when Seungri picked the bar. That alone said everything about how tired he was.

The place was decent — dark enough, loud enough, not swarming with sasaengs, at least not yet. Still, their entrance had caused the usual flurry. A few stares. The familiar buzz in the room. Jiyong slipped into the booth last, baseball cap pulled low over bleached hair, dark shades still perched on his nose even though it was well past 10 p.m.

He didn’t feel like talking. Let the others be loud.

Seungri was already halfway through some ridiculous story, hands flying as he gestured wildly. Daesung laughed like he meant it — because Daesung always laughed like he meant it — while Taeyang leaned back and let his hyenas tire themselves out. TOP was his usual mysterious self, nursing an expensive wine.

Jiyong let it all wash over him, head turned slightly, eyes skimming lazily over the bar.

That’s when he saw you.

It was like the noise cut out for a second. Everything around you pulsed with neon, but you were the center. Your dress was loud — sequins and color and confidence, cut short and sharp — and it should’ve been too much. But on you? It worked. On you, it was art.

Your hair caught the light, ginger and untamed, and the way you leaned back against the bar, green eyes steady as hell, made his pulse shift. You looked like you didn’t care if anyone watched. Like you expected it.

And he was definitely watching.

You tilted your head at your drink, sipping slow, lips pressed against the rim like you were in on some secret.

Jiyong felt his stomach flip.

Then he heard it — Seungri’s voice, cutting into the moment like a scalpel.

“Yah. Hyung. Who are you looking at like that?”

“Like what?” Jiyong murmured, eyes still on you.

“Oh-ho,” Seungri leaned forward like a bloodhound. “That one. The tall one. Damn. She’s pretty.”

Daesung leaned over to get a look. “Mixed, maybe? American-Korean?”

“Ginger hair,” TOP muttered from behind his glass. “Rare.”

“She’s hot,” Seungri announced, too loud as always. “Hyung’s got taste.”

Jiyong pulled his gaze away with effort, tugging the brim of his hat lower. “Shut up.”

That only made it worse. Seungri practically started vibrating. “No, no, no — don’t get shy now! You were straight-up staring. I saw it!”

“I wasn’t—” Jiyong started.

“Jiyong,” Taeyang cut in, cool and amused. “You were.”

“You blushed,” Daesung added helpfully.

“I did not.”

“You did,” TOP said. “It was subtle. But it was there.”

Jiyong groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I hate all of you.”

“She’s not even looking this way anymore,” Seungri said dramatically, peeking over his shoulder. “You lost your window!”

“She’s just sipping her drink like we’re peasants,” Daesung whispered.

“You are peasants,” Jiyong muttered under his breath.

“Damn,” Seungri said, nudging him. “I think I’m in love, too.”

“Back off,” Jiyong snapped automatically, then froze as the table exploded.

“OH-HO-HO! So you do like her!”

“Ya! Jiyong-ah! You called dibs!”

“Back off, he says! Omo!”

“Just talk to her, coward!”

“I will,” Jiyong grumbled, pushing his shades up and straightening slightly, though his face was redder than he’d ever admit.

TOP raised an eyebrow. “Before or after we finish our drinks and leave like always?”

That shut him up. Not because he didn’t want to talk to you — but because he didn’t know how to without making it weird.

He stole one last glance.

You were still at the bar. Still glowing. Still completely unaffected by the chaos you’d just caused in a booth full of idols.

And then—

You smiled. Not at him, not directly. Just…to yourself.

He groaned. You definitely heard them.

[myadagoat22]

Wedding

🌞 DAY — "The Ceremony"

The Mississippi sun came down like a blessing and a warning.

Annie stood under the big oak near her shop, dress white but simple, veil long like a whisper behind her. Her hands didn’t shake. They never did.

Smoke stood across from her in a black suit he didn’t like wearing, collar too tight, heart tighter. Folks from the town circled around — some smiling, some side-eying, Some jealous of Annie. Some jealous of Smoke.

He watched Annie instead.

She looked like peace.

The preacher read slow. Words about unity, about God. Smoke didn’t believe in half of it — but he believed in her. That was enough.

Annie held his hands, rough and calloused and clumsy. She smiled with her eyes more than her mouth.

“Do you take this man?”

She said:

“I already did.”

They kissed under that tree while cicadas screamed and the wind held its breath. The roots beneath their feet wrapped tighter, as if the land itself was listening.

And Stack was the loudest one clapping.

🌙 NIGHT — "The After"

It wasn’t a big reception. Just soft music, cornbread, a bottle passed around, and a room full of people having fun dancing.

Annie’s laugh was soft and low as she pulled Smoke toward the dance floor.

He didn’t dance.

But he did tonight.

They moved slow. He kept looking at her like she might vanish.

“You alright?” she asked.

“I ain’t sure what I’m supposed to do with somethin’ this good,” he muttered.

“Hold it close,” she whispered. “And don’t let it rot.”

Later, when the lights were low and folks had gone home, she lit candles around their bedroom — not for romance, but for protection. Smoke sat on the edge of the bed, undoing his boots. Watching her.

She moved like ritual.

She took off her earrings. Unpinned her hair.

She turned and said, quiet:

“I need you”

Elijah gazed at his new wife, admiring the way the candlelight danced across her skin. Annie was a vision, all lush curves and beautiful hair. The sight of her made his heart race and his cock throb.

He stood, boots forgotten, and moved towards her with predatory grace. "Come here, baby," he purred, pulling her into his arms. "I need you too. More than air."

Annie melted against him, hands sliding up his chest to loop around his neck. "Make love to me, Elijah," she whispered, pressing soft kisses along his jaw. "Show me I'm yours."

Elijah groaned, desire surging through him. He claimed her mouth in a searing kiss, tongues tangling as he backed her towards the bed. They tumbled onto the mattress together, a tangle of grasping hands and seeking lips.

He rolled them so Annie was beneath him, bracing his weight on his elbows as he stared down at her reverently. "So beautiful," he murmured, trailing kisses along the column of her throat. "So perfect."

Annie shivered, arching into his touch. "Please," she begged, fingers tangling in his hair. "I want to feel you inside me. Want you to claim me fully."

Elijah growled, hips grinding down against hers. He could feel her heat through their clothes, stoking the flames of his desire. "Patience, love," he admonished with a wicked grin. "I'm going to take my time worshipping this body of yours."

He started at her neck, lips and teeth and tongue mapping out every inch of her sensitive skin. Then moved to them big titties kissing and sucking them.

Annie, keened, back bowing as pleasure overtook her. She writhed beneath him, nails raking down his back as she tried to urge him lower. "Elijah, please," she whimpered, thighs falling open in invitation. "I need you."

"Soon," he promised, kissing her stomach then going on down to her wet pussy “Want to taste every inch of you first."

He started rubbing her clit Annie cried out, fisting the sheets as ecstasy crashed over her. He licked sucked and pushed fingers in and Annie was so close.

Elijah loved those sounds Annie was making so he went faster with the fingers then Annie finally came, squirting all over his face “you’re the best I ever had” Smoke said

“Baby you’re the best I have ever had” Annie replied kissing Smoke.

Annie whined, rocking against his touch shamelessly. "Please, Elijah," she begged, desperation clear in her voice. "I can't wait anymore. Need you inside me."

Elijah hummed in agreement, finally removing her panties and tossing them aside. He settled between her thighs, the hard length of him pressing insistently against her dripping entrance.

"You ready for me, love?" he asked, voice rough with barely restrained hunger. "Ready for me to fill this sweet cunt?"

"Yes," Annie hissed, reaching down to grip his shaft. She notched him at her opening, looking up at him with eyes hazy with desire. "Fill me up, Elijah. Make me yours."

Elijah snarled, unable to hold back any longer. With one sharp thrust, he buried himself inside her to the hilt, stretching her around his thick girth.

They both groaned at the sensation, bodies moving instinctively to join as one. Elijah set a brutal pace, hips slapping sharply against Annie's as he drove into her again and again.

"Fuck yes," he grunted, angling to hit that sweet spot inside her with every thrust. "Take it, Annie. Take my cock like the good little slut you are."

Annie keened, inner walls fluttering around him as pleasure built rapidly. She met him thrust for thrust, nails digging into his back as she urged him on.

"Harder," she begged breathlessly, head thrown back in ecstasy. "Fuck me harder, Elijah. Wanna feel you for days."

Elijah obliged with a snarl, going into her faster and deeper. The room filled with the obscene sounds of skin on skin and their harsh panting, the headboard banging rhythmically against the wall.

"Gonna come," Annie warned shakily, thighs starting to tremble. "Oh god, Elijah! I'm gonna-!"

She cut off with a scream as her orgasm slammed into her, back bowing sharply as ecstasy overtook her. Her pussy clamped down on Elijah's thrusting cock like a vice, rippling around him as she came undone.

Elijah groaned at the sensation, feeling his own release barreling down on him. "Fuck yes," he rasped, pounding into her erratically. "Milk my cock, Annie. Fucking take it."

With a harsh shout, he buried himself as deep as possible and came, spilling himself inside her with thick, hot ropes of his seed. Annie moaned weakly as she felt him pulsing within her, triggering another mini-orgasm that had her seeing stars.

They collapsed together in a tangle of sweaty limbs, gasping for breath as they tried to regain their bearings. Elijah pressed tender kisses to Annie's face as she shivered beneath him.

"Love you," he murmured softly, thumb brushing over her cheekbone. "My wife. My everything."

Annie smiled mistily, tangling her fingers with his. "Love you too," she whispered back, nuzzling into his palm. "Always and forever."

TagList: @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @harleycativy

[partiallysame]

price was definitely in the comms treating this like the most important mission they’ve ever undertaken (it is). “accept the offer…do you copy? accept the offer…for fuck’s sake riley you have the all clear accept her offer…lieutenant simon riley istg if you don’t accept the lass’s offer right NOW i will give soap the green light to buy you a scotland jersey for their next match that you WILL be wearing.” needless to say simon got his ass in gear and accepted the offer (johnny is incredibly disappointed that he has been robbed of seeing simon in a scotland jersey but it’s worth it since he [read: they] now have a date with you)

simon doesn’t even get to enjoy the sweet victory of securing a date with you before the guys are (attempting) to drag him off to plan the next phase of the mission.

“what are you gonna wear for the date? can’t exactly show up in your usual spooky bastard getup…you do own something besides black fatigues right? …right???!?!”

“where are you taking her? yes i know she said drinks but location is important riley; i thought i taught you better than this.”

“we gotta work on your conversational skills mate. can’t an have you just grunting or staring at the poor bird the whole night.”

simon threatens to shave them all bald in their sleep if they don’t fuck off and give him some breathing room. they do but price pulls up the security feed for the makeshift shop on his phone so they all see the tiny barely noticeable smile that pulls at his lips (he’s replaying the way your face lit up and you flashed him the prettiest smile when he agreed to the date) as he locks up the shop

I know Simon is like “I know how to treat a woman you idiots” but you know what maybe practicing a lil wouldn’t hurt. Wait Johnny where the fuck did you get a wig and Johnny is so ready to pretend to be a pretty lady for Simon to flirt with.

They all agreed on an outfit and a place until on a whim price pulled some random female soldier in for her opinion and she laughed thinking they were joking (it was an argyle vest and slacks with tennis shoes) Ok lads back to the drawing board. Kyle has been muttering that Simon is “too fucking big” bc Kyle has a solid wardrobe but it won’t fit Simon.

Now Simon can’t decide if he wants them in comms and surveillance bc they are right and he knows he’s gonna choke when you’re dressed all pretty and looking at him. When he doesn’t have a tattoo to focus on and he gets to actually focus on you. But also then they get to make fun of him if he stutters. Or worse they get to hear if you make him laugh and hear him be sweet with you.

It’s been days of them planning and you’re starting to get nervous that Simon changed his mind but little do you know it’s now a full ass fucking mission and low level soldiers are sent on tasks to check out every nice restaurant, every arcade, every wine bar, every date spot. Simon is being quizzed on his conversation skills and how to stray away from awkward pauses and if they go to a nice restaurant which fork is which (you don’t even know that). He’s never been this stressed before in his life. Yes that includes basic training. Yes that includes every op he almost died on. He will not mess this up and the 141 will be sure of that

[elliewrites77]

Uncle!Sukuna Part 8

Uncle!Sukuna who stayed at yours for most of the morning. To be completely honest, Sukuna got so caught up with spending time with you, sharing kisses and holding you on the couch, that he almost forgot he had to pick Yuji up at some point. He had yet to get a call from Toji, so it simply slipped his mind that he would actually have to leave.

He remembers, however, when he does get a call from the father, answering the phone to immediately hear Toji's annoyed voice on the other end.

"You better be on your way to get this brat. Keeps getting Megs to attack me, saying m'some villain they're fighting. I'm tired of these little shits climbin' on me." Sukuna heard, making him smirk at his friends expense, not even thinking to apologize for not being on his way yet.

"Oh come on, old man. They're just kids. You really can't handle two of them?" He teases, though he does stand from the couch after you move off of him to give him room.

"Yea, wanna call me old? Remember this conversation the next time you need a babysitter to go on your little dates."

"Tsk, don't get your panties in a bunch, I'm just messin'. I'll be there soon. And if you want, I can take Megumi for you some time too." Sukuna was surprised he would even offer to take care of another persons kid, but the words had come naturally, and he couldn't find it in him to hate the idea. If Toji was surprised too, he didn't say anything.

"Definitely keepin' that in mind. Now hurry up." Toji hangs up before Sukuna could say reply, making him scoff as he pocketed his phone.

He put on his shoes, unfortunately the ones from the night before since, while you had clothes for him to wear, you didn't have those. But he didn't complain as he slipped them on, especially not when he saw you smile as you looked at him - dressed in casual, lazy-day attire, except for his fancier dress shoes. It was a little amusing.

Sukuna didn't want to leave, not when he looked at you all lazy, cuddled up on the couch. But he knew he had a responsibility, and while he wouldn't admit it, he did somewhat miss the kid running around like every other morning. So he pulled you up, kissing you in a way that made you a little dizzy, before pulling away with a smirk (when was he not smirking). You said your goodbyes, before you watched him pull away from your house from your doorstep.

When you went back inside, you had a smile on your face as you started to clean up a little before Choso got home.

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

You were in your bedroom when the sound of your front door opening was heard. You walked out into the hall, hearing the voices of Shoko and Choso, which made you smile.

As soon as you were in view of the living room, Choso lights up, running to hug you, which you of course return. Squeezing him tight, you smile at Shoko.

"Mom! Aunt Leiri took me to the arcade, and we got to play mini golf." Choso informs, excited to tell you about all the details of his day. You grin down at him, rubbing his head affectionally as you make sure to give him your full attention. "I beat her at the zombie shooting game, too! And got a lot of tickets. I was able to get some candy to share with Yuji."

"That's awesome, baby! I'm glad you had a nice time with your Aunt Leiri. Did you remember to tell her thank you?" You say, glancing up to the women when you mention her.

Choso nods, breaking away to hug his aunt.

"Thanks again aunty. I'm gonna go unpack my bag before Yuji gets home!" He quickly runs off, making both of you laugh as you watch him.

"Home, huh? Sounding like the kid already lives here." You can hear the teasing in her voice without even turning to see her.

Rolling your eyes playfully, you turn and give her a look. Her teasing smile doesn't falter once when you do, making you sigh.

"He doesn't, you know that." You say. You aren't upset by her words, knowing that she was just messing with you as well as knowing that there was truth to what she said. "Yuji is just over a lot, and Choso and him really get along." You try to explain. Shoko laughs.

"Oh, I heard. Choso kept going on and on about the kid when I picked him up yesterday. Mentioned his uncle too." Her brows raise, giving you a look like she knows exactly what's been going on in your life, with you and Sukuna.

You can't hold back a smile, not having any way to honestly defend yourself against her unspoken and correct assumptions.

"Look I was going to tell you, but yesterday was only our second date. I didn't wanna get ahead of myself, make it out to be something it isn't." You say with a chuckle, shrugging your shoulders as though it wasn't a big deal. Truthfully, your feelings for the man were a big deal, but still. It was easier to pretend otherwise, for now.

"And now?" She asks, making you tilt your head slightly in confusion. "Is it something now?" She clarifies. Her words make you flustered a bit, recalling the night spent in Sukuna's arms on your very couch. You wanted to say yes, but could you really? You spent the entire morning with Sukuna, acting like a couple already, but not once did either of you think to establish what you actually were.

"I'm..not entirely sure." You say, feeling a little awkward when she rolls her eyes. There's no malice behind her action, and you know she is probably exasperated with your inability to go after what you want, at least when it comes to something such as relationships and romance. "We just haven't really talked about it yet. But we will, and I promise you'll be the first person I call to tell all about it when we do." You playfully try to appease. She shakes her head with a smirk, and you're positive that she plans to hold you to your words.

Before either of you can say another thing, the sound of her phone ringing loudly cuts through the hair. It makes her huff, rolling her eyes -this time in real annoyance- before pulling it out and looking at the ID.

"Damn it." She mumbles, putting the phone back into her pocket with the ringing continues. "I've gotta go. Work emergency. If I make them wait any longer, they'll be on my ass even more. I'll be in town another day or two, but I doubt I'll be able to stop by." She says. You nod in understanding, moving to walk her out. It sucks that your time with her was so short, but you know that her job is demanding, and she's too much of a work-a-holic to heed your advice to take some more time for herself.

"I get it. Thank you for spending the day with Cho, Shoko." She smiles at you, shrugging one shoulder as if her actions were nothing. They meant a lot to you, though, considering she was the only actual connection he had with his paternal family (the only one worth having, to be fair). But you knew she wouldn't want to get all sappy and sentimental, and she was in a rush, so you let it slide. "Please text when you can, and don't forget to not overwork yourself too much."

"I'll try not to, but you know me." She jokes (not a joke), walking to her car.

You wave her off, closing the door behind you when she's out of sight. Then you walk towards Chosos room, seeing his door wide open.

You see his unpacked duffle bag on the bed, next to a dumped out bag of candy and cheap prizes. He's putting stuff away in his dresser, and you take a moment to watch your little boy, who didn't seem so little anymore. This thought reminds you of the necklace that remained around your neck, your hand moving to touch it.

"So who's your dealer, honey?" You ask, smiling when Choso jumps, not knowing you were there. He turns to you, a grin lighting up his face when he sees you fiddling with the necklace.

"Can't say. I wouldn't want to incriminate myself." He jokes, playing along with a cheeky grin.

You chuckle, shaking your head fondly at your son.

"Did you use any means that I would disprove of?" You ask, needing to make sure. You didn't mind if your son had some secrets, as it was a normal thing, but you would always make sure that he was being safe, and smart.

He didn't hesitate to shake his head, and knowing your son, you knew he was telling the truth. So you gave him another smile.

"Good. Thank you for the necklace, it's beautiful." You say, walking further into the room. You kiss the crown of his head before brushing some of his hair out of his face. "You're gonna need a cut soon." You think out loud, pushing his thick strands back a bit. Choso groans, making you chuckle. He hated going to the barber.

"Can Sukuna do it?" He asked, giving you puppy eyes before you even have a chance to reply. "Please? He cuts Yuji's hair." He explained, which clears your confusion on why he was the immediate option. You smiled.

"We can ask, and if he's okay with it, sure." You answered. Right after you speak, you both hear rushed knocking from your front door. Leaving his room with furrowed brows you go to the front window.

Right away, you see Yuji excitedly standing on your front porch, still knocking. Choso, who was looking with you, immediately went to open it with a grin, one that Yuji eagerly returned. Yuji barely says hello to you as he races inside your home, lead by Choso to his bedroom. You breath a laugh as you watch them race away, before your attention is brought to the much larger man now standing in your open doorway.

"Miss me, baby?" Sukuna teases, coming inside as if he lived here. You didn't complain. You smile at him, rolling your eyes playfully.

"I might have missed you if you had stayed away longer. You got back so quick it almost seems like you were missing me." You tease back.

He hums with smirk, moving towards you. Wrapping his hands around your waist, he pulls you into a kiss. Even just a slow, sweet kiss has your heart racing just a little faster than normal. He is still smirking when he pulls away.

"Maybe I was, just a bit." He jokes. You smile again, pulling him into another kiss.

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

That evenings, Sukuna and Yuji join you and Choso for dinner. You ask Yuji how his weekend was at the Fushiguro household, and listen as they two boys excitedly talk about the arcade that Choso had went to and how they want to got together. You laugh as Yuji asks Sukuna to take them, giving him an adorable pleading look that you know Sukuna can't resist (understandably). The man grumbles before promising to take them both sometime soon, to which both boys cheer.

After dinner, while Sukuna insists on doing the dishes, you help Yuji and Choso get ready for bed, and get their things ready for school the next day. Sukuna had gone across the street to his house to get Yujis' things, after the boys asked if they could have a sleepover. So you were making sure they had everything ready.

"Now just because we let you have a sleepover on a school night doesn't mean I want either of you staying up past your bed time, understood?" You say, stern but not unkind, as the two were brushing their freshly washed hair.

"Yes ma'am." They both say, giving you equally innocent and adorable grins. Your eyes flick between them, knowing that despite being good kids, they were still kids. Meaning their innocent looks weren't to always be trusted. But still, you believe them, and give them a smile.

You leave them to their devices, telling them you'll be back soon to put them to bed, before going out to your kitchen. Sukuna is just finishing with the dishes, and turns his head to look at you when he hears your enter.

"The brats giving you trouble?" He immediately questions. you shake your head, amused.

"No, the boys are just finishing getting ready for bed." You answer, leaning against the counter next to him. He smirks, putting the last dry dish aside before turning to you.

He looks at you for a moment, and the longer he goes without speaking, the more you feel like there's something on your face. Before you can question him, though, he relieves your confusion.

"Do you wanna be my girlfriend?" He asks. You blink, the randomness of the question requiring you to take a moment in order to process. Sukuna, surprisingly, doesn't get worried by your pause. He just continues to smirk as he waits.

You blush eventually, your smile turning shy as if you were still in highschool. To be fair, Sukuna made you feel that way most of the time, like you were a young girl with her first crush, asking to be girlfriend and boyfriend. You do manage a small chuckle though, pulling him closer to you.

"I'd love to." You say. Sukuna grins, leaning down to you and embracing your lips in a long kiss, relief and what feels a lot like love flowing through the both of you all the while.

Neither of you see the two young boys watching from behind the corner as they high five each other quietly and share excited grins.

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most of this was written before my small break, but I had wanted to try and make it longer. Now that I'm back though, I kinda just wanna get it out, so if it's a little short or badly paced, I apologize. I'm already working on part 9 tho! I hope yall enjoy, and i hope everyone is having a lovely day <3 barely proofread (im sorry)