#he can still be thankful. in a normal way | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

seitmai · 2 days ago

Text

Many thoughts

He knew you worked for Senator Brown. You knew he was a Congressman, obviously. You also knew his background and the complexities that came with it. Many people in the political space turned up their noses at him, something you had a similar experience with as you were “only an assistant.” The two of you had joked about it, eventually making your way to the hotel bar and laughing over the amount of hidden toupees currently residing in the ballroom.

Instant bonding 🤝🏻

You scrambled to take out your phone and open the notes app. A rookie mistake; you usually had it open the second his meetings ended, but you had been distracted. By Bucky.

Well what a great reason to be distracted 🤭

“The guy should treat you better. He could only keep assistants for a few weeks at a time before you.” “How do you know that?” Bucky slid your food towards you. “Eat. You looked like you were in a hurry when I got here.”

Thank God he encourages her to eat

You eyed him for a moment. With his hair tucked behind his ears, you could see the tenseness of his jaw and the shadow of his beard dusting above his collar. It was no secret that Bucky was alarmingly handsome in a sea of 60-year-old politicians, but you had never gotten the opportunity to see it at work. You were always too busy, and Bucky’s office was three floors down.

Truly a sight for sore eyes 😌

“Oh, um, I’ve been going home around 10. It’s such a pain in the ass to get a taxi at that time, you wouldn’t believe. Uber isn’t much better, and I definitely can’t walk home in these things,” you joked, motioning to the bandaids strapped behind your heels. “It’s not so bad, though. After about a month of late nights, Brown will go on a “vacation,” and I’ll have a few weeks to reign in the chaos during normal business hours.” You were giggling as you spoke, adding air quotes and sarcasm to try to alleviate the irritated look Bucky was sporting. After a few weeks of being around him, you understood that Bucky was quieter than you, but his silence right now was pressing. Your jokes weren’t getting him to talk, so you switched gears.

That truly sounds horrible and I'm on Bucky’s side, the jokes don't make it any better

Popping a grape in your mouth, you asked, “What are you doing up here, anyway?” Bucky let out a breath and tapped his hand on the table. “Honestly? I came to check on you.”

🥹🥹🥹

Bucky: Depends. Are you still at work right now?

You frowned at your phone.

You: If I am does that mean you won’t get coffee with me?

Bucky: So you are

Not saying also says a lot

“You’re not getting in my car if you’re calling me that,” Bucky replied, leaning down to peer out the passenger-side window. “What are you doing here?” you asked him for the second time today. “I told you, I’m driving for Uber. You called for one?”

I respect a side hustle 🤭

“Give me a code, then. Here,” he passed you his phone, the background illuminating a small white cat. “Wait, sorry, I have to unlock it.”

Alpine spotting!!

“You’re not asking. Now, hurry up and get in. I’ve been in the fire lane for 20 minutes and parking enforcement hates me here.”

Haha I wonder what encounters he had with parking enforcement to earn that reputation 🤔🤭

Sliding in the car was somewhat of a mess with your bag and your jacket and the file you had meant to finish at home almost suffocating you. Bucky tried to help, grabbing items and waiting for you to buckle in before placing them by your feet. You were flustered from the transition, trying to adjust your skirt and seatbelt as Bucky reached forward to tuck a strand of hair stuck in your lip gloss behind your ear.

I can truly feel the chaos of getting into the car with all the stuff, been there before, many times 😅

“I really didn’t mean to make you feel guilty,” you stressed to Bucky after he flipped the radio on, low music trickling in. “When I told you about staying late, I mean.” Bucky tsked, knocking his head to the side to shoot you a lingering glance. “You didn’t, alright? This is my own problem. I just didn’t feel comfortable with you trying to find a way home so late.” “I’ve been doing it for a while and I haven’t died yet,” you attempted to joke.

Those jokes are definitely not landing with Bucky again

“I would like to get coffee Saturday,” Bucky finally said. “If the offer still stands.” “Of course it stands.” You only briefly caught the half-smile that lit up his face before the light of the streets was lost to a tunnel.

🥰🥰🥰

Coffee was relaxed and enjoyable, as it always was with Bucky. He asked a few more questions about your work, a topic he had previously not touched on. He wanted to know about your coworkers, if the interns ever helped you, how much time you got off, and in turn, you asked him about being a Congressman and if he actually enjoyed it. Both answers left the other person less than satisfied.

Well, at least they have that in common 🥴

You hummed. “I don’t know, really. My dad was in politics, and he would only really accept my work if I was, too. He’s… not around now, but I feel like I have to stay. I’m good at it.” “I believe it. Could be good at a lot of things, though.”

Facts!

You felt fuzzy, confused. But also nothing was confusing and you were reminded, again, how attractive the Congressman was. How attractive and how definitely off-limits he was. It would be so taboo for Bucky to be dating an assistant.

Fuck that!

“I was just thinking the other day how you don’t exactly fit in with the rest of Congress, but you so do! Maybe even on the young side,” you teased. “Oh yeah?” Bucky egged on, nodding with his brows raised. “You were thinking about me?”

I like them joking like that together 🥰

Bucky wouldn’t stop touching you.

That's great if you ask me 😅

It could have been frequency that made you more aware of this habit of his, because Bucky had begun picking you up every time you worked late and planned coffee or lunch or even a walk at least once a weekend. So, maybe this was his norm and you were just around him more often—something you enjoyed, but also something that made feelings more difficult.

Gorl, just let it happen and enjoy!

Bucky had seen you get yelled at a few times now, each seemingly worse than the last. He kept quiet about it, but you could tell it bothered him. He almost stepped in once—when Brown was irate at the coffee you’d gotten him and chucked it at the wall, you saw Bucky step forward from down the hall. He stopped at the slight shake of your head. You were used to the Senator throwing things, and as long as it wasn’t in your direction, it was no harm done. At least, that’s what you thought.

Brown is truly the worst, I get why Bucky has a hard time holding back

Bucky shook his head, expression taut. “There’s gotta be something else then. You don’t deserve all of that.” “If we’re talking about not deserving torment, I think I’m the least of our worries here, Sergeant,” you noted, knocking your shoulder against his in an attempted lightness. But when you turned to look at him, Bucky was already facing you. “I’m serious, y/n. He’s throwing things at you. I’ve stayed out of it because you told me to, but after today—” “Bucky, hey,” you calmed. “I know it seems crazy, but I know how to deal with it. I know he won’t actually do anything.” “Right now, maybe.”

I have Avery bad feeling about this, I think Bucky’s old instincts or something might kick in when he specifically mentions "right now" 😬

“Yeah, I can.” And then you were tugged against his starched, ironed suit, his metal arm holding you close to his chest. You gasped a little at the initial contact, your heart hammering against your ribs as Bucky simply kept you there. This is dangerous, your brain reminded you, but it was also harmless, if you looked at it the right way.

Ahhh 🥰

“You know, I’m not going to die, Bucky. I’ve dealt with this for years.” “Yeah, you keep joking about that,” he gruffly replied, the words a ghost against the top of your head. You hadn’t realized his lips were that close. “If we could keep the death jokes to a minimum, that would be great.”

Valid

“Hey, I have other friends.” “I haven’t seen ‘em.” “Shut up,” he groaned, tugging you back in. “You can meet them as proof. Next weekend.”

I would definitely need proof with his track record 🤭

You were only retaining about half of what he said, which was good, considering everything was an attack on you, and your work ethic, and then he even started going in on your clothes and your apartment. It must have been something really bad this time. After he was done yelling, you would check his texts and probably find a couple of mentions of divorce sprinkled in between messages with his lawyers.

This is crazy, really unreasonable

When Bucky had asked you why you stayed, you left out that key bit of information. He was still newer to the field and didn’t need to know that Senator Brown held that over your head each time you even hinted at moving on.

That's so fucked up! I feel so bad for her

You figured the screaming was almost over. Brown was in his 60s, so he would be getting tired. And it probably would have been over if he hadn’t checked his Apple Watch and read a text that got him fired up once more. You greatly regretted setting that up for him.

Ah fuck

You should have moved, but you spotted Bucky in the hall, and he always distracted you.

Understandable

The frame shot straight down, smacking you in the head and causing your knees to buckle in surprise. You fell to the ground, feeling dramatic and disoriented as the room silenced and your ears rang. You knew he wouldn’t apologize, but the continued quiet as you pushed yourself up and sat back on your haunches was almost deafening.

Wtf that guy is a threat and holds a public office 😡

“The hell is wrong with you, huh?” Bucky shouted, rising from the floor. “You think it makes you tough to throw things at her?” Senator Brown had gone from furious to unsure, probably aware of the physical strength Bucky harbored. But, as was typical with politicians, he would not put anything before his pride. Brown righted his expression and pursed his lips.

I really would love the old Bucky to make an appearance rn

The senator directed his attention towards you, brows raised accusingly. “Oh, so you’ve been gossiping about me, then?” You shrank back, hand lingering where your head ached, but Bucky stepped in front of you, blocking you from Brown’s line of sight. “Hey, I’m talking to you,” Bucky seethed, jutting a finger into Brown’s chest.

He is so protective 🥺

Brown’s head sharply turned. “That you are, Congressman. But it seems like my assistant here no longer wants her role, so this conversation is moot.” “Congressman Barnes,” you called, authority that didn’t belong to you heavy in your tone. You were two seconds away from losing your job and being blacklisted, neither of which you could handle. Bucky froze, his anger still held in his shoulders. “Thank you for your concern, as I’m sure you were just passing by when you saw what happened, but I can assure you that it was an accident and I am fine.”

Nooo 💔

Bucky looked over his shoulder with furrowed brows, but took a step back and dropped his hands by his sides when he caught your expression—still disheveled, but resolute in your decision. He needed to leave. You needed to save your career. You could… figure everything else out later. Probably. You took a deep breath, allowed yourself a moment as the door closed, and then you did something purposeful yourself. Even if it killed you to do so.

At this rate Brown will kill her in one way or another for sure!

After leaving Brown’s office, he’d stormed into his own and promptly shut and locked the door. Tugging his tie away from his neck and prying the uncomfortable suit jacket from his shoulders, Bucky then began to pace. He was pissed. He was so beyond pissed.

Understandable!!

Oh he so deserves it!

You hadn’t let him do anything, and then you hadn’t let him do anything again after you’d been hurt. He watched you flinch and cover your face, and even that hadn’t been enough.

🥺🥺🥺

He promised that he’d let you take care of it, and then he went in there and almost killed Senator Brown. A replay of you falling to the ground looped in his mind, and actually Bucky didn’t feel stupid at all. All he felt was rage. You never texted him back. And you left the building far before he could give you a ride home. When he asked your coworkers, they said you were no longer working overtime and left during normal hours. Fine. That was good, actually. Only, Bucky never saw you.

He is so worried for her, understandably so with Brown being around!

He frequented all of your normal spots, wandered up to the top floor, and even stopped by the coffeeshop two days in a row, and you were nowhere. Avoiding him, obviously, and while he understood (he didn’t), he mostly wanted to put eyes on you. To make sure you were okay. Sure, you didn’t have a severe head injury, but it was more than that.

He didn’t understand 🥺

“Right, right. Well, right now you have more of a pissed off face, but I guess I bring that out in you.” Sam paused and then smacked Bucky in the shoulder. “Come on, man. What’s going on, seriously? Does it have to do with that girl you were supposed to bring?”

Uhh rough topic 😬

“Are you going to take this seriously?” Bucky accused. “‘Cause if you’re not, I’m leaving right now. I’ll leave.” “Okay, okay. I’m sorry,” Sam surrendered, raising his hands. “But really, Buck, that all sounds like dating. Tell me why she didn’t come.”

He's not wrong 🤷🏻‍♀️

Bucky puffed out a breath. “Yeah, Senator Brown.” Sam let out a low whistle as Bucky continued. “He yells at her. Throws things. I felt like it crossed a line this week, so I guess I kinda stormed in. She threw me out and’s been avoiding me since. We had talked about it before and she said to stay out of it, but, Sam, the guy’s a dick.” “And you really like her,” Sam added casually. “And I really like her,” Bucky confirmed.

I'm glad he has Sam to share this with

Sam paused to contemplate, though Bucky didn’t know what he could possibly offer that Bucky hadn’t already considered. He really, really liked you—more than he figured possible, especially with all of his attempts at dating since his pardon. But then you’d surprised him that night at the hotel, and he’d been hooked. He hadn’t even had the chance to tell you.

🥹🥹🥹

“Well, two things,” Sam began, leaning on the fence next to Bucky. “Sounds like she knows what she’s doing, so you should have trusted her. But—” Sam cut out as Bucky opened his mouth “—it also sounds like Brown’s a major ass with a lot of power. You don’t know what he might have over her, slimy dude like that.” “What, you mean like blackmail?” “Maybe, who knows? You just gotta talk to her, man. Work it out.”

Good thinking, Sam! Sometimes an outside perspective is everything ☝🏻

The charity gala had been on your calendar for the past six months, and still, nothing could have prepared you for how much you didn’t want to attend.

Mood

You usually enjoyed events like this. You got to dress up and eat nice food, and Brown always got too drunk to remember that his assistant was even in the building. The first hour felt like work, and then the rest of the night was cosplaying as a rich politician.

That sounds kinda fun...

That was not the case for this gala.

...but that really doesn't 😬

Ever since the ordeal with Bucky, Senator Brown had kept you on a tight leash. Whether that was due to how much he enjoyed intimidating you or his fear that you actually were telling people he was a mean, abusive boss, didn’t matter. All that mattered was that this gala was going to suck and there was nothing you could do about it. Making you attend this gala and not leave his side was another ploy to make you atone for your wrongdoings. Maybe the man knew how much you enjoyed these events and was taking advantage of that.

If I thought Brown couldn't get any worse 🥲

“Check this,” Senator Brown lazily ordered, draping his coat over your arms. “And meet me back in the dining room. You get to sit right next to me.”

🤢🤢🤢

You could feel his chest against your back even before you heard him. He shifted his arms out of his sleeves and placed a hand on your shoulder as he leaned towards the counter. Of course he smelled good. Why wouldn’t he?

For real

Bucky paused for a moment, searching the planes of your face for a beat too long before replying, “No reason to open another ticket. I’ll just leave when you leave.” “You mean you’ll leave when Brown leaves, then?” The muscle in his jaw jumped. “So, nothing's changed.”

Damn what a way to connect again 😬

“Did you seriously just throw me into a closet?” you whisper-yelled, all too aware of the staff only feet away. “I had no choice,” he replied with the same urgency. “You were stomping off. And I didn’t throw you in here.” “Fine. What do you want?” Bucky froze for a moment. “I… I didn’t actually think you’d stay in here. Or let me talk, if I’m being honest."

Fair haha

Your jaw fell open, an incredulous laugh slipping out. You’d almost forgotten how endearing he was in just about everything he did. Even as he stood in front of you in a full, three-piece suit, smushing you against a closet wall because he had dragged you in there with no plan, a part of your chest warmed.

🥹🥹🥹

“Wait, hold on. I do have something to say, wait,” Bucky pleaded, metal hand—more gentle than you were sure it was ever used for—encircling your wrist. He tugged you back even closer this time, your face inches from his. “I wanted to say sorry. And… and I want to get it.” “Get it?” you parroted, trying extremely hard to ignore the dropping feeling in your gut as he stared into your eyes. “I want to get why you stay. Why you let him treat you like that. I want to know so I can… feel okay backing off.”

God he cares so deeply about her 🥺

“He won’t let me quit. He won’t let me work anywhere else.” Bucky blinked, a fog clearing from his heated gaze. His head jutted back an inch, and the hand that had somehow found a home on your jaw paused its ascent into your hair. “Won’t let you?” “I’d be blacklisted.” “He can’t do that.” “He can.”

Urgh Bucky really is naive in this and that breaks my heart, because in that moment he realizes he might really not able to help her 💔

You debated moving states, or countries, or entire career paths as you hurried into the dining room of the gala. Not only had you taken too long at the coat check, but you knew you looked completely flushed and out of it.

Maybe she should move, fake her death pin it on Brown 🤔 thinking about it I like that plan and I might know someone else who likes it and would be really helpful from experience with this lol

“Oh, don’t complain about it. Who complains about chocolate cake?” he peeved, snickering to the men on the other side of the table. He then went on a drunken rant about “good help” and the “youth of today” as you looked down at the cake in front of you. Was D.C. even worth it?

Absolutely not! Someone steals my dessert? The last straw, I would be OUT!

Bucky was staring at you again. He wasn’t directly across from you, a few centerpieces blocking your view, but you could feel it. To avoid him—and your feelings—you ate the cake. Brown and the men sarcastically cheered as you did, alcohol clear in the air at this point, and you took another bite to get them to find some other novelty.

Ew why are the men cheering 🤢

The table was extremely long, so at some point, you thought you heard Bucky dive over the dinner party rather than continue his trek around to your side. Other sounds filtered past the panic clogging your ears.

He 100% did

“Is she allergic to something? It’s an allergic reaction!” “How should I know?”

And once again he gets worse!

As you were grappling for your purse, a choked whine fell from your lips. It had been kicked somewhere, pushed out of your grasp, and no one at this damn gala was helping you. Several older women had gone to their knees with worried expressions at your eye line, but they weren’t doing anything.

Oh god this must be horrible

Your head was beginning to spin, and your thoughts were blurring, but you heard Bucky. He came to your side much faster than it felt, moving things around that your blurred vision couldn’t catch. And then, pain. And then relief.

🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

Your gasping breaths were supported by gentle hands on your face, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones. You grappled at Bucky’s wrists and tried to parse out panic from physical symptoms, but there was so much commotion in the room and your head was still so fuzzy. “You’re okay,” Bucky assured you, voice almost too low to catch. Someone was on the phone with 911 in the back. “You can breathe with me. Come on. Don’t—hey—don’t look at them. Look at me.” Your chin was pushed forward, and then your forehead connected with his. Ringing persisted in your ears. Your hands were beginning to shake from the epi, your jaw following close behind. “I got you, okay?”

He's so gentle and all she needs in thats situation 🥺 (also is there no ambulance on stand by? This feels like a place lots of old politicians that could drop dead any second lol)

“F-f-feels—” “I know,” he hushed. When your breath was somewhat steadier, he tucked your head beneath his chin and began barking out orders. He asked for an ETA on the ambulance, for your jacket, for ten other things you couldn’t register.

People like that are essentially in emergency situations like that👏🏻

And then, “You’re a piece of shit, you know that?”

He truly should know by now🤦🏻‍♀️

“What, throwing things at her wasn’t enough? Had to try and kill her?” “B-bucky—” “Throwing things at her?” you heard from across the room. “Brown, what is Barnes talking about?” Bucky let out a puff of air through his nose, shaking his head in disbelief. Silence blanketed the room once more, and it was clear that he had given up. His hands were glued to the back of your head and your back, and he didn’t have the time or the drive in him to care about Brown right now.

🥺🥺🥺

“I saw you switch the plates.” The quiet voice came from across the table, the young blonde’s face registering in your memory as you peeked out from beyond Bucky’s chest. “She had a card with it, too. It said there was an allergy accommodation.” Low murmurs fell over the room. Brown, much to your surprise, looked at a loss for words, his expression betrayed as he stared at the woman across the room. It clicked then, where you knew her from. She was on the front cover of every article you were pressured to get taken down, and the contact photo for the main caller in Brown’s phone.

Yes 👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻 and I hope she dumps his ass!

Sirens sounded beyond the doors of the ballroom, breaking up the tension at the wide table. Brown used it as his getaway, throwing his napkin down and muttering something about insolence or idiots or something of the sort. You couldn’t really hear anything over Bucky’s low whisper in your ear, followed by his lips against the side of your head. He shot out of the chair, holding everything in your hands in one of his, and assessed you himself. His gaze roved the mess you’d become. He should have made a joke about it, maybe teased you for almost dying, but instead, he ran a hand over your head and dragged you against his chest.

He is just so sweet 🥹

“‘Course I did.” He leaned you back, hand still woven at the base of your hair, not caring that he was in the middle of the ER waiting room. “You okay?”

It wasn't even an option to not wait

Finally!🥳👏🏻🥰

It only took you a moment to make a decision. You pressed up, kissing him even though you were in the ER waiting room. Even though you both looked like a mess and you’d almost died and you had no idea if you still had a job. You kissed him and it startled him, the paper bag of medications crunching in his hand, but he kissed you back without hesitation. It wasn’t a passionate kiss—not like the breathless, wanting kisses you would share late, share tomorrow—but it was confirming something. Bucky held you and had his lips firmly against yours, his brows furrowed in a way you couldn’t see, and he confirmed everything you’d suspected.

You figured you wouldn’t need to work if your boyfriend were a Congressman.

🤭🤭🤭

But, as you would soon find out, Senator Brown didn’t have very much time left as a Senator, anyway.

I couldn't be happier about this 🥳👏🏻

Checks and Balances

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Summary: Your boss was an ass—you knew it, the office knew it, the entire country knew it. Working for Senator Brown was never easy, but you had managed it for the better part of three years and didn’t want to see your career go up in flames. Unfortunately for you, Bucky was slowly falling in love with you, and Congressman Barnes didn’t think managing it was enough.

Word count: 9k

Warnings: Injury (kinda), hospitals, angst, an abusive boss, protective Bucky!!

a/n: Ahh a Bucky fic that's not an AU (that's also one million words)! Idk how the government works tbh so sorry if things are a little inaccurate there lol. This takes place right before Thunderbolts! Thank you for reading, I love you!! ❤️❤️

Masterlist

“Congressman Barnes,” you greeted, a slight nod of your head the only acknowledgement you could afford. Senator Brown was only a moment away from screaming at you again, and you could only take so much screaming in one day.

Bucky, unfortunately, did not care about being screamed at by Senator Brown. He took your upper arm in a light grip and shot you a confused smile. “What, you avoiding me? Can’t be seen in the halls talking to me?”

A fairer assessment of Bucky’s interruption was that he didn’t know of the wrath Senator Brown could incite upon you. Sure, Bucky knew that Brown was a hardass, and by association, his executive assistant would have to put up with it, but he had no way of knowing just how terrible the man was.

When you met Bucky a few weeks ago, you had been alone in a hotel lobby. The heels accompanying your freshly pressed pantsuit had been killing you, and you needed a moment for your feet to breathe. Bucky, apparently, also needed a moment away from the conference, and you had gotten to talking when he plopped into the overstuffed armchair beside you.

In the weeks that followed, you had texted with him, met for coffee twice because he was “in the area”, and had maybe even considered the fact that you were friends with Congressman Barnes. Friends were invaluable to have in D.C., but they were also something to be wary of. Bucky didn’t feel the type to be wary of.

As you stood halfway frozen in the hallway, his comment began to make sense. He was calling back to your initial hotel conversation, making a joke about biases and stuck-up politicians, but this was not the time. Not that he could have known.

Senator Brown barked out your name when he noticed you were no longer beside him, surely trying to get you to jot down some thought banging around in his head. You whipped your head to the side, almost missing the affronted expression on Bucky’s face as he registered the tone that your name was spoken in, and shook your arm from his hold.

“Sorry, Congressman,” you murmured, turning on your heel and making quick strides in Brown’s direction. “I apologize. What can I do for you, Senator?”

Your boss barely hid a scoff. “You can start by being where I need you to be. And write this down—I do not believe that the House takes the proper—”

You scrambled to take out your phone and open the notes app. A rookie mistake; you usually had it open the second his meetings ended, but you had been distracted. By Bucky.

Your heels hurriedly clicking against polished marble, you took a fleeting glance over your shoulder. Bucky remained there, his brow furrowed and his arms crossed over his chest, metal from his hand glinting against the gentle fluorescence of the hall.

Three days later, he brought it up.

You thought you’d found a private spot to scarf down your lunch in your allotted fifteen-minute break, but with a sandwich only half finished and your mouth full, the call of your name reminded you that there is never any privacy for you at this job. The sound of Bucky’s voice softened the blow a bit.

“He always treat you like that?” Bucky asked, swinging his leg over the bench on the other side of the table. He watched as you tried to chew quickly, some of the hardness he’d sat down with melting from his expression.

You covered your mouth with your hand and swallowed hard. “What?” you finally got out, reaching for your water bottle.

Bucky raised a brow. “Brown. Does he always yell at you?”

After a few sips and swallows, you gave up on being able to finish your lunch. You had to plan out your meals very meticulously to finish, and Bucky had already taken up 30 precious seconds.

“Oh,” you began. You swiped a hand through the air. “It’s fine. He just gets a little intense sometimes. It’s just his personality.”

“You’ve been working for him for three years.”

“Right.”

“The guy should treat you better. He could only keep assistants for a few weeks at a time before you.”

“How do you know that?”

Bucky slid your food towards you. “Eat. You looked like you were in a hurry when I got here.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t text you back,” you said, reaching for the fruit in your bag. “I meant to. I’ve just been working late since the meeting on Monday.”

“It’s alright.” A pause as you continued to eat your food. You had maybe four minutes left. “How late?”

You were giggling as you spoke, adding air quotes and sarcasm to try to alleviate the irritated look Bucky was sporting. After a few weeks of being around him, you understood that Bucky was quieter than you, but his silence right now was pressing. Your jokes weren’t getting him to talk, so you switched gears.

Popping a grape in your mouth, you asked, “What are you doing up here, anyway?”

Bucky let out a breath and tapped his hand on the table. “Honestly? I came to check on you.”

“To check on me?”

“After Monday, I wanted to make sure—”

Your phone started going off, the “Senator Brown” contact making your blood run cold. You brought your watch up and let out a gasp that made Bucky jump.

“What?” he rushed, standing from the table as you started to pack your things in a panic. He went to help you, but after two brushes of his hands, he realized he was only in the way.

“My break was over two minutes ago. I have to go right now.”

“Two minutes? What—y/n, that isn’t—”

He was here to check on you. Right. That was really sweet.

Your brain tried to catch up with your panic as you reached over and squeezed his arm gratefully. “I’m really fine, Bucky. It was nice to see you. We should get coffee again.” You were sliding through the double doors and back into the building as you called, “I’ll text you. I promise this time.”

And you did. In the seven minutes of free time you got around 9 pm, you sent him a quick follow-up text. The bubble went right below his text from two days ago, and you felt a small pinch of guilt for not answering him until now.

You: Free Saturday morning?

He answered you almost instantly.

Bucky: Depends. Are you still at work right now?

You frowned at your phone.

You: If I am does that mean you won’t get coffee with me?

Bucky: So you are

You: …maybe

And then, your seven minutes of silence were up. When Brown’s footsteps could be heard by the door, you tucked your phone into your desk and went to work on the stack of papers he assigned you. He so graciously let you know that he was going home now, and you could leave once you were finished.

That was perfect.

It took you an hour and a half, but when you sorted the final paper and checked his schedule for tomorrow for the last time, a sense of relief flooded you. You didn’t even care that it would take another 30 minutes for an Uber to arrive. All you could think about was your shower and your bed and taking these shoes off your feet.

You gathered your belongings and swiped your phone from the desk, clicking to the rideshare app and somewhat dreading the small talk to come. It would be extremely convenient to have a car, but that wasn’t something in the cards for you. Your tiny apartment had barely any parking, and everything else was within walking distance.

As you continued to ponder the pros and cons of taking the bus home, a honk from the curb made you jump. You lowered your phone and squinted into the distance of the now barren road.

“Someone order an Uber?”

Disbelief was your first emotion, and then shock and then confusion. “Buck—Congressman Barnes?” you asked, correcting yourself when the memory of the building at your back resurfaced.

“You’re not getting in my car if you’re calling me that,” Bucky replied, leaning down to peer out the passenger-side window.

“What are you doing here?” you asked him for the second time today.

“I told you, I’m driving for Uber. You called for one?”

A disbelieving laugh fell from your lips. You shook your phone by your face and leaned down towards the window. “Haven’t even ordered it yet. I’m not supposed to get in the car unless they can put in the code verifying my identity.”

“Give me a code, then. Here,” he passed you his phone, the background illuminating a small white cat. “Wait, sorry, I have to unlock it.”

Your next laugh was more of a scoff as he reached through the window to take it back. “Seriously, what are you doing here?”

Bucky paused, looking you up and down for a moment before his jaw ticked to the side in a smile. “I’m taking you home. You live close, it won’t take very long.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking. Now, hurry up and get in. I’ve been in the fire lane for 20 minutes and parking enforcement hates me here.”

You went to argue again, but Bucky only raised a brow and unlocked the doors.

You turned to look at him instantly, but the man only gave you a closed-lip smile and shifted the gear of his car, pulling away from the building of your nightmares. You blinked back towards the dashboard, needing a few more seconds to settle yourself.

“I really didn’t mean to make you feel guilty,” you stressed to Bucky after he flipped the radio on, low music trickling in. “When I told you about staying late, I mean.”

Bucky tsked, knocking his head to the side to shoot you a lingering glance. “You didn’t, alright? This is my own problem. I just didn’t feel comfortable with you trying to find a way home so late.”

“I’ve been doing it for a while and I haven’t died yet,” you attempted to joke.

Not the best joke, it seemed, with Bucky’s fist clutching the steering wheel a hair tighter, the sound of leather meeting your ears. He shook his head. “Where’s Brown? He doesn’t let you take work home?”

“Oh, he does sometimes,” you chipperly replied, trying to sound awake and get Bucky un-pissed off. “He just checks my timesheets when we work overtime, so I have to make sure I stay late enough so that he won’t say anything. I still have this to take care of once I get home.”

You tapped the manila file in your lap and looked over to Bucky as he drove. He was wearing jeans and a pullover crewneck, his hair tied back and casual, and even though you’d seen him outside of work before, he looked different this way. Something about the night and him driving you home made him look different.

Bucky didn’t make a comment about your work or the system you had to avoid criticism from the Senator. Silence lapsed in the car, you lightly drumming your fingers on your thigh as the D.C. night swept past along the car windows.

“I would like to get coffee Saturday,” Bucky finally said. “If the offer still stands.”

“Of course it stands.”

You only briefly caught the half-smile that lit up his face before the light of the streets was lost to a tunnel.

Both answers left the other person less than satisfied.

“What about you?” Bucky asked, tilting his cup up. “Why have you been an executive assistant for so long?”

You hummed. “I don’t know, really. My dad was in politics, and he would only really accept my work if I was, too. He’s… not around now, but I feel like I have to stay. I’m good at it.”

“I believe it. Could be good at a lot of things, though.”

You shot him a mock glare. “Trying to get rid of me, Congressman?”

Bucky leaned forward, placing a hand on the small table that only separated you a few inches. He answered you earnestly, but a small amount of humor lightened his eyes, made him look less serious. “Now, why would I want to do that?”

Your lips parted to quip something back, but then he was raising his hand again, the heat of his skin lingering at the corner of your mouth. He swiped his thumb there, and you were frozen, a replica of when he brushed your hair back a few nights ago, but the car had been a distraction then. You had been flustered and trying to sort out your belongings, so you didn’t think about it for longer than a few seconds.

“Whipped cream,” he explained, holding you in his gaze for a moment longer than you should have been. Even as the barista from behind the counter was now standing at your table and speaking.

“Hi! Would the two of you like to try our new coffee cake? Free samples since it’s new.”

Bucky was the first to look away, tearing his eyes from yours to smile politely at the barista. You shook from your stupor and quickly reached for a napkin, brushing it against your lips even though nothing remained.

You felt fuzzy, confused. But also nothing was confusing and you were reminded, again, how attractive the Congressman was. How attractive and how definitely off-limits he was.

It would be so taboo for Bucky to be dating an assistant.

“What about you, ma’am?” You blinked several times and looked up to read the small ‘coffee cake’ sign lying next to the treats, the barista’s blinding smile expecting and very retail.

“I’m allergic to cinnamon, but thank you.”

“Allergic to cinnamon?” Bucky asked as the barista left.

“Yeah, anaphylaxis and everything. I carry an epipen with me, but I’ve only had to use it once when I was 10. Did you know that some bakeries add cinnamon to buttercream birthday cakes?” you chuckled, reorienting yourself to the present. “Are you allergic to anything? Or, I guess you probably aren’t. Isn’t that a serum thing?”

“Not allergic to anything, but if I had been, it would’ve been wiped out by the serum. We didn’t really have a lot of food variety in the 30s. Could have been allergic to shellfish—didn’t try that until after.”

You had to pause the cup at your lips. “Oh my god, I forgot you’re like 100 years old.”

Bucky’s expression morphed into an offended wince. “Alright, I wouldn’t say that. I haven’t exactly lived 100 years.”

“I was just thinking the other day how you don’t exactly fit in with the rest of Congress, but you so do! Maybe even on the young side,” you teased.

“Oh yeah?” Bucky egged on, nodding with his brows raised. “You were thinking about me?”

You knocked your head back in a laugh, holding your stomach with your forearm. “How did I forget this?”

“You know what? I’m not driving you home anymore.”

With lingering giggles, you righted yourself in your chair, a smile still clear in your voice. Contrasting his words, Bucky’s smile was just as wide as yours, a slight redness to his cheeks making him look softer. You brought a hand to cover his arm on the table.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, Bucky. You aren’t old. I take it back.”

“Yeah, you better,” he taunted, though his arm flipped over and he gave your wrist a soft squeeze as he said it.

Bucky wouldn’t stop touching you.

You didn’t know if he was doing it consciously or if this was something he commonly did with his friends, but he was going to get you in trouble.

Outside of work, it was fine—distracting and disorienting, but fine. A brush of his hand helping you into the car, fixing your bag on your shoulder, a hand on your back when you left the coffee shop; over the past few weeks, it had all begun to feel commonplace.

Because, again, Congressman Barnes could not be dating an assistant. His credibility among the rest of Congress was already being questioned almost daily, and he did not need the court of public opinion breathing down his neck on top of that. It was a fortunate truth that while the internal part of his job was tricky, most of the public favored him.

So, as much as your chest hurt and your stomach flipped whenever you were around him, you settled for friendship. A touchy friendship.

At work, things felt heightened in the worst way possible.

You couldn’t even understand why he was coming to the top floor so often, seemingly lingering there so he could scare the crap out of you when you’d turn a corner. And then it would be a smile and another hand at your back when he was passing you—a hand that was not necessary. Or he would find you at the tail-end of your lunch break and move your hair away from your eyes, distracting you to the point of no return.

It was the worst because you were getting distracted, and when you were distracted, you got yelled at.

You were used to the Senator throwing things, and as long as it wasn’t in your direction, it was no harm done. At least, that’s what you thought.

“You should go to human resources,” Bucky commented one Sunday, the two of you sitting along a lake by the Capitol building.

You almost snorted. “Right. And what do you think old Mrs. Martha is going to be able to do for me? Brown has been in office for over a decade. If anything, that would just get me fired.”

Bucky shook his head, expression taut. “There’s gotta be something else then. You don’t deserve all of that.”

“If we’re talking about not deserving torment, I think I’m the least of our worries here, Sergeant,” you noted, knocking your shoulder against his in an attempted lightness.

But when you turned to look at him, Bucky was already facing you. “I’m serious, y/n. He’s throwing things at you. I’ve stayed out of it because you told me to, but after today—”

“Bucky, hey,” you calmed. “I know it seems crazy, but I know how to deal with it. I know he won’t actually do anything.”

“Right now, maybe.”

You sighed, searching his eyes and trying to discern when this became such an intense conversation. Trying to figure out when the two of you had discussions like this and not just lax coffee hangouts. Against your better judgment, you placed a hand over his thigh and relented.

“Okay, fine. I’ll work on it, but I’ll be the one working on it, okay? It definitely can’t be you—he would freak out if a representative started ordering him around. Even if you could totally knock him out.”

Bucky shook his head in disbelief, a smile begrudgingly sneaking onto his face. “I can’t believe you’re joking about this.”

“You can definitely believe that.”

“Yeah, I can.” And then you were tugged against his starched, ironed suit, his metal arm holding you close to his chest.

You gasped a little at the initial contact, your heart hammering against your ribs as Bucky simply kept you there. This is dangerous, your brain reminded you, but it was also harmless, if you looked at it the right way.

“You know, I’m not going to die, Bucky. I’ve dealt with this for years.”

“Yeah, you keep joking about that,” he gruffly replied, the words a ghost against the top of your head. You hadn’t realized his lips were that close. “If we could keep the death jokes to a minimum, that would be great.”

You pulled back from him enough to look at his face. “Why? Afraid your only friend will bite it?”

“Hey, I have other friends.”

“I haven’t seen ‘em.”

“Shut up,” he groaned, tugging you back in. “You can meet them as proof. Next weekend.”

“Okay, sure, Bucky,” you sang out, tapping his chest. “But if we need to reschedule this meeting with your 'friends,’ I would understand.”

As Bucky went on to refute your insinuations in a grumpy tone, you tried to pretend that this felt like that—just a friendship.

Approximately four days later, everything went to shit.

Senator Brown was on a tirade, screaming at everyone and everything in his path. When he got like this, the admin staff usually locked the doors to his office and the entire floor if they could, but today, they weren’t ready for how angry he was.

It was a bill, or a speech, or maybe even the press catching wind that he was cheating on his wife—it didn’t matter. He was pissed and you were going to have to answer for it.

You stood in his office with a clear view of the glass wall connecting to the hallway, hands behind your back and fighting off a wince with every curse and insult the Senator threw at you.

“I hired you to take care of this bullshit! Why the hell am I dealing with this when I’m supposed to have an entire staff? This is fucked!”

“You’re too worried about going home early, you can’t even assemble a reply to an email correctly! A fucking email!”

“I should’ve fired you weeks ago. When you started fucking off to wherever you take too long for your lunch break and stopped doing your job. I swear to god, this country has—”

Affairs and divorce were always messy for politicians.

“Of course, Senator. I will do better. I apologize,” you offered, unsure what you were apologizing for at the present. It wouldn’t matter; he would just start up again about another topic.

“Damn right you will or I’ll send you out on the streets. Do you know how hard it is to get a job in D.C when a Senator blacklists you?”

Did you ever.

You greatly regretted setting that up for him.

You braced yourself for further yelling as his face began to turn red, but were alarmed as the Senator reached for the wooden pencil case on his desk and threw it. Pens flew, and you knew he wasn’t aiming for you, but the cup hit a vase on a high bookshelf to your right, which then toppled over and shook loose the framed art hanging above your head.

You should have moved, but you spotted Bucky in the hall, and he always distracted you.

The glass door to the office swung open.

“What the hell?” A hand was on your elbow. A colder one felt around the top of your head. It was Bucky, obviously it was Bucky, but you were too afraid to look, keeping your gaze locked on Senator Brown. “Hey, you okay?”

The hand on your head moved down to your jaw, forcing your gaze to Bucky. He searched every inch of your face as you blinked at him, mind blank. “Um, I’m fine.”

Your brows furrowed, trying to connect the chain of events that led to this. You brought your hand up to replace where Bucky had placed his, the action seemingly spurring him into action.

“The hell is wrong with you, huh?” Bucky shouted, rising from the floor. “You think it makes you tough to throw things at her?”

Senator Brown had gone from furious to unsure, probably aware of the physical strength Bucky harbored. But, as was typical with politicians, he would not put anything before his pride. Brown righted his expression and pursed his lips.

“I wasn’t trying to hit her, Congressman. It was a simple accident. You weren’t even in the room to see it happen.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t need to be. You’re screaming at her when you’re not throwing. What kinda grown man does that?”

“Bucky—” you cautioned, glued to the floor still.

The senator directed his attention towards you, brows raised accusingly. “Oh, so you’ve been gossiping about me, then?”

You shrank back, hand lingering where your head ached, but Bucky stepped in front of you, blocking you from Brown’s line of sight.

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Bucky seethed, jutting a finger into Brown’s chest.

Brown’s head sharply turned. “That you are, Congressman. But it seems like my assistant here no longer wants her role, so this conversation is moot.”

“Wait, I—”

“Maybe if you spent time picking on someone your own size instead of acting like a coward—”

“Bucky, don’t—”

“A coward? A coward? Who’s the one who cannot speak for himself on the board? Tell me, Barnes, is that part of some unresolved trauma from some nondescript decade?”

“You shut your mouth before I—”

“Congressman Barnes,” you called, authority that didn’t belong to you heavy in your tone. You were two seconds away from losing your job and being blacklisted, neither of which you could handle. Bucky froze, his anger still held in his shoulders. “Thank you for your concern, as I’m sure you were just passing by when you saw what happened, but I can assure you that it was an accident and I am fine.”

You bit into your bottom lip until it hurt.

Bucky looked at the wall behind your head and then tracked his gaze to the forming lump on your crown. “But—”

“I am fine,” you repeated slowly. Having risen from the floor before calling his name, you walked to the door and held it open. “We’re very busy. Please excuse us.”

Bucky licked his lips as he looked to the floor, shaking his head in abject disbelief and following your direction. When he met the entryway, he tilted his head slightly, opening his mouth to say something, but thinking against it. His hand twitched at his side, and then he left, taking long, purposeful strides away from the office.

You took a deep breath, allowed yourself a moment as the door closed, and then you did something purposeful yourself. Even if it killed you to do so.

Bucky’s POV

Bucky was losing his mind.

It would have been so easy for him to knock that Senator out, and he would have deserved it. Bucky had had to watch for weeks as you were berated and screamed at, and then the line was crossed when he saw him throwing things. You hadn’t let him do anything, and then you hadn’t let him do anything again after you’d been hurt.

He watched you flinch and cover your face, and even that hadn’t been enough.

Bucky swiped a hand over his mouth.

When had you started to matter to him so much? That was a stupid question, and apparently, he was full of stupidity today.

“Shit,” he breathed out, knocking his head back and falling back into his office chair.

He’d messed up. He wasn’t sure exactly how, but he knew you were not happy with him. What did “taking care of it” even mean? And why were you so dead set on keeping that awful job? Bucky could think of at least a dozen other jobs in D.C. that would not involve you being verbally and physically abused.

Fuck, he wished he had more pull, but as a Congressman of only a few months, there was little he could do against a Senator. And he had a meeting in five minutes.

Bucky pulled his phone out and sent you a quick text about talking after work, let out the longest sigh of his life, and then readjusted his tie.

That had been three days ago.

You never texted him back. And you left the building far before he could give you a ride home. When he asked your coworkers, they said you were no longer working overtime and left during normal hours.

Fine. That was good, actually. Only, Bucky never saw you.

Sure, you didn’t have a severe head injury, but it was more than that.

Bucky brought his turmoil to the barbecue Sam was holding that weekend. The one you were supposed to be at.

Nursing his fifth beer that wouldn’t do anything, Bucky leaned back against the fence of Sam’s yard and sulked. He’d talked to a few people when he got there, but sulking was on his agenda for the afternoon.

“What’s up with the stank face?” Sam asked, entering Bucky’s orbit of solitude and despair. “It’s gonna get stuck like that if you keep it up.”

“I don’t have a stank face,” Bucky argued.

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Oh, you don’t? Then it’s that.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, knocking back more of his beer as the sizzle of burgers juxtaposed with his somberness. “Alright, fine. It’s that. But it’s stupid. We weren’t even…”

“Dating?”

“Yeah. That.”

“You told me you went out for coffee and all that. That you would go on long walks at the lake and canoodle at work.”

“Are you going to take this seriously?” Bucky accused. “‘Cause if you’re not, I’m leaving right now. I’ll leave.”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry,” Sam surrendered, raising his hands. “But really, Buck, that all sounds like dating. Tell me why she didn’t come.”

Bucky clenched his jaw and stared out at the merriment of the barbecue, remembering the scene more vividly than he would have liked. He tried to find an exact moment that would have led to you avoiding him, but he couldn’t pin it down. Maybe it was the entire thing?

“I think she’s mad at me. I kinda went off on her boss and she told me she wanted to take care of it.”

“What do you mean ‘went off’? And isn’t she working under a Senator?”

“And you really like her,” Sam added casually. “And I really like her,” Bucky confirmed.

He hadn’t even had the chance to tell you.

“What, you mean like blackmail?”

“Maybe, who knows? You just gotta talk to her, man. Work it out.”

Sam clapped Bucky on the shoulder before wading back into the party in the yard. Bucky, feeling somewhat lighter but also still at peril, kicked off the fence and made his own attempts at being sociable.

“As soon as I can actually find her,” he grumbled to himself.

The charity gala had been on your calendar for the past six months, and still, nothing could have prepared you for how much you didn’t want to attend.

That was not the case for this gala.

You had apologized profusely, swore up and down that you didn’t know Congressman Barnes, and practically pledged your life to Brown in every way you knew how. You never left the office, never took a lunch break—you were pretty sure your eyes were permanently dry from how long you stared at a screen all day.

Making you attend this gala and not leave his side was another ploy to make you atone for your wrongdoings. Maybe the man knew how much you enjoyed these events and was taking advantage of that.

“Check this,” Senator Brown lazily ordered, draping his coat over your arms. “And meet me back in the dining room. You get to sit right next to me.”

You offered him a tight smile and felt the ache in your shoulders begin to fester. You were more uptight this week than ever, but that had nothing to do with Bucky Barnes. Nothing.

It was just this job and your future in D.C. hanging in the balance.

Obviously.

You meandered over to the coat check, taking longer than you needed to and dragging your feet along the way. Your phone was buzzing incessantly in your bag—most likely some PR fire you’d need to put out before more people realized Brown was cheating on his wife—and you had absolutely no inclination to drag it out.

“Just these two,” you offered, pressing the coats into the attendant's hands and taking the ticket in return.

“Actually, can you add this one to that ticket?”

As if this night couldn’t get any more uncomfortable.

You fought the urge to roll your eyes in repressed… something and spun on your heel.

He was just as close as you were expecting and also far too close for comfort. You knocked your head back to catch his gaze, trying to appear unamused and angry.

“Why would you do that?” you asked.

Bucky paused for a moment, searching the planes of your face for a beat too long before replying, “No reason to open another ticket. I’ll just leave when you leave.”

“You mean you’ll leave when Brown leaves, then?”

The muscle in his jaw jumped. “So, nothing's changed.”

This time, you did roll your eyes. You clutched the coat check number in your hand and began to storm off, not in the headspace to have this conversation at this gala. Bucky, however, did not seem to mind.

The hand on your arm was soft but firm as you were tugged into a closet and subsequently shoved into a rack of hanging coats. It was too dim to see beyond your hands out in front of you, but Bucky solved that predicament as he entered your space.

“Did you seriously just throw me into a closet?” you whisper-yelled, all too aware of the staff only feet away.

“I had no choice,” he replied with the same urgency. “You were stomping off. And I didn’t throw you in here.”

“I was not stomping off,” you scoffed.

“You were.”

“Was not!”

“I could hear your heels. You were stomping.”

You groaned, pushing into his chest to try and create distance that wasn’t available. Your back only hit the wall.

“Fine. What do you want?”

Bucky froze for a moment. “I… I didn’t actually think you’d stay in here. Or let me talk, if I’m being honest.

Your phone vibrated in your bag, and that warmth turned to ice.

“I don’t have time for this,” you determined, wiggling your way towards the door.

“Get it?” you parroted, trying extremely hard to ignore the dropping feeling in your gut as he stared into your eyes.

“I want to get why you stay. Why you let him treat you like that. I want to know so I can… feel okay backing off.”

All you could get out was, “Why?”

Bucky’s next words were spoken as he stared down at your lips. “I think you know why.”

Breaths began to fail you, each exhale more ragged than the last. You had been expecting this, in a way, and that was why you always made excuses. He couldn’t be with you because he was a Congressman. You were only an assistant. You couldn’t date him because you were too busy. He wouldn’t want to date you, anyway. Senator Brown would never be okay with it.

All of those excuses evaporated within the shared space of the closet, and then you got scared. So, you blurted out what he wanted.

“He won’t let me quit. He won’t let me work anywhere else.”

Bucky blinked, a fog clearing from his heated gaze. His head jutted back an inch, and the hand that had somehow found a home on your jaw paused its ascent into your hair. “Won’t let you?”

“I’d be blacklisted.”

“He can’t do that.”

“He can.”

Bucky opened his mouth to speak again as the air in the closet became breathable and light peeked in from the cracking door. You sprang back from the Congressman, pushing his hand away from your cheek and slamming your back into the wall. It didn’t help much; the fifteen-year-old with the shawl in her hand was already making her own assumptions as you rushed past her and left Bucky to his own devices in the closet.

Amazing.

Just amazing.

Thankfully, your prayers were answered.

While he was not happy to see you, his raised brow and side-eye deadly as you sat down, he didn’t say anything. And that was how dinner went—quiet and uncomfortable for you, but otherwise par for the course for Senator Brown.

Bucky was staring at you from across the table. The room was backlit by dull candles and expensive chandeliers, and you could feel his gaze on the side of your face like an unprecedented heat. He often flickered that gaze to Brown, but it would harden, become angry.

There was nothing he could do. There was nothing anyone could do.

You either stuck it out with Brown or tossed your political science degree in the trash can on your way out.

When dinner passed and dessert was served, you eyed the lemon tart mocking you from your plate. Dessert, when your life felt so out of control and confusing, couldn’t hurt, you figured, so you picked up your fork and ignored the knots taking up space in your stomach.

“Yours looks better.” Senator Brown picked up the lip of your plate and slid his in its place. “Here.”

“But—”

Was D.C. even worth it?

You took three bites before it started to sink in.

You vaguely registered that Bucky had pushed out from the table, a clink of silverware preceding the motion. It was too late for him, however, because as your own fork clattered down, you could no longer breathe.

Your tongue felt ten times too big in your mouth and your throat was glued shut, air tunneling through any openings it could find. You pushed out from the table and stood. The extra space didn’t do anything. You clawed at your throat until your legs became unsteady and failed from the lack of oxygen.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know!”

“Is she allergic to something? It’s an allergic reaction!”

“Brown, what is she allergic to?”

“How should I know?”

“Well, do something!”

“Move.”

“You’re okay,” Bucky assured you, voice almost too low to catch. Someone was on the phone with 911 in the back. “You can breathe with me. Come on. Don’t—hey—don’t look at them. Look at me.”

Your chin was pushed forward, and then your forehead connected with his. Ringing persisted in your ears. Your hands were beginning to shake from the epi, your jaw following close behind.

“I got you, okay?”

“F-f-feels—”

“I know,” he hushed. When your breath was somewhat steadier, he tucked your head beneath his chin and began barking out orders. He asked for an ETA on the ambulance, for your jacket, for ten other things you couldn’t register. And then, “You’re a piece of shit, you know that?”

The chaos of the room went silent. Within your shaking hands clutched in Bucky’s suit jacket, your fingers spasmed out of fear.

“Excuse me?” Brown scoffed. You were honestly surprised he was still in the room.

“What, throwing things at her wasn’t enough? Had to try and kill her?”

“B-bucky—”

“Throwing things at her?” you heard from across the room. “Brown, what is Barnes talking about?”

“I have no idea,” Brown spat out. He jutted his hand out towards you on the floor. “He never knows what he’s talking about. We’ve established that.”

“Right,” Bucky deadpanned, pulling you closer to his chest as you gasped for breath. “So what do you call this?”

“An accident, obviously.”

Bucky let out a puff of air through his nose, shaking his head in disbelief. Silence blanketed the room once more, and it was clear that he had given up. His hands were glued to the back of your head and your back, and he didn’t have the time or the drive in him to care about Brown right now.

Low murmurs fell over the room. Brown, much to your surprise, looked at a loss for words, his expression betrayed as he stared at the woman across the room. It clicked then, where you knew her from. She was on the front cover of every article you were pressured to get taken down, and the contact photo for the main caller in Brown’s phone.

“What? No,” Brown refuted, a nervous chuckle escaping him. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, either. She’s barely even a secretary. She’s—”

The eyes around the room made his words trail off. “Barely even a secretary” was certainly a degrading title for his mistress, and everyone in the room knew it. If you were to look at your phone, you’d have seen that the newest story of their relationship had been blowing up all night. You guessed she was fed up with him denying it.

After being monitored in the emergency room for approximately six hours, the night shift staff sent you off with a horde of medication to take for the next month and, of course, a new epipen. You trudged out past the waiting room, prepared to wait in the parking lot for an Uber, when a certain man sitting in a chair far too small for him caught your eye.

He was half asleep, his face held in his metal hand as he nodded off and woke up just as quickly. His suit looked stiff and uncomfortable as he twisted his wrists, dragging the sleeves up to his elbows. He’d discarded the jacket somewhere, probably lost to the world now. And then he spotted you, your dress awkwardly draped over your body in your haphazard attempt to re-dress, your hair completely out of place, and your hands filled with paper bags of medication.

He shot out of the chair, holding everything in your hands in one of his, and assessed you himself. His gaze roved the mess you’d become. He should have made a joke about it, maybe teased you for almost dying, but instead, he ran a hand over your head and dragged you against his chest.

“Scared the shit out of me,” he murmured into your hair. He pressed another kiss there, reminding you that the first one hadn’t been your imagination.

“You didn’t have to stay,” you said, clutching his button-up in your hands.

“‘Course I did.” He leaned you back, hand still woven at the base of your hair, not caring that he was in the middle of the ER waiting room. “You okay?”

It only took you a moment to make a decision.

You pressed up, kissing him even though you were in the ER waiting room. Even though you both looked like a mess and you’d almost died and you had no idea if you still had a job. You kissed him and it startled him, the paper bag of medications crunching in his hand, but he kissed you back without hesitation.

It wasn’t a passionate kiss—not like the breathless, wanting kisses you would share late, share tomorrow—but it was confirming something. Bucky held you and had his lips firmly against yours, his brows furrowed in a way you couldn’t see, and he confirmed everything you’d suspected.

You figured you wouldn’t need to work if your boyfriend were a Congressman.

But, as you would soon find out, Senator Brown didn’t have very much time left as a Senator, anyway.

3K notes · View notes

rafescherie · 2 days ago

Note

hiii!! can you do one where rafe and the reader are watching porn together?

✮⋆˙ bsf!rafe convincing his best friend to watch explicit material with him.

warnings — 18+ MDNI. consumption of explicit content & nudity. manipulative & coercive bsf!rafe convincing reader.

cherie’s note — trying to get a few works out for you guys this week !! since i've been so absent. ˊᴖˋ. thank you for the request angel — i absolutely love writing rafe in a more manipulative light, this was so fun! lowkey scared this is gonna get shadowbanned because i mentioned that one specific website, but #yolo.

you don't even know when you stopped breathing.

the room is quiet, except for the soft hum of his laptop fan and the lewd sounds playing through the speakers — wet, rhythmic, obscene. your heart is in your throat, cheeks flushed with heat that feels too big for your body. you try not to look directly at the screen, but your eyes keep flicking back, drawn to the way her body moves. the way his hands hold her like she belongs to him.

you swallow, heat pooling between your thighs, even if you don't understand why.

your panties are soaked — you can feel them, clinging uncomfortably between your legs — and rafe hasn't even really touched you. not properly. just the faintest touch of his hand brushing your hair. your bare shoulder. just enough to make you aware of him, over and over again — sitting stretched out on his bed, one arm slung over the back of his head, like this was the most casual situation in the world.

like the sheer sound of his voice wasn’t making you melt like you'd been trained for this moment.

like this wasn't wrong — so, so wrong. but you hadn't protested when he entered the word 'pornhub,' into the search engine. you couldn't.

because it's rafe. and it's always been hard to say no to rafe.

you didn't say anything when he pulled up the site. didn't stop him when he turned the laptop toward the both of you and leaned back like it was just another casual friday night movie. like this was normal.

and maybe it is normal — for him. maybe he's done this before. maybe that's why he's so calm, so quiet. watching the screen like it's background noise while your heart races so hard you think he must hear it from where he's sitting.

he hasn't said much. not really. just sits there, glancing over at you every so often — but always at the right times. when the girl's mouth is open and she’s breathless. when the guy on screen groans as he thrusts up hard, relentless, like he owns her. like she's just there to be used. that's when rafe really looks at you. and it makes your breath catch in your throat every time.

his voice cuts through the haze, low and amused. "you're being really quiet."

you feel the words hit you in your chest. not accusing — just knowing. like he's watching you squirm, and he likes it. he enjoys it. you don't look at him, eyes still fixed on the screen. the moans sound louder now, slick and heavy, and the girl's panting like she can't get enough.

it's almost... overwhelming.

"you okay? you're all... squirmy." he breaks through the trance, leaning forward a bit to watch the reaction spread across your features.

you nod too quickly. "mhm."

"sure?"

you nod again. you don't trust your own voice.

there's a beat of silence, and you feel the way he's watching you. like he's peeling you open without even having to lift a finger. he shifts closer, his thigh brushing yours under the blanket — you can't tell if the heat between your legs is getting worse because of the video, or because of him.

"s'okay to be curious," he shrugs. "you ever watched this kind of stuff before?"

you don't look away from the screen. you can't. you answer quietly, "no."

he hums. not surprised. "that's what i figured."

you go silent again. the girl on the screen lets out another sharp moan, and you squeeze your thighs together, mortified by the way your body reacts. like you understand something now that you didn't before. you're so aware of yourself now — of how sticky the space between your thighs has gotten, and of how you haven't moved because you don't know how to move.

"i could help you, if y'want."

your eyes snap towards him. "what?"

rafe's voice comes again — softer this time, like he's trying to soothe something. "you trust me?"

with hesitation, you nod, fidgeting softly with the silver pendant on your necklace. his hand inches higher against the soft skin of your thigh, cerulean blue eyes suddenly darkened with his gaze. like a rabid animal eyeing its prey.

"then let me show you."

335 notes · View notes

theorphicangel · 17 hours ago

Note

tuning in for sukuna sunday :p would love to see possibly an argument with kuna that ends in him sleeping on the couch. can be angst fluff or anything rly 🙂‍↔️🫶

hiiiiiii!! thank you so much for submitting a sukuna sunday thought!! arghhh i loved writing this, i missed writing for grumpy kuna <3333

hope u enjoy!!

it's been back and forth since this morning.

sukuna doesn't know if you woke up on the wrong side of bed this morning or if his dream self must have pissed you off but you really have it out for him.

you nitpick at his clothes strewn across the apartment, the way he leaves his breakfast dish in the sink all day, how he always asks you where he's left his keys before he leaves for work which leads to a whole rummage. every. single. day.

you snap and your agitation (which is rare) makes him equally as angry causing the two of you to throw words at each other like knives. you both end up showing late to work which pisses you both off even more.

after a couple of hours sukuna makes the grave mistake of thinking that the argument was behind him. it was stupid. petty even. and it was way too early in the morning to even discuss or take seriously. hell, he can't even remember how it started in the first place.

it's stupid and by the time he returns home you'll have forgotten about it and go back to normal.

right?

wrong. now that mistake leaves sukuna staring at the living room ceiling feeling like a dickhead. upon reflection he realises that he should have taken your words much more seriously. the last words that you said to him before leaving for work this morning.

'oh. and you're sleeping on the couch tonight.'

'like hell i am, woman' he had replied with but by then you were already half way out of the door.

but you were smart enough to return home before him and lock yourself in the bedroom so he had no choice but to resort to the couch. he was tired. sweaty. and angry. the worst three combinations to experience.

he had waited until midnight thinking that you would at least come out for something. food. water. shout at him. but alas you never emerged. he watched the beige door and it's golden knob waiting for a twist or the sound of a lock but it never came.

sure he heard you shuffling around or coughing and occasionally laughing at something stupid on your phone. from this he concludes that you're still alive locked in with your favourite snacks and whatnot.

you're living the life of luxury in your king-sized bed and sukuna resorts to...

whatever the hell this is.

his calves hang over on the armrest, the blanket barely covers his chest, there's something digging in his back, the pillows aren't comfortable enough for his head and if he even shifts a limb he knows he's tipping off entirely.

and of course the last thing that sets him off is not being able to find the remote for the tv so he can't even distract himself with his favourite show and finding multiple popcorn kernels instead.

that gives sukuna enough rage to rise up and head to the bedroom door. he gives three loud knocks, uncaring if you've already drifting off to sleep.

'oi. i'm sick of this shit. whatever you want i'll do it.... just let me back in to sleep.'

no response.

sukuna pauses to see if he can make out your light snores but he hears nothing. so you're definitely awake.

he knocks again with a heavy fist. he's tired and he knows you are too. 'i know you're trying to be petty but i don't even remember what we were arguing about it was stupid.'

still no response.

maybe he's saying the wrong thing. if anything you're the type to want sukuna to do the impossible (which is to take responsibility for his actions) and with a sigh sukuna muses over his words and runs a hand over his forehead.

' okay, i do remember. i was stupid and i was wrong and bla bla bla okay? whatever you want i'll do. you win. you hearing me or what?'

he hears a slight shuffle behind the door.

so he is getting somewhere.

'i'll do anything, baby, just let me in and sleep with you.'

sukuna perks up at the sound of another shuffle. before too long he hears the sound of your voice. 'so you'll do anything?'

it takes sukuna a couple swallows before he replies. fuck, he knows he's basically making a deal with the devil. 'yes i'll do anything.'

anything to not have his back ache and his pillows propped up properly and the sheets covering him properly and of course...the comfort of being next to you.

there's a long pause as you ponder over his words and it takes all of Sukuna's patience to not to break the damn door down himself.

'so you'll buy me food?'

'brat i do that shit anyways.'

'oh okay, so what i'm hearing is that you don't want to come back in?'

'i'll do that.' he replies.

'and you'll clean the house by yourself for a month.'

sukuna groans.

'two months.' you add on and sukuna learns to shut up.

'whatever.'

and finally sukuna hears sweet victory. the sound of a door unlocking. as he expected you were standing there all fluffed up in your comfy clothes and blankets while he was shivering out in the cold ass living room.

he moves to enter but you block his path. sukuna holds in another groan before you change your mind about letting him in.

with beaming eyes and a sweet smile as if you hadn't terrorised his entire day today you ask for a favour.

'can i have a kiss first?'

'you and your greedy ass.' he mutters but he leans down and peppers your lips with a kiss anyways.

305 notes · View notes

science-hoes · 13 hours ago

Note

kate, i hope you’re having a great night, sunshine. a little wine is perfect for a sunday vibe! 🫶🏻

may i look into that beautiful brain of yours & hear what you have to say about jack & his darling finding out their pregnant after struggling to conceive? i think they’d struggle a bit at first with getting there, but would be over the moon ecstatic once it finally does happen for them. i know you can do this justice!

thank youuuuuu for whatever you come up with. 🥺

J my love 🥹 this is a very good question!!

—

“Lots of people struggle with fertility problems.” Robby says a bit under his breath as he slings his son’s diaper bag over his shoulders. “Abbot’s five years younger than Eliza, but trust me, he’d be a lot older if we’d had it our way.”

Jack huffs a small laugh as he cradles baby Abbot in his arms, the almost two-year-old sleeping contently after skipping his nap because he was too excited to spend the day with his uncle and aunt.

“I know.” He mumbles, looking down to the toddler in his embrace. “The fertility doc said labs looked fine. Said some couples just need the ‘perfect conditions’ for conception.”

Robby nods and carefully takes his son into his arms without waking him, brushing a dark wisp of brown hair out of his face. “We were told the same thing.” He replies.

Jack leans against the wall of the entryway to the house and crosses his arms. “So what did you do?”

Robby smiles slightly, bouncing baby Abbot in his arms when he began to stir, hoping to lull him back to sleep. “I cooked every meal for her. Not just the lazy dinners we had been doing in between shifts to stay alive. Actual good food that were in cookbooks people had given us as wedding gifts.” He begins and continues when he sees Jack staring intently, mentally storing every word he says. “I made sure every stressor in her life hit me first. Whether it was work or Eliza or chores. I would field every issue before passing it on to her.”

Jack nods, fidgeting with his hands a bit. “And it worked?” He questions, his voice a little softer than normal.

Robby chuckles and squeezes his son a little tighter in his arms. “Got the proof right here.” He teases before glancing down the hallway to make sure Eliza was still out of earshot. “We also took advantage of every free second we had during ovulation week.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Every free second?”

Robby shrugs, lips pulled tightly in a straight line. “We learned to make the most of our fifteen minute breaks at work.”

Jack’s face twists in disgust but can’t help the laugh that escapes his chest. “Are you fucking kidding me? Chief of EM fucking in the on-call room on the clock?” He questions.

Robby chuckles with him, his face growing red from embarrassment and laughter. “Worse. Supply closet.” He answers.

Their laughter is enough to beckon you and Eliza to the entry way of the house. You raise an eyebrow as you carefully handed Robby her backpack.

“Something funny?” You ask, mainly looking to Jack.

Both men give each other a quick look of panic, trying to think of an alibi, but thankfully Eliza begins barraging her father with a million questions about her parents’ date night. Jack just stays quiet, watching the way you helped buckle baby Abbot into his car seat while he and Robby wrangle Eliza and her fairy wings into her booster seat. You deserve to be a mom, and damn it, he is going to do everything in his power to make that happen.

—

Jack didn’t tell you about Robby’s advice. He simply took action. Every meal, whether it was breakfast, lunch, dinner, or snack food, was prepared at home by him. When you ended up on opposite shifts, Jack made sure you left with a full lunchbox of snacks and meals, including your folic acid pills.

Every chore in the house was taken care of before you could think about it. Dishes cleaned and stored away, laundry washed and folded with military precision, floors vacuumed and mopped. When you asked Jack about it, he just blamed the “extra energy” he would have after fucking you into oblivion after a long shift.

When you were ovulating that month, Jack turned into an animal. He fucked you raw every morning, every night, every fifteen minute break at work like it was a ritual. You had to start bringing a fresh pair of panties to work because “No, ma’am, it’s all staying in.” You didn’t mind it though because your hormones made you absolutely feral for your husband. Even in the uncomfortable bed of the on-call room, you were riding him into oblivion, making his eyes roll back and forget his own name.

Jack didn’t push you to take the pregnancy tests. He didn’t want you to feel the stress of his own impatience and hopes. But you had already taken three box tests from the hospital supply closet, each with the faintest extra line beside the control. You’d practically dragged Robby’s wife to an empty room with the transvaginal ultrasound to confirm and cried when you saw a little bean on the monitor. She had hugged you tightly and mentioned something about “Robby’s advice to Jack” that you didn’t question at the time.

All you could think about was telling Jack. He’s on the couch when you get home, intently watching his Penguins game. You tote in the small gift bag you’d picked up on the way home and flick on the lights to the living room. He gives you a warm kiss, throwing his arms around you, and pulls you into his lap.

“Hey, baby doll.” He mumbles against your shoulder.

You enjoy the warmth of his embrace for just a moment more before pulling away to sit up. “I got you something on the way home.” You say, dangling the gift bag in front of him.

Jack just chuckles and carefully takes the bag from your hand. “Why’d you do that?” He asked.

You shrug, trying to conceal your emotions. “Just as a thank you for all the help around the house, and all the amazing cooking you’ve been doing.” You explain.

Jack pulls the layer of tissue paper out of the bag. “Honey, it’s no big deal. I’m just-“

Your husband goes silent when he sees the contents of the bag. His breathing becomes unsteady as he carefully pulls out the positive pregnancy tests in a clear baggy.

“You- Are you-“ He’s trying so hard to get his words out.

You just grin and point to the bag. “There’s more in there.”

Jack looks to the bottom of the bag and pulls out a chain of black and white sonogram photos. In the top left corner, your last name, his last name, “Abbot” printed with your baby’s metrics. His big shoulders rise and fall heavily with his breaths, and his lip starts to quiver.

“We’re gonna have a baby?” He rasps, looking up to you for confirmation.

You take his stubbled face in your hands and nod, grinning through your own tears. “We’re having a baby, Jack.”

He wants to be a stronger man, he really does. But he collapses into your embrace and sobs. He cries and cries and holds you as close as he can. He never thought he would get to have this. He thought he might be too old, and he worried that he was holding you back from having children. But the sonogram was enough to break the dam of emotions.

It’s a good thing he’s become such a good cook in the past couple of months because you learn at your gender appointment that you’re having boys. Plural. As in two boys. More than one. And Jack is absolutely over the moon.

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #michael robinavitch #dr robby #doctor robby #jack abbot #Jack abbot x reader

237 notes · View notes

suiana · 3 days ago

Text

#minetolose

(yan! fwb stalks you and can't believe you talk to other guys?! gets super jealous and lowkey wants to keep you all for himself?!) (tw: erm kinda crazy man, possessiveness, i hate him) (2200 words max) (wc: 2.1k)

Aidan isn't a romantic guy. Not really.

He's never grown up like that, how can you expect him to be romantic when his parents were too busy fighting? It's just not his style. Imagine being vulnerable with someone? No thanks.

Which is why he doesn't do relationships either. They’re too sappy and too much effort. And for what? A half-assed 2-year relationship that ends with his partner cheating because 'he didn't give them enough attention' or some other excuse?

He's seen it more times than he can count and he's not going to be a victim.

So when he first met you at a work party, he thought it would end up like all of his other flings, used once and trashed later. Or maybe a few extra times if he liked the way they looked under him.

What? He's still a man with needs, okay?

But there was just something about you that made him want to stay. Weird, huh? Mister Aidan Gunther here always thought he had his feelings separated from his dick but apparently, he was wrong.

He had never outright suggested being friends with benefits that act like a couple but he supposes that's what you two are.

Everything all happened so naturally that Aidan never really had any time to reject it. It was supposed to be just one night. Then came the coffee date, then two, then suddenly he was sleeping over at your place more often than his own.

Your scent on his shirt, his scent on your bed.

It felt right.

Maybe that's why he never told you to fuck off and never find him again. Because somewhere in that cold heart of his yearned for this domesticity.

This closeness that only you had been able to provide.

Also, the sex? Incredible. It’s almost like you were made for him. So how can you blame him for wanting to keep you a little bit closer?

"What the fuck is this?"

Aidan doesn't even let you get a word out before he traps you in your apartment, kicking the door shut. So aggressive, but it’s not out of character. He did insist on having your schedule a few weeks back, and that time when he asked you to block an ex for good. Just a normal ‘friends with benefits’ thing, right?

Like any ‘friend’ would do, your green eyed freak decided it would be appropriate to stalk you- sorry, I mean watch you through the office security cams at work.

'It's not stalking if I'm trying to keep you safe,' he claims. 'I just want to make sure you’re alright.'

Sure buddy, tell that to the feds. Anyway, your fuck buddy decided to 'watch' you through the security cams to 'keep you safe’ and guess what?

"I saw you talking to another guy."

That's right folks! He saw you talking to a coworker! Shocking, yeah? Bet you didn't expect that.

You could only blink in confusion, racking your brain for any memory of talking to a guy before it finally clicks in that beautiful head of yours. Gosh, he loves the way you look when you're focused. Eyebrows furrowed and that small downturn of your lips. Man, he just wants to kiss you until that furrow turns into one of pleasure… Ugh, focus Aidan!

"You mean Joe?"

"Joe? That's what he’s called? Stupid name."

Huh? You were utterly flabbergasted, annoyed, all of the above. You've never seen him this worked up before. Not since you accidentally stepped on his good shirt and he screamed about how he hasn't done laundry in two weeks.

"What's wrong with you? He's just my coworker dude."

You merely narrow your eyes at him before lamenting your cozy weekend. So much for looking forward to relaxing. You might’ve liked him enough to be friends with benefits but this? Living in your home rent-free and acting like a helicopter boyfriend? You’re on the verge of just telling him to get out.

Also, the fact that you two work in different departments but now you’re seeing him everywhere in the office and at home? He’s like a parasite who’s attached himself to you permanently. Who cares if he’s a sex god? You don’t like him enough to see him 24/7!

But it doesn't look like Angry Aidan is letting up anytime soon.

"Just a coworker? You're telling me this loser is just a coworker?!"

He's losing it right now. Over what? Over the fact that you were talking to your male coworker!

"Yeah, why are you so mad that I have a good relationship with my coworker?"

Wrong answer.

Aidan grabs both of your arms, eyes a dark green as his jaw clenches. Fuck, Aidan stay calm. You wouldn’t want to scare them off, would you?

"Because I saw the way he fucking touched you. His hand on your shoulder like he owned you, like he could own you."

His voice turns bitter and Aidan lets out a breathless laugh.

"Fuck, just thinking about it gets me mad. Are you mad? I'm pissed as hell."

He feels his veins twitch at the memory of how Joe laughed way too happily with you. How could you not see that Joe obviously liked you? He’s doing all the stuff that Aidan does with you!

"How dare he touch you, you're-"

Mine.

Aidan's breath hitches and he momentarily stops whatever the hell he's doing. No, no, no. He couldn’t possibly be...

In love with you, could he?

Meanwhile, you’re just standing there, irritation rising at every second he had you pinned against the wall. Actually, this reminds you of that one time he freaked out because you didn’t answer his texts for three days straight.

He was sobbing on your doorstep in the middle of the night, throwing accusations around like confetti. You pitied him, that’s all. How could you ask him to leave? It’s not like he was completely crazy yet.

That was a mistake.

Because him staying that night turned into a week, into a week, into him never leaving and you’re sick of it. Leaving dirty laundry on the floor, lounging on your couch, acting like an overly possessive boyfriend that you definitely didn’t sign up for. And what? Now that pity might get you killed?

All that recollection and he still has you pinned against the wall. Did he seriously forget that he was throwing another one of his tantrums and go off into some anime daydream?

"Hello? Earth to Aidan? Are you there or should I slap you?"

Silence.

"Dude, are you seriously asking for a slap?"

But Aidan still wasn't coming back.

Not after your threat to slap him, not after you displayed annoyance.

Nothing.

"Aidan, I will slap you."

You slap him. Hard.

He doesn't come back.

Why? Because everything clicks in his head.

So that ugly feeling that spread through his stomach before settling deep in his chest wasn't heartburn but jealousy? The way it twisted and threatened to gut him inside out wasn't anger at the stuffy room, but disgust at the fact that someone else touched you?

It’s you.

It’s always been you.

Aidan freezes in place, mouth parting slightly as he stares right at you like he’s seeing something for the first time. Or maybe something he’s failed to see.

“Can’t you just like, not talk to him anymore?”

You blink at him.

"Bro are you serious right now?"

His grip tightens around your arms, almost painfully so. You wince, he doesn't notice.

"Fuck- Uh, yeah just…"

Staring into those green depths of his, something feels off. His pupils are blown wide, more black than green. But honestly you don’t even care anymore. You shove at his chest but he doesn’t budge. If anything, he leans closer.

“You shouldn’t have let him touch you like that. It’s fucking… Wrong.”

Wrong? You raise an eyebrow at his words, confused. Aidan lets out an annoyed groan, the tips of his ears burning red.

"Why does it matter so much?"

Under your gaze, he feels something in him snap. The flush spreads, bleeding into his cheeks as he fights back the urge to just kiss you senseless.

"Because I fucking care about you, alright? Way more than I should and it’s driving me insane."

For a second, neither of you speak. The air feels too still, too sharp. And suddenly, it all clicks in your head like the final piece of a puzzle.

Is Aidan in love with you?

"But Aidan, you said-"

"I know what I fucking said. I was wrong, I don't want to be just friends."

A trembling hand comes up to cup your cheek, calloused thumb rubbing your skin. Desperate. Like he’s holding onto something precious. Something so valuable that he will not lose.

"Aidan," You try to stay calm. "I don't like you like that."

"You don't mean that."

Yeah no. Your ‘calm’ is slipping.

“Aidan, listen. I’m not looking for a relationship right now. I told you that when we decided to start sleeping together."

What happened to no strings attached? You both agreed! Your cheeks flush in irritation, fists curling. You should’ve stopped this before it started. Should’ve told him to leave the second his gaze lingered a second too long or when his gaze softened when it wasn’t supposed to.

"Sweetheart.” You flinch at his reverent tone. “Don't you see? We're meant to be."

His words slap you in the face. It’s like Aidan’s already decided how this all ends, like he’s already decided you’ll be a character in his fairytale without asking if you wanted to be in.

"Aidan we don't have any romance."

"We have plenty of romance."

And just like that, he stops hearing you.

His mouth attacks your neck, leaving dark bruises in its wake while his hands wander beneath your shirt like they have a hundred times before this.

But this is different. His touch, presence, everything feels wrong. You shove at his chest, not wanting anymore to do with him.

“Get off me-”

"We fuck at night, then kiss in the morning. I take you out, pay for what you want and watch your shows. We do everything couples do."

He lets out a low chuckle, hair falling messily over those green eyes. What is that look? Obsession? Insanity? You don't even want to know. All you can think about is how his once-pleasant kisses now feel like hot iron on your skin.

"I know it's a lot to take in all at once, but trust me, sweetheart, it’ll be worth it."

You try pushing him away, desperate to escape from his clutches. But Aidan is nothing if not persistent, caging you in like it’s his job.

"I can’t go back to life before meeting you, sweetheart.” He whispers, and just for a second you think you’ve finally gotten through to him. But then his tone hardens. Icy, final. “And I won’t. Because you’re mine, damnit. Mine, mine, mine.”

Suddenly, his hand is in the back pocket of your jeans, taking your phone away.

"Give that back! I didn’t give you permission!"

But he’s not listening, of course not. You watch as his thumb scrolls leisurely, deleting contacts one by one. Friends, family, everyone. Until all that’s left is him.

"You don’t need them, no one else gets you like I do, love you like I do."

Your chest burns.

"Touch my phone again and I swear to god, Aidan, I’m calling the cops!"

That earns a reaction. His jaw tenses and you think he might start screaming. But he doesn’t. He just… Smiles. Like you’re the one being unreasonable.

Aidan slips the phone back into your pocket with mock affection, like he’s giving you a gift.

"Don't worry, things will be amazing. Just us. no one else."

Is he serious right now? Ah…

You know what?

“Aidan.”

No, you will not stand for this. This is your apartment! Your safe space! Who the hell does he think he is, claiming this is his apartment too? He doesn’t even pay rent!

“Get out of my apartment.”

You try to push him away once more but he doesn’t relent. Rolling your eyes, you simply reach out for your phone into your back pocket. No hesitation, no trembling, just a clear message.

You’re serious.

Green eyes follow your hands as you call emergency services, your phone screen flashing bright and loud. Loud enough to show him that you mean business. His eyes snap to yours, a low growl escaping his lips.

“You’re actually going to do this?” Despite his growl, there’s a small flash of uncertainty in his voice and you use that gap to escape.

“Yeah, and I’m not joking.”

He misses you by just a hair’s breadth, the door slamming shut on his face as you quickly run out. You think you hear him curse under his breath but you don’t look back. Not this time, not ever again.

“Finally.”

The fresh air outside hits like a wave. The silence, the space, the absence of him. For once, your heart isn’t clawing at your ribs and you feel light.

Freedom.

#yandere #tw yandere #yandere x reader #yandere drabbles #yandere scenarios #yandere imagines #yandere concepts #yandere fic #yandere friends with benefits #yandere friends with benefits x reader #gn reader #suiana rambling #suiana brainrotting

275 notes · View notes

butyoudidthis4what · 15 hours ago

Text

Use Me

Jack Abbot x F!Reader

3.8k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: Established relationship; allusion to oral sex (f rec); unprotected PIV sex (no mention of bc but no mention of trying to get pregnant either so you can decide for yourself if bc is implied or you’re taking the risk/trying); praise; edging; rough-ish to sweet sex; biting; bruising; the slightest, slightest touch of condescension from Jack during sex; fingering; Jack has stamina; no use of y/n or related

Summary: Jack has a bad shift and you help him feel better.

AN: PWP. That's about it really. 😂 Wrote this while sad, not sure what that says about me. This is an answer to this ask which requested "give me your hand" from the smut prompt list. I'd love to hear your thoughts and comments and as always thank you so much for reading!!

It has been a shift from hell, the most emotionally and physically taxing shift Jack’s had in a good while. It’s 10:27 a.m. and he’s just grabbing his backpack to leave.

His saving grace is you. You always are but today in particular because it’s Saturday which means you’re waiting for him at home. It means he can burn off some of the residual adrenaline from his shift before seeking your solace and comfort. There are several ways he could do so. But this morning he wants to with your body. Inside you. Literally.

J - Finally on my way home from the shift from hell. You up?

You’re not quite asleep when your phone chimes with Jack’s text. You’re in that weird space where it feels like you’re awake but in reality you’re in a very light sleep. Light enough that when you hear your phone you reach blindly for it to see who it is and what time it is. You smile when you see Jack’s name, but grimace before you even read the message when you see what time it is.

Once you read his message you sit up. Jack doesn’t call a shift one from hell very often, he’ll call them other things, bad, very bad, annoying, irritating, things like that. But a shift from hell is reserved for the worst. So you know he’s going to need your help, that describing it as such is almost a silent ask for it.

You - Yes sir. What can I do to help? Breakfast? Have a bath ready for you?

Jack groans to himself in a good way at the ‘sir’ in your message. The rest of your exchange is quick.

J - Need you asap and waiting on the couch J - Please

You - Of course

J - Don’t touch yourself

You - Okay

J - I mean it. Be good for me

You - I won’t touch, I promise

J - Good. Love you

You - Love you more

You slide out of bed and pull on a pair of loose cotton pajama shorts. You’re already wearing one of his t-shirts. You don’t bother washing your face or even splashing water on it to wake yourself up. You know he loves it when you’re still a little sleepy. So you go and settle on the couch to wait for him, try to play on your phone to distract yourself.

The wait is torturous as your mind runs through thought after thought of what he could do to you. Of what he’s done to you in the past. Of what he’s expressed wanting to do to you in the future. It has you fighting the urge to rub your legs together for some friction. You bite your lip at how wet you already are, can feel how slick and sticky your inner thighs are just from your thoughts when you shift on the couch. It feels like you’re even wetter than normal. If Jack hadn’t spent years telling you how hot he found it when he’d run his fingers through you and find you soaking already you’d be embarrassed.

When you hear his key in the lock you look at the door knowing he’ll be looking for you immediately. The door opens and he steps in, locks it behind him and then looks at you. He keeps looking at you the entire time dropping his backpack on the credenza and pulls his scrub top off just for you because he knows how much you like the look, tosses it to the side. “Fucking shit show,” he mutters to you as he walks towards the couch. He points to the armrest of the couch.

“I’m sorry, Baby,” you say softly as you get up and stand by the armrest for him. You feel yourself growing even more aroused for him. He’s sweaty, a few curls stuck to his forehead and the rest a little fluffy from how much he ran his hands through his hair over the course of his shift.

Jack finishes walking up to you and nods as he kisses you, hard and devouring from the start. He always starts like this, always kisses you first before anything else. His hands find your hips and squeeze, pull yours against his to let you get a little feel of how hard he is for you. You moan into his mouth when he nips your bottom lip, his tongue soothing over it before slipping back into your mouth.

“Don’t apologize, it’s not your fault, just one of those things. Just keep being good for me, yeah?” he pants when he breaks the kiss so you can both breathe. His hands on your hips spin you, one of them moving to run down your back and press you down. You don’t need more than that, bending over the armrest for him happily and propping yourself up on your elbows on the seat of the couch as you spread your legs enough for him to step between.

“Always.” The second you’re bent over for him Jack’s thumbs are in the waistband of your pajama shorts and pulling them down. Once he’s helped you step out of them and tossed them vaguely in the direction of his scrub top he runs his hands over your ass.

His right hand slides between your legs, two fingers dragging up you, clit to cunt. “Fuck,” he groans, “did you touch yourself?”

“No. I promise,” you moan as he slips two fingers inside of you easily. “Didn’t even rub my thighs together.”

Jack strains against his boxers, left hand starting to palm himself over his scrub pants for a little relief. “You’re so fucking wet already. More than usual.”

“I just thought about you, Jackie.” You let out a little sigh when he pulls his fingers from you and slides them up and down you again. “What you might do to me and what you’ve done to me before.”

Jack hums at you, slides his two fingers back inside of you. “You’re swollen too.” He clicks his tongue, lowers his voice as he bends over you so his chest is against your back, his mouth right at your ear. “Sure you didn’t touch yourself? Give me your hand.” You lean onto one elbow and hold a hand up for him. He grabs it with his free left hand and brings it to his face, smelling your fingers before taking them into his mouth and running his tongue over them. “The other one.” You shift again and give him your other hand, clench around his fingers inside you when he repeats what he did to your other hand before releasing it. He doesn’t smell or taste you on your fingers, nor does he smell or taste soap that would tell him you’re trying to hide it. “You really didn’t. Good girl.” He pats the side of your ass just a little sharply as he leans back up.

The praise makes you whimper. “It’s just y-,” your breath catches in your throat when he starts to move his fingers, pumps them in and out of you slowly, crooking them just right. “Just you. The thought of you makes me that wet. Just the thought of existing in your space. The thought of you doing anything to me.”

Your hips are rocking back subtly in time with his fingers. Jack knows you’re probably not even aware you’re doing it. “I don’t think you even need to come to be ready to take me.”

“No, I don’t,” you’re already panting a little. “I don’t.”

Jack’s fingers pull out of you again and he adds a third when he pushes them back inside of you, making you keen and jolt for him. “You’re going to give me one anyway.”

“No, please,” you whine, push your hips back in time with his hand a little harder. “Please Jackie, I like, I like it sometimes. Having the first one be on your cock.”

“Jesus,” he mutters through a breath, working you a little harder and faster with his fingers. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”

“All for you,” you purr while you’re still coherent enough to. “Take my shirt off?”

“No. I like seeing you in it and how I can smell me all over you already,” he rasps. Jack pulls his fingers from you and you whine just a little from the loss, the knowledge of what’s next soothing you. “You taste,” Jack starts as he licks each of his fingers clean, “so fucking good I could drop to my knees right here.” He finally shoves his scrub pants and boxers down and gives himself a few tugs. “But that’s for later I think because I love tasting us together.”

“Fuck Jack,” you gasp at his words and at the feeling of him finally running his cock through you.

Jack groans. “I could come just from this, you know?”

“You can,” you breathe, turning your head and looking over your shoulder at him as much as you can, nodding. You know you just said you like your first orgasm to be on his cock but you don’t care. He needs you and can do whatever the fuck he wants with you right now and you’ll thank him.

Jack furrows his brows and cocks his head at you as he makes eye contact. “And leave you empty and wanting?” His hips don’t stop dragging him through you.

You lick your lips and raise your eyebrows at him, give him a little shake of your head. “Not about me right now.”

“You’re so good to me. But it’s always about you even when it’s about me, pretty girl. And anyway.” He flicks his chin at you a little and you follow his instruction, facing back forward. You feel him notch himself at your entrance and his hands find your hips. “I want this,” he says lowly as he pushes inside of you. The groan of relief he lets out is so erotic you shiver. You don’t need to see him to know he let his jaw fall open a little, head tipping back and eyes closing in pleasure, though you wish he had let you watch.

Jack is still but you wiggle your hips a little, both to adjust to him and to tease him. Once you feel ready you rock yourself back and forward a bit on his cock. “Jack,” you mewl.

His hands tighten on your hips as he slowly pulls himself out of you and pushes back in over and over. “God, you feel so fucking good.”

He doesn’t give any warning that the pace is about to change. He just does it, goes from teasing you with how slow he pushes in and pulls out to leaving you gasping for breath as he pistons his hips against you, his pace frenzied, like you’ll disappear if he stops.

“I’ve been thinking about this all night,” Jack groans, already lost to your slick heat. “Coming home and using you, using your pussy to feel better.” He needs this, needs you, needs to get it all out of his fucking system.

“Please,” you moan, “please do.” He feels so good like this, the pressure and rub against your g-spot nearly non-stop with the angle and his pace. And he just keeps going and going.

“Yeah, you love that don’t you?” Jack pants. You feel so unbelievably good, are being so good for him that his shift starts to melt away. The residual adrenaline starts to fade. You feel almost too good to be real, pleasure tingling over this entire body and building in his lower abdomen. “Love me using you to feel better?”

“So much,” you keen, mind growing hazy from the pleasure he’s giving you, your orgasm building fast and hot as your clit grinds against the couch.

You can tell he’s getting just as close as you are when his thrusts grow a little erratic, pace not as evenly fast as it was. He slams into you abruptly before stilling with his cock buried inside of you. But you don’t hear or feel him come. “Fuck!” he hisses. It was deliberate. He knew he was about to come and stopped.

“Jack,” you whine. In edging himself Jack’s also edging you. With him still your clit doesn’t grind against the couch and his hands are tight enough to keep you from moving your hips to try and chase your orgasm. You feel it start to fade and drift away from you.

“I know.” One of his hands leaves your hips to rub soothing circles on your ass. He’s just not done with you yet. Needs more. And the edging always makes it so good for the both of you, the test of his control with you helps to center him again. “I know.”

You try your hardest to be good for him and not clench around him too many times as you both come down. His hand continues to rub soothing circles on your ass and lower back as he waits for you to both catch your breath.

When he decides it has been long enough Jack finally starts fucking you again, slowly building up his pace. This time he’s not as fast, but still more than fast enough. Instead of maintaining the frenzied pace he’d just been fucking you with, he seems to be focused on fucking you hard now, snapping his hips against yours sharply and fucking into you as his hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise and pull you back onto him.

“Jack!” you gasp, every snap of his hips stealing your breath and sending a shockwave of pleasure through you. It’s too much. He’s too much.

“Shh,” he soothes, just a hint of a condescending edge to it that makes you clench. “Take it Baby,” he grits out through a hard thrust. “Fucking take it.”

“I can’t,” you whimper, tears stinging your eyes as the sheer amount of pleasure coursing through you starts to build to a deliciously overwhelming point.

“You can,” he almost growls at you, pace picking up just slightly. “You can take it. I know you can. And you fucking will.”

You can hear in his voice how pussy drunk he is, know that right now you’re the only thing that exists to him. It makes that coil in your abdomen tighten even more. “Please,” you plead with him. You’re not sure if it’s for more or to come or what. All you know is Jack is hitting your g-spot perfectly and your clit is rubbing against the couch just right.

“Yeah, just like that,” he pants, the pleasure starting to build to a crescendo once more. “Taking me so well. Being so good for me.” He punctuates the ‘good’ with an even harder snap of his hips.

He grows erratic again and you tense, so close to release you can just about taste it. All you need is a little more, you know all Jack needs is a little more. He thrusts into you hard as he pulls you back onto him but again stills, letting out his own groan of protest, face twisting just as hard as yours at the loss.

“No, Jack, please!” you cry, a few hot tears slipping down your face.

He’s so strung out on your cunt he almost didn’t stop in time. The way he’s panting so hard is so hot and driving you insane, as is the knowledge that he’s undoubtedly a sweaty fucking mess by now. Jack closes his eyes and gets his breathing closer to normal before he says anything. “Sorry, pretty girl. I just need this.”

“Don’t apologize. Want you to take what you need.” His hands loosen and you test the waters, rocking your hips against him. “Want you to use me.”

“I am, Baby, I am. I promise.” Jack’s hands leave your hips and pull his undershirt off and toss it away before finding the hem of his shirt that you’re wearing, pulling the back up and bunching it up at your shoulders. It gives you what you want, the feeling of his skin against yours, and what he wants, to smell himself on you.

Jack kisses up the part of your spine he can reach, even when he starts kissing over your shirt, until he reaches the side of your jaw and has his chest resting against your back. He settles on his elbows with his arms outside yours. “You okay?” he checks in.

You turn your head in the direction of his the most you can. “More than.”

“Good. Me too.” He kisses the side of your lips before nuzzling his nose into the side of your face to get you looking forward again.

Jack’s hips drag himself out of you before his hips snap and thrust himself right back inside. It’s far softer and slower than before but god is it so much fucking more than enough for the both of you.

Where the other two runs were to burn off the residual adrenaline and bullshit of his shift, it’s now about the solace and comfort he can only find with you. About grounding himself with you and in you. About feeling as much of you as possible and hearing every noise he pulls from you. About being as close to one with you as he’s ever going to fucking get.

It’s about reminding himself that even on his worst days he’s coming home to you. That he has you to make everything better and help him. That you’re his, willingly and completely. That despite all the loss he saw today you’re still here with him. That you’re okay. That you’re alive.

Jack slides his hands so that they cover yours, his fingers slipping between yours and curling in so that your hands are laced together. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you breathe, curl your fingers against his.

He takes his time fucking you now, uses the angle of his hips to make sure he’s dragging over your g-spot as he pulls out and that your clit gets the friction it needs from the couch. He’s taking you and himself apart slowly this time. Jack kisses at the side of your face and jaw softly. “You’re doing so well, Beautiful.”

It melts you, the way he calls you beautiful like it’s your name, adds to the haze and pleasure high that’s taking over you. “Just want you to feel good. Like you make me feel- god, Jack!” you cry out as he shifts his hips to make it all more intense for you.

“You always make me feel good,” he groans, pace picking up when you clench tightly around him. “Your pussy always feels so good, shit!”

There’s a new sense of urgency and desperation in his voice and his movements as he gets closer to completely losing himself in you. His pace picks up a little more and it immediately overwhelms the both of you, each of you moaning loudly.

“Do you need?” It’s not fully formed with how fucked out on your pussy he already is but you know he’s asking if you need more, if you need his fingers on your clit.

“No, no, not if you don’t stop, the couch,” your breath hitches at a particularly sharp thrust. “It’s en-, enough. Just like that, just like that, please. Please, Jack.”

“Yeah yeah, I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he pants. Jack listens to you, doesn’t change a single thing, is careful not to get erratic and maintains the same pace and intensity and doesn’t move his hips to a different angle or position.

“Please, please, please, don’t stop,” you beg him. You’re not sure you could handle another denial.

But Jack has no intention of denying himself or you this time. If anything he’s worried he’s going to beat you to it and he can’t have that. “Fuck, I need you to, fuck” he grunts, breath hot against your ear and cheek. “Need you to come, Baby.”

“I am, I’m so close,” you manage to force out, high pitched and desperate.

“Come for me.” Jack’s voice falters a little as he staves off his own release in favor of getting you to yours. “Make me come.”

A thrust later and your orgasm crashes down around you, your eyes slamming shut at the intensity of it. It renders you breathless for a few seconds before you’re gasping out a moaned “Jack!” You squeeze his fingers as hard as you possibly can to ground yourself to him as you already start to feel like you might float away.

Jack comes seconds after you with a shout of your name, before his mouth finds the side of your neck. He bites down a little and sucks hard enough that it’ll leave a bruise as he fucks you and himself through your orgasms. “Fuck,” he groans “fuck, fuck, fuck.” He stills his hips with him inside of you and grinds himself against your ass as he rides out the last of his orgasm. “Oh god,” he pants heavily, his forehead resting against the nape of your neck.

“Yeah,” you pant out just as hard, “yeah, fuck Jack.”

The two of you stay like that for a couple of minutes while you touch back down as much as possible, even your breathing out and find words again. You shiver against each other at times as aftershocks of pleasure roll over you.

“You,” Jack says through a big breath, “are so fucking good. Six years later and the sex is still as good as it was at the beginning if not better.”

“Better ‘cause we know each other better. And are closer, it’s more intimate.” Jack can hear the smile in your breathy voice. “You’re just as fucking good, Dr. Abbot.” You know he needs to hear it in a completely different way than he heard it his entire shift.

“Fucking christ,” he groans through a laugh. “You had to go to Dr. Abbot.” You can feel him throb inside of you. Because Jack hasn’t softened, he’s still hard for you.

“Feeling a little better?” you giggle at him in your blissed out state as he peels himself off of you and stands back up.

“Oh yeah.” Jack’s still panting a little as he pulls out and helps you stand and stretch, rubs your abdomen where you were bent over. You moan softly when you finally get to see him, eyes roaming to take him in. He’s flushed and sweaty all over, curls are stuck to his forehead and droplets of sweat run down the side of his face and neck. Jack looks so hot like this you can feel a little bit of him start to leak out of you as you grow wetter for him. He knows what he’s doing to you just by the look in your eye and smirks at you, gives you the lightest kiss and keeps his face close so his lips ghost yours as he speaks. “But you know I’m not even close to finished with you.”

I hope it was okay and you enjoyed, I always feel so bad about my smut lol. Thank you as always for reading! I love hearing your thoughts and comments, they give me motivation and inspiration!! Liking, replies and reblogging are always so appreciated! My inbox and DMs are open for thoughts, comments, and general screaming or chatting! 🙂

Want more Jack? Check out my masterlist here!

Want to be added to my Jack tag list? Interact with this post!

Interact with this post if you'd like to join my Robby tag list, and this post if you'd like to join my Andrew Pope Cody tag list! (Each of my tag lists is a separate post!)

Divider by @saradika-graphics.

Tag list:

@loveyhoneydovey @love-affair-with-fandoms @mstrsgoodgrl0628 @equallyshaw @kmc1989 @artsymaddie @moonshooter @whiskeyhowlett-writes @smallcarbigwheels @hawkswildfireheart @blackwidownat2814 @viridian-dagger @andabuttonnose @beebeechaos @pear-1206 @starkgaryan @travelingmypassion @marvelcasey05 @daydreamingallthetime-world @millenialcatlady @nursejuju86 @escapefromrealitysm @emilia527 @satanxklaus @frazie99 @kastleandmurdock @guardiancardigan @zoctopiii @4rosabellaa @adissapointmentlol @nowandajenn @book-of-roses @redzscare @concentratedconcrete @freshbearbouquetblr @qardasngan @practicalghost @wolviehugh @athena1504 @iamcryingonceagain @acn87 @moonpascal @lostfleurs @beltzboys2015-blog @pouges-world @tinyharrypotterkpopfriend @roseanddaggerlarry @lauraneedstochill @lex015

289 notes · View notes

formulafanfics13 · 3 days ago

Note

i’ve read many requests where cl16 is jealous of reader!!! can i have one where reader is the jealous one? like maybe she’s usually shy and sweet but she starts acting possessive and bossy because some girl flirts with charles. she maybe tries to be subtle about it cause she doesn’t want to show that she’s being jealous but charles notices and finds it hilarious

pretend youre not jealous - CL16

Masterlist

SUMMARY After seeing a flirty blonde touch Charles post-quali in Monaco, you abandon your usual calm and quietly stake your claim by draping yourself over him in front of her. Charles, amused and clearly obsessed, lets you spiral with full support. What follows is smug teasing, possessive touches, and soft domination as he praises your jealous streak and makes it very clear he only wants you.

WARNINGS Jealousy, possessiveness, public flirtation, light territorial behaviour, teasing domination, implied sexual tension, emotional spiralling, and praise kink themes. No explicit smut

You were holding it together. Barely. But you were holding it.

The sun was low over the Monaco paddock, golden light hitting everything at that perfect cinematic angle as media swarmed the top three drivers. Charles was glowing. Literally glowing. Fresh off a P2 quali result, curls damp from sweat, Ferrari race suit peeled halfway down his hips, red fireproofs clinging to his body in that way that should have been illegal. Cameras followed him. Journalists buzzed. Team staff hovered.

And then she showed up.

Some blonde in skin-tight activewear and unnecessary sunglasses. No mic, no badge, no clear reason to be standing there. Just vibes. You didn’t know who she was. You didn’t care. Because the second she tilted her body toward Charles and ran her hand through her hair mid-giggle, you knew exactly what the fuck was going on.

You were standing a few metres back, quietly sipping from a bottle of water, wearing his Ferrari tee knotted at your waist and your own credentials lanyard like a fucking halo. Normally, you liked to stay invisible. You hated causing scenes. You didn’t do jealousy.

Apparently today, you did.

She leaned in. Touched his arm. Laughed too loudly. You saw it all. You saw the way Charles smiled politely, glancing away, trying to be nice. You saw the way she looked at him like she wanted to eat him.

And that’s when you moved.

You walked over, calm, expression neutral. Your heart was pounding but you refused to let it show. Charles saw you before she did. You could see it in his face — that flicker of surprise, then amusement, then barely contained laughter. He knew. Oh, he fucking knew.

You looped your arm around his waist, resting your hand low on his stomach, your fingers brushing just above his waistband. You tilted your head against his shoulder and gave the girl your most angelic smile.

“Hi,” you said sweetly. “Sorry, we’ve got a team dinner in fifteen. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

The girl blinked. “Oh, um. I was just congratulating Charles.”

“Of course. Thank you.” You nodded, still smiling. You tightened your grip just slightly. Charles didn’t move. He was letting you do this. Letting you spiral. Bastard.

She backed off quickly, mumbling something about seeing him later. You didn’t respond. You just watched her go with your head still tucked against his shoulder, still pretending your brain wasn’t on fire.

When she was out of earshot, Charles turned his head slightly toward you, lips close to your ear.

“You are a menace.”

You pulled back. “What?”

He was grinning. “That was the fakest smile I have ever seen.”

“It was not.”

“You were ready to bite her.”

“I was not jealous.”

“Non, not at all,” he teased, eyes sparkling. “You just happened to need to drape yourself all over me like a human shield, right at that moment. Completely innocent.”

You narrowed your eyes. “She was all over you.”

“She said congratulations.”

“She touched your arm.”

He bit back a laugh. “Mon dieu, the horror.”

You shoved him lightly, cheeks hot. “Shut up.”

“No no,” he said, tugging you closer. “Keep going. I like when you’re jealous.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Liar.”

You huffed, crossing your arms, but he slid one hand under your knotted tee, fingers splayed against your bare waist.

“You didn’t need to do anything,” he murmured. “I wasn’t looking at her.”

“I know.”

“I was looking at you the whole time.”

Your breath caught. The teasing tone was still there, but now there was something else. A shift. His eyes darker. His grip a little firmer.

“Don’t like other girls touching what’s mine?” he asked, voice low.

You swallowed hard.

“No.”

He leaned in. “Good.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not going to scold me? Tell me to chill?”

Charles tilted his head, clearly delighted. “Why would I do that? You got possessive, bébé. You claimed me. That was hot.”

You stared.

He kissed the corner of your mouth.

“I like when the quiet ones show their claws.”

You tried to respond but he was already pulling you toward the Ferrari hospitality, hand low on your back, smug as hell. And when you passed the blonde again? He pressed a kiss to your temple so obviously it should have been illegal.

You weren’t jealous. But you weren’t subtle either. And Charles? Charles was never going to let you live it down.

#charles leclerc x you #f1 x reader #f1 fic #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfic #f1 smut #f1 grid x reader #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc fluff

182 notes · View notes

rulerofstars · 22 hours ago

Text

compounded

oneshot: sneaking around and sleeping with bucky was easy. keeping quiet while you do it? not so much.

pairing: thunderbolts! bucky barnes x reader

tags: (18+) 3k words. SMUT without plot. shower sex (kinda). raw penetration. creampie. being fucked as bucky's dogtags slam against ur face holy shit. minors, dni.

You're pretty sure that showering with Bucky Barnes qualifies as an objectively terrible idea—one that even your most chaotic decisions would respectfully step aside for.

Because this? This is not a rational choice. Not when your hand is currently gliding over his insanely unfair chest, slick with soap and hot water, steam curling around you both like a heavy, illicit fog. Not when the Bluetooth speaker on the bathroom sink is still playing R&B like the two of you aren't committing a federal offense under the team compound's roof. And definitely not when your palm wraps around him, fingers squeezing, slow and deliberate, and Bucky's head thunks back against the tile with a groan that does dangerous things to your already-frayed nervous system.

This is the staff quarters' shower. You're the manager. He's... him. Super soldier. Congressional headache. Thunderbolt-in-chief. And yet, here you are—naked, wet, and trying not to combust as his hips buck into your hand like your touch is the only thing tethering him to Earth.

"Jesus, baby…" he grits out, voice low and rough like he hasn't slept in a week and now you're the one ruining him. The thrill of it, the secrecy, the proximity, the fact that Yelena could burst in at any second, makes your pulse skip. You bite down on a groan, nipping the skin just below his ear like it might save you from collapsing entirely.

"Gotta be quiet, Barnes," you murmur, because someone has to be responsible here and it sure as hell isn't going to be him. "Wouldn't want the team to know their super soldier is being... what's the word? Inappropriate?"

He grins. Not a normal grin. Not a polite, sure-thanks-for-the-briefing grin. A devastating one, teeth and mischief and Brooklyn drawl thick as honey. "Sweetheart, you're the one makin' it real hard to stay quiet," he says, all gravel and ruin. His vibranium hand, cool and unyielding, cups your jaw, while the other slides down your ass with a reverence that makes you feel like some kind of miracle. The contrast makes your brain short-circuit: cold metal, warm calluses, his mouth, crashing into yours like a man starved. His tongue strokes against yours in a way that sends electricity straight to your core, and you moan into him—idiot.

"Focus," he murmurs between kisses, smug and panting. "You gettin' distracted? Or just thinkin' about how mad Val's gonna be when she finds out her golden girl's been sneakin' into my shower?"

You pull back just enough to glare. Or, well. You try. It's hard to be intimidating with flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and your hand wrapped around his cock. "You're one to talk," you hiss, tightening your grip. His breath catches. "What's wrong, Barnes? Losing focus already?"

His eyes go dark. Dangerous. "Oh, you're gonna regret that."

The vibranium hand moves, trailing down your waist with practiced precision, pausing at your hip like he's waiting for your pulse to spike—which it does, traitorous and loud. When his fingers graze the inside of your thigh, you gasp, instinctively pressing into his touch. But he doesn't give you what you want. Not yet. He pulls back just enough to leave you panting and twitchy and feral with need.

"What's that?" he whispers, lips brushing yours but not kissing. "Beggin' already? Thought you were the one runnin' this show."

You could lie. You could sass. You could pretend like your whole body isn't vibrating with want. But you do none of those things.

Instead, you stroke him harder, your thumb gliding over the tip, and grin when he curses under his breath and grips your thigh like it might save him. "Can you keep up, Barnes?" you whisper. "Or are you gonna blow our cover before I do?"

And the way he groans—low and wrecked, eyes fluttering shut like he needs you is answer enough.

His chuckle is low and dark and somehow smug in a way that tells you you're absolutely, completely fucked. And not even in the way you want yet.

His fingers finally move, sliding between your thighs with a kind of devastating precision that makes your brain empty out like someone pulled the fire alarm in your skull. He starts slow, almost lazy, circling just barely enough to make you twitch, to make you squirm and gasp and try (fail) to stay composed. You can feel the smirk forming against your mouth before he speaks.

"Careful, baby," he murmurs, voice rough against your lips as he nips at your bottom one, the sharp sting making your whole body flinch. "Keep makin' those noises, and we're gonna have to explain this to the whole damn team."

Which. Fair. You are absolutely making those noises. Whimpering, gasping, lips parted in helpless want. Your cheeks are hot. Your skin is prickling. Your legs are actively shaking under the weight of how good he's making you feel with just his fingers. And sure, fine, you could stop. Regain the upper hand. But instead, you tighten your grip around him, stroking him harder, just to see what it does to him.

It wrecks him.

His breath hitches. His jaw flexes. His vibranium hand clenches around your hip hard enough that you know you'll be wearing finger-shaped bruises in the morning—and you welcome them. "Keep that up," he growls, voice breaking, "and I'm not gonna last."

"Good," you whisper, lips brushing his ear, smug despite the way your knees are jelly and your entire body is vibrating. "That's the plan."

His fingers sink deeper with a precision that is absolutely illegal. They curl, just right, hitting that one spot like he's spent years studying you under a microscope. You choke out a gasp, head tipping back against the tile, and that's all he needs—his mouth starts moving again, down your jaw, trailing fire against your pulse.

It's not fair, the way he kisses you like you're something soft and precious while his fingers are literally ruining you. The contrast is obscene. And perfect.

He's relentless. Slow. Measured. Like he's conducting an experiment with your body as the thesis. His fingers work you with such a steady, intentional rhythm that you're panting, teetering, right there, almost falling, and yet not quite. The risk of someone walking by, of hearing your gasps echo against the steam-slick tile, makes every touch burn brighter, sharper, needier.

"Bucky," you manage, voice breaking into a whimper as your nails dig into his shoulder. "Don't... don't tease—"

He hums against your throat. Literally hums. The vibration makes you shudder, full-body, like you're a wire pulled too tight. "But it's so fun watchin' you fall apart," he whispers, his lips brushing your jaw as his fingers slow to a torturous pace. "You should see yourself. All flushed and desperate and gorgeous, sneakin' around with me like we're not gonna get caught."

You're about to fire back (or beg, honestly, you're not above that anymore), when he drops to his knees.

And your brain? Gone. Dead. Vaporized.

Bucky Barnes. On. His. Knees.

Water slides down his shoulders, his hair sticking to his forehead, those piercing eyes blinking up at you through wet lashes like he's about to ruin your entire lineage. He hooks your leg over his shoulder like he's done it a hundred times, like you're not one second away from disintegrating, and then his mouth is on your thigh.

"Bucky, please..."

Your voice breaks on his name. He smirks. Of course he smirks.

"Please what?" he asks, nipping just above your knee. "Use your words, sweetheart. Otherwise I'm just gonna keep you here, writhin' on this tile while the rest of the team starts wonderin' where their manager went."

"You know what," you hiss, your voice shredded by need, and he laughs, lips brushing your skin, cocky and warm and goddamn infuriating.

"Oh, I do," he says.

Then his mouth is on you.

His tongue is lethal. Slow, soft at first—circling against your clit, savoring your taste. He hums when you buck your hips, when you moan, when your fingers twist in his hair like you're scared he'll stop.

He doesn't stop.

He alternates between soft licks and firm, deliberate strokes, and your breath goes choppy. Your thighs tremble. You have no control over the way your body reacts, arching toward him, clenching, begging with every inch of you. He groans when you tug his hair, the sound deep and hungry and completely unhinging. You can feel him smile against you.

Then he does this thing, a flick of his tongue, followed by a slow, dragging lick—and it short-circuits every working neuron in your skull. Like he's discovered you. Like he's unlocking cheat codes. Every time he does it, your body spasms, helpless and shaking, and he hums in satisfaction, pushing you closer to the edge with sickening precision. You love it when he pushes his tongue against your very entrance.

He edges you there, keeps you there. You whine. Plead. Curse him out and beg all in the same breath.

"Not yet, darlin'," he murmurs against you, warm and smug and evil. "Wanna make it last."

"You jerk—" you manage to choke out, and he just chuckles. And then he does it again.

Flick. Drag. Suck.

And that's it. That's it.

Your entire body fractures.

You cry out, too loud, definitely not subtle, but you can't help it. Your legs give out. Your vision whites out. You feel like you've left your body entirely. He doesn't stop, keeps licking you through it, drawing it out like he's feeding off your pleasure, like this is the part he's addicted to.

And when you finally slump forward, boneless and shaking and barely able to stand, he catches you.

He stands slowly, and kisses you—soft now, like he's reeling you back in. His lips are sweet, sticky with you, and it sends another jolt of heat through your gut. You taste yourself and don't even care. You kiss him harder.

"That's my girl," he murmurs, voice low and rough, pressing his forehead to yours.

You can feel him against your hip, hard and insistent, still so obviously wrecked for you and you almost whimper again.

"Gotta be careful," he mutters, brushing wet hair from your cheek. "Can't have the team knowin' their manager's this good at breakin' the rules."

You stare at him, still breathless, and manage, "Bed. Now. Before someone actually comes looking."

His grin? Cat-that-ate-the-canary levels of smug.

"Bossy," he says, but it's fond. Warm. And still hungry. He turns off the water, grabs a towel—because of course he's practical even now—and wraps it around the both of you, pulling you close.

The hallway is quiet. Too quiet. Every creak makes your heart race. You're supposed to be going over mission logistics. Instead, you're dripping wet, wrapped in a towel, tiptoeing into Bucky Barnes' room like it's some kind of federal offense.

But the door clicks shut behind you. Locks. Then it's just the two of you again.

The air is cooler, but your skin is still burning, and when he spreads the towel on the bed, ever practical, you laugh. "What?" he says, raising an eyebrow as he pulls you onto the matress, his hands already roaming.

"You're so prepared," you tease, straddling his hips as he leans back, hands on your thighs. "What's next, a spreadsheet for sneaking around the compound?"

He laughs, rich and warm, but his hands tighten, pulling you closer. "Sweetheart, I don't need a spreadsheet to make you scream. But I might need one to keep track of all the places we've defiled this place."

You shut him up by yanking him down by the stainless tags, those damn dog tags that have been swinging between your bodies like they're in on the joke, like they've known all along what this was building to. Your mouth crashes into his, all tongue and teeth and barely-restrained desperation. He groans into you and you feel the shift in him, the way he jerks against your thigh, cock slick and hard as steel, and then...

Oh God.

His cock sinks into you, slow at first, the thick head of him nudging at your entrance, catching against the slick folds of your cunt. The stretch steals the air from your lungs. He's big, and your body remembers how full he makes you feel, how impossibly wide he spreads you open—but it still shocks you every time. Every inch he gives you feels like it should be too much, and yet your hips rise to meet him, greedy for more.

"Jesus," he breathes, teeth grazing your cheekbone, his forehead damp with sweat, his vibranium arm braced beside your head. "You're so fuckin' tight, baby."

He's barely inside and already shaking, and when he pushes forward again, your walls clench around him like you were made to take him. You feel everything. Every ridge, every vein, every maddening throb of his cock as it glides deeper, filling you inch by inch until your breath hitches and your legs lock tighter around his waist.

The pressure builds, delicious and unbearable, and when he bottoms out—his hips flush against yours, his cock seated deep inside, stretching you wide—you both freeze. Just for a moment. Just to feel it. Just to let the weight of it crash down between you like a storm breaking open the sky.

"Oh my God," you whisper, and he laughs, this broken, breathless sound against your throat.

"Yeah," he murmurs, voice wrecked. "You feel that? You feel how perfect you fuckin' take me?"

You do. You feel it everywhere. It's in your spine, your ribs, the soles of your feet. He's thick and hot and so deep it aches, but in the way that makes your eyes flutter shut, makes your hips lift in search of friction, of movement, of more. But Bucky doesn't move—not yet. He shifts instead, angling his hips the tiniest bit, and oh.

Your head drops back, lips parted in a silent cry as the tip of his cock nudges against a spot so devastating you see stars. Your nails drag down his back, marking him, grounding yourself in the feel of his skin under your palms, the scent of him in your nose, clean and sharp and Bucky, all Bucky, with a hint of sweat and heat and something unspoken threading between you.

He does it again. Rolls his hips with a practiced rhythm that shouldn't feel so natural, like he's memorized every gasp you make, every twitch of your thighs, every flutter of your breath. His cock drags along your walls with every movement, slick and thick, and that pressure, that perfect freaking pressure—rubs right where you need it, makes your back arch and your legs shake.

"Say it," he grits out, the restraint in his voice hanging by a thread. "C'mon, baby. Say it."

You're not sure what it is, his name, how good he feels, how much you need this, but it doesn't matter, because all of it comes tumbling out in a string of breathless, broken syllables: "Bucky, oh my God... please, I'm... I can't—"

His cock is hitting that spot—that spot—with surgical precision, his body moving like a weapon built to wreck you in the best way. The room echoes with your bodies, slick and frantic, the slap of skin on skin so obscene it borders on criminal.

The dog tags brush your cheek. His name slips out between gasps and bites, and he swallows it all like he owns it.

"Gonna come so deep inside you," he growls against your mouth, and you swear the world tilts. "Fill you up till you're drippin'. That what you want?"

"Yes," you choke out. "God—yes, yes, please."

He loses it. His hips stutter, and he lets out a ragged groan, thrusting deep one final time as he spills inside you, hot and thick, and it tips you—your body going tight around him, your release slamming into you like a goddamn truck.

He's still twitching when your legs go boneless. His body stays pressed to yours, forehead resting against your temple, breathing ragged, damp curls sticking to his neck. You can feel the way he's still thick inside you, softening slowly, your walls fluttering around him in the hazy lull of your release. His cum is leaking out around him, sticky and hot, making a mess of the ruined towel beneath you, soaking into your thighs, your ass, the backs of your knees.

Neither of you moves for a second. Then two. Then five.

Just the sound of your breathing and the faint hum of blood in your ears, still pounding from the rush of it all.

You're sticky. You're sore. You're pretty sure the marks on your thighs are going to outlast the week. You shift, wincing a little when he slips out of you, and feel the distinct, humiliating sensation of dripping—a slow, obscene slide of wetness down your inner thigh.

"Well," you manage eventually, voice sandpaper-rough. "At least you won't be washing your arm in the dishwasher after that."

Bucky blinks. For a moment he just looks at you, dazed. Then he laughs. Full-on, head-thrown-back, belly-shaking laughs. His eyes crinkle at the corners, teeth flashing, and something about it, about him like this, real and soft and undone—makes you feel drunker than any orgasm ever has.

"Sweetheart," he rasps, still catching his breath as he flops onto his side, pulling you with him, "you're gonna be the death of me."

You grin as you roll into him, pressing your cheek to his bare chest. The metal of his arm is cool against your back as he wraps it around you, possessive and warm despite the chill of vibranium. His knuckles graze the damp towel, and he groans. "We need to be more careful."

You nod against him, still trying to remember how to exist. "If John finds out, he'll never let us live it down. He'll write a memo about it. Or worse, tell Val."

"Oh, let him try," Bucky mutters, already sounding smug again. "I'd like to see him survive after I've had you like that."

You groan, smacking his shoulder, but yeah. Yeah, you're grinning.

Because this thing between you two? It's dangerous, stupid, and completely out of control.

And there's no way in hell you're stopping now.

The door rattles.

Which—fine. Sure. That's a totally normal sound to hear when you're actively getting railed by Bucky Barnes on a mattress in the Thunderbolts compound, where you are very much not supposed to be right now.

It could be John, with his smug little quips. Or Alexei, asking about deodorant or soup again. Either way, your heart launches itself into your throat—and then keeps launching. Because Bucky doesn't stop. Not even close. He just grins, that cocky, half-wicked thing he does when he knows he has you wrecked, and leans in so close his breath ghosts across your lips.

"Better be quick, sweetheart," he rasps, hips starting grinding slow and deliberate. "Don't want ‘em knowin' you're gettin' fucked in my room."

You should say something. Maybe a smartass retort or a stern reminder that you're supposed to be his manager. But your brain short-circuits. Because those words—crude, filthy, said in that deep, reverent voice of his—make your thighs tremble and your whole body clench around him in response.

Oh, you are so screwed.

He's thick and hard and still buried deep, and every tiny shift of his hips sends lightning up your spine. Your nails dig into his shoulders, and when he thrusts again—just once, slow, deliberate—you have to bite down on the muscle of his neck to stop from screaming his name.

There's a voice in your head—your rational voice, your you're-an-employee-and-he's-Bucky-Barnes voice—begging you to stop this madness. But it's silenced almost immediately by the way he twitches inside you, a slow, impossible pulse that has your breath hitching like it's learned to stutter.

"Bucky," you murmur, and it comes out a whimper. Pathetic. He grins like he knows.

"What's that, baby?" he says, all teasing drawl, even as his cock drags against your walls in a way that should probably come with a health warning. "Still want me to play nice?"

You glare. Or, well—you attempt a glare. It's a little hard to look intimidating when you're clinging to him like human Velcro, your whole body flushed and shaking.

"You're such a tease," you manage, though your hands are already sliding over his chest, nails leaving pink trails on his skin like you're trying to claim him.

"Only ‘cause you like it," he murmurs, and then he's moving—slow, unhurried, every thrust deep and angled just right. The kind of movement that feels designed in a lab. Or an evil genius bedroom.

The sounds are downright indecent. Wet, rhythmic, skin on skin, your gasps tangled with his breathless groans. You should be mortified. You're not. You're seconds away from combusting, and Bucky fucking knows it.

Because this isn't just sex. It's Bucky. It's the way he's staring at you—seeing you—as he ruins you, knowing every response before you give it.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groans, thrusting deeper, his voice ragged. "So fuckin' tight. Can't get enough of you."

You make some sound that is definitely not English. He leans in, and his hands—God, his hands—find your breasts again. One warm and rough, the other sleek vibranium, and the contrast is lethal. He palms you like he's memorizing the shape of your pleasure, thumb circling your nipple until you arch up into him.

"So sensitive, darlin'," he murmurs, lips brushing your throat as he speaks. "Fallin' apart for me already."

Your thighs are shaking. Your vision's blurry. And then the damn dog tags swing forward, cool metal brushing your mouth like they're in on the game. You bite one out of sheer desperation, and it makes him groan—actually groan—and thrust harder.

"Fuck, do that again."

So you do. You clench around him, and he twitches so hard inside you that your breath leaves your lungs like it's got somewhere else to be.

You're close. Again. Too soon. Your body's still sensitive, still wrecked from the last orgasm, but he's not letting up—he's teasing you, chasing you toward the edge only to pull you back.

"Bucky, please," you gasp, not even caring how wrecked you sound.

He smirks. Of course he does. "Please what?" he asks, but he's already thrusting faster, harder, relentless now.

The dog tags brush your cheek again. You grab them, yank him down into a kiss that's all teeth and tongue and messy, wet desperation. His name slips out between gasps and bites, and he swallows it all like he owns it.

"Gonna come so deep inside you," he growls against your mouth, and you swear the world tilts. "Fill you up till you're drippin'. That what you want?"

"Yes," you choke out. "God—yes, yes, please."

Your moan gets swallowed by the kiss. Your whole body shudders. You're so far gone you barely register the way he curses again, still twitching, still pressing into you like he can't stand to let go.

And then—silence. Just the sound of your combined breathing and the thrum of blood in your ears.

You're sticky. Sore. Dripping. His dog tags are stuck to your chest, and the towel beneath you is in shreds.

"Well," you manage, voice hoarse. "At least you won't be washing your arm in the dishwasher after that."

Bucky blinks.

And then he laughs—full-on laughs, head tipping back, eyes crinkling with something that looks a lot like joy.

"Sweetheart," he says, still catching his breath, "you're gonna be the death of me."

You roll into him, grinning like an idiot, and tuck yourself into his chest.

"Worth it," you mumble.

He hums, wrapping a vibranium arm around your back, protective and warm, even as his knuckles graze the ruined towel. "We need to be more careful."

You nod against his chest. "If John finds out, he'll never let us live it down."

"Oh, let him try," Bucky mutters, already sounding smug again. "I'd like to see him survive after I've had you like that."

You groan, smacking his shoulder—but yeah. Yeah, you're grinning.

Because this thing between you two? It's dangerous, stupid, and completely out of control.

And there's no way in hell you're stopping now.

#rulerofstars #bucky #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #james buchanan barnes #marvel #the winter soldier #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky smut #bucky barnes smut

299 notes · View notes

mrs-delaney · 2 days ago

Text

1st Year Down

🏈 Joe Burrow x Reader | 3.3k-ish words

Request: hi my love!! hope you are doing well. i was hoping to get a joe burrow imagine where his wife and him celebrate their sons first birthday with the whole team, but joe is reminiscing on the past one year of his sons life from newborn stage till his 1st bday.

✨ my masterlist ✨

💌 want to be tagged in future fics? join my taglist here 💫

🌙 ask box is open — come keep me company, i’m around tonight 💌

Author’s Note:

This was a sweet request for a Joe imagine where he celebrates his son’s first birthday with the team, while reflecting on the first year of fatherhood. I loved the idea of framing it around a backyard party, with all those little milestone memories woven in.

Big thanks to my new beta reader @crazytheoriststrawberry for the thoughtful feedback and fresh eyes, this one’s better because of you.

Also, Hide is coming (I promise). There are a few time jumps in the next chapter, so I’m just making sure everything lines up before I post. 🧡

The matcha bar was her idea, of course.

Joe stood near the setup, multiple milk options, little jars of honey, lavender, strawberry, and vanilla, watching his wife explain brewing techniques to Sam Hubbard. Orange and black balloons bobbed in the afternoon breeze, and a custom “1st Year Down” banner stretched between two oak trees, tiger stripes woven through everything.

His attention kept drifting to the tiny figure in the custom Bengals jersey crawling across the grass.

His son wore a miniature version of Joe's jersey, the number 9 stretched across his back. Orange and black striped socks completed the look, though one had already started sliding down his chubby leg as he made his determined journey toward where Ja'Marr and Tee squatted on the grass.

"Look at him go," Ja'Marr called out, grinning as the baby bypassed every carefully arranged toy to head straight for him.

Tee was already reaching into his pocket. "I got goldfish if he wants some—"

"He can't have those yet," Joe's wife called from the matcha station, not even looking up from the elaborate setup she'd created. "He's still working on puffs."

The baby reached Ja'Marr and immediately grabbed for the chain around his neck, tiny fingers surprisingly strong. His giggle—high and bright—cut through the party chatter.

"Bro, your kid's got good taste," Ja'Marr said, gently redirecting little hands toward a soft football. "Goes right for the good stuff."

It was surreal, watching his teammates—these massive, intimidating athletes—melt around a one-year-old. Sam was still asking detailed questions about matcha preparation. Tee had grabbed a handful of baby-safe snacks from the snack station and was carefully offering them one by one. His son was completely in his element, like he'd been charming football players his whole life.

Which, Joe supposed, he had been.

His wife caught his eye from across the yard, that smile spreading across her face—the one that still got to him after all this time. The one that said can you believe this is our life?

A year ago, Joe never could have imagined this scene. The house, the matcha bar, his teammates arguing over who got to hold the baby next.

A year ago, he'd been standing in a hospital room at 3:47 AM, holding seven pounds and two ounces of pure terror and beauty.

* * *

Twelve months ago...

Joe had been staring at his son for the better part of an hour. Ten fingers, each one barely the width of a pencil eraser. Perfect fingernails that looked like they'd been painted on.

The baby was finally sleeping. The crying had stopped around 3:30, and Joe hadn't moved since, afraid to disturb whatever peace they'd found. His wife was dozing too, the epidural still working its way out of her system.

He counted things. The baby's breaths—steady at about forty per minute, which the nurse said was normal for sleeping. How many times his tiny chest rose and fell. The way his lips moved slightly in his sleep.

The curve of his son's ear, folded perfectly against his head. The dark hair sticking up despite the nurse's attempts to smooth it down. The birthmark on his left shoulder that looked like a small comma.

Details he knew he'd never forget.

His phone buzzed intermittently—texts he hadn't read, calls he hadn't answered. Everything could wait.

The baby's eyes opened briefly, unfocused but alert, scanning before settling somewhere near Joe's face. Not really seeing him yet, but aware.

"Yeah," Joe said quietly. "I'm here. I love you."

All he could manage. All that needed to be said.

* * *

"Joe! You good, man?"

Ja'Marr's voice pulled him back to the backyard, to orange and black balloons and teammates' laughter. His son had made it across the yard and was now gripping Joe's jeans, pulling himself up with the concentration of someone attempting their first field goal.

"Yeah," Joe said, reaching down to steady his son's wobbly stance. "Just... thinking."

"About what?" Ja'Marr asked, though his attention was already shifting back to Tee explaining peek-a-boo to Sam Hubbard.

The same dark hair, still sticking up in impossible directions. The same eyes, though they were focused now, alert, tracking everything around him.

Twelve months. Seven pounds, two ounces to whatever he weighed now. Joe realized he didn't actually know his son's current weight, which felt like something he should know.

"Dada," his son said, clear as anything, looking up with a grin that showed off his four teeth.

* * *

1st Night Home

Three days since he'd been born. Their first night home. Joe had changed four diapers in the past three hours. He'd counted.

The baby was crying again—had been crying for twenty minutes—and Joe was running out of options. He'd tried feeding. Changing. Burping. Walking around the living room while making what he hoped were soothing sounds.

Nothing worked.

His wife was finally sleeping after three days of barely closing her eyes. Joe had insisted on taking the night shift, confident he could handle whatever came up. He was good under pressure. He could read defenses, make split-second decisions.

But his son wasn't responding to any strategy.

The red-faced, furious bundle in his arms was getting louder, more insistent, and Joe felt useless. He'd googled "why won't my baby stop crying" twice already.

"What do you need?" he asked quietly, knowing he wouldn't get an answer. "I'm trying everything here."

The crying continued.

Joe sat carefully on the couch edge, adjusting his hold. Maybe the baby could sense his nervousness. Maybe he was doing something wrong. Maybe he wasn't cut out for the figuring-it-out part that seemed to come naturally to his wife.

He'd watched her earlier, the way she seemed to know what their son needed before he even started fussing. Joe felt like he was guessing at everything.

The baby's cries softened slightly, more whimper than wail. Joe stayed perfectly still, afraid to move and set off another round of screaming.

"Okay," he said under his breath. "We're figuring it out."

He wasn't sure if he was talking to his son or himself.

* * *

First Smile

Six weeks. Joe had only been gone for two days, his first road trip since the baby was born, but it felt longer. He’d spent most of it checking his phone between meetings and practices, scrolling through photos his wife sent. Sleeping, eating, more sleeping. He’d gotten home after midnight, letting himself in quietly, dropping his bag without a sound. The house was dark and peaceful. His wife was asleep, and the baby was in his bassinet, one tiny fist curled near his face. Joe stood there for a while, just watching. Wondering if two days were long enough for a six-week-old to forget someone. Wondering if he’d have to start over.

He'd finally fallen asleep around 2 AM, but when the baby woke at 5:30, Joe got up. Let his wife sleep. She'd been handling everything alone for two days.

"Hey," he said quietly, lifting his son from the bassinet. "It's me. I'm back."

The baby blinked up at him, unfocused eyes trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Joe held his breath, waiting for crying to start, for the stranger-danger reaction he'd worried about during the entire flight home.

Instead, his son's face changed. Not the grimace Joe had mistaken for smiles before. Something different. Intentional.

A real smile. Slow and deliberate, like recognition dawning.

"You remember me," Joe said, his voice rougher than expected.

The smile got bigger.

Joe looked toward the bedroom, wanting to wake his wife, wanting her to see this. But it felt private somehow. Just between them. His son's first real smile, and it was for him. After two days away, after all those middle-of-the-night doubts about whether he was doing any of this right.

His son knew him. Had missed him, maybe.

"Yeah, buddy," Joe whispered. "I missed you too."

* * *

1st Laugh

Bath time had become Joe's thing without him planning it. His wife had handed him the baby one evening after a long day and said, "Your turn," and somehow it stuck. He'd gotten good at it—right water temperature, supporting the baby's head with one hand while washing with the other, ignoring the inevitable splashing that soaked his shirt.

Tonight was no different. His son sat in the little bath seat, slapping at the water with both hands, sending droplets across the bathroom tiles. Joe worked quickly—shampoo, rinse, soap, rinse again—while keeping up a steady stream of commentary.

"Alright, buddy, we're almost done," Joe said, reaching for the hooded towel. "Let's get you dried off."

He lifted his son from the bath, wrapped him in the soft towel, and set him down on the changing pad. The baby looked up at him, water still clinging to his dark eyelashes, serious eyes tracking Joe's every movement.

Joe draped the towel over his son's body, covering him completely.

"Where's the baby?" Joe asked, his voice exaggerated. "Where did he go?"

He pulled the towel away with a flourish.

"Peek-a-boo!"

His son's face lit up—eyes wide, mouth dropping open in surprise. Then it happened.

The laugh.

Not a giggle or gurgle, but a full, belly-deep laugh that seemed to come from somewhere much bigger than his tiny body. Loud and pure.

Joe froze, towel still in his hands.

"Did you—" He draped the towel back over his son. "Where's the baby?"

Another pause, then the towel away again.

"Peek-a-boo!"

The laugh came again, even louder. His son's whole body shook with it, arms flailing, legs kicking.

"Babe!" Joe called toward the bedroom. "Come here, you gotta see this!"

Footsteps, then his wife appeared in the doorway, hair in a messy bun, looking curious.

"What's going—"

Joe draped the towel over his son again. "Where's the baby?" He whipped it away. "Peek-a-boo!"

The laugh erupted again, and his wife's face broke into the same ridiculous grin Joe was wearing.

"Oh my god," she said, moving closer. "How long has he been doing that?"

"Just started," Joe said, already covering his son with the towel again. "Watch this."

Another pause, another reveal, another burst of pure joy that filled the bathroom and made both parents laugh just as hard.

* * *

Learning to Sit Up

The practice sessions started by accident. Joe had been trying to get his son to sit up during play time, and it became their routine. Every day after work, they'd spread the soft play mat on the living room floor. Joe would position his son carefully—back straight, legs out front, hands planted for balance—then slowly reduce his support. Hand on the back, then just fingertips, then hovering close but not touching.

The baby would wobble, overcorrect, and topple backward into Joe's waiting hands. Every time.

"Almost," Joe would say, setting him upright again. "You're getting it."

His wife would watch from the couch, sometimes offering encouragement, sometimes just smiling at Joe's patient persistence. Neither was in a rush, but Joe found himself looking forward to these sessions. The way his son's face scrunched in concentration, totally focused on not falling over.

Today felt different. The baby seemed more stable, more confident. Joe went through the usual routine—hands on his sides, then just fingertips, then...

Nothing.

His son sat there, perfectly balanced, for five full seconds. Then ten. Chubby hands resting on his thighs, back straight, looking around the room like he'd been sitting up his whole life.

"Look at that," Joe said quietly, not wanting to break the spell.

His wife's head snapped up from her book. "Is he—"

"Don't move," Joe said, still crouched behind their son, hands ready to catch him. But he didn't fall. He just sat there, proud and steady, reaching for a toy just within his grasp.

When he finally did topple over—gently, sideways into the cushions Joe had arranged—he was grinning. Like he knew exactly what he'd accomplished.

"Did you see that?" Joe asked, though he knew she had. "He just... sat there."

"All by himself," his wife said, and there was something in her voice Joe recognized. Pride, yes. But also the faintest hint of bittersweetness.

Their baby was learning he didn't need them to hold him up anymore.

* * *

"Hey baby, you having fun over here?"

His wife's voice, amused. Joe blinked, realizing he'd been staring at his son for who knows how long. The baby had made it back to the center of action, sitting confidently in the grass while Tee attempted to interest him in a football nearly as big as he was.

She slid up beside him with a matcha latte. "What's going on in your head?"

Joe glanced around the backyard. Sam was deep in conversation with one of the other wives about proper matcha whisking technique. Ja'Marr was filming their son's attempts to gnaw on the football. The "1st Year Down" banner fluttered in the afternoon breeze.

"Just thinking about the year," Joe said. "How much he's changed."

His wife followed his gaze to their son, who had abandoned the football in favor of trying to eat grass. "He really has, hasn't he?"

"Remember when we were scared to leave him alone for five minutes to shower?"

She laughed. "Now look at him."

Their son looked up at the sound of her voice and grinned, one hand still full of grass, before turning back to Tee, who was now lying flat on his back making exaggerated groaning sounds that the baby found hilarious.

"Should we do the cake soon?" his wife asked. "Before he gets too tired and cranky?"

Joe nodded, though part of him wanted to stretch this moment out longer. His teammates scattered across their backyard, his son in the middle of it all, his wife beside him watching it unfold.

"Yeah," he said. "Let's do the cake."

* * *

Six months.

Sweet potato puree on a tiny spoon.

Joe had been optimistic. How hard could it be to get a baby to eat? He'd watched videos, read articles, had the bib ready and camera rolling.

The first spoonful landed on his son's chin. The second on his forehead. The third got batted away by a flailing hand, sending orange puree across the kitchen counter.

"Come on, buddy," Joe coaxed, wiping his son's face for the fourth time. "It's good. Look." He tasted the puree himself, immediately regretting it.

Twenty minutes later, there was sweet potato on the high chair, the floor, Joe's shirt, and somehow on the ceiling. His son had managed to consume maybe two actual bites.

But those two bites—the way his face scrunched up in surprise, then curiosity, then something that might have been approval—made all the mess worth it.

* * *

Eight Months

The living room floor.

Joe had left his son on the play mat, surrounded by toys, perfectly content. He'd gone to the kitchen to refill his coffee. Two minutes, max.

When he came back, the play mat was empty.

"Buddy?" Joe called, scanning the room. A soft thud from behind the couch answered him.

He found his son there, army-crawling with determined precision toward the electrical outlet Joe had forgotten to cover. His technique was terrible—more wiggling than crawling—but he was moving with purpose.

"Oh no," Joe said, scooping him up. "We gotta baby-proof everything."

* * *

Nine months.

Crawling

It happened overnight. One day his son was doing the army crawl, the next he was up on hands and knees, moving across the room like he'd been doing it his whole life.

Joe came home from practice to find his wife in the bathroom doorway, looking slightly frazzled, their son sitting on the floor beside her.

"I found him in here," she said. "I put him down in the living room, went to fold laundry for five minutes, and he was just... gone."

The baby was sitting contentedly next to the bathtub, trying to pull himself up on the edge.

"How did you get in here?" Joe asked, though his son just grinned up at him like he'd accomplished something impressive.

Everything changed after that. Gates went up. Cabinets got locks. Joe learned to scan every room like a defensive coordinator, looking for potential hazards his son might find and destroy.

But watching him move—confident, curious, unstoppable—Joe couldn't help but be proud of the little person his son was becoming.

* * *

"Alright everyone, cake time!" his wife called, emerging from the kitchen with a small round cake covered in orange and black frosting. A single candle shaped like the number one sat in the center, unlit for now.

Joe watched as his teammates gathered around, phones already out, everyone positioning themselves for the inevitable photo op. His son was back in his arms now, having been retrieved from his latest adventure attempting to eat decorative rocks from the garden bed.

"You ready for this, buddy?" Joe asked quietly, settling into one of the chairs they'd arranged in a circle. His son looked up at him, then at the cake his wife was setting on the small table, eyes wide with curiosity.

Ja'Marr was crouched with his phone already recording, grinning in anticipation.

His wife lit the candle, then stepped back. "Okay, everyone sing."

The singing was loud and enthusiastic, if not exactly melodic. Joe found himself grinning as his son looked around at all the faces, clearly overwhelmed but not upset by the attention.

When they got to "Happy birthday, little man," his son clapped his hands together, which sent up a cheer from the entire group.

"Make a wish!" someone called out, though obviously his son had no idea what that meant.

Joe leaned forward, his son on his lap. "Help me blow it out?" he whispered, then blew gently on the candle. The flame flickered and went out, and everyone erupted in cheers.

His wife cut a small piece of cake and placed it on the plastic plate in front of his son. For a moment, he just stared at it, then tentatively poked it with one finger. The frosting stuck to his fingertip, and he brought it to his mouth.

His face lit up.

What followed was less "eating cake" and more "cake destruction." His son grabbed handfuls of the soft vanilla cake, squishing it between his fingers, smearing orange frosting across his cheeks, getting it in his hair. Some of it actually made it into his mouth, but most of it ended up on his custom Bengals jersey, the table, and somehow on Joe's jeans.

"Look at him go," Tee said, taking pictures of the mess.

Joe didn't try to stop it. His son was laughing, completely delighted with the mess he was making, and everyone else was cracking up watching him. Even when a particularly enthusiastic handful of cake went flying and landed on Ja'Marr's pristine white sneakers, he just shook his head and kept filming.

"This is exactly what I expected," his wife said, but she was laughing too, already reaching for the wet wipes.

Joe looked down at his son—cake-covered, orange frosting in his eyebrows, grinning like he'd just discovered the best thing in the world. Not the overwhelming terror of those early days, not the careful protectiveness of learning to be a dad. Just... happiness. Simple, uncomplicated happiness.

This was his life now. Cake-covered mess and teammates in his backyard and his son destroying his birthday cake with pure joy.

Joe looked over at his wife, who was attempting to clean frosting out of their son's hair with a wet wipe.

"So," he said quietly, so only she could hear. "You wanna do this again?"

She paused, looked at their cake-covered son, then at the chaos of their backyard party, then back at Joe.

"Ask me after we get through the terrible twos," she said, but she was smiling.

It was perfect.

#joe burrow #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow fanfiction #joe burrow fluff #nfl fanfic #nfl fan fic #nfl fanfiction #joe burrow smut #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #nfl imagine #nfl smut #nfl x reader #joe burrow x you #nfl x you

193 notes · View notes

revelboo · 2 days ago

Note

Ok but am I the only who's reading these with crashboombangers voices? Or am I just old and desperately missing him?

I had to google to see what you were talking about and I love his voices so much! Thank you for introducing me to it!

I was discussing spikes with another TF writer and realized that while I’ve had a couple of Cybertronians knot, I hadn’t really explained that in my head it’s technically something they can all do, but it’s a sort of social faux pas- a bit of old primitive instinct from the early days of the Cybertronian race and no one actually does it because it’s embarrassing/frowned upon so that urge is actively suppressed. It’s associated with younger Cybertronians interfacing for the first time and not being able to control themselves so they knot and get stuck. Two Cybertronians interfacing and one knots accidentally, they’re going to be judged by their partner for their lack of control. With a human that doesn’t know about the stigma associated, there’s no shame in accidentally knotting, because their human partner doesn’t know that’s not normal and just writes it off alien weirdness. 🔞 mass displaced mech 🌶️

Impulse Control

Bluestreak x Reader

• Staring at you naked on top of him, anxiety has him by the throat. “Are you sure this is okay?” Bluestreak asks even as he hates himself for asking, because what if you come to your senses? Realize you’d rather have literally anyone but him? What if he’s bad at this? If you two do this and it’s so bad that you’re embarrassed for him? And he becomes just a pity frag because he’s so awful you can’t even admit it to him. Freezing when you cup his face in your hands and his door wings lift slightly.

• “You sure you’re okay?” Because he looks like he’s working himself up to a panic attack. Searching his optics as he slowly nods, servos wrapping around your wrist, his worry leaves you warm. Tugging your hand to him as his mouth brushes against your palm. So sweet and uncertain and hopeful. “We can wait if you’re not into this right now.” And now he does look panicked, his erect spike pulsing with biolights as his free hand lands on your hip as if to keep you from escaping him.

• “Please, don’t go,” he growls, wincing at the desperation in his voice. How many times has he dreamed about this during recharge? About you? Fantasizing about being inside you while you’re lying there against him. Groaning when you sit up on him and shift, you rock against the underside of his spike in slow, deliberate moves. Can scent you when he vents, your need and heat drugging him as you grind against him before lifting up. “Guide me to you,” he groans, feeling you grip his spike and line him up. And you’re silken inside, so slick and hot as you slowly take him deep.

• His hips lift under you on a growl and you have to splay your palms on him for balance. Hearing him babbling in alien growls, rasps, and whirs he’s so keyed up that he can’t remember that you have no idea what he’s saying right now. Hoping he’s not asking anything important. Hips rolling as you get used to the feel of him stretching you before you’re moving on him in earnest to find a rhythm. Lips parting on a moan when his servos flex on your hips and waist. Letting you have your way as you ride him.

• You’re wrapped so tight around him as you lift up and drop. Bouncing on his spike with breathy moans and gasps and you’re beautiful riding him. Unable to believe you’re his. You are his. Spark thrumming as he watches you chase pleasure with his body and he needs more. To bond you, fill you. You’d let him, wouldn’t you? You’ve said you loved him, so bonding you would be okay. You’re moving faster on him, clenching on his spike as his servos tighten on you. Feels you grab his wrists, hips rocking and rutting against him as your head falls back on a cry when you come apart.

• He’s still talking at you as you keep moving on him, trying to make it last longer and he’s not overloaded, yet. Maybe too tangled in his head and worked up to be able to find pleasure. “Come for me, Blue,” you moan, hips rocking.

• Groaning as you fist his spike, trembling, he drags you down to him, carefully rolling you under him as his hips pump. Feels your hands grab onto his door wings while you moan his name and he’s overloading, hips grinding as he shifts his plating. And there you are as his spark reaches and claims you. Aware of the base of his spike swelling to knot inside you, of you arching tangled in his spark. Feeling your warmth drifting into him as he clings to you. To that feeling of acceptance and being needed. Because he needs you. All of you. To claim you and never be alone again. Feels your emotions and memories and knows you’re seeing things he didn’t mean to share, but can’t stop.

• Hearing it is one thing, but now you’re living that moment, grieving for a young Bluestreak trapped and scared. Alone, waiting for rescue. Not yet understanding that no one’s coming. That no one else survived the attack. And he’s wrapping tighter around you, smothering you with his overwhelming, desperate need to be loved to not be left behind. Feel a question there as he hangs onto you. A coaxing, hungry pull that you give in to. More of him tangling in you, seeing all of you like you’re seeing and understanding him. And the pull shifts. Becomes a demand and you give him that to, feeling a pang of something you don’t quite understand.

• Groaning and shuddering as his hips rock against you, it’s so hard to stop even though he can’t really thrust his knot is so swollen he’s just grinding urgently. Needs to break the connection but he just wants to savor it. Wants to ignore that uneasy feeling that’s breaking through the hungry need. Your lips are parted, eyes dark with need when his spark releases you and his door wings tuck back as it sinks in that he’s stuck inside you, his knot so swollen there’s no pulling out. Knotted inside you like an inexperienced youngling interfacing for the first time. And he winces when you shiver under him. ‘What was that?’ You mumble, staring up at him and he wilts. “We bonded. And I um, might have sparked you?” Isn’t actually sure, hadn’t meant to. He’d wanted to, though. And you’re just staring up at him in confusion. He didn’t actually just spark you, did he? ‘Sparked?’ You echo and he cringes even harder. He can’t have just sparked you.

#transformers x reader #bluestreak x reader #tf bluestreak #valveplug

133 notes · View notes

yellowf1nch · 1 day ago

Text

Warning: Minors do not interact, slight swearing, mentions of physical/domestic abuse

(Part 4 of the problematic roommate series)

When you awaken, the house is quiet. Your roommate must be gone to work, the both of you needing another part time job since the mass layoffs and limbo you're both in with Valdivian. You carefully make your way downstairs, making sure to confirm your roommate's absence, before grabbing another light breakfast and heading back up to get dressed and grab the dateviators. On second thought, you could probably use a shower, and have Farya check your face before anything else. Heading down with a change of clothes, you activate the dateviators and Farya greets you with a tense expression and ushers you to sit on Jean-Loo.

"Let's see now," she begins, grabbing her small pen light and waving it at your face, "dilations are normal, patient is aware and responsive... Temperature is normal... Blood pressure is normal... Well your vitals all seem fine, and your responsiveness is a good sign after concerns of potential concussion. And just, all the head trauma you experienced. If you had slow reaction times or, if any responses were not to the standard we could be looking at nerve damage. And you don't have a fever which means your likelihood of having an infection is low!" You thank her, asking if it's alright to shower. "Why, yes! Of course you can! Cleaning around the stitches is important, just make sure you do it gently. And don't actually rub over the stitches themselves, just the area around them." You thank her again, but she holds your arm as you reach for the dateviators.

"As a medical professional, and as the one treating you, it is important for me to ask about whether you feel safe in your living situation," Farya pauses, and removes her hand from you. "Normally these kinds of questions are about domestic violence between partners, but, well, living with someone is still a domestic situation, right? And I can certainly help you! And I will! I'm glad you trusted me to take care of you, but sometimes it is a good idea to go to a hospital. I mean, think about if you had a severe concussion! If you went to sleep, you could have had seizures or fluctuating brain activity that we can't really monitor here. And that could lead to lifelong complications. But, as a soon-to-be doctor, I have to provide you with the best advice I can for your well-being... so going forward, just keep your safety in mind. But I certainly won't turn you away for anything!" She smiles, and takes out a small pill container. "This is some acetaminophen. It should help some with any pain, and in case your temperature has been fluctuating it should help to stabilize it. If... If there's anything else you need, just let me know." And with that, she leaves you to shower.

After a thorough, but gentle, clean, you decide to head up to the breaker box since Eddy was expecting you. When you enter, you don't see him, so you take a seat at the bar and wait. Some time passes, when Eddy comes around the corner from the back hall and pauses briefly when he sees you. He continues however, toolbox in hand as he walks to the stage. He sets the box down, then walks back through the doorway, and returns with a broom and dustpan. He seems to be holding back a smirk, leaning the broom and pan against the bar beside you.

"Floor needs to be swept," he waits there, crossing his arms expectantly.

"Which floor?" Eddy rolls his eyes, sighing.

"The one I'm standing on, the only floor in here."

"Well, but do you want me to just do this room? Should I get behind the bar also, do I go back in the hall there-"

"Just. Sweep in here. Behind the bar. That's it." You nod and grab the broom, setting off around the bar to start there. Eddy watches you for a moment, then makes his way to the stage as he begins his own tasks. Time passes, periodically you hear him mutter to himself, but continue sweeping. Eventually, you finish, and go stand by the stage.

Eddy has some of the boards of the stage floor removed, you see him crouched beneath the stage, tools scattered above, wires in one hand and zip ties between his teeth as he reaches up, feeling around for something, when you ask him what he needs. He startles, slightly, then levels you with a firm expression. A silence stretches between you.

"I finished sweeping." He shifts the zip ties with his tongue, pushing them to one side of his mouth.

"So you did. Well that's all I have for you, so you can go now." You blink at him, looking at his mouth, then his hands.

"It looks like you could use a couple more of these," you raise your hands slightly, "Like a surgeon and nurse, tell me what you need and I can hand it to you." Eddy keeps staring at you, then shifts to a fully seated position and looks down at the wires in his hand. He extends his hand upwards, palm open.

"Flathead," he grunts.

For the next hour, you and Eddy fall into a steady rhythm. When the wiring is done, you move to the floorboards. When the floorboards are done, you move to the ceiling panels. Every time Eddy asked for something, you provided. Despite wanting to talk more, the few questions you asked were met with silence or clipped answers. Eddy was clearly keeping you at arm's length. Once he was done with the ceiling, you followed him to the bar where he set down the toolbox and moved to fix himself a drink.

"How much more do you have to do?" You ask, taking a seat on the same stool you sat before. Eddy glances at you, then takes a hearty gulp from his glass.

"Are humans always this insistent?"

"Do breaker boxes usually have this much work to do?" Eddy looks at you, eyes wide, then narrowed. The grip on his glass tightens.

"Yeah? Thought you said you weren't afraid of hard work. Guess humans are all liars, too."

"I'm not afraid of hard work."

"Then why are you complaining?"

"Because I'm allowed to complain. If I didn't want to be here I wouldn't be."

"Well maybe you should come here only when someone wants you around." Eddy swirls the liquid in his glass, you scowl at him.

"So you're saying you don't want me around?" You thought you sounded confident, but as the words left your mouth they softened. Eddy laughs.

"You really did get knocked in the head pretty good. Just now figuring that out?"

"Well if you didn't want me to be here you shouldn't have invited me!"

"I only invited you because you won't leave me the fuck alone!"

"You could have locked the doors!" Eddy squints at you from the corner of his eyes, then turns to fix himself another drink. "And," your voice dips lower, you look down at the bar top tracing mindless shapes with your fingertips, "if there's all this maintenance that's been needed all this time, I... Should have been trying to do more. I mean, since I moved in the lights occasionally flicker and I just let it be. Normally when something's up I try to look it up and deal with it but... I guess this being the breaker box I was wanting to avoid completely screwing things up. Living with a roommate adds to that. Even more now that I know they're willing to... To...," you gesture to your face, glancing up at Eddy to find him looking at you, an unreadable expression on his face. "You don't have to like me, you can think I'm annoying and stubborn. But there's work to be done, and I'm going to see it through."

He's silent, you both are, avoiding speaking or even looking at each other. "I've been doing all of this well before you moved in. You don't owe me anything." He speaks plainly, no emotion behind his tone. "You are annoying. If you wanna talk to someone you should see Volt."

"But I don't-"

"You're well acquainted with the door. You can see yourself out." He turns, glass in hand, and walks into the back hallway. You sit for a few minutes, but turn and make your way to the door. You notice you still have a few hours while your roommate is out, so you decide to go room by room and assess the damage from last night.

There were dishes strewn about, some broken and chipped which you partly dealt with at breakfast. Chairs and tables were pushed around, whatever items were on them knocked over or fallen off. You tried speaking to Daisuke, but he was too distressed for any conversation. Abel as well, seemed to assure you everything was fine though he stood just a bit off kilter. You go around, setting things back in place, a notepad in hand marking down what needs fixing, groceries you're low on, making a bit of normalcy after the last few days. As you take a load of blankets to the laundry room, you forget you have the dateviators on when Washford appears before you. You had met him and Drysdale (and everyone in the laundry room) briefly, but things seemed especially strained here, so you haven't made for much conversation. His demeanor is as you remember before: stoic, proud, but bathed in misery. His eyes are softer as he regards you, though, and his posture relaxes if only slightly.

"We meet again, wayward mutt. And I see you have memories laid into your flesh, a grit you will now carry in the set of your jaw. Your own mark of Cain."

"Hi, Washford, is something wrong?" You sigh, hands holding a blanket you had only just begun to put into the machine. He takes it from your hands, wringing it while looking dejectedly to the side as a scowl crosses his face.

"Hah, the tree boughs whisper, their roots anchored to soil, trying to comfort the river rapids."

"Alright?"

"And yet the soil is softened from floods, the tree is tilted. You are here for business and, perhaps... Your business is not met poorly."

"Okay?" Washford frowns, and runs a hand through his hair.

"Your paltry responses are regrettable," he meets your gaze again, "but your... Valor was apparent. If there is blood from your injuries you may need to soak whatever garments are stained before you bring them to me."

"Oh. Well, I'm not too concerned about stains. I wasn't wearing anything important. And there wasn't a lot of blood that got on my clothes."

"Hm. I see. Then, I will take my leave." There was surprisingly little fanfare as he disappeared, leaving you in silence once again.

Placing the blankets into the washing machine with detergent, you start it up and go put the dateviators in a different spot. You wait for the washer to be done, and as you begin moving the blankets to the dryer, you hear your roommate come in the front door. They put their bag and keys up, take their shoes off, and wander into the kitchen where they get some food out and move to heat it up in the microwave. Your actions become stiff, and you try to spend extra time slowly adjusting things in the dryer hoping they would be gone for you to leave.

The microwave finishes, your roommate grabs their food and sits at the kitchen table. Not wanting to drag out this proximity any longer, you finish in the laundry room and walk out, making a point to avoid looking towards the table.

"Hey," you hear. You pause before you round the corner past the fridge. "Can we talk?"

#date everything x reader #date everything game #date everything #date everything eddy #date everything washford #date everything farya

109 notes · View notes

nocturnebite · 2 days ago

Text

Birthday Girl 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

❝ don’t look at me like that ❞ - friend!jungwon x fem!reader

synopsis: it's your birthday. you went up the canyon with some friends and it was supposed to be relaxing.. instead, you're caught up in the way he's looking at you- like he's the one about to make a wish. fic notes: tension, eye contact, accidental birthday sin energy wc: 450

ash's notes: hey hey hey! today is my birthday, so to celebrate... here's this delicious jungwon tension tehe..

The canyon air is warm, golden. Your friends’ laughter drifts from the creek behind you, but your focus is stuck somewhere else.

Or—no.

Someone else.

He’s leaning against the hood of his car. Hoodie sleeves pushed up. Eyes fixed on you like he’s been watching for longer than you realized.

You look away, pretend to smooth your hair, pretend to breathe normally.

But then you look back.

And he’s still staring.

That same half-lidded gaze from the photos you shouldn’t have scrolled through multiple times last night. The one where he looked like he was about to devour the camera.

Except now it’s you.

“You’re quiet today,” you mutter, trying to keep it casual as you pass him.

He smirks — slow. Like he knows something.

“You haven’t looked me in the eye once,” he says, voice low and maddeningly calm.

You freeze. Jaw clenched. “You’re imagining things.”

He leans in slightly. The distance shrinks.

“Am I?” His voice drops lower. “So why are you flustered now?”

You hate him.

You hate that he’s right.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you whisper, heart in your throat.

“Like what?”

You swallow hard. His eyes drop to your lips for one second too long.

Then back up — unreadable.

“Like you’re about to do something stupid,” you say.

And that’s when he smiles — small. Dangerous.

Leans in just a fraction closer, voice barely audible:

“Who says I haven’t already?”

You can feel the weight of his gaze like a dare. The world around you—the creek’s laughter, the rustle of leaves—fades into background noise. It’s just you and him now.

Your breath hitches as his fingers brush a stray strand of hair behind your ear. It’s slow, deliberate, sending a spark right down your spine. Your skin prickles under his touch, and for a second, you swear the air between you is charged enough to ignite.

“Birthday energy suits you,” he murmurs, voice low and smooth, eyes dark and playful. “Maybe this year you should let me make it unforgettable.”

You bite your lip, trying to keep your cool but failing spectacularly.

“Or maybe,” you whisper back, “I’m the one who should be making you regret this.”

He laughs—a sound that’s both amused and dangerously confident.

“Then let’s see who wins.”

The space between you shrinks again, and just as your lips are about to brush—

A shout from your friends breaks the moment, yanking you both back to reality.

Jungwon smirks, eyes twinkling with promise. “Later,” he says, voice like a secret before heading off to join the others.

Watching him walk away, you can’t help but grin. Heart still pounding furiously inside your chest as you push off his car to follow.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs + notes always mean a lot 💌

tl: @yazmike

(read rules before asking to be added to any list ᥫ᭡. )

86 notes · View notes

starrihan · 1 day ago

Note

Thanks now I need a fic of Fuma talking all about Pokemon while he's balls deep 💔

→ Pairing: Fuma x gn! Reader

→ Plot: cockwarming Fuma while he teaches you about Pokémon

→ Genre: smut, edging, slight spanking, cockwarming, Fuma calls reader ‘slut’

→ Warnings: none!

→ Word Count: 638

→ Notes: ask and you shall receive my love 😈 like imagine if you didn’t know anything about Pokémon 🤤 question for you all: do you know pokemon more through the games or the anime?

→ Here's a link to all my other masterlists!

༄ ༄ ༄

“Well, there’s eighteen different types. Two were… added in gen two… and one was added in gen 6 and… can you stop moving?”

His grunts filled your ears as his calloused hands found your waist, grounding you into him to stop you from moving. You had been on his gaming chair, sitting on his cock for almost thirty minutes, his balls deep in you trying to explain Pokémon to you. You whined into his neck, trying your best to stay still but needing the friction after being here for so long.

“Anyways, like I was saying, each type has 3 things, something it’s weak against, something it’s good against, and something it resists or is immune to…”

His hand came down delivering a harsh slap to your ass, one that made you moan out at the pain but also at the way he thrusted up into you a little when you jolted up in shock.

“I’m almost done explaining the basics. If you can sit through this I’ll give you a reward. But if not, I’ll have you sitting on my cock all night while I explain the entirety of Pokémon to you, got it?”

He picked you up a little, slamming you down on his cock a little harder than he intended to. You almost screamed, biting your lip so hard and almost drawing blood. You swear you tried, you really were interested in everything he had to say, but you couldn’t focus when your hole was literally dripping around him, the stickiness getting uncomfortable.

“…but early on you don’t have many options so that’s why I think she’s the hardest gym leader…”

You haven’t a clue what he’s talking about anymore, the words blurring with your intense need for him to move, even just a little. So you kiss him, catching him off guard.

“You weren’t listening were you?”

“I was…”

“Oh yeah? What was I talking about then?”

“Something about every Pokémon having a type they like, right?”

He shakes his head, feigning a chuckle when his hands grip you tight, slamming you up and down onto him again.

“My needy little slut. So cock drunk that you can’t even pay attention to what I’m saying.”

He picks you up again, slamming you down on his cock repeatedly. You moan each time, throwing your head back at finally getting what you wanted from him. He smirks, pulling you close to kiss and nip at your neck, making sure to bite a little harder than normally, the stinging sensation mouthwatering.

“Mhmm Fuma… fuck!”

Your moans are his fuel, going even faster when he feels your body twitch, hole clenching around him to signal that you’re close. Right when you’re on the brink of cumming, he stops, laughing at you as tears well up in your eyes.

“It’s not funny!”

You scream, lightly hitting his chest in the pain of your denied orgasm.

“I told you if you didn’t listen I’d have you sit here all night listening to me. Are you forgetting that you asked me to teach you? We’re gonna try again with the basics one more time, if you fail, I’ll make sure you don’t cum for the next week, understood?”

You nod in defeat, really trying to zone into what he’s saying this time. It doesn’t take long before you start to get dazed however, hole clenching around him more anytime he shifts even a little in his seat, not to mention that your legs are going numb from dangling off the side of the chair. A drawn out sigh breaks you from your thoughts.

“I guess we’re gonna have to keep trying, you’re not getting it at all.”

He shakes his head, pinching your nipple hard to snap your attention back to him.

“I hope you don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow.”

༄ ༄ ༄

-> Here’s a link to my other masterlists!

#starrihan #&team #andteam #&team fuma #andteam fuma #&team x reader #andteam x reader #&team fuma smut #andteam fuma smut #fuma x reader #fuma smut #murata fuma smut #fuma #murata fuma

68 notes · View notes

flight0ficarus · 1 day ago

Text

Lost and Found (Snotlout x Reader)

Description: Oh no you're injured! Who ever is going to nurse you back to health >:)

A/N: I lick my screen every time I see him. Also I love you all wth?? Thank you so much lovies hope y'all enjoy <3

Part 1

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Part 2: Wrap Me Like One of Your Norse Girls

You’d drifted off into a dreamless sleep when you heard the door creek open. You raised your head to see Snotlout tiptoeing his way in holding a tray. The sky was still light, but the sun would be setting soon. You were laying on top of the blankets with only his jacket over you.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I know how important sleep is when you’ve gotten a head injury.” He set the tray down and knocked on his helmet with one hand. “I’ve had my fair share.”

You could tell. But he certainly was right, you felt like all you could do was sit in a dark room and sleep. You sat up a bit to see what was on the tray. There was a bowl of some kind of soup, a pile of strange-looking red berries, and a slice of bread. Next to that was a yellow cream that had a strong medicinal smell. Snotlout poured the rest of the water from the pitcher into a cup and set it down next to your food.

“The soup’s got mackerel in it, Gobber says it’s good for the head. Last time I got hurt they had me eat a bunch of berries so I went around and picked some for you. I mean I was already out in the forest so I figured why not?”

Maybe you weren’t as fluent as you thought. He didn’t speak the formal version of the language like you were taught and when he started to speed up the words just blended together. “What? I can’t speak that fast.” You weren’t sure why it seemed like his cheeks were dusted with pink.

“Nothing, sorry. The cream is for your cuts. Why don’t you eat first and then we can change your bandages.” He slowed down to a normal speed. You moved the tray closer to you so he would have room to sit. He took the opportunity.

You took a bite of your soup. It was somehow bland and salty, with a strong fishy flavor to boot. The berries were better, not very big, but nice and tart. “Thank you, Snotlout.”

“Ah don’t mention it.” He scooted a bit closer to you. “So where are you from?”

You told him all about your country. About the food and the festivals. Different celebrations during different seasons. You told him about the beauty and the colorful clothing and the jewelry. Oh how you missed your home. The feeling was only intensified when you took another bite of the soup. Nothing could grow on an island so rocky; none of the seasonings and herbs you were used to. Tears began to swell in your eyes, you tried to fight them back but you didn’t have the energy.

Snotlout set a gentle hand on your shoulder. “It sounds beautiful! I promise you’ll see it again.” You nodded, appreciating his tries at comforting you. “You know, I find the soup more tolerable when you dip the bread in it. You’re not the first to cry from the food on the island.”

You let out a laugh at that. Snotlout seemed to light up at the fact he made you a bit happier. He watched you the whole time as you dipped the bread into the soup, letting it absorb the broth, before taking a bite. You nodded at him, “It is better,” and gave a giggle. He stayed with you the whole time you ate, telling you about the island and the people on it. He told you about the chief, Stoick, who was a strong and courageous leader. He talked about his dad, who he admired greatly and looked up to. He told you about each of his friends, their talents and their dynamics. He mentioned some kind of training but didn’t say what exactly they did.

“Training? Are you like a soldier?”

He looked like he was debating how to answer. “Well that depends.”

“On what?”

“Do you like soldiers?”

You rolled your eyes and finished the last swig of your water. He’d taken off his helmet and revealed his messy brown hair. You had to admit he was decent looking, but you couldn’t afford to think like that. Your goal was getting off this island, a pretty boy would only distract you from that.

Snotlout noticed you’d finished your food and picked up the empty pitcher, “I’m going to fill this up while you change your bandages. There’s a bath house right out back with a pump for fresh water. Use it whenever you need.”

You nodded in acknowledgment as he handed you a roll of bandages he retrieved from his pants pocket. He turned to leave and you uncovered yourself to examine your wounds. There were a couple deep gashes on your calves and thighs, with smaller cuts and bruises peppered about. A long, deep slash stretched from the top of your left shoulder and curved around to the front of your bicep, about halfway down. Both your shoulders were sore and your arms bruised. Your entire torso was wrapped in bandages, hiding any wounds from your hips up. You were sure your back was torn to shreds, you could feel the stiffness that indicated scabbing.

You started with your legs, unwrapping them and coating them in a decent layer of the balm, and then replacing the bandages. You repeated the process with your arms, wincing when you had to lift them too high up. Next was your torso, which meant slipping off your night gown. That was a complete nightmare; your muscles were killing you and your joints ached. You managed to lift the thing over your head with a huff. Unwrapping the bandages from around your back wasn’t as difficult, but it was still no easy task. You were already exhausted and debating whether or not you should just give up, but the fear of infection flooded your mind. You scooped the medicine in your right hand and tried to trace the cuts on your back, but all you got was a dollop on your shoulder before you felt a sharp, stabbing pain shoot down your arm. You slammed your other hand down on the tray and let out a grunt of frustration.

“Hey is everything okay in there?” Snotlout was standing outside.

“I can’t…I can’t lift my arms enough to get my back.” You answered him through the closed door.

“Do you want me to get help? I can ask one of the women.”

“No, just,” you wrapped one of the fur blankets you were sitting on around your hips and used the coat Snotlout had given you to cover your chest. “Come in here please.”

It took a second for him to open the door, when he did he set down the pitcher of water without a word and sat on the bed. Snotlout smirked at you, “If you wanted to feel my hands on you so bad you could’ve just asked.” That’s how he decided to break the silence? You rolled your eyes and hugged your knees. You didn’t know anyone else on this island and Snotlout hadn’t seemed untrustworthy. He rubbed his hands together to warm them and picked up the canister. “Just your back?”

“Yeah.” It was only a whisper. You felt his hands on you as he rubbed in what you had left on your shoulder. His touch was so gentle, he was trying so hard not to hurt you, but you shivered at the feeling of him anyway. The way his fingers ran up and down the sensitive flesh of your wounded back gave you goosebumps, you hoped he didn’t notice. His hands were a little cold, which you enjoyed in contrast to the heat your injuries produced. They weren’t soft, they were the calloused hands of someone who worked hard. You had to remind yourself to keep your breathing steady when his thumb ran over a spot just below your armpit.

Snotlout was silent the whole time, which you thought was unlike him, but you supposed you couldn’t really be sure. He removed his hands and you instantly missed the feeling. “Did you get the one on your face?”

Your hands shot up. “My face?”

“There’s a little cut under your eye.” He could see the worry written across your face. “Don’t worry, it makes you look cool, like a battle scar.”

You didn’t want battle scars, you wanted your skin to be how it always had. You took a deep sigh and squeezed your eyes shut, hoping no more tears would come.

“Hey no look at me.” Snotlout just barely touched your chin and turned your head toward him. He was still sitting behind you, but he was leaned forward so he could look into your eyes. You reluctantly opened them and saw his face just inches from yours. “It’s a tiny little thing. It’ll fade in no time and it’ll be like it was never there. Your pretty face won’t look any different.” You pressed your lips together to hide a smile as you blushed.

“Be quiet and put the stuff on it.” There wasn’t any malice in your words and Snotlout knew that. He did as he was told and cupped your left cheek in his hand, using his thumb to spread a thin layer just below your eye. His hand lingered for a moment longer than necessary, savoring the feeling growing in his chest.

“Do you need anything else?” His voice was soft spoken. You averted your eyes and shook your head. “Is this your bad arm?” He pointed to your right arm, which you were carefully cradling with your other hand.

“They’re both pretty sore, but yeah this one’s worse I think.”

“It might be fractured. We couldn’t tell when you were asleep, it wasn’t out of place or anything so that’s good. It’s probably a small break.” He stood up and knelt in front of the bed with the bandages in hand. “I’m gonna wrap it so it doesn’t get worse, okay?”

You stuck your hand out for him, using the other to keep your chest covered, as he wrapped your forearm with the bandages. You wondered how many times he’d been injured for him to be so good. Maybe caring for people was part of his job.

“Why are you helping me?” Sure he’d saved your life and pulled you from the sea, but why did he stick around?

He waited a moment before he answered, “Stoick put me in charge of taking care of you.”

He didn’t say it in a way that made it seem like he was bothered by you, but it still stung a bit. You hated feeling like a burden to him, certainly he’d rather be doing something else with his evening instead of caring for some girl he didn’t even know. You kept silent after that, hoping you could shrink into yourself. It stayed that way until he finished with the wrappings.

Snotlout rose to his feet and looked down at you, “You should get some more rest. I’ll be back in the morning, your bandages need to be changed once a day so I’ll be here to help again after dinner, sound good?”

You nodded, feeling a bit guilty. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Anything else you need? You shook your head. “Alright then, have a good night.”

“You too. Goodnight.” With that he picked up his helmet and left. You wrapped the remaining bandages around your torso and missed feeling his fingers, at least he’d be back tomorrow.

You tried to fall asleep, but your mind was too awake and the sky was too bright. You’d forgotten that the sun followed a different schedule this far north. When you did fall asleep you dreamt of black seas and lightning.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

The sun was illuminating your room by the time you woke up. You got to enjoy a couple hours of darkness before it was too bright to sleep. You pulled yourself out of bed and looked out the window; you could see the small bathhouse a few yards away. There weren’t any people, so you figured you’d seize the opportunity and finally wash the grime off of yourself. You took Snotlout’s jacket with you and limped your way out to the bathhouse.

Your little shack seemed to be on the outskirts of the island. There was one other cottage nearby with smoke coming out of the chimney, but you weren’t all that interested in getting to know whoever it was. You didn’t deem now as a fitting time for being neighborly. You made it to the bathhouse and looked around, it was maybe four times bigger than your room, the floor was stone and had a depression in the center for bathing. It wasn't large by any normal standards, but it could fit a handful of people in it. There were several water spouts around the perimeter of the tub, you went around turning them all on. The water was cold, as you figured it would be because next to the tub was a large pot set atop a wire rack with kindling underneath. It reminded you of the pot witches would use to cook children in the old fairytales you used to read and you scrunched your nose at the thought. You turned the faucet above the pot on and found a flint striker to ignite a fire.

You waited for a while as the pot began to bubble and boil. When you figured the water was hot enough, you carefully tipped the giant pot into the bath. Your fingered burned a bit, but seeing as you’d just survived a shipwreck, you didn’t really give the pain a second thought. You stripped off your clothes and placed them in a neat pile on the dusty floor, the idea that someone could walk in at any moment had your stomach in knots. You quickly stripped off your bandages and slipped into the bath. Your injuries weren’t bleeding anymore, so the bandages were mostly clean and only really used to keep the healing balm in place. The water was only lukewarm, you’d have to fiddle with the ratio next time, but the temperature wasn’t unbearable. Compared to the cold outside it seemed like a sauna.

You scrubbed the dirt and sand from your body, dipping your head underneath and stripping the oil from your scalp. The water helped support your aching joints and broken arm, taking the pain away for a few moments. You felt like you could float there all morning, but the water was cooling down fast — and frankly you’d had enough of drifting around in cold water for a lifetime. You pulled the plug at the bottom of the bath before forcing yourself out and cursed gravity once the pain returned.

You rewrapped your bandages, got dressed, and made your way back to your shack. You enjoyed the quiet for a few minutes before there was a knock at your door.

“Wakey wakey! I’ve got a surprise!” Snotlout’s voice had a funny tone that was full of excitement.

A surprise? What could it be? You lugged yourself to the door and opened it to see a very excited Snotlout with something behind his back. He placed in front of you a large canvas sack, you opened it and your heart nearly burst.

“This is my stuff!” The bag was filled with your things, you pulled everything out and examined it. There were two outfits, a deep purple dress and a red skirt with a matching blouse, a pair of black leather slippers (you were overjoyed to have a pair of shoes), a small wooden box that had been ruined by the salt water, and a bottle of perfume. Thank the heavens I don’t have to smell like a wild animal you thought to yourself.

“A suitcase washed up on the other side of the island the day after you did. It was destroyed but we managed to salvage some of the things inside.”

Your smile was so big your cheeks were starting to get sore. “Thank you so much!” It wasn’t nearly all of the stuff you’d had with you on the ship, but getting any of it back was something you hadn’t even thought was possible.

“I was thinking maybe you could get dressed and we could take a walk? It would be good for you to get some exercise.” He was rocking back and forth on his heels like a little kid.

“Sure!” Some fresh air might be good for your health, at the very least it would keep you from getting cabin fever.

“Good. There’s, uh, someone you need to meet.” With that he stepped outside, leaving you alone to change.

@ali-griff <3

#how to train your dragon #httyd x reader #httyd snotlout #snotlout x reader #snotlout jorgenson #gabriel howell #astrid hofferson #ruffnut thorston #tuffnut thorston #fishlegs ingerman

113 notes · View notes