#i feel like it would work really well when paired with a solid. but then i would have to match something with it and i'm lazy

[journeyman-tier-fibercraft]

My Wips have Wips at this point but this is another Hanukkah present. Early on in my experimenting with crochet (like 2018 ish) I had made a waffle stitch cowl that my mum really liked but unfortunately got lost when we were moving house. I don't have any interest in remaking that particular cowl but this broken rib is similar and easy enough to knit while reading/not paying attention.

My mum's only request was that it was long enough to go around her neck twice and that it matches her jacket (a light plum colour). Together we picked out Hobbii's Fantasy Jumbo in Japanese Maples which matches her coat well enough and is extremely soft and easy to work with.

I cast on 33 stitches yesterday provisionally and will knit in pattern until it's long enough/I'm almost out of yarn before kitchenering the ends together and hoping I don't!! Twist!!

[fireinmoonshot]

unreal | robert reynolds x reader

THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR MARVEL'S THUNDERBOLTS*.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Reader Summary: Bob offers for you to share his room while your room in the Watch Tower gets renovated... there's just one problem – he didn't think about the fact that he'd have to share a bed with you. Warnings: General mentions of mental health issues (nothing specific) Word Count: 2.1k A/N: Okay, so it's been over a week since I last wrote for Bob and the response on my last Bob fic is insane. I cannot believe how much love it's gotten 🥹 I have since seen Thunderbolts three more times and I love Bob even more. This was the fic idea that won in the poll I posted earlier today and it was so enjoyable to write. I am really looking forward to writing more for him (including the other ideas that I had in the poll). I hope you all enjoy this one as well. Requests are always open! 💗

“You can share my room” are five words that Bob regrets the second that they’re out of his mouth. Not because he doesn’t want you to share his room, but just because now that it’s out in the open, the prospect of you saying yes is terrifying.

When you’d all moved into the Watch Tower, you hadn’t considered the fact that most of the building was still a work in progress. There were so many rooms that still needed to be built and while there had been bedrooms, there weren’t many and Valentina had insisted on building you all your own. Nothing but the best for my New Avengers, she’d said.

Your bedroom was the last one to be renovated. Every other member of the team had gone through the room-sharing phase while their rooms were completed. Yelena and Ava had always shared, though they’d hated every second of it – both girls loved their personal space. Both Bucky and John refused to share with Alexei. Bob had managed to come out the other end without sharing a room at all. 

Until his offer to you, that is.

“Seriously?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest as you look around at the others. “None of you are offering to share with me so you’re making Bob offer?”

Walker scoffs. “You think we put him up to it? Please.”

“No one put me up to it,” Bob shakes his head. “I just thought I’d ask you since… y’know… none of the others have… and you probably don’t wanna sleep on the couch out here.”

He’s not really sure why he’d offered, actually. The words had been out of his mouth before he’d had a chance to think them over, which was strange for him. He supposes it might have something to do with the fact that he’s been crushing on you for a solid few months. It would be fine, though. He didn’t have a couch in his room, but he’s slept on his fair share of floors before and this one would be no different. Sharing a bedroom with someone he was slowly falling head over heels with was definitely going to end well.

You cross the room and put a hand down on Bob’s shoulder. “Are you really sure you want me to share with you? I know you haven’t had to share before and I really don’t want to intrude on your space.” Your voice is soft, for Bob’s ears only.

He nods once. “It’ll be fine. I promise.”

You don’t completely believe him. He’s undoubtedly the most independent out of all of you, but it’s been proven that he really does love being around other people. The last thing you want is to get in his way or make him uncomfortable.

“Bob,” you meet his eyes. 

His lips turn up into a small smile at the tone of your voice. “I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to share with you.”

That seems to do the trick, because you nod your head and step away from Bob after that before announcing that you’re going to go and start getting all your things together. 

That afternoon, you move your things into his room so that the renovations can start on your own. Bob makes some space for you – not that he has a lot of things himself – but he wants to make you feel comfortable. He doesn’t want you to feel like you’re living in his room. He wants it to feel like it’s yours too.

It only starts to feel real once it’s gotten dark outside and everyone has started to retire to bed. Once he’s in his room again, sitting on a bean bag in the corner, a book in his hand and he sees you walk into his room, hair a little bit wet from your shower. 

“I just realised,” you say, stopping in the centre of the room and looking around, “that you don’t have a couch.”

“Oh, yeah,” Bob nods, closing the book and sitting up a little straighter. “I just sit here. I, uh, I changed the sheets on the bed earlier so that you don’t have to sleep in dirty ones.”

You frown and look over at him. “Me? I’m not sleeping in your bed, Bob. I assumed I’d sleep on the couch. But I can just sleep on your beanbag. I’ll go and find some blankets…”

You turn to go and leave the room when you see Bob standing up in the corner of your eye. He stumbles a little, the blanket on the ground in front of him briefly catching his feet, and then rights himself. 

“No, you don’t have to do that,” he says. “You take the bed. I’m fine with sleeping on the floor. I’ve done it more often than you think.”

“Bob… you’re not sleeping on the floor.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s really okay.”

He really doesn’t mind. As long as you’re comfortable, he will be too. He’s slept in worse places. Plus, he doubts he’d even be able to sleep soundly knowing you were uncomfortable on the cold, hard floor. How could he let the person he likes sleep there rather than on his perfectly comfortable bed?

You cross your arms over your chest and shake your head, slowly starting to walk towards him. This is a losing battle, you can see that. There’s no way that Bob is going to relent and let you sleep on the floor or the bean bag, and there’s no way you’re going to let him sleep there either. You couldn’t live with yourself if he did.

“Why don’t we both take the bed?” You suggest.

Bob’s eyes widen a little and he opens his mouth and then closes it again without saying anything. That’s the last thing he’d expected you to say. Sharing a bed? Had any of the others shared beds when they’d shared rooms? He highly doubted that. The members of the New Avengers weren’t particularly comfortable when it came to physical contact. 

“I don’t think we have to do that,” he mutters.

“Why not? I don’t mind it. That way, we both get to sleep on the bed and neither of us have to be uncomfortable on the floor. I promise I’ll stick to my side.”

Bob stares at you for a moment. You’re really suggesting this. You really want to share a bed with him. But how is he supposed to share a bed with you? This is not going to be beneficial towards his crush at all. It’s definitely not going to help him in his mission to get over you… he hadn’t started on that mission yet but he was definitely going to start soon… oh, he really shouldn’t have suggested this…

“All right, then,” he hums, and then squeezes his eyes shut as he winces. What the hell is he doing? Why are the words he’s speaking and the thoughts he’s having so out of sync?

You smile at him – one of the beautiful smiles that always sets his heart alight – and then move towards the bed. “Which side do you usually sleep on?” 

“Closest to the door,” he says, starting to walk towards it.

“A man after my own heart,” you grin, voice teasing as you pull the sheets back to the other side of the bed and slip underneath them. “Can you get the lights?” 

Bob tries his best to ignore your words, thinking about how he is actually after your heart, and slowly walks towards the light switch. He turns them off, then makes his way towards the bed in the dark. His heart is racing in his chest. It’s not until he’s sitting on the bed, hands fisted in the sheets, that he realises he’s sweating bullets.

He’d forgotten. How could he forget something like this? He’s always run hot. He’s been known to wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, especially after a nightmare.

Maybe, once you’re asleep, he can slip out of the bed and go back to the bean bag without waking you up… surely that would be okay. He could make up some excuse in the morning about not being able to sleep in the bed…

“Everything all right?” You ask from beside him.

The room is so dark that he can’t see you to tell how far away from him you are, but your voice is close. He trusts that you’ve stuck to your word, though, and that you haven’t crept over to his side of the bed.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea actually.”

He hears the sheets rustling and can somehow tell that you’re sitting up now. 

“Why not?”

Bob sighs and tucks a piece of his hair behind his ear. He doesn’t know why he’s so embarrassed about this. It’s not like you don’t know. You were there in the vault. You heard him admit it to Yelena. You’ve seen so many parts of him that he hates and you’ve never judged him for any of them, so why would you judge him for this now?

“Hey,” your voice is gentle. “You can tell me. If you don’t want me here, I can go.”

“No,” Bob shakes his head, quick to respond. He doesn’t want you to feel like you’re not welcome here when truthfully, all he wants is to have you here with him. He just wishes he wasn’t so awkward about it. “It’s not that. It’s just…”

“There’s no rush.” 

He turns to look at where you’re sitting, his eyes now adjusted to the darkness so he can see you just barely. “I run hot,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable if I sweat a lot during the night. I should just sleep on the floor by myself.”

There’s silence for a moment and Bob takes that as your answer. He swings his legs off the bed and is just about to stand up when he feels the mattress shift underneath him, and then he feels your warmth pressed against his side.

“Hey, no,” you hum, leaning your arm against his. “Don’t do that. You don’t have to worry about things like that with me. If you sleep on the floor, I’m sleeping on the floor too. You’re not giving up your comforts for me.”

Bob turns to look at you through the darkness. “I’d just make you uncomfortable.”

“No,” you reach down and find his hand, entwining your fingers together. It’s true that the members of your team are bad when it comes to physical contact, but you don’t mind it. Bob’s always been a little concerned about touch ever since the incident that had happened a few months back but you can tell by the way he doesn’t tense up at your touch that he doesn’t mind it. You’re surprised to find you can actually feel him relax a little. “You won’t.” 

“I won’t?” 

“No,” you repeat. “I’m really glad you offered for me to share your room, Bob. I don’t care if you run so hot that the whole bed feels like a giant inferno. I’m not going to leave unless you ask me to.”

“I won’t. ” 

You give his hand a squeeze. “Okay, so should we get back into bed and try and get some sleep then?”

Bob nods and then remembers it’s dark and you probably can’t see him. “Yeah, all right.”

He hates the feeling of emptiness when you let go of his hand. He can feel the mattress shifting as you move back to your side of the bed. It takes every part of him to swing his legs back up and to lay down. It’s only once his head hits the pillow that he feels truly relaxed. It’s strange, even just knowing that you’re right beside him puts him a little bit at ease.

“I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” You say, voice so close to him that he almost jumps.

“Okay,” he murmurs, staring up at the dark ceiling above him. 

He’s so certain he’s going to wake up in the morning and all of this will have just been a dream. Not a good dream, not a bad dream. Just an unreal one. One where you hold his hand and sleep beside him. One where, as he’s drifting off to sleep he can feel the warmth of your body inches away. One where he can remember the feeling of your arm pressed against his with such clarity it almost feels real. 

But when he wakes up in the morning, the first thing he sees is you sleeping soundly beside him and he knows it wasn’t a dream. A small smile makes its way onto his face. He can’t remember the last time he slept through the night without waking up… not until right now. 

[illyrianbitch]

Are We Still Friends?

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: Worried about how his new relationship seems to be changing him, you talk to Azriel about your concerns. Things take a turn when he refuses to listen.

Warnings: some wine sipping, gossiping, angst, miscommunication, friend fighting, jealousy (but no one realizes), az being defensive and blind

Word Count: 5k

(Completed) Series Masterlist | Part Two

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

“It’s not that I don’t like her.”

The words tasted as false as they were, and you grimaced the moment they slipped out, already bracing for the look Mor would throw your way. True to form, she didn’t disappoint, her expression halfway between amusement and exasperation.

A defeated sigh escaped as you accepted the glass of wine she offered, watching as she filled her own nearly to the brim.

“You’re better than me, then,” she hummed, settling back onto the couch across from you. “Because I don’t like her.”

You raised a brow. “You don’t like many people nowadays.”

She shrugged, casual as ever, though a smirk tugged at her lips. “True. I’m not exactly lining up for any peace medals, am I?”

You chuckled softly, leaning back in your chair. “I just… have this odd feeling about her, you know?”

Mor tilted her head, letting out a noncommittal hum. “Oh, I know. She drags Az around on a leash.”

You were tempted to say something about the irony in her words—remind her, in a loving manner, that she might've been guilty of that once upon a time, too. But you decided against it. She wasn't wrong.

You swirled the wine in your glass, watching the dark liquid move in slow, mesmerizing circles. The feeling wasn’t new; it had been there since the first time you’d met her. Azriel’s new girlfriend Selene was perfectly fine—charming, even. But there was something else, something you couldn’t quite name. Like a faint hum in the background of a quiet room, just irritating enough to notice but not enough to prove anything was wrong.

“Why don’t you talk to him?”

You glanced up, finding Mor’s bright brown eyes sharp and focused on you, the lazy humor of a moment ago gone.

“I doubt he’ll listen,” you admitted, resting the bottom of your glass on your thigh. “He didn’t listen to you.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s really not.”

Mor raised a brow like she wanted to argue, but she only sighed in response. “He’s been so weird about his love life. Gwyn didn’t work out. Elain’s probably the happiest out of all of us. Maybe he’s treading lightly.”

“Maybe,” you murmured, though you weren’t convinced.

Azriel had changed in small, almost imperceptible ways since everything had settled—since everyone had paired off and fallen in love. Everyone except you. And him.

You were fine with your situation, content in the quiet steadiness of your life. Azriel wasn’t. You knew it. He knew it, though he’d never admit it. So much of his self-worth was tangled up in whether he believed himself worthy of love. And the absence of it—of a solid, undeniable love in his life, of a partner, of a potential bond—seemed to weigh on him. To him, it wasn’t just an empty space; it was a failure.

You’d almost go as far as to say he’d become desperate, living in the shadows and watching his brothers experience loves so profound they might as well have been plucked from stories meant to inspire poets and dreamers.

Mating bonds were rare. You reminded yourself of that often. Your family was just an anomaly, their luck skewed impossibly high. But logic wasn’t enough to soothe Azriel, and it certainly wouldn’t stop him from chasing it. He was obsessive. Stubborn.

Nothing you said or did could change his perspective.

Mor’s voice pulled you out of your head again. “Speak of the devil,” she sang out. “Hi, Elain.”

Your gaze snapped up to the doorway, finding Elain standing just beyond the archway. She looked like a spooked deer, frozen in place with that polite smile you’d come to recognize as her default around company she hadn’t fully warmed up to yet.

“We were just talking about Azriel’s unfortunate romantic history,” Mor said smoothly. You glanced at Elain for her reaction.

It had taken time for that particular history to fade. Maybe it was appropriate to joke about now, but you personally would’ve waited a few more years before bringing it up so flippantly. Mor, however, had little patience for such niceties.

Elain’s expression didn’t shift beyond a faint flicker in her eyes, and you realized how much her composure had improved over the years. Then again, it had been a while since she and Lucien had found each other for good—long enough for their bond to solidify and for them to leave for the Day Court after their mating ceremony.

A twinge of jealousy sparked in you before you brushed it aside.

“We’re just gossiping in general. Want to join us?” you asked, gesturing to the chair beside you. Plush and inviting, it mirrored the one you sat on. “Unless Lucien is waiting for you upstairs?”

Elain’s cheeks flushed crimson. 

“Lucien’s still with Feyre, catching up,” she said, stepping further into the room. “What are you drinking?”

Mor reached for the bottle on the table, plucking it up and turning it in her hand to read the label.

“Something good and expensive,” she replied, with a half-hearted air of indulgence, before tilting her head at Elain with a faint grin.

“It’s from Rhys’s rather gluttonous collection,” you said, sensing Elain’s hesitation. “It won’t be missed at all.”

She smiled at that. “I’d love some.”

“There are a lot of glasses in that cabinet,” you said, pointing to the wood door with ornate carvings. “Grab whichever one you’d like.”

Mor sat up straighter, scooting herself back into the pillows behind her. You hummed, impressed, at her ability to hold both her full wine glass and the bottle without so much as a wobble.

You hadn’t spent much time with Elain one-on-one. Emissary duties had kept you busy during the years the Archeron sisters had adjusted to their new lives. But you liked Elain, from what you’d seen. She had a kind heart. She also had a sharp humor that surfaced at the oddest moments, usually when she and Lucien were whispering in corners, conspiratorial before seamlessly rejoining whatever social event they were at like they’d never left.

Elain returned and sat down with her chosen glass—a delicate crystal piece that gleamed in the soft light. Mor went to fill it instantly. 

“Can I ask why you were discussing Azriel’s romantic life?” Elain asked. Her voice was smooth, certain. No hesitation.

It didn’t faze her anymore, you realized—being such a strange, pivotal turning point in Azriel’s past experiences. She’d made peace with it, the way immortality seemed to demand. Time softened the edges of even the messiest situations, turning them into stories you could recount with startling detachment. Almost humorous, really.

Because how else could you explain being casual about the fact that your best friend had almost allowed his pride—and arrogance—and, somehow simultaneously, his insecurity—to lead him into a blood duel over Elain’s affections? A blood duel.

But now, it was just… something to write off. A distant memory, softened by the years and Lucien’s easy confidence. Lucien was better than you. You would’ve held that grudge against Azriel for many more years—long enough to make it a point of pride. But then again, Lucien had won everything he wanted in the end. He had the girl, the bond, the certainty that whatever lingering rivalry Azriel might feel was entirely one-sided.

It wasn’t important enough for Lucien to waste any more energy on.

You exchanged a glance with Mor, who arched a brow, clearly just as amused by Elain’s openness.

“Y/n doesn’t like his new girlfriend,” Mor said.

Your mouth fell open. “You don’t either.”

“True,” Mor agreed easily. She looked to Elain. “We don’t like her.”

“For clarification,” you said firmly, “I never said I didn’t like her.”

Mor laughed, sipping her wine with an amused grin.

Your face fell flat. “What?”

“Nothing,” she replied breezily. “But if you get a bad feeling about someone, that’s usually dislike.”

You resisted the urge to scowl, already turning over the guilt in your mind. You didn’t want to be that person—the kind who dismissed another female off the bat. Maybe your gut was wrong this time. Maybe her smile had reached her eyes, and you’d been too preoccupied to notice. Maybe her tone hadn’t been as assessing as you remembered, and you were projecting. You wanted to like her. You wanted to be happy for Azriel.

But he didn’t seem happy. He seemed distracted. Busy. Not himself.

And not the kind of busy you’d seen before—the methodical, obsessive focus he funneled into work or training. This was different, scattered in a way you couldn’t quite pin down. It had made sense in the beginning, when things were new and exciting, but now it was starting to feel uncomfortable. He’d started missing things—small things at first, like sparring sessions or those late-night conversations you, Mor, and him would have when you couldn’t sleep. Then came the bigger things. He’d stopped being able to review external court updates with you, even when those meetings were critical for your diplomatic roles.

Azriel had always been the one you could count on. Out of everyone, you considered him your closest friend—even more than Mor, though you’d never admit it out loud. But now it seemed like every time you made plans, Selene needed him more.

And then there was how fast it was all moving. Too fast. At a recent family dinner, she’d casually mentioned that she and Azriel could move in together—offhand, like it was the most obvious next step. Something about leaving the townhouse behind, creating a space with décor that matched her aesthetic. Azriel had just stayed quiet, looked at her like she’d just proposed the most brilliant idea in existence.

You noticed he did that. The way he looked at her. The way he’d looked at Elain and Gwyn back when they were seeing each other. It weirded you out—that tendency to put the people he saw as romantic interests on a pedestal, as though they were flawless. As though they were something he didn’t deserve.

You knew where it came from. That deep-rooted insecurity that even centuries hadn’t managed to erase. He didn’t see it, the way he wore himself down trying to prove his worth to people who, for the most part, had already accepted him. But you saw it. You always had.

And it made it harder to like Selene. To trust her intentions. Maybe that was unfair, but you couldn’t help but feel like she was just taking—taking all the parts of Azriel that used to be all of yours to share, and twisting them into something else. Something that didn’t include his family.

Still, you wanted to try. To let go of the gnawing irritation in your chest and convince yourself it didn’t matter. If she made him happy—truly happy—then none of it should matter. You were adamant on ensuring that you didn’t turn into the stereotypical overbearing female best friend.

Elain tapped her glass lightly. “Lucien doesn’t like her.”

You blinked back into reality. “Really?”

She nodded, a beat passing before she added, “To be honest, I’m not sure I do either.”

Mor leaned forward, grinning like she’d been handed a stack of gold. You almost wished Amren was here to bask in the moment. Amren didn’t like Azriel’s girlfriend, either. Maybe your family really was as unwelcoming as people claimed. Or maybe Selene simply brought out another level of scrutiny. The thought of either option made you feel bad— gross. 

“Why?” Mor asked.

“She was dismissive toward Lucien. And,” Elain hesitated, her brow furrowing slightly, “She seemed… entitled, I suppose. Especially with Azriel. Like she expected him to accommodate her every whim.”

You frowned, turning over her words. “I’m sure she was just nervous. We can be an intimidating group. Maybe she just needs time to settle in. We just want Az to be happy, right? So, if she makes him happy, then I’m absolutely fine with her.”

The silence that followed was thick. For a moment, you wondered if you’d said something wrong. Something weird.

“Are you?” Elain asked, her tone sincere.

“Are you?” Mor echoed at the same time, voice dripping with sarcasm.

You shot Mor a glare, but she only raised her brows and sipped her wine again, infuriatingly unbothered. Exhaling, you willed yourself to meet Elain’s gaze.

“I am,” you said, trying for conviction. “Really.”

Elain pursed her lips. Her gaze shifted to Mor, lingering longer than you liked, and then back to you.

“Alright,” she hummed. “I guess I was wrong.”

You stilled. Elain reclined deeper into her seat, accepting a refill from Mor. Her wine glass remained only half-full compared to yours and Mor’s.

Curiosity burned. You leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

Elain furrowed her brows. “What do I mean about what?”

“You said you guess you were wrong. What does that mean?”

Mor’s gaze bored into the side of your face. Any second now, you were sure she’d make some quip about how bothered you were. But you weren’t bothered. Just curious.

Elain swirled her wine, watching the light catch the liquid. “I’m not sure. Things feel off. Like something’s coming. Az needs help with it, I think.”

You froze. “Off? Like—how?”

She hesitated, thoughtful. “It’s hard to explain,” she murmured, her voice quieter now. “But I feel it. In my chest. My visions sometimes do that. That’s why I asked.”

Well, that unsettled you. You glanced at Mor, whose amused grin had fallen into something more contemplative.

It seemed you might need to have a conversation with Azriel after all.

“I don’t like that,” you admitted, your nose crinkling. 

“I think I heard him get back earlier. Go talk to him,” Mor said, her tone gentler now, though a hint of mischief lingered in her eyes. You didn’t read too much into that. Mor’s eyes tended to be expressive. She also tended to be mischievous when her blood was primarily red wine. 

“Okay,” you said. “Maybe just to check in.”

Elain nodded. “Just to check in,” she echoed, almost reassuring.

“Have fun,” Mor added, her grin returning just enough to be annoying, but not enough to distract you from the unease curling in your chest.

You didn’t respond, instead taking another slow sip of your drink. The glass clinked softly as you set it down on the table before you made your way upstairs.

After a moment of comfortable silence, Mor turned to Elain. “Did you really feel something that unsettling?”

Elain let out a laugh. “No,” she said lightly. “I completely made that up. But she doesn’t need to know that.”

Mor’s lips curled into a slow, wicked smile. Seconds later, her head tilted back in a laugh just as vibrant as it was unapologetic.

“Genius,” she declared, raising her glass in mock salute.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The walk upstairs was quiet.

The townhome, in general, was quieter nowadays. Aside from the times others came to visit—like Lucien and Elain—only you and Azriel lived here full time.

When you reached Azriel’s bedroom door, your steps faltered for a moment. There was a hesitation in you that hadn't existed before. You raised your hand to knock, but the action felt more awkward than usual. It made you sad, momentarily, that you hesitated. You never second-guessed yourself with Azriel. You wanted to tread carefully in this new era of his life, though. You didn’t want to overstep, to become a nuisance. But whatever this was—whatever had unsettled Elain enough to mention it—you needed to know. Azriel had always been a constant for you, and if something felt “off,” you wanted to understand why.

Your knuckles rapped lightly on the door. “Az?” 

Inside, you heard the shuffle of movement, followed by his low, familiar voice. “Come in.”

You didn’t see Azriel immediately, but the smell of soap and the damp air told you that he recently showered. Shadows slithered across the floor, comfortable and excited, exploring the familiar confines of his room.

You greeted the tendrils as you usually did, letting them brush against your legs as you flopped onto his bed. The bed, like everything else in his room, was simple: plain black sheets, no extravagant pillows, just the bare necessities. It used to drive you mad, the emptiness of it all.  But what was in his room spoke volumes—— bare walls except for a dagger mount on one side, a small uncluttered desk with a well-worn sharpening stone. 

Azriel exiting the bathroom pulled your attention, your eyes settling on him as he rubbed his wet hair thoroughly with a towel. He shook his head slightly, wet curls bouncing onto his forehead, and met your gaze. His eyes flicked to where you lay, scanning your body. He nodded toward your feet.

“C’mon,” he almost whined. “No shoes on the bed.”

You looked down at yourself, grimacing as you realized that your shoes were, indeed, on his clean comforter. A simple set of house slippers, so nothing entirely too dirty, but it had completely slipped your mind. Very comfortable shoes, you noted, maybe you’d get Feyre a pair as a solstice gift.

“Oh whoops,” you said with an apologetic smile. “My bad, clean freak.”

He rolled his eyes, but you caught the quirk of his lips anyways.

For a moment, the old sense of comfort settled over you. But then, a thought crept in—the thought that maybe you shouldn’t lie on his bed like this anymore. It had been fine before, but now… now it felt different. He had someone else in his life. It wasn’t weird, exactly, but it was a little inappropriate.

You sat up straighter.

“Did you and Mor grow tired of rehashing the same centuries old gossip?” He teased.

You snorted, watching as his shadows flitted above his shoulders. They were amused, laughing in their own way. “Never,” you responded, pushing yourself off his bed. You were drawn to the otherside of his room, to the simple dresser against the wall. “Elain joined us this time.”

Your back was to him, but you had a feeling that the momentary silence, the stillness that you felt, was a knee-jerk reaction from Azriel—something reminiscent of embarrassment, shame, or guilt at her name. But all he responded was, “Oh?”

“I like her,” you said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I kinda wish I spent more time with her…”

You paused, your words trailing off quietly as you took in the small details before you. 

Azriel’s dresser had always been the one surface he decorated, not because he cared for decoration, but because it was the only surface large enough to hold anything. Over the years, it had become a quiet testament to the things that mattered to him: a mix of Solstice and birthday gifts, trinkets you’d both collected on missions and trips. You liked seeing what had changed, what had been added. It gave you a glimpse into where Azriel had been, who had been with him. 

Lately, there had been more—more trinkets, more oddities that stood in stark contrast to the weapons displayed elsewhere, the ones mostly hidden away in his closet. A macaroni necklace from Nyx. A horribly made clay version of him you’d created during a drunken pottery night with Feyre, Mor, and Amren.

But now, the dresser was foreign. The once familiar surface had been wiped clean, replaced by delicate perfume bottles, jewelry that looked too fine to be his, and a candle that smelled—oddly—like the puke of a flower faerie. Some of it was new. Most of it was hers.

Azriel’s presence had vanished from his own furniture entirely.

“Huh.”

“What?” Azriel asked.

You glanced over your shoulder. “I see you’ve decorated more.”

Azriel tilted his head, and a few of his shadows slithered down his body, crossing the room to pool around your ankles. “I guess,” he said. “Selene said my room needed more life.”

You leaned forward, brushing your fingers along the ceramic jewelry dish, the cool surface sending a strange chill through your skin. The shadows flickered over your hand, almost as if they were inspecting it too. They moved with purpose, then slowly obscured it, hiding it from view.

You frowned, confused.

Azriel, still silent, was rifling through his closet. You could feel the weight of his eyes on you as he moved, but he said nothing. The shadows returned to his side as you turned to look at him.

"Are you going somewhere?" you asked, trying to break the silence.

Now, Azriel barely spared you a glance.

“Yeah. Meeting Selene,” he replied simply.

After a few seconds of silence, Azriel turned his head and properly held your gaze. “Why? Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you responded with a casual wave of your hand, but Elain’s words echoed in your mind. You cleared your throat. “Well, actually, no. I was hoping I could talk to you.”

He frowned, standing up straighter, his wings flexing with the motion. “Is it something serious?”

You paused, carefully filtering through your words. “No, just something that’s been on my mind.”

Azriel studied you, doubt flickering in his hazel eyes. It was the kind of look that always made you feel like he was reading you too easily. He probably didn’t believe you, not entirely—but he nodded anyway. His lips curved into a small, apologetic smile. “Raincheck then?”

You mirrored his smile, though it felt thin. “Yeah, sure. We can talk tomorrow, once we’re back from the Hewn City.”

Azriel stilled. The way his gaze dropped to the floor and lingered felt like a guilty dog, an animal caught in an act forbidden. “Shit,” he said, his tone cautious. “I can’t go.”

You blinked, the words taking a moment to settle. “Seriously? Az, Rhys is expecting an update.”

“I’m sorry.” He sounded sincere enough. It didn’t matter. “But you can handle it on your own, you know this.” 

“Are you serious?” you said, the hurt slipping out before you could stop it. “I don’t want to deal with Keir alone.”

Azriel sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll talk to Rhys, but Selene’s been wanting to—”

“Never mind,” you cut him off, shaking your head. You forced a smile. “Have fun tonight. And tomorrow.”

Azriel scanned your face. After another moment of silence, he sighed.

“Okay, what is it?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “You clearly have something on your mind. Tell me.”

You hesitated, holding his gaze. “I actually wanted to talk to you about Selene.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened instantly. He looked away, his tongue running across his teeth as he shook his head. “Not you too. Don’t be like this.”

Your frown deepened, offended by the immediate shift in tone. “Be like what? I haven’t even said anything yet.”

He met your eyes again, his stare almost challenging. “We both know what you’re going to say.”

“Do we?”

“First Mor, then Nesta, and now you.” His voice was sharp, but not loud. “Should I be concerned that the females in my life are so quick to rally against my girlfriend?”

You scoffed, crossing your arms to mirror his pose. “Well, yeah, Az. Maybe you should be.”

He rolled his eyes, the shadows at his feet flickering with the motion. “Fine. What do you want to tell me, then?”

For a moment, you hesitated, the words lingering on the edge of your tongue. Azriel had always been good at looking through you, unraveling thoughts you hadn’t fully formed yet. And now, under the weight of his sharp gaze, you felt exposed.

“I just want to make sure you’re happy.”

Something flickered in his expression, quick and fleeting—too fast for you to decipher. For the first time in a long while, Azriel felt unreadable, like he’d drawn a curtain between himself and you. “Really?” he asked, his tone tight, almost incredulous.

You faltered, a small thread of doubt weaving its way through your resolve. Was he happy? Would he even tell you if he wasn’t?

“Yes, really,” you replied, a defensive edge creeping into your voice. “You’ve been distant lately. Running around at her beck and call. None of us know her. I want to understand what’s going on with you. I want to understand her.”

Azriel’s wings shifted again, his gaze hardening.

“I want to make sure this is the kind of relationship you want,” you finished, quieter now.

The room fell into silence, heavy and still. Azriel watched you as if he was turning your words over and over in his mind. You waited, unsure of what to expect—if anything at all.

“I wouldn’t be in a relationship I didn’t want. Can we drop it, please.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. What a strange, dismissive answer. It bothered you— bothered you more than anything he’d ever told you before. 

“Az, I just don’t want you to change who you are for someone. You don’t need to cater to her every whim.”

His expression darkened, shadows curling tighter around his boots. “I’m her boyfriend. I do what she asks.”

You raised an eyebrow, unable to stop the scoff that slipped out. Azriel had never been so clipped with you. “That’s not the definition of a boyfriend. That’s the definition of a bitch.”

Azriel’s jaw clenched, his wings flaring in irritation. “Excuse me?”  His voice cut through the room. “Do you really think I’m some incompetent love-sick loser?”

“I think you stop seeing flaws in the people you love.”

The words hung between you, heavier than you’d anticipated. A small part of you wondered if “love” was the word Azriel would use to describe his feelings for her. Another part worried that he didn’t correct you.

“That’s not true.”

“It’s not?”

“No,” he snapped. “I can clearly see that you’re being unfair. Quick to judge, much like Mor. That’s a flaw.”

“Oh, please,” you shot back, “You know what I meant. The people you’re infatuated with—”

“Where is this sudden concern coming from?” he interrupted, his shadows now beginning to curl between you like restless mediators, unsure where to settle. “Are you trying to cause issues?”

Something ran hot through your body.

“Seriously? I’m talking to you about this because I care. Because Elain had some cryptic feeling about you—”

“Elain is involved in this conversation, too?” His voice dripped with frustration now. “Gods, Y/n, should I send word for Gwyn while we’re at it? Get her opinion?”

“What the hell has gotten into you?” You took an authoritative step forward.  “I’ve never judged you. I’ve always tried to support you and your messy love life, no matter how complicated. Don’t you trust me, Azriel? As a friend?”

Azriel didn’t respond immediately, his shadows flickering uncertainly, still deciding whether to retreat or rise.

You gestured around the room. “Look at this place. You’ve erased all traces of your family—of you, of us. Where did you even put—”

“Oh, gods.” Azriel’s voice broke through, and for a moment, you thought he might crumble. His wings folded, and his hand dragged across his face, the weight of his exhaustion sinking in. “She was right.”

You froze. “What?”

Azriel met your gaze, his eyes hesitant for a heartbeat before turning sharp. “About you. Selene said you were jealous. That you had feelings for me.”

The words hit like a slap, and your world tilted on its axis. “What?” you asked again, your voice breaking on the word. Maybe you had misheard him. Maybe he had misspoken.

“I told her she was wrong. But now…” He let the sentence hang in the air, searching your face for something that maybe wasn’t even there.

“Now, what?” Your voice rose, tinged with anger. “You think I’m here because I’m jealous? Because I have some… crush on you?”

His wings flared slightly at your tone, but he didn’t back down. “I don’t know. It’s just—why else would you care so much about this?”

Your stomach twisted, a deep, cold ache settling there. “Why else?” you repeated, the words bitter on your tongue. “Because I care about you, Azriel. Because you’ve been my friend for centuries. Are you seriously confused about this?” 

For a moment, Azriel’s expression faltered, but he didn’t apologize. Instead, he said, “I didn’t ask you to care about my love life.”

“You didn’t have to,” you snapped, stepping closer. “That’s what friends do. But you’re standing there, letting her perception of me—someone who doesn’t even know me—warp your judgment. You’ve known me longer than that. Or at least, I thought you did. And the fact that you’d entertain this—” You stopped, shaking your head. “It’s insulting.”

Azriel said nothing. He just stood there, shadows now curling tighter around him. 

You had no idea how this conversation had gotten away from you, no idea how it turned into this—where this defensiveness, this anger, had come from. This wasn’t Azriel. Loyal, overly so. Impulsive. Protective. 

Or maybe it was. Maybe that loyalty was directed at someone else now—someone who clearly saw you as something threatening. You’d never been on the other side of Azriel before. Never thought you’d see the day. The realization hit like a slap to the face, leaving you shocked, stunned, a pit opening in your stomach that felt too deep to climb out of.

“You know what? Forget it.” You stepped back, the fight draining out of you all at once.

Azriel’s brows furrowed. “Really? That’s it?”

You glanced at him over your shoulder, your lips curving into something that might have been a smile if it weren’t so bitter. “Yeah,” you said, your voice flat. “That’s it.”

You turned for the door, hand on the handle, but paused. The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them, sharp and pointed, a petty jab that felt equal parts satisfying and hollow. “Make sure to lock this door when you leave—I’d hate to accidentally stumble back in and throw myself at you.”

Azriel stiffened, his wings snapping taut behind him. For a brief second, you thought he might say something, anything. But he didn’t.

You closed the door behind you with a heavy thud.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

authors note: no one tell them they probs have feelings for each other bc they’ll probably fight you (also elains moment is so self indulgent bc i would totally be making shit up based off my powers. like yeah actually you can’t be mean to be :/ powers are saying you’ll die if you are)

Part Two

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: 

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon 

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters 

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @feyretopia  @ninthcircleofprythian @velariscalling @azrielrot

@justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli @mrsjna @anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound

@melissat1254

@secretsicanthideanymore

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

@angel-graces-world-of-chaos @acoazlove @paradisebabey @inkedinshadows

azriel tag list 🫶🏻:@thisiskaylin @serrendiipty @acourtofsteelandthunder  @mortqlprojections @ushijima-stits @honethatty12

[navybrat817]

Just to See You Smile

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Your emotions get the better of you at work, and someone just wants you to smile again.

Word Count: Over 1.1k

Warnings: Crying, bit of low self-esteem, fluff, sweetness, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)

A/N: Not in a great headspace at work (and won't be for the rest of the week), so I wrote this small thing. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

It wasn't professional to cry at work. Letting your emotions get the better of you was something to do off the clock. You could usually grin and bear it on the bad days but today was more difficult than usual and you could explain why. Everything just felt heavy, like the weight of the world was pushing you into the ground until it buried you. Until you couldn't breathe. And you didn't make it to the bathroom in time before the tears came. 

At least no one saw you. 

Grabbing a tissue to wipe your face after a few minutes, you studied yourself in the mirror. While you didn't have a full breakdown, it would've been obvious to anyone looking at you that you cried thanks to your puffy eyes. Maybe if you kept your head down and buried yourself in your work for a bit no one would notice. It wasn't like anyone noticed you anyway. No one really talked to you outside of needing help with an issue. 

A reliable teammate, and nothing more. 

With a deep breath, you walked out of the bathroom and told yourself not to cry again until you got home. But you were so busy keeping your head down that you ran straight into a wall. Well, not a wall, but you did hit something solid. Firm. Warm. 

“Shit, I’m sorry.” The soft baritone sent tingles down your spine. So did the gentle grip on your arms. “Are you okay?” 

Lifting your gaze, you gasped and stared into a pair of startling blue eyes. Your cheeks warmed under the intense focus. Jesus, you walked right into Bucky Barnes. Crying in the bathroom was bad enough, you had to crash right into a super soldier who smelled like heaven and looked like a god?

“I think so,” you answered, your eyes wide when he stepped back to assess you. For a moment, you pretended he was looking at you and holding you as if you mattered. “Really, I’m fine. It was my fault for running into you, so I’m sorry.”

Your heart nearly ceased to beat when he gave you a small smile. Did he realize how it lit up the blue of his eyes? He didn't smile much when he roamed the halls, but he spared a smile for you. “You’re more than welcome to bump into me.” 

“I… Really?” you asked, your cheeks hot all over again. Bucky knew your name, had repeated it back to you when he introduced himself to you, but he kept to himself when he wasn't on missions. Surely, he didn't want you bumping into him. He was just teasing, being nice. 

But what if he wasn't just being nice?

So many thoughts raced through your mind when his thumbs grazed your skin. “Yeah, really.” 

“Oh.” You giggled, a small sound, and it was nice to think that he was flirting with you.

That feeling didn't last long when his eyes filled with concern. “Are you sure you're okay?” he asked, sweeping his gaze along your face. Had he figured out that you wept not too long ago? “You can tell me if you aren't.”

Your heart turned over at the sincerity in his tone. He wasn't asking just to ask, and it meant more than he knew that he wanted to know. But when you opened your mouth, ready to tell him that it was a rough day, you shut it just as quickly. He didn't need to hear about that. He had more important things to deal with than someone forgettable like you. 

After all, he was a hero and you were… well, you. 

“I just…” 

He raised an eyebrow. “Just what?”

You realized you were holding your breath with him so close and finally exhaled. “I just need to get back to work, Sergeant Barnes. That’s all.” You tried to smile at him, but he could likely see the strain behind it. Though you considered yourself invisible to many, he was too observant not to notice.

He stepped further away and let his hands fall to his sides. While he didn't look convinced by your answer, he respectfully didn't push it. “Call me Bucky,” he whispered.

“Bucky,” you whispered, tasting his name on your tongue.

“And I’m around if you ever want to talk. I don't mind,” he offered, gently brushing past you and making you shiver all over again. 

“Thanks,” you managed to say, turning to gaze after him. You may have checked him out, too, because you couldn't help yourself. Not when he wore those tactical pants so well. “Really, Bucky. Thank you. It means a lot,” you called after him. 

He didn't have to ask how you were doing or offer you anything, but he did. 

He stopped to give you another smile over his shoulder. “You're welcome,” he said. Your knees nearly gave out, but you smiled back before he walked around the corner. 

“What a man…” you whispered, fanning yourself and briefly forgetting that you were at work and that you had a job to do. 

As you straightened up and headed back to your desk, you spotted something that wasn't there before- a candy bar. Your favorite candy bar in fact. Intrigue filled you when you saw the note beside it, but you didn't recognize the handwriting. 

“Something sweet to put your sweet smile back on your face.”

You warmly smiled and hugged the candy bar and note to your chest. All this time you thought you were invisible, but someone cared and paid attention enough to leave a treat for you. The small gesture made a world of difference in your day, like Bucky offering you kindness. You selfishly wanted him to be the one who left the candy bar, too. 

A girl could dream. 

What you didn't realize was that Bucky was right around the corner, his heart racing and smiling to himself as you enjoyed your treat. You tried to blend in with your surroundings, but you stuck out to him in the most wonderful way. You had from the start. 

What you also didn't know was that he spotted your tears when you left your desk minutes ago, nor did you know that he rushed to get your favorite candy bar from the vending machine nearby while you were gone. He wasn't sure what upset you, but the sight of your tears broke his heart. He wished he would've had time to get flowers, but he hoped the small pick me up helped you feel a bit better. 

And maybe tomorrow if luck was on his side he could talk to you, treat you to lunch, and keep that sweet smile on your face. 

Look, I love the idea of Bucky leaving all sorts of treats and trinkets for you because he's awesome like that. Also, please be kind to yourself. You lovelies deserve good things. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[nadvs]

the power play (part two)

pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader

rating mature 18+

summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.

< prev

“There’s no way I just heard you right,” Lyla says. You look at your best friend through your phone screen, her mouth agape.

A moment ago, she called to invite you to her dorm room to watch movies. That sounds much better than the nerve-wracking plans you’ve already set for tonight.

“You did,” you laugh.

“You’re going to party,” she repeats, “with Rafe.”

“Yup,” you say. You set your phone down on your bed as you rifle through your closet. You’re already dressed, but you need to do something to expel your nervous energy.

You agreed to put on this farce yesterday. Now that you said it out loud, it’s setting in that you’re really going through with this.

“Back up,” she says over the phone behind you. “How did this happen?”

“We’ve gotten to know each other over tutoring. He asked me out. I said yes.”

“You actually like him like that?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow,” she replies.

You try to ignore the guilt that’s sitting on your shoulders. You’ve never lied to her, to anyone, like this.

But while she is your best friend, the bond she has with her twin brother is untouchable. You doubt she’d keep the truth of what you’re doing from Beck.

You settle back on your bed, picking up your phone.

“Well, I hope you have fun,” Lyla says with a chuckle, clearly surprised by your behavior. “I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

“Thanks,” you say meekly. You’ve never been on a real date. You’re not sure how convincing you’ll be on a pretend one.

A text notification appears, making your stomach turn with nerves.

It’s Rafe.

There in ten minutes.

════════

You haven’t stopped talking since you got in his car.

Rafe glances over at you when he stops at a red light, a minute away from the student house at the edge of campus.

“We have to be believable, right?” you ramble on, growing uneasier the more you think about it. “Wait, will this look bad if anyone in the tutoring program finds out I’m dating you? It’s not like they ever said we can’t see the people we tutor, but if–”

“We can call this off,” Rafe interrupts. If you’re going to be a nervous mess, he’d rather not do this at all.

You cross your arms, staring ahead at the traffic light. It turns green.

“No. I just want to be prepared,” you say. “You’re sure he won’t be there?”

Rafe drives forward. He’d told you that most of the guys on the hockey team show up to these parties, but Beck usually skips out.

You’re hopeful he attends, but it may be better to ease into this before having to worry about convincing Beck just yet. Rafe is certain his ex will be there and you feel less pressure at the thought of having to trick one person instead of two.

“Pretty sure,” Rafe replies.

He doesn’t get why some athletes are so high-strung about partying. He parties every weekend and his game is just as solid.

It worked so well with Emma. He liked that she chased fun and had a careless approach to life that made him feel like if he spent enough time with her, he could, too.

“Okay,” you heavily sigh. “We’ll only have one person to fool, then.”

“Don’t take it so seriously, alright?” he says. “It’s just a party. We’ll show up, look like a couple, and leave.”

You nod, trying to picture how you should act tonight. You’ll hold Rafe’s hand. You’ll hug him. You’ll pretend like he’s charming, like he’s someone you can’t stop thinking about, instead of the cold person you know him to be.

“No kissing,” you say hurriedly. You’re not about to waste your first kiss on Rafe Cameron.

He snorts a laugh.

“Not a problem,” he says.

════════

The house is humid and crowded and loud. The bass is so heavy that you can’t make out the lyrics.

You’d thought touching Rafe would only be for show, but as he pushes through the foyer, you cup the inside of his elbow, using him as an anchor.

He greets a few guys once he gets to the living room. Some are familiar, hockey players you’ve seen before.

Rafe introduces you. By the way you’re clinging onto him as you greet his friends, he can tell you’re still on edge, but hiding it behind a big smile.

He leans down to speak close to your ear, and you realize since you’d only ever sat together before, you’d never noticed just how much he towers over you.

“I’m getting a beer,” Rafe says. “Do you drink?”

“Not usually,” you reply. “But I’ll take one.”

════════

On Rafe’s way back to you, he sees her. Emma’s in the crowd, smiling and dancing.

He still doesn’t get how she could throw it all away. They had so much fun together. He forgot about all the bad shit when he was with her. And then, all of a sudden, it was over.

He returns to find you chatting with Isaac, the team’s goalie. You thank Rafe for the drink, taking a sip and doing an awful job at hiding how much you hate the taste, and pull him into the conversation.

“Did you know he’s a music major?” you say, pointing to Isaac.

“Yeah,” Rafe says stiffly, still reeling from seeing his ex. “We’ve known each other for two years.”

“It’s so cool,” you say, unbothered by Rafe’s prickliness. “What kind of music are you most interested in?”

You continue to chat with Isaac, who’s clearly happy to be on the subject. Your nerves are stable now that you’re distracted by a genuine conversation.

Once there’s a lull, you turn to Rafe, clinking your beer against his, feeling like yourself again.

“Kind of late to cheers you now, but cheers,” you say.

“Do you talk everyone’s ear off?” he asks.

“I try to,” you reply with a grin, handing him your drink. “And now I need to go to the bathroom.”

════════

As you walk through the hallway to head back downstairs, a shelf crammed with books catches your eye. Unable to curb your curiosity, you wander into the bedroom to inspect the colorful spines.

You realize you lost track of time when a harsh voice interrupts your reading of a book’s back cover.

“You serious?” you hear behind you.

You turn to see Rafe at the door, two beers in his hands. You must have been gone so long that he had to come look for you.

“Oops,” you giggle. You cross the room, taking your drink back. “Thanks. I just wanted to check out the collection.”

“I didn’t bring you here to read,” he says sharply.

“Jeez,” you say, brows furrowing. Emma had said he was mean. She wasn’t kidding. “Why are you being grumpier than usual?”

Rafe exhales a sigh, but it’s not frustrated like usual. It’s wobbly. Almost sad.

“She’s here,” he murmurs.

Your heart sinks. She’s here. And you left him alone.

You beckon him into the room, shutting the door to avoid anyone overhearing. The music is muffled now, your senses mildly blurred from the alcohol.

“I didn’t mean to get distracted,” you say softly.

You gaze up at him to see that the hard, angry exterior you’ve grown accustomed to is gone. Right now, there’s a glimpse of softness, of genuine heartbreak.

You realize you only really heard Emma’s perspective on the relationship. You hardly know Rafe’s.

“She really did a number on you, huh?” you ask.

He only looks to the side, quiet and tense. You point to the desk by the window.

“Let’s sit,” you say.

“We don’t have to get into it,” he groans.

You settle on the desk’s surface.

“I should have some background information, don’t you think?” you say. “Humor me. I’m a decent listener. Way better at talking, but...”

You smile. Rafe is sure he’ll never understand how someone can be this damn perky.

Once he can tell you’re not letting it go, he shifts to sit on the chair, looking up at you through slitted eyes.

“How long were you together?” you ask.

“Few months.”

It's a little less impossible to picture Rafe as a boyfriend now that you see his guard down by half an inch. He must not open up all that much. You assume that’s why the breakup is hitting him so hard.

“Did you meet here at school?”

“Yeah.” He thinks back to when he’d sparked a conversation with Emma the first weekend of his sophomore year. “Things were good, but then she…”

He stops talking. He’s being pathetic. The night she ended things has been on a loop in his head. They were both drunk, at a party just like this one, arguing like they always did, when she said she was done with it, with everything.

That was a month and a half ago and he’s still a wreck.

He can’t help it. He’s always felt like a bottomless pit of a person, and Emma helped fill the void, made him feel like he was worth something.

Now that what she gave him is gone, he’s back to emptiness. To the constant reminders of how unlovable he is.

You stare at him. It’s obvious in the pain behind his stare, the tightness of clenched fists, that she broke his heart.

“Was it unexpected?” you ask.

He nods.

“Did you talk to her downstairs?”

“No,” he says. He pinches the bridge of his nose, pain radiating in his core. “This whole thing is stupid.”

“It’s not,” you say. “And as your tutor, I have to tell you that stupid is a bad word.”

He flashes you an unimpressed glare. The tables have turned between you, dropping you into the role of the one who needs to be confident and reassuring.

“It’ll be fine,” you say, your tone lighthearted. “You just have to look like you’re having fun with your new girlfriend, who you’re completely infatuated with and who you would never yell at for innocently reading the back cover of a book.”

Rafe looks towards the bookshelf he found you standing next to, guilt pinching his chest. He’s always hated it about himself, how he snaps first and thinks later.

“Any chance you saw Beck?” you ask.

“No.”

“Okay,” you say. You chug the rest of your beer and wince once the bottle is empty. “That was gross. Let’s go.”

════════

It takes a few minutes to catch Emma’s eye from across the noisy, inebriated crowd.

You’re standing in the corner of the living room facing Rafe, your arms on his shoulders like he instructed you to do. Once her gaze is on you, you cock your head.

“She’s looking,” you say.

The combination of witnessing Rafe’s heartbreak and drinking the bitter alcohol has loosened up your nerves. The man standing across from you may be rough around the edges, but he has a heart. And he gave it to someone who shattered it.

While you might not know much about their failed relationship, seeing his pain up close is enough to make you want to help.

You step a little closer, the room’s heat pressing on your skin.

“Did you start Pride and Prejudice yet?” you ask.

Rafe’s eyes sweep over your face, his big hands settling on your hips.

“Don’t tutor me right now.”

“We’re supposed to be flirting, so we have to talk about something,” you reply. “It’s a really good book. A love story if you’re into that.”

He grimaces.

“Well, it explores other themes, too.”

You notice Emma’s still looking right at you, and this time, Gabby is standing beside her and staring daggers, too.

“Hey, is it possible to get drunk off of one beer?” you ramble. “Or is it just placebo?”

“Get closer,” he tells you impatiently.

“Right.”

You slide your hands around the back of his neck and pull him down into a hug, his cheek pressed on yours, the aroma of crisp aftershave drifting over you.

“I should limit myself to half a beer next time,” you say in his ear, faking a smile.

“Lightweight,” he replies.

You act like you’re scanning the room, as if you’re meeting Emma’s eyes by chance, and when you see her cold stare, you squeeze him tighter.

“She looks really mad,” you tell him.

Rafe smirks, his chest grazing yours. It feels good knowing he still has an effect on his ex. If she was really over him like she said she is, she wouldn’t care. This is the taste of power he needed.

He slides his hands to the small of your back, languidly dragging up the curve of your spine.

If he was a guy you like, if he was Beck, you’d be a nervous mess right now. But this is methodical and calculated. It’s easy to flirt with someone when it’s fake. There’s nothing on the line.

In the corner of your eye, Emma whispers something to Gabby and they disappear into the crowd. You pull back and slowly slip your hands off of Rafe’s shoulders to pat his chest.

“She left and she wasn’t happy,” you say. “You’re welcome.”

════════

When you think about last Friday, it’s like you’re recalling a story you heard about someone else, because it can’t possibly have been you.

One drink had you completely uninhibited. You’ve never been so close to a man before, and there you were, holding Rafe against you, murmuring in his ear, acting like two mutually interested people at a party, when in reality, you’re both always at least a little annoyed with each other.

As you sit in the study room, waiting for him to arrive for your tutoring session, you’re unsure if it’ll be awkward to look him in the eye after all that happened between you.

“Hey,” Rafe coolly says when he comes in.

“Hey,” you reply.

“Beck asked about you.”

You perk up, completely distracted from whatever you were just feeling.

“What?”

Rafe settles in his usual spot, a satisfied smile pulling at his lips, clearly proud of himself for thinking of this ruse in the first place.

“The other day at practice,” he says. He pulls out his laptop. “He asked me if you and me are hanging out.”

“And?”

“I said yeah, but it’s all fake.” He gives you an impatient shrug. “What do you think I said?”

“Ha ha,” you say flatly. “His sister’s my best friend. He must’ve heard about us from her.”

You were convincing when Lyla asked you about how your date went the next day, telling her that you had a great time with Rafe. She’s still surprised at the mismatched pair, but she’s trying to be supportive.

Rafe notices the subtle frown on your face as you pull his laptop forward.

“Did he say anything else?” you ask.

“No.”

“He’s asked his sister and you about me,” you say, “but he won’t talk to me himself. If he wants to check in on me, he should. I mean, I’ll definitely lie and say I’ve been doing great, but still.”

You try to shake away the thought. You hate how much you still care, how much his years of flirting with you just for everything to end the way it did have hurt you.

“Have you heard from Emma?” you ask.

Sorrow seeps into you when Rafe’s eyes lose their brightness. You shouldn’t have asked.

“She’s trying to act like she doesn’t care,” you try to console him. “You’ll have the last laugh.”

You swiftly change the subject, finding the file he was supposed to fill with a first draft. There’s hardly anything. You suck your teeth with a disappointed tsk.

“Rafe,” you say. “You need to come here with more written down.”

“What the hell am I supposed to write about a love story?” he grumbles.

“I already told you there are other themes in this book,” you reiterate. “Let’s go through them.”

════════

The next evening, you’re leaving the library after a study session when your phone vibrates with a text. It’s Rafe, letting you know that the team is celebrating a win at an off-campus bar and that you should come.

Imagining yourself walking into the bar and seeing Beck and acting the same way you did at that party feels impossible. A little part of you is worried last weekend’s display was a lucky fluke.

You reply to him as you walk deeper into the cool spring night: I have readings to do.

When ur done then?

You stare down at your screen, uncertain and nervous. It was easy when you had Emma to fool. You were confident she’d have some sort of reaction, seeing that it was her ex-boyfriend you were cuddling up to.

But Beck might not even care. And that’d hurt.

You eventually come to the conclusion that it’s worth a try. Beck damaged your pride. You want to undo some of that damage. And you didn’t start this just to back out.

You text Rafe: I’ll call you when I get there.

════════

Half an hour later, your name flashes on Rafe’s phone. He stands from his place at the table, all other seats taken up by teammates and girlfriends, and he makes his way to the entrance of the bar.

Even though you’re just someone he’s pretending to be into, it feels good to have a person come to a party just for him again. Emma used to always tag along for these things, back when she was the constant in his life.

“Hey,” he answers your call.

“Meet me at the front,” you say on the other end. Rafe finds you at the door, your arms crossed, your lips pulled into an awkward smile.

“I didn’t want to come in alone,” you explain. He puts his phone back in his pocket, eyes travelling over you in confusion. Why are you back to being nervous?

“Loosen up,” he says.

“I’m trying,” you breathe.

“Just follow my lead,” he says. “Act like you don’t care that he’s here.”

Rafe offers you his hand and you take it, feeling his slightly calloused palm against yours. You keep your gaze on the floor as he takes you into the loud bar.

He doesn’t give you a chance to think. He gets to his seat and pulls you onto his lap. You try your best to act like this is something you’ve done before.

You drape your arm around his shoulders, looking down at him, finding a sense of reassurance in his striking blue eyes as his lap warms the underside of your thighs.

“Casually sitting on your lap,” you mumble. “This is normal for us. Totally normal. Who needs a chair? Not me.”

Most of the group is in lively conversation. Some people don’t even notice your arrival. But Beck does.

You offer him a small smile from across the table, the sight of him making your stomach flutter. He nods in greeting, unreadable.

Rafe’s hand rests on the side of your bare thigh, fingers splayed over your cool skin, right where your skirt ends.

“You’re cold,” he says, loud enough over the music, quiet enough that only you can hear him.

His muscles start to tighten as his thumb brushes over the swell of your thigh.

It’s instinct. He can’t control that he’s getting worked up. He has a pretty girl on his lap. It’d be weird if his body didn’t have some sort of reaction.

“Yeah. It’s cold out,” you reply.

“How’d you get here?” he asks accusingly.

“I walked.”

“Walked?” he repeats. “By yourself?”

“Campus security can only escort me through school property,” you say. “I was on my own for like, two minutes.”

“Don’t do that again,” he says, quieter now. “I’d never let my girl walk alone at night.”

You tilt your head, frustration bubbling up inside you.

“Let?” you echo, brows furrowed.

He stares at you with hard eyes, forcing himself to push past the irritation of what you’re implying — that he’s controlling. He heard it from Emma before. She never understood that he was trying to protect her.

You’re supposed to be happy to see each other, not arguing. And he needs to get you back for pissing off his ex the other night. And it’s a good idea to get his hand off of your leg for his own sake.

His touch is featherlight when he cups your cheek. Your eyes soften with appreciation. He’s putting on this show for you, forcing your tense conversation to look sweet, and it makes you a bit more relaxed.

His ex is nowhere to be found, but he’s being affectionate with you, holding up his part of the deal. You can only hope this is working on Beck. You’d spent years seeing him with girls; he’d never seen you with a guy.

“I would’ve picked you up,” Rafe says stiffly, his tone mismatching his gesture. “If you were my girlfriend, I wouldn’t be cool with knowing something could happen to you. You said we have to be believable, yeah?”

You study him under the dimmed, warm lights, your heart racing from feeling Beck’s presence at the other side of the table.

“So, it’s like you… feel responsible for my safety or something?” you ask.

The stress digging in Rafe’s shoulders fades into a relief he wasn’t expecting. It’s uncommon for him to feel understood. He felt it at times with his ex, but she hardly ever tried to see his side, calling him too much.

As if he needed the reminder. He knows he’s too much.

“Yeah,” he replies.

“I’ll tell you to come get me next time.”

He lowers his hand, resting it on your leg again. This time, though, he makes sure to only be touching your clothes, making no contact with your skin.

“How was the game?” you ask.

“We always beat Hatfield,” Rafe says.

“How many penalties did you get?”

“I don’t count.”

“I wouldn’t, either,” you say. “You’re in the sin bin a lot.”

Rafe’s lips curl into a smile that tells you he agrees, but that he also won’t change a thing.

“How’d you know that?”

“I came to a lot of games last semester.”

“You should probably start coming to them again,” he says.

He’s right. If this were real, you’d be coming to the rink to cheer your boyfriend on.

“It’s kind of hard for me,” you admit.

Rafe grimaces in the impatient way he always does, wearing that look that implies whatever you just said is silly. You lick your lips nervously, leaning even closer to him to explain.

“I used to go to all of his games,” you say, hushed. “All through high school, too. Sitting behind the home bench just reminds me of all the time I wasted thinking he liked me, too.”

You pull back. Rafe stares at you for a moment. Despite your differences, you really have been hurt the same way. You both saw a future with someone who gave you a glimmer of hope just to shut you down.

He doesn’t usually care enough to make someone feel better. Right now is different.

“Then sit behind the sin bin,” he says. “Count my penalties for me.”

You laugh. And when you notice Beck’s eyes on you, it feels really good.

You think back to what Rafe said, to act like you don’t care. You notice Isaac a few seats away and greet him with a hello and a smile, then meet Beck’s gaze.

“How was the game?” you say casually from across the table.

“Good,” Beck answers. “It’s cool to play with Marcus again.”

“Oh, right,” you say. Marcus was a mutual friend in high school who now plays for Hatfield, a college a town away. “Did you get to talk to him?”

“Not really,” Beck replies. “What’s up with you? It’s been a while.”

It’s irritating to hear him say that, as if the distance between you wasn’t all because of him. You used to talk to Beck all the time, until he unexpectedly drove you away.

You shrug, hoping you don’t give away how hurt you’ve been.

“Not much,” you say. You look at Rafe, willing yourself to flirt with another man in front of the one who broke your heart. “This one guy I’m tutoring has been taking up all my time.”

“Sounds rough,” Rafe says.

“Yeah,” you play along, “but I’m very patient.”

“You are,” Beck says. “I wouldn’t have survived last semester if it weren’t for you.”

You force another smile, meeting Beck’s gaze again. You don’t like the reminder of all the time you spent helping him with school, pining for him, hoping he pined for you, too.

Rafe looks between you and Beck as you continue to chat. There’s an obvious history between you two, a tone that only old friends could have, but the exchange is stiff.

It’s clear, at least to him, that there’s something you two aren’t talking about.

════════

Once the night ends, you get into Rafe’s car. He turns the key, the engine roaring to life.

“That was great,” you murmur sarcastically as you put on your seatbelt. You meant it to come out as a joke, but your voice has a strain to it.

It would’ve been amazing if Beck stared like Emma did the other night, but he didn’t. You feel rejected all over again.

“I think he knows us both well enough to know we can’t really like each other like that,” you say. You watch the bar’s neon sign blink in the passenger side mirror as you try to ground yourself. “Oh, well. We tried.”

Rafe highly doubts he caught on. There’s no world where you’d two be a couple — you’re irritatingly chatty and wear your heart on your sleeve, the complete opposite of Rafe and what he looks for in a girl — but while Beck kept a cool facade, his glances at you weren’t skeptical. And they weren’t platonic, either.

He puts the car in drive, anxiety gnawing at him as he pulls out of the parking lot. It sounds like you’re about to call it quits all because of a false assumption.

“He fell for it,” Rafe mutters. “And he was jealous. You’re crazy if you think he wasn’t.”

You were hoping that Beck would be convinced that you’re fine after what happened between you. That maybe he’d regret the way he handled things. But you never thought he’d actually be jealous. Why would he be if he never liked you in the first place?

“Then I guess I’m crazy,” you tell him, “because to me, he didn’t seem to care at all.”

Rafe scratches his jaw, exasperated.

“You ever think that maybe he’s just not transparent like you are?” he says after a beat.

You look at his profile, the passing streetlights washing over the planes of his face.

“Transparent?” you echo. “So, I… gave us away?”

“That’s not what I mean,” Rafe says gruffly. “You’re convincing with my help, but without it, you’re damn easy to read. He’s not as obvious as you. If you looked hard enough, though, you could tell that he really didn’t like that you were sitting on my lap.”

You stare ahead at the darkened street. From your first tutoring session with Rafe, he had you figured out. You mentioned Beck and he caught on to whatever gave you away.

You’ve been able to pretend you’ve been fine, that your heart has been kept intact. Rafe is the only one who saw through it, from the moment he sat down next to you in that study room. He has a knack for reading people.

“How do you do that?” you ask, studying his features once more.

“What?”

“I’m not easy to read,” you say. “Nobody else has picked up on how upset I’ve been over him. Not even my best friend. But you called me out right away. How are you so good at seeing through people?”

Rafe’s grip tightens on the steering wheel. It’s a loaded question.

He spent his childhood hyperware of what unhappiness looks like in people, desperately clinging onto his dad’s fickle approval since he can remember. It never left his system. It turned him into a man trained in recognizing the slightest change in someone’s mood.

He could even sense when Emma was falling out of love with him. She said he was paranoid when he called her out on it, but he knew he was right.

After you spend your life starving for approval, wanting someone to see every side of you and decide that you’re worth loving, it’s second nature to make note of the signs that they’re writing you off. And to lose control when you beg them not to.

He swallows hard. You simply mentioned how observant he is and his mind is spinning now. You stripped back a layer, peeling at a part of him he pretends doesn’t exist.

It’s another thing about you that he’d never want in a real girlfriend. You’re doing what you did the other night when you asked about his ex. You’re prying.

“Just am,” he finally replies.

The tension is nipping at his bones, the memories flooding back with no mercy. Emma never dug at him like this. It’s part of why he liked her so much. She didn’t make him look at these sides of himself.

“Riveting,” you say, rolling your head to the side to look out the window. “Well, you don’t need to try to make me feel better, okay? You can give it to me straight that he doesn’t like me like that.”

“Did you register anything I just said?” he scoffs.

“Now you know how I feel when I’m tutoring you,” you joke, unaffected by his brashness like usual.

“He asked me about you the first chance he got, remember? And he was awkward as hell tonight. He cares. He’s just the type that’s desperate for everyone to think he’s a good guy, so when he’s jealous, he tries to hide it.”

You mull over his words. You’ve only ever thought the world of Beck, until he abruptly distanced himself from you and made you almost certain that he’d been conciously leading you on for years.

To think of him as someone preoccupied with being liked feels accurate. He always keeps the peace, possibly in an effort for approval.

The idea that he did feel something for you, that he does, is a dangerous type of hope you’re well acquainted with. It makes you feel better that someone else sees what you’d seen for years.

Rafe’s words, albeit curt, bring you relief. Beck must feel something that he never wanted to act on. And he might want to act on it now.

“I guess I’m just so used to overthinking about him,” you admit. “Thanks.”

Rafe is silent. Irritated. Tense. You didn’t want to believe all that Emma had told you that night at the rink, but most things check out. He’s moodier than you could’ve expected.

“You okay?” you ask.

He’s doing it again. He’s hardly offering any insight on what he’s thinking, shutting you out. Your dynamic feels unbalanced now, considering how much you’ve told him.

Rafe comes to a stop in front of your building. He’d do anything but admit why he’s so good at reading people. It’s a burden, a reminder of the desperation that’s lived in him ever since he was a child.

“We’re here,” he states flatly.

You unbuckle your seatbelt. Despite everything, you don’t have it in you to be angry at him. Not after he helped you so much. Not after he tried to console you in his own abrupt way.

“Rafe?”

“What?”

You stare at him until he gives in and looks at you, wearing yet another grimace.

“I’m not technically going through a breakup, but if anyone kind of gets what you’re going through right now, it’s me,” you tell him. “I vent to you a lot. It’s cool if you want to vent to me, too. This is all an act, but it doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. That’s all. Thanks for the ride.”

You step out of the car and shut the door, leaving Rafe with the disquieting realization that if he’s going to keep doing this with you, he’ll have to accept the fact that you probably won’t stop prying.

next >

author’s note it’s not a fic by me if rafe doesn’t have daddy issues…

if you want notifications on when i post my fics, follow @xorafe-library and turn on notifications 💘

[prythiansprincess]

i fear we need more like.. manipulation best friend enzo. maybe this time it’s his best friends sister? like theo’s twin sister who’s a gryffindor. 🙏🏻

— honey, are you coming?

NAVIGATION // inbox. tags. writing. library.

pairing: lorenzo berkshire x reader.

song inspiration: honey (are you coming?) by maneskin.

author’s note: ask and you shall receive. you guys know I can't say no to manipulative best friend! enzo. even better if he's being a sneaky little shit to get with his mate’s sister behind his back 🤭

forbidden.

that's what you were. as theo's twin sister, enzo was perfectly aware that you were off-limits, but no amount of threats from his best mate could ever keep him away from you. the temptation was too strong and enzo simply couldn't resist.

enzo always got what he wanted.

and what he wanted was you.

so he bided his time. enzo knew that theo would never let him near his precious baby sister unless he played the part. the protective best friend: a confidante, a companion, and a constant shadow that threatened bodily harm to any prat stupid enough to even breathe the same air as you.

this little act of his worked like a charm. over time, theo wrote enzo off as harmless. your older brother let his guard down enough for him to find an opening. soon, the two of you became inseperable. you confided in him. you told him your thoughts, your fears, your insecurities. enzo knew anything and everything about you.

you trusted him.

theo trusted him.

everything was going according to plan.

"my brother has officially lost it! I mean, the audacity of him to ban me from dating when he has a new girl in his bed every other night is beyond me." you ranted, pacing back and forth in enzo's dorm. "he's such a fucking hypocrite."

"you know he means well," enzo consoled, his brows furrowing in concern. "theo may not show it in the best way, but he's just trying to be a good brother."

you rolled your eyes. "you always take his side."

"that's not true and you know it. i'm always on your side, honey," enzo drawled, reaching out to rub your hands between his. "in this case, though, I can hardly blame theo. I mean, what the hell was mclaggen thinking when he asked you out? he's not good enough for you."

"you say that about every guy that asks me out, enz."

enzo looked up, his warm brown eyes meeting yours. "because it's true," he declared. "no one will ever be good enough for you."

you sighed. "this is exactly why i'm convinced that i'm going to die alone."

"you won't be alone," enzo said cheerfully. "you'll have me."

you rolled your eyes fondly, but softened as enzo tugged you between his legs. "now come over here, pretty girl. I think you just need a good cuddle to help you get sorted."

enzo watched as you climbed in beside him. his quidditch jersey that you had claimed long ago barely reached the top of your thighs and as the fabric skimmed your soft skin, he couldn't help but feel ridiculously jealous of the article of clothing for having the privilege of touching you.

but he'd soon rectify that.

you squealed as enzo pulled you closer, pressing your back into his solid chest. behind you, enzo hummed in satisfaction as you cuddled closer. his large hands gripped your hips while he positioned you right where he wanted you. with your arse pressed against his front, enzo released a throaty groan that made you shiver.

"are you cold, honey?" enzo whispered, his voice a dark and seductive caress.

you barely managed a nod before enzo's large hands traveled underneath the hem of your shirt, his warm touch making contact with your soft and supple skin. the callouses on his hands felt rough in contrast, but you found that you really didn't mind. you just wanted him to touch you more.

"you're freezing, sweetheart," enzo drawled. "do you want me to warm you up?"

"y—yes please."

enzo caressed your thighs, kneading and massaging your legs as you melted into his touch. you sighed in satisfaction as he shifted, dragging his hands higher and tracing circles on your hips. the skin to skin contact felt so good, but you wanted more. you needed more.

as if reading your mind, enzo flattened his palm against your stomach, burying his nose in your neck as you hummed in approval. the two of you had always been touchy and affectionate, but he was well aware that he was currently walking a very fine line. your reaction encouraged him to push a little further as he brushed his knuckles against your ribs and teased right below your bra.

enzo toyed with the hook of your bra. "do you want me to take this off?" he asked innocently. "I wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable, honey."

you blinked, face heating as his words settled in. "o —okay, enz."

the swiftness in which enzo unhooked your bra had you reeling. you only realized it was off when he carelessly tossed it behind his shoulder. squirming in anticipation, you felt a familiar ache building within you as enzo continued stroking your back. his knuckles traced a line down your spine, your frustrations mounting as he touched you everywhere except right where you wanted him.

you whined as enzo kissed your shoulder. “enz…”

“yes, honey?”

“I — I want…”

“what is it, pretty girl? use your words. you know i’ll do anything you ask.”

you barely had time to think before the words slipped out. “touch me, please.”

the neediness dripping from your lips made enzo smirk. this was exactly what he planned. “where do you want me to touch you, sweetheart?”

enzo moved his hand higher and cupped your tit. “here?”

you groaned as he slid his hand down to your arse before squeezing gently. “or maybe here?”

your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your head when he slipped his hand down your panties, palming your warmth as he trailed kisses down your neck. “right here?”

enzo circled your clit, eliciting a shameless moan from your lips. “I think I found the spot.”

as he rubbed the sensitive bundle of nerves, you arched into his palm, eager for friction. “spread your legs, sweetheart,” he whispered before gently nibbling on your ear lobe.

you teetered somewhere between pleasure and logic. the voice in the back of your mind expressed its concern despite your desire to ignore it and give in. “enz — I don’t think — we shouldn’t do this.”

“why not?”

you turned to find enzo looking at you, his warm honey eyes now sharp with lust. “because we’re friends,” you reasoned. “best friends.”

“so? who better to get you off than me? I know you like the back of my hand and I’d like to make you see heaven with my fingers.” enzo paused, scanning your face. “unless you don’t want that.”

“I — I do. but what if my brother finds out? he’d kill you.”

“don’t worry, pretty girl. theo will never find out. i’ll take good care of you.” enzo teased your slit and licked a stripe along your neck. “now spread those fucking legs for me, honey.”

you obliged, spreading your legs wide as enzo filled you with his fingers. your pussy squelched as you sucked him right in, covering him in your juices as he fingered you relentlessly. as warmth spread in your core, you chased after the feeling and rode his hand.

“that’s it, sweetheart. ride my fingers just like that. use me to get yourself off. that’s what friends are for, right?”

“best friends,” you responded cheekily.

“best friends,” enzo repeated before making you cum all over his fingers.

you hadn’t even recovered from the first orgasm before he brought you to the edge again, soaking his hand with your juices as you gripped his bicep and left nail marks in your wake.

enzo grabbed your chin and gave you a dirty, filthy kiss as he tugged your soaked panties off. as he pulled his boxers down, you gasped at the hardness pressed against your arse. you wanted him so bad you felt fucking dizzy with the force of it, but the worries couldn’t help but linger.

“wait, enz — what if this ruins our friendship? what if things are never the same again?”

enzo pulled back and stroked your cheek. “i’d never let that happen, honey. don’t you trust me? I always take care of you, don’t I?”

“of course I trust you.”

“do you want me as bad as I want you?”

“fuck yes. obviously. I just —“

“you just need to stop overthinking things,” enzo countered. “if it makes you feel better, I’ll only put the tip in. nothing less, nothing more. I promise, sweetheart.”

you bit your lip as he teased his tip between your folds. “okay. just the tip, right?”

“mhm,” enzo said as he pushed past your folds. “just the tip, honey.”

even with his slow and shallow thrusts, you could feel your pussy stretching to take more. enzo cursed as your warmth hugged around him, warm and welcoming, beckoning him further in.

“fuck, you feel so good. been dreaming about this for so long, y/n.”

the way he slid the tip of his cock in and out of you was torturous. you clawed at his arms, gasping and moaning as your pussy clenched. now that you knew what enzo felt like, you wanted more. you wanted all of him.

“enz, oh gods. I need more. please.”

enzo smirked. “yeah? you want your best friend to stuff you full? gonna beg for my cock, sweetheart?”

“yes, yes, please. I need you to fill me up. wanna feel all of you, baby.”

without a word, enzo flipped you over and positioned you in his lap. he laid back on his pillow and watched with lust blown eyes as you lowered yourself on his cock. every delicious inch filled you to the hilt, stuffing you full in the best way possible.

biting your lip, you began to rock your hips to a steady rhythm. you gasped as enzo tugged you down to him, his lips crashing against yours in desperation. his moans were shameless as you bounced on him. enzo squeezed your arse as you picked up the pace, riding him hard and fast.

“take it, honey. it’s yours.”

“oh god, enzo i’m gonna cum —“

enzo held your hips in place and thrust up, fucking into you as his thumb circled your clit. “come on, pretty girl. give it to me. cum all over my cock.”

his filthy words broke you, sending a wave of pleasure that nearly knocked you off kilter. enzo fucked you through the orgasm, his warm honey eyes sticky and golden as he drank in the sight of you losing control. he didn’t stop even when you creamed him from base to tip.

instead, enzo flipped you on your back and continued pumping in and out of you. “don’t wanna stop, honey. you feel too fucking good. I could do this forever. tell me I can, baby. tell me I can fuck you any time I want.”

“oh fuck,” you moaned. “yes, yes, gods. you can fuck me whenever and wherever, enzo.”

“that’s right, honey. I don’t give a fuck what your brother says. he’ll never find out anyways. this’ll be our little secret, right?”

dazed, you licked your lips and nodded as enzo hiked your leg over his shoulder and thrusted deeper. “our little secret.”

[norristrii]

HAUNTED.

“You’ll never get away from the sound of the woman that loved you.” — Torn apart by break up, bound by work, haunted by each other’s voice.

pairing. Max Verstappen x journalist! fem! reader

warnings. angst (happy ending??), Max being a bit of dick, longer than I expected wtf??

babs’ notes. IN THE HONOR OF MAX’S WIN IN JAPAN! this race was well.. something. Guys ik I promised so close to 2 BUT for some reason i wrote chapter 3 & 4 first so it’s bit complicated.. give me time 😭

music. Silver Springs by Fleetwood Mac.

JOURNALISM IN FORMULA 1 WASN’T JUST A CAREER—it was your dream, your passion, the goal you had spent years working towards. The roar of the engines, the adrenaline of race day, the stories waiting to be uncovered in every corner of the paddock—it all fascinated you. So when you finally landed your role, credentials swinging around your neck like a badge of honor, you felt like you had made it. This was where you belonged.

And then, there was him—Max Verstappen. The reigning champion, the so-called “arrogant” and “rude” driver who had built a reputation as much off the track as on it. Everyone talked about Max with a kind of reverence laced with caution, as if he was more of a storm than a man. A force of nature, unpredictable, intense. But the first time you met him, you realized there was so much more to him than the media’s caricature.

It wasn’t arrogance you saw when you interviewed him that day. It was focus, determination, an intensity that burned behind his sharp blue eyes—the kind of intensity only someone who had given their entire life to this sport could possess. His Dutch accent was strong, his words direct and unfiltered, but there was a warmth there too, hidden beneath the layers of his public persona. The kind of warmth that could make you question everything you thought you knew about him.

Max wasn’t just “arrogant” or “rude.” He was confident, unapologetically so, but not without reason. He carried himself like someone who knew exactly what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to go after it. Yet, in those fleeting moments when he looked at you, when he softened just slightly, you wondered if anyone else had ever seen this side of him—the side that wasn’t a storm at all but something quieter.

You had gotten closer to Max, much closer than you ever thought you would. It wasn’t just the quiet conversations away from the cameras or the way his sharp blue eyes lingered on you longer than necessary. It was the way he made you feel like you mattered—like you were the only person who could understand him in a world filled with noise and expectations. He ensured you loved him, pulling you in slowly, deliberately, until the thought of him consumed your mind entirely.

You’d slept together more than few times, nights filled with fiery passion and moments of unexpected tenderness that made you believe this was different. That he was different. He didn’t just hold you physically; he held your emotions in the palm of his hand, his touch leaving a mark on your heart you couldn’t erase. For a fleeting moment, it felt real. Like the guarded driver had finally let someone in, and that someone was you.

But then, just as you had allowed yourself to believe, he shattered it. Sitting across from you, his voice low and steady, his Dutch accent cutting through the words you weren’t ready to hear. “I’m not ready for a relationship,” he said, almost matter-of-factly. “I don’t do that... I need to focus on myself and my career.”

You stared at him, the weight of his words crashing over you like cold water. He wasn’t apologetic, not really. To him, it wasn’t personal—it was just the way things were. But to you, it felt like a betrayal, like he had pulled the rug out from under your feet just as you began to stand on solid ground. Wow, you thought, your mind racing to make sense of what had just happened. Maybe you should have expected this.

The signs had been there, hadn’t they? The way he avoided deep conversations about the future, the way his life revolved around the sport he lived for, the way he always seemed just out of reach. You had seen it all, but you chose to ignore it because you wanted so badly for this to work—for him to be different.

Sitting in the emptiness of his words, you realized the truth. Max Verstappen wasn’t yours to hold. He belonged to the track, to the roaring engines and the thrill of victory, to the world that demanded every ounce of his focus and energy. And you? You were just a moment, a fleeting connection that he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—prioritize.

You still saw the day he said those words to you in your dreams. It played on a loop in your mind, vivid and unrelenting, as if the memory itself refused to fade. You could still hear his voice, the exact tone he used—calm, almost detached, like he hadn’t just ripped the ground out from beneath your feet. It wasn’t the words alone that haunted you; it was the way he’d said them, so measured, so unshaken, as if it had cost him nothing at all.

Some nights, the dream would start with the warmth of his touch, his blue eyes meeting yours with a flicker of something you once mistook for sincerity. And then, as if the universe were mocking you, the scene would shift, the same cold words spilling from his lips. “I’m not ready for a relationship.” The sound of it, the finality of it, would jar you awake, your chest heavy with the ghost of heartbreak.

The memory clung to you, reshaped you. It made the F1 paddock—once your dream, your sanctuary—feel suffocating. Everywhere you turned, there were reminders of him. The roar of the engines, the press briefings, the fleeting glances in the paddock… it all felt like too much, like you were trapped in a world where his shadow loomed over everything.

And so, you made a choice. You left. You handed in your credentials, packed up your life, and decided to start over. Football became your refuge—a fresh start, a chance to leave the echoes of Max Verstappen behind. You thought maybe, just maybe, switching to an entirely different world would silence the memories.

But you haunted Max too, probably even more than he haunted you. He wasn’t the type to dwell on emotions—not openly, not consciously—but you had made an impact that he couldn’t shake. Your voice lingered in the corners of his mind, unbidden yet ever-present. He heard it in the hum of the engines, the roar of the crowd, and in the silence of the nights that followed. It didn’t matter where he was—on the track, in a hotel room, or staring at the endless line of questions during an interview—you were there.

When he raced, he was untouchable, focused, pushing every limit. But somehow, even in the middle of the chaos, you would find him. He could almost hear your laugh, the lilt of your tone when you teased him, and the way you called him out in ways no one else dared to. It wasn’t distracting, not exactly, but it was there, a part of him now.

The interviews were worse. Sitting under the blinding lights, fielding questions about his victories, his rivals, his career—it should have been second nature. And yet, all he could think about was you. He’d catch himself scanning the press room, half expecting to see your face, your notebook in hand, your eyes meeting his with that spark that had undone him so many times before. But you weren’t there anymore, and the absence was palpable.

At first, Max explained your absence at the races with small, dismissive assumptions. Maybe you were sick, maybe you’d taken some time off—nothing out of the ordinary, nothing permanent. It was easier for him to believe that than to confront the possibility that your absence had something to do with him. That maybe you’d left because of him.

But as the weeks turned into months, it became impossible to ignore the truth. You weren’t just absent—you were gone. Completely. He found out from someone in passing, a casual mention that you had switched to football journalism. There was no announcement, no explanation, no goodbye. You had just vanished from the world you had dreamed of being part of, the same world where he had selfishly taken you for granted.

It hit him harder than he expected. The irony wasn’t lost on him—not in the slightest. He had done the same to you. He had walked away without giving you closure, without considering how his actions might affect you. And now, you had done the same to him. The emptiness left in your wake mirrored the emptiness he had created in you. It was poetic in the cruelest way.

Max tried not to let it bother him, tried to convince himself it didn’t matter. But it did. He realized it every time he glanced at the press room and didn’t see you there, every time he answered a question about his performance and your voice wasn’t the one asking. The races felt different now—not because the roar of the engines had changed, but because your presence wasn’t there to ground him in something outside of the sport.

Your departure haunted him. Not just because you were gone, but because it reminded him of the way he had treated you. He didn’t know what to do with the guilt, the regret, the quiet ache he felt whenever he thought of you. And maybe that was the real irony of it all—the fact that he had pushed you away only to realize he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Six months later, there you were, standing in front of the paddock gate once again. The world around you felt both familiar and foreign, as if you’d been transported back into a life you weren’t sure you belonged to anymore. The hum of activity, the chatter of journalists, the whir of tools in the distance—it all reminded you of a chapter you thought you’d closed for good. But here you were, holding the very thing that had once been your dream and your curse: your paddock pass.

Your fingers brushed over the laminated surface, tracing the outline of your photo and the bold letters that read Media. It felt heavier than it should have, almost symbolic, like it carried more than just access. This wasn’t just a pass; it was a ticket back into a world you’d deliberately left behind. A world that he—Max—still occupied.

You stared at the gate for a moment, your heart pounding in your chest. It wasn’t the roar of the engines that sent a shiver down your spine, nor the thought of the stories waiting to be written. It was the memory of him, the way his voice had echoed in your mind for months after he’d let you go, the way he had unknowingly followed you into every corner of your new life. And now, you were walking straight back into his orbit.

You spotted Lissie near the media setup, her smile lighting up the moment she saw you. She was one of the few familiar faces you felt truly comfortable with, someone who had been your anchor back when the paddock felt like a storm you were constantly navigating. You couldn’t help but grin as you approached her, the weight of the past six months lifting slightly with the comfort of her presence.

“Y/n!” she said brightly, pulling you into a quick hug. “I was starting to think you’d never come back.”

“Missed me that much, huh?” you teased, the warmth in your tone belying the nerves still lingering in your chest.

“Of course,” Lissie said, her eyes sparkling. “Nobody asks the questions you do.” Her voice was laced with nostalgia, and you wondered briefly if your absence had left a gap bigger than you’d realized.

The drivers started to filter in one by one, the hum of the paddock growing louder with each arrival. There was an electric energy in the air, as there always was after a race, the buzz of victory and defeat still lingering. You stood near the media setup, microphone in hand, mentally preparing yourself for the endless stream of questions, answers, and moments that would play out in front of the cameras.

But he wasn’t there. Not yet. Probably still waiting for his turn, somewhere out of sight. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that you weren’t scanning the crowd for him or bracing yourself for the inevitable moment when he’d appear. Yet, your gaze seemed to wander anyway, unconsciously seeking out the one face you weren’t sure you were ready to see.

It was almost a relief, then, to be pulled from your thoughts by the warm smiles of familiar faces. People recognized you instantly, their expressions lighting up as they spotted you standing there. Drivers, team members, journalists—they all greeted you with nods, waves, and smiles, as though no time had passed.

For Max, the whole day felt off. It wasn’t something he could pinpoint exactly—just a nagging sensation that something was wrong. Or maybe it wasn’t wrong at all. Maybe it was something else entirely. He had gone through the motions as usual, the race, the debrief, the endless stream of questions from his team. But the feeling lingered, gnawing at the edges of his focus.

As he waited for his turn to be interviewed, the noise of the paddock buzzed around him, a familiar chaos that usually grounded him. But today, it felt different. And then, he heard it—your voice. At first, he thought he was imagining it, that his mind was playing tricks on him again. He had heard your voice in his head so many times over the past six months, haunting him in moments he least expected. But this time, it felt more real. Louder. Closer.

He turned his head, scanning the crowd, his pulse quickening despite himself. And then he saw you. Standing there, microphone in hand, interviewing Charles. You were laughing at something Charles had said, your smile lighting up the space around you in a way that made Max’s chest tighten. He blinked twice, as if trying to assure himself that you were really there, that this wasn’t just another cruel trick of his imagination.

“Oh fuck,” he muttered under his breath, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His heart was racing now, a mix of shock and something he couldn’t quite name. Lando, standing beside him, turned his head at the sound of Max’s curse, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“What?” Lando asked, his brow furrowing as he looked at Max. His friend's demeanor was visibly off—nervous, tense, unlike the usual calm confidence that defined him. Max wasn’t even pretending to act normal, and that alone was enough to catch Lando’s attention.

Max’s voice was low, almost strained, as he pointed toward the media area, toward you. “Y/n’s here,” he said, his words clipped, heavy with the weight of realization.

And then, he came walking towards you. The moment you had been trying so hard not to think about was suddenly unfolding right in front of you. Max Verstappen. Of course, you knew he’d been assigned to you for the interview—how could it have been anyone else? Yet, despite your efforts to stay composed, to treat this as just another name on your clipboard, the reality of seeing him again made your heart race.

You gripped the microphone a little tighter, your pulse quickening as you watched him approach. He moved with the same self-assured confidence he always carried, his strides purposeful, his expression unreadable. You forced yourself to focus on the task at hand. You had done this thousands of times before—countless interviews with drivers, each one conducted with the poise and professionalism you had perfected over the years. This would be no different, you told yourself.

But when his eyes met yours, you felt the air shift. It wasn’t the usual tension of a post-race interview; it was something deeper, heavier. His blue gaze lingered on you for a moment too long, and you saw the flicker of something behind it. Was it surprise? Recognition? Guilt? Whatever it was, it left you unsettled.

“Max,” you began, your voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you. “Congratulations on the race today. Let’s talk about your strategy—particularly during that late overtake. What was going through your mind at that moment?”

Max adjusted the cap on his head slightly, his expression composed but with a trace of thoughtfulness behind his sharp blue eyes. “That late overtake,” he began, his Dutch accent giving his words a distinct cadence, “was about timing. I knew I couldn’t risk waiting too long—if I hesitated, the gap would close, and I’d lose the opportunity.”

Max stood before you, his expression outwardly composed, but there was something different in the way he looked at you. It wasn’t the detached gaze of a driver facing an interviewer, the routine exchange of words that he had perfected over years of answering media questions. No, the way his eyes lingered on you spoke of something more—something unspoken but undeniably present.

As you asked your questions, his voice carried the sharp precision you expected, but you noticed the subtle tremor behind it. It wasn’t enough for anyone else to pick up, but you knew him well enough to see it. With each response, his tone faltered slightly, like he was fighting to keep control over a conversation that felt far from ordinary.

Your gaze met his several times, almost unintentionally, but each meeting brought a quiet tension that neither of you could ignore. His blue eyes held yours longer than they should, breaking away only to wander back moments later. And even as you tried to focus on the task at hand, your own eyes betrayed you, drawn to him in a way that made the air around you feel heavier.

Max’s answers were calculated, yet distracted, as if he were answering out of habit rather than genuine thought. When he spoke about his late overtake, his words stumbled briefly, his gaze flickering back to you as though seeking something he couldn’t put into words. For a moment, you saw the mask slip—the professional veneer cracking just enough to reveal the man beneath it.

The interview drew to a close, your professionalism intact despite the weight of the moment. You lowered the microphone, offering a polite nod. “Thank you for your time, Max,” you said, your voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil simmering beneath your calm exterior.

Max matched your professionalism with his own, nodding briskly. “No problem,” he replied, his words clipped, almost routine. For a moment, you thought that was it—the end of the interaction, the closure you needed to move forward. But the moment was far from over.

As the cameraman turned off the equipment, signaling the end of the broadcast, the air around you shifted. The noise of the paddock faded slightly, the buzz of activity momentarily muted. And that’s when you heard him. His voice, softer now, no longer performing for the cameras.

“Good to see you back,” Max said, his tone carrying a weight that hadn’t been there during the interview. His blue eyes met yours, unguarded and searching, the barrier he’d constructed between you cracking just enough to let the truth slip through. It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t dramatic—it was simply him.

You blinked, caught off guard by the quiet sincerity in his words. For a brief moment, you didn’t know how to respond, your heart betraying your attempt to remain unaffected. But then, just as quickly as the moment came, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd of mechanics and drivers like he always did.

You stood there for a moment longer, the echo of his words lingering in the space around you. “Good to see you back.” It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t an explanation. But it was something—a fragment of the truth he couldn’t admit outright. And as the paddock buzzed back to life, you realized that he had left you with more questions than answers.

After hours of catching up with colleagues, swapping stories with managers, and fielding countless “welcome back” smiles from drivers, you felt the weight of the day settle over you. The energy of the paddock was as intoxicating as ever, but now, it left you drained, longing for a quiet moment to yourself. Deciding you’d had enough for the night, you packed up your things and made your way out.

The paddock had changed under the cover of darkness. The once-bustling pathways were now quieter, bathed in the soft, golden glow of overhead lights. The hum of activity had dulled to a faint background noise—mechanics packing up for the night, the occasional sound of an engine being tinkered with, the low murmur of voices carrying on the cool evening breeze. The air smelled faintly of rubber and oil, a scent so distinctly tied to this world that it felt almost nostalgic.

As you walked, the click of your shoes against the concrete echoed softly in the stillness. You let your mind wander, replaying moments from the day—the laughter with Lissie, the surprise on familiar faces, and, of course, the interview. His interview. The memory of his quiet “Good to see you back” lingered in your thoughts, stirring emotions you weren’t ready to unpack.

The paddock gates loomed ahead, signaling the end of your night here, but you didn’t rush. Instead, you took your time, letting the calm of the night paddock wash over you. This was a place that had once felt like home and a battlefield all at once. Now, walking through it in the quiet moments, it felt like both again.

“Y/n!” The voice cut through the quiet of the night paddock, freezing you mid-step. You knew that voice instantly. It was one you hadn’t heard off-camera in over six months, yet it still held the same unmistakable weight. Max.

For a moment, you considered ignoring it, considered walking away without looking back. But something—some stubborn, lingering part of you—made you stop. Your feet faltered as your heart thudded in your chest, a mix of emotions crashing into you all at once. You turned slowly, the strap of your bag slipping slightly on your shoulder as you did.

There he was. Max. Jogging towards you, his expression more open than you’d ever seen it. His blue eyes were fixed on you, and even in the dim light of the paddock, you could see the hint of urgency in them. It wasn’t the composed, collected driver that the world saw. This was different.

You stood there, waiting as he closed the distance between you, your breath catching in your throat. You didn’t know what to expect—an apology, a confrontation, or something else entirely. But as the man who had once been so infuriatingly composed now hurried towards you.

“What do you want, Max?” you asked, your voice calm but edged with a slight exasperation as you crossed your arms. You slightly rolled your eyes, watching as he tried to catch his breath. His hair was a little messier than usual, his cap tilted slightly askew, but he didn’t seem to notice. He looked unsure, almost uncharacteristically so, and for a moment, you almost felt bad for him. Almost.

“Uh, well,” he began, pausing to rub the back of his neck—a gesture that immediately gave away his uncertainty. He was nervous, that much was clear, and seeing him like that was both disarming and unsettling. “I just... what made you come back?” he finally asked, his voice quieter than usual, almost as if he was afraid of your answer.

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. A dozen answers ran through your mind, each one more complicated than the last. The truth—that you had come back, in part, because of unfinished business with him—wasn’t something you were willing to admit. Not to him, and not even to yourself, if you were honest.

So, instead, you shrugged, keeping your tone light and detached. “Money,” you replied simply, the hint of a smirk playing on your lips. “They offered me a big amount for interviewing you.”

Max stared at you, his expression unreadable for a moment. You couldn’t tell if he believed you or if he was trying to figure out the truth behind your words. Either way, the flicker of something—disappointment, maybe?—crossed his face before he masked it with a faint nod.

“Of course,” he said, his voice neutral, but there was an edge to it that you couldn’t quite place. He glanced away for a brief second, as though gathering his thoughts, before looking back at you.

“And I also wanted to know how you’re doing,” you said, your voice softening as the words slipped out. It wasn’t rehearsed, and it wasn’t meant to sound vulnerable, but it did anyway. For a second, you almost regretted saying it, the quiet weight of your own admission catching you off guard.

Max’s gaze shifted, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity you weren’t sure how to interpret. His expression wavered, the practiced coolness giving way to something more genuine—something raw. He didn’t speak right away, as though your question had disarmed him, pulled him out of the routine he lived so comfortably in.

“I…” he started, pausing as his hand instinctively brushed the back of his neck. He hesitated, the confident driver who always knew exactly what to say suddenly at a loss for words. “I’m fine,” he finally said, his tone quieter than before, almost uncertain. “I mean, I’m… okay.”

The silence between you stretched, heavy and unyielding. You both stood there, the quiet of the night paddock wrapping around you like a cocoon, amplifying every unspoken word. Maybe you didn’t want to accept it—that he was fine without you. Maybe that’s what made the silence so unbearable.

But then, he broke it.

“Fuck no, I’m not okay,” Max said suddenly, his voice raw and unfiltered, cutting through the stillness like a blade. His words hung in the air, sharp and unexpected, and you felt your breath catch in your chest. He wasn’t looking at you now, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder, as if the admission was too much to deliver while meeting your eyes.

“I miss you,” he added, his voice quieter this time, but no less intense. The vulnerability in his tone was something you’d never heard from him before, and it hit you like a wave, crashing over the walls you’d built to protect yourself.

“I still hear your voice,” Max said, his voice raw and unsteady, the vulnerability cutting through the silence like a knife. He exhaled sharply, as though the words had taken more out of him than he’d expected. “In the car, at home… everywhere.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes momentarily dropping to the ground before flicking back to yours. “I think I was going insane for the past six months.”

The confession caught you completely off guard, your chest tightening at the intensity of his words. You weren’t sure what to say—or even if you wanted to say anything at all. There was no trace of the self-assured, composed driver standing in front of you now. This was Max, stripped down to something raw and real, baring the parts of himself he had always hidden so carefully.

He took a step closer, the light from the paddock glinting off his features as his blue eyes searched yours, desperate for some kind of response. “I didn’t know what to do,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I thought… I thought pushing you away was the right thing. For me, for my career, for everything. But I was wrong.”

What did he expect you to say? This was too much—too much information, too much emotion, all at once. You stared at him, the weight of his words pressing against the walls you’d built around yourself. “What do you want me to say or do, Max? I don’t understand,” you said, your voice steady but tinged with frustration.

He shifted his weight, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself. “I thought…” He hesitated, running a hand through his hair before exhaling sharply. “I thought maybe you would give me a second chance?”

The words hung in the air, heavy with hope and uncertainty. It felt almost laughable, absurd even, that he would ask this of you now, after everything. But as you looked at him—this man who had always seemed so untouchable, now standing before you with an open vulnerability—you couldn’t bring yourself to say no. Not outright.

You raised an eyebrow, a hint of disbelief flashing across your face. “I thought you don’t do relationships,” you said, your tone measured but carrying a pointed edge.

Max winced slightly at your words, the reminder of his past declaration hitting him like a sharp jab. “I didn’t,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “I thought I couldn’t. But I… I was wrong.”

He looked at you then, his blue eyes filled with something you hadn’t seen in him before—regret, yes, but also sincerity. And for the first time, you realized that the man who had once pushed you away wasn’t the same man standing in front of you now.

You sighed, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on your chest. The words hung on the tip of your tongue, hesitant, uncertain, but impossible to ignore. “Maybe we should try it again,” you said quietly, the admission leaving your lips before you could second-guess it.

Max’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of hope flashing across his face, quickly tempered by a hint of caution. He straightened slightly, his usual confidence replaced by something softer, more tentative. “You mean that?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper, as if he didn’t quite trust what he was hearing.

You glanced away for a moment, your gaze landing on the dimly lit path behind him. “I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice carrying the weight of everything that had happened between you. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy. I’m not even sure it’ll work.” Your eyes flicked back to his, meeting his steady, searching gaze. “But... maybe it’s worth a shot.”

Max exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly as relief washed over his features. It wasn’t the triumphant grin of a man who always got what he wanted. It was something quieter, more genuine—gratitude, maybe, or the quiet realization of a second chance he never thought he’d get.

“I won’t mess it up this time,” he said, his tone firm but with an edge of vulnerability that made his words feel more like a promise than a declaration. “I swear, Y/n. I’ll do it right.”

You didn’t respond right away, the silence stretching between you as you searched his face, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation. But there was none. For the first time, you saw a man who wasn’t just saying the right thing—he truly meant it.

© norristrii 2025

[gutsby]

Benign

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Marrying a former Soviet sleeper agent was your first mistake. Letting curiosity get the better of you and saying his trigger words before sex was your second.

Warnings: 18+. DUBCON - Bucky is partly brainwashed; R is reluctant at first. Reliving past trauma (i.e., grief, prior HYDRA captivity). Rough, unprotected p-in-v.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Marrying into the mob meant one of two things: turning a blind eye to your husband’s crimes or taking them up as your own. Most of the women who had gone before you chose the former, leading lives of willful ignorance while their spouses cut deals, shed blood, stole guns, and submitted only to the laws of secrecy and discretion.

You, unlike those wives, hadn’t had the luxury of choice.

Your life, unlike theirs, had been sold to a man you didn’t know, by a father you couldn’t stand, and now your dad was dead, and this man—your husband—was to blame.

The least Bucky could do was fuck you hard to say sorry.

But no, ever since the Winter Soldier had reared its ugly head that dreadful night in Madripoor two weeks prior, your husband hadn’t laid one finger on your body that was not soft, sweet, and sickeningly apologetic to you. He seemed almost scared to initiate sex, and when he did, couldn’t help but act like a touch might break you.

After all, one almost had. Those hands he’d hear you beg and plead to put on you now were the very same ones he’d used to kill dozens, if not hundreds, including blood of your own blood. To the world, Bucky’s reputation commanded fear. To his wife, now, he felt duly obliged to prove he was more—that you were safe with him, not from him. He’d carted you off to every GP, hematologist, nutritionist, and grief specialist lauded among Brooklyn’s elite to make that happen. Fast. Frankly, these days, the thought of fucking was the furthest thing from his mind.

Unbeknownst to Bucky, somewhere along the spectrum of grief, you’d already come to settle comfortably at the ‘Need-to-be-fucked-until-I-can-no-longer-think-or-feel’ phase, and every bone in your body was crying out for respite in the form of ruthless, mind-numbing sex. It didn’t make sense. You hardly knew what to do with it. You should have lashed out, shut down, cried rivers and lakes of tears for that integral part of family that had been lost, but for whatever reason, you had to go numb.

You wanted to do something really, really fucking dumb.

Remorseful as he was, Bucky and his explanations for who or what the Winter Soldier was had been sparse. He’d told you that he had once been held in captivity by HYDRA, had his brain re-wired some way to make him a merciless Soviet sleeper agent, and that the night in Madripoor was the first in ages he had been ‘activated.’ How did activation happen? Of course, he wouldn’t tell.

But Steve would.

Steve had told you everything you wanted to know about your soldat, describing in painstaking detail how he worked, trained, operated, and could be called to action. You were almost certain Rogers had said it all as a way to assure you that it wasn’t Bucky who’d killed your father—it was someone inside him. You were more than positive Steve had never intended for you to use his intel like this.

You hadn’t believed him. Couldn’t believe him. How the fuck could someone sever all ties to their conscious mind and just transform anew into a killer? You got to be hell-bent on knowing for certain whether it’d been Bucky or him, it, whatever the hell the Winter Solider was, and on knowing it now. If your husband was faking it all and simply using this persona to justify the killing, that would be it. Trust gone, marriage over. If he wasn’t, well…you hadn’t gotten that far into your own line of thinking.

“Tell me what you want, doll,” Bucky said, pulling you back to the present.

He shifted gently against you, cotton trousers raising the friction a little as he slotted between your legs. He was still dressed head-to-toe from his meeting that morning.

“I want you to fuck me. Make me cum. Please.”

You were bare, save for one small scrap of linen and lace that somehow passed as a nightie. Your gaze was soft.

Bucky didn’t want to say no, but he also felt too guilty to say yes. The way you were watching him now, eyes so helpless and pleading, body writhing for contact, he knew you didn’t want his touch so much as needed it. Desperately. Couldn’t bear to be burdened with grief so you brushed it aside, to the furthest recesses of your mind until all that was left was desire. Starvation, really.

He could satiate you for now, but that hunger might not ever leave. The corners of his lips twitched into a frown.

“Gentle?” he mumbled.

“Rough,” you countered.

“Baby—”

“I really don’t need another fucking lecture on death, Bucky. I know I’m not myself right now, but I can still make these decisions, okay? Don’t talk to me like I can’t.”

Anger flashed in your eyes for a second, then indignation, then nothing. Without much energy left, you pushed him away. Flopped back on the bed and, seeming to sink into yourself, heaved a low, feeble sigh.

“I know. Hey,” Bucky leaned over to press a touch to your tummy, and it made you want to hurl, “I’m sorry.”

You turned onto your side.

“You still don’t remember what happened?”

The question came suddenly, almost from somewhere outside your body, it seemed. For the hundredth time.

“No,” Bucky answered, for what felt like the thousandth.

“This Winter Soldier—”

“He isn’t me.”

“You didn’t know?”

“Couldn’t know. Wasn’t…programmed for it.”

Bucky was watching you now, eyes as contrite as they’d ever been while you rehashed this subject to the brink of tears. He never could stay composed when he saw you cry.

“Baby…” he started, arms reaching out for you.

Eyes still filling with tears, you shook your head and swatted him off. You sat up, and your brows pinched together in a look he couldn’t read. Contemplating.

At last, you made up your mind.

You would try something new—and really, really stupid:

“Zhelaniye.”

“What?”

Bucky’s own expression contorted with uncertainty.

“—semnadtsat, rzhaviy, rasvet—”

He heard that. He immediately wished he hadn’t.

“Wait—”

You were curious. You had no idea what you were doing.

“Baby, baby, stop—”

“—pech, devyat—”

You were speaking so fast, surely it wouldn’t work like that. Either way, he had to stop you. He seized your arms, giving a sharp, deliberate shake, pupils blown to the size of saucers in his eyes. There wasn’t much time.

“Don’t—”

“—adin—”

No time at all.

“—dothisdon’tfuckingdothishoneyplease.”

Losing himself already. Feeling it stir inside his mind.

“—dobroserdechniy—”

‘Kind-hearted.’ ‘Benign’. You truly had no clue what these words were liable to do, much less what they meant.

Having enunciated this last part, you swallowed. Took the tip of your tongue and rolled it left-to-right across the backs of your teeth, waiting for your speech to take effect like some magical performance before your eyes.

It hadn’t, it seemed. You blinked. He blinked. You sat in a protracted silence for what seemed like seventeen years, and presently, your stomach began to churn. Nothing happened—you’d been right about this fuckery all along.

Then you remembered one last word of the sequence.

Faintly, you said:

“Soldat.”

The man above you straightened. Sitting. Stiff. Still perched by your legs at a comfortable distance but regarding you now with a pointed stare. Expectancy made manifest in a simple, sharp glare from his eyes to yours.

“...Bucky?”

The look on his face grew even harder. For a time, he persisted in that strange and silent grimace, and just when you started to suspect he was faking this whole demeanor of deadened stoicism, you heard a voice. Clawing out of his throat but sounding nothing like him:

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

The words drove a fear to the greatest depths of your bones, and you hardly knew why. You stared back at the handsome, barren man still watching you with severity, and you couldn’t seem to find your husband anywhere.

“James?” You weren’t sure why you tried his name again. You just didn’t know what else to say.

The scowl seeped into his mouth, and he frowned.

“James,” he repeated, like the word was foreign to him.

You found yourself shuffling back on the bed just then—to what, you didn’t know. You just felt a gnawing need to put some space between you and this person, this glowering face, however you could. When he grabbed your ankle, you let out a startled sound, and when he followed you up on the bed, you did more than just whimper; you lifted your leg to knee him directly in the stomach. He caught it.

Then he stared again, expression bloodless and wan.

“You’re scaring me, Bucky.” Your voice trembled as you tried to free your leg from his fist—grip unusually strong.

The man paused another moment, if only to soak in your words and let his gaze trail over your face. Your exertions did not register. And, for the very first time, you felt as though you were something more like a plaything in your husband’s eyes—not a full-fledged human being but a system to be gamed. The feeling was so unsettling that you had to turn away.

Or try to, anyway.

Craning your neck just far enough to spy your phone on the nightstand, your first thought was Steve; he would know what to do. But before you could even think to twist and lift your body in that direction, you felt a hand yank you to the bed, flat on your back. You looked up at Bucky and found yourself caged between two arms. He lowered himself to his elbows, shifted his weight to one side, and seemed not to notice your movements at all when you tried to slide away. The man just splayed his hand across your stomach and pressed it firmly. Stay.

You weren’t one to shy away from a challenge—or keep hope alive against the odds. You put your hand over his.

“James—”

“Zhena.”

The abruptness of Bucky’s word stole the rest of yours. You cocked a brow and followed his gaze to your hand.

To the gaps between your fingers, then the touch that fanned across them to settle on one digit in particular.

Bucky thumbed at the diamond and smiled. He smiled.

“Zhena,” he repeated.

You blinked.

“I— you...gave me that, Bucky. You did.”

He hummed in acknowledgment.

Bucky stared at the ring for what could’ve been five seconds or several years, and then he did something unexpected. He shifted his touch to the bodice of your dress—again, if you could even call it that—and he began to tug at the satin bow situated between your breasts.

Of course, this nightie being designed for honeymoons and supremely easy access, it didn’t take much effort at all for the folds of your dress to come apart. Your breasts spilled out of the fabric without so much as a hint of protest, your torso was quick to become fully exposed, and suddenly, shortly, your hands were fumbling at your chest in an effort to regain some smidgen of modesty. Your husband just shook his head, following your hands.

“Moya zhena,” he said, a touch more emphasis and fervor to the first of the two words.

Now it was you who was shaking your head. Trying to pry his touch away as you slid up the bed. When he followed, you saw the icy expression had been supplanted by intrigue and, though you still felt ill at ease, you couldn’t deny you were curious to know what he was thinking. Who was thinking it? Soft, plush lips swiftly replaced his hands, and before you even knew what he was doing, Bucky, or someone, was latching onto your left breast. Using teeth to graze the hardened nub and send a ripple of thick, guilty pleasure coursing through you.

You whimpered. Bucky groaned.

Your fingers slotted through his hair with every intention of pushing him away, but when you tried, he just flicked his tongue and made another delicious sound against you.

You pushed with even more force, and he groaned again.

Not Bucky, not Bucky, not him, you have to—

“Stop!” you cried.

A set of soft, warm baby blues darted up to meet you.

Some flicker of recognition seemed to cross them, too.

“Honey?”

You almost lurched toward the sound. It was Bucky.

Suddenly, your hands were making fists in the collar of his crisp white button-up, and you were trying to yank him up. You murmured his name in disbelief, relief, and gathered him up in your arms to pull him in for a kiss.

The lips that met you were soft for a moment—just one.

Then the teeth reappeared. Harsh, jarring, biting. You jerked back at the sensation, and when you found his face again, it seemed your husband was lost to you all over. The eyes were attentive still—nowhere near as cold and aloof as they had been before—but they did not radiate the same warmth and admiration that Bucky’s always did. You almost couldn’t believe what you were seeing. He was gone, just like that, and there was nothing you could do to stop it from happening.

A broad palm cupped your cheek to bring you in for another kiss, and you weren’t sure if you should indulge. It didn’t seem you had much choice anyway, because the lips that were seeking yours were hungry. Starved. Searing into your mouth with a force you couldn’t refuse.

But something inside you wanted to find Bucky again.

Somewhere inside this stranger was lying dormant a trace of your husband; you’d seen it yourself, if only for a second. It made you curious. Where had he gone? What did he do when forced to retreat into this strange, preprogrammed being, and how could you get him back?

“Bucky,” you mumbled, more of a plea than a moan.

You were kissed harder than you had been in a long time. You didn’t have to think, or do, or breathe one puff of air that this man didn’t account for. His tongue wedged a gaping space in your wet, welcoming mouth for him to fill, and somehow, you didn’t feel the urge to protest. A familiarity in the way he kissed almost put you at ease, and when his body lifted slightly, yours lifted with it.

Before long, Bucky was sitting. Kneeling between your legs with an eye to your soft, shaking torso. You’d barely even come to notice just how hard you were breathing until you felt a palm on your stomach again. There was an oddly calming insinuation in that one simple touch.

And again, he smiled. Brighter than before.

“Nashe?” He sounded eager as he said it.

You peered up at him and raised an eyebrow in question. Perhaps you should’ve felt more exposed; after all, you were sitting half-naked with your husband’s assassin alter ego stroking your stomach and beaming over you, eyeing you expectantly, and you didn’t know what to say. Apart from the short set of words Steve had taught you, you were totally clueless to Russian, and you weren’t quite sure you were in a place to ask Bucky to translate.

When it seemed words might never come, the gleaming teeth above you were shrouded in a tighter, close-lipped smile, and Bucky nodded. Appearing to understand. Instead of forcing a response from you, he just let his hand migrate down your belly, fingers tracing the skin, then settle comfortably—momentarily—at the crest of your pubic bone. Then he pressed the heel of his palm into the place residing right below it, and without really meaning to, you moaned. A quiet maelstrom of pleasure circled low in your abdomen, threatening to draw noises from your throat you weren’t planning to make with every gentle gyration of Bucky’s lower hand.

You had to purse your lips to contain the sounds.

Again, he nodded.

“It’s okay,” he said, so quiet he almost couldn’t be heard.

He let the friction continue for a while like that: just palming you, watching you react to the simplest of motions against your swollen, aching clit and try not to writhe. At length, you squirmed a little bit. Bucky seemed to want to wait for something to happen, and when you bucked your hips, a look in his eye said that was enough.

He lowered himself between your legs. Shoulders bumping your thighs as he spread them apart, chest rising and falling in measured breaths, and lips smiling all the while. You sucked in a breath when his face came to rest just a few inches shy of your bare, aching warmth.

“Bucky?”

The man looked up at you and blinked.

“Yeah, honey?”

One thumb traced over the seam of your cunt, and your back nearly arched off the bed. There he was, again, gaze safe and secure to yours and hands moving in tandem as they always would. His tongue calmly followed suit. When you fisted his hair, he blinked once more and then directed his attention back to your wet, warm, velvety folds with a pointed look and a purpose.

The sound that escaped you next could hardly be classed as anything less than a scream, but the soft and unperturbed demeanor of the man between your legs showed he hadn’t noticed at all. He just sucked diligently—damn near dutifully—on your clit with a vigor you’d never felt, and when you yanked at his hair, he hummed.

It was like his lips had been trained for perfect suction; that was how well and thoroughly he descended upon your swollen little bud. An airtight kiss and a quick flick of his tongue, paired with his hot and heavy breaths fanning over your cunt, sent your senses into overdrive. Your toes curled inward, your throat let loose a gasp, and without fully realizing it, your walls were clamping down, pulsing and leaking out desire for more of this touch.

Then, without warning, Bucky brought a hand to the throbbing and slick cunt that was presently clenching around nothing, and he fed it two fingers. So forceful and deep he nearly buried his knuckles right along with them. Then he started scissoring those two fingers, sharply.

“Open, milaya,” he said. Again, it wasn’t entirely Bucky.

But you felt a faint remembrance there. You didn’t want him to stop. Maybe you were led astray by the gentle laps of his tongue or the prodding of his fingertips, or perhaps there was something stubbornly familiar about the way he was touching you now. You couldn’t tell.

All you knew was that both of your hands were holding tight to his head and begging him, wordlessly, for more.

Your moans rang all the way through the bedroom in your new, far-too-big penthouse apartment in Brooklyn, down the hall, reverberating through every inch of the space until all that could be heard were your sounds and his and the delectable little noises of your bodies working together. Bucky hadn’t even stirred to pleasure himself.

You wanted that part to change.

With your hip pinned to the mattress and Bucky’s tongue laving over your clit in ruthlessly quick movements, you probably would’ve liked to cum all over his mouth and fingers, but you wanted to see him pleased even more.

Just when he’d worked a third finger inside you and was driving you close to your peak, you pushed him away.

Bucky parted from your folds with a glistening chin and two furrowed eyebrows, clearly frustrated to have been torn from his mission before you reached completion, but you wouldn’t let that look linger for long. You used your leverage in his hair—however slight, comparatively, that grip might have been—to pull him up on the bed.

Bucky surprised you with just how swiftly he moved.

His steel-blue gaze was on yours in a second, equally penetrating and soft.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing—”

“My baby okay?”

He surprised you again; this time by how quick his demeanor was to shift the second he sensed something was wrong. Just like Bucky. It had to be him in there.

You nodded, still out of breath from the wonders he’d been working with his tongue. You squeezed his arm and tried to coax him toward you, to help him lower his body some, and when he seemed uncertain, you offered a smile. It’s okay to touch, you won’t break anything.

Bucky eyed you skeptically, but it was clear he was more wary of himself than of you. He glanced over your body, briefly to his, then slowly, apprehensively, sank down.

“Just fine,” you mumbled, hooking your legs around his back the second his chest was close enough to yours.

You felt an uptick in his heartbeat when your heels dug a little more firmly into the waistband of his pants. While your hands started working their way toward the front of that fabric, wedging clumsily between your bodies, his gaze flitted to yours, and his brows drew even tighter together. He didn’t try to stop you, but he certainly seemed confused as to why you wanted to include him so soon. Why you cared to show concern for him at all.

You noticed that then, and in just about every moment preceding, the man was taken aback by kindness.

Whether it was pulling him closer to you, tugging his pants down with a tender touch, running your fingers across the bulge in his boxers, or simply nodding your head and letting him know it was okay to touch you back, Bucky seemed unaccustomed to any care in this area.

When your fingers made it around his cock and started stroking him, gently, he just might’ve come apart.

His chest shuddered with the inhale of a short, strained breath, and his eyelids fluttered, as if meaning to close.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, and he started to shake his head.

“No, let me—”

“Let me,” you finished for him, wrist flicking back and forth quietly. You paused just to rub a quick touch between your folds, collect some arousal, then return to touching him when he met your eyes again and allowed you to continue. You skimmed his sensitive underside with your palm and let the warmth of him bleed into your fingertips as you worked him up to a comfortable pace.

Bucky rutted into your touch, probably harder than he meant to. Then he planted a hand beside your head and anchored his weight above you so that he was close enough to reach your lips—but he didn’t kiss you.

His expression hardened again, and he forcibly removed himself from the pulse of your fingers. He frowned.

“You want me to fuck you, no? Make you cum?”

He sounded irritated again.

Briefly, you recalled your words from earlier and nodded. It was true, you’d said it to him like that, and you’d meant it. You just couldn’t make sense of what he wanted now.

It seemed Bucky couldn’t wait to indulge you any longer. He fisted his cock in one hand, angled the head just outside of your cunt, and burst in with one thrust.

“Then let me,” he muttered, plunging down to the hilt.

The first go was rough, and the second was no kinder. Bucky’s face screwed up with indifference again, like he wanted to get something out of his brain and just do.

Like there was a task at hand that needed to be finished.

You couldn’t deny it felt fine at first. Fucking edifying after all those horrific thoughts had been eating away at your mind and rousing your own hunger for numbness. The drive of Bucky’s thick girth in and out, in and out repeatedly was no doubt capable of rendering you dumb. But being slammed into and taken so roughly was only good for you when you knew he was feeling good too.

This Bucky was back to being entirely flinty and lifeless—practically devoid of all emotion as he railed into you.

The back of your head was forced into the pillow with the weight of each thrust and Bucky’s thumb pushing into your chin—‘Better, milaya? Is this better for you?’—and frankly, you wanted to push him back and ask the same.

But you couldn’t. The pace he’d set was suffocating, and the stretch of his cock inside you was unusually tough.

Instead, you sank your nails into his arm and mumbled:

“Bucky.”

The man’s thrusts were both stabbing and rhythmic, sending a welt of pleasure blossoming up in your chest. You tried again:

“Bucky.”

He blinked.

And slowed.

“Bucky,” he mumbled back.

Seemingly mindless and mechanical, he snaked a hand behind your head to lift your face and tilt it toward the sight below: his cock splitting you open before him, parting your insides with an easy, welcome glide through the slick of your folds. You watched as your arousal enveloped him fully. Not a single inch of his rock-hard, throbbing shaft was spared; even his balls were soaked. They felt even heavier slapping your ass with each thrust.

“You remember?” you asked, hating how small you sounded.

The man’s nostrils flared, but he gave a curt nod. Expression taut and vigilant, as though anticipating something going wrong at any second. Still, he nodded.

“Years,” he answered.

“Years?”

Since he’d done this? Felt good? Become this way?

No, Bucky was activated in Madripoor just weeks ago. He didn’t look like he was ready to indulge in any ‘feel-good’ pleasure, and you weren’t sure when he’d last been with anyone else before you. Years could mean anything.

You chanced a few soft fingertips up to his cheeks, cupping either side of his clean-shaven face in an effort to anchor you both to one place. The pit of your stomach was reeling with warmth, and friction, and fullness. It took everything in you just to pull him in for a quick, grounding kiss before the feeling gave way to even more.

Bucky’s teeth nicked your bottom lip. He flinched back.

You ignored the sting and repeated his name, murmuring it carefully up to the seal of his mouth as if requesting entry with that word alone.

It seemed to work. Bucky kissed you back with a gentle, albeit guarded, sort of tenderness that made him soften. His thrusts weren’t as rough and punishing as they were before. The dull, throbbing ache between your legs transformed into something sweeter, and your body no longer had to brace itself against strokes that, to you, were nearly bruising and, to Bucky, were just necessary.

For once, your husband let out a soft grunt of pleasure.

“They never let us,” Bucky said as his teeth grit together, “It’s been years.”

“Since what?”

The face above you tempered more—this time with a trace of sadness behind it. He continued to rut into you, but now his thrusts were sloppy, and it seemed as though he were battling against his own pleasure with every motion. He lowered one hand between your legs and began to thumb at your clit, gaze torn from yours.

“Close now?” he muttered.

Ignoring the question you’d asked.

“Years since what?” you pressed anyway. The tiny ripples preceding bliss had already begun to stir inside you, maddeningly, with every flick of his thumb, but your curiosity to know the whole truth was stronger still.

Bucky’s hips were moving at a feverish pace now; his free hand made a fist in the sheets beside your head, and his chest heaved with a series of short, ragged breaths that were no doubt meant to mask his moans as well. Notwithstanding the burn you felt between your legs—he really was much rougher and stronger now, you saw—you cupped his cheek again to tilt his face toward yours.

What you saw made your stomach drop.

Your heart clenched like a fist within the confines of your ribcage, and there it was—that terrible ache you felt each time you saw something awful materialize before you.

Bucky’s eyes were wet with tears. He wouldn’t blink.

He tilted his head into your touch, as if for support, but really, the weight of it signaled to you that he just wanted to feel you. Be assured that you were there. His big, broad arms seemed suddenly unable to hold his weight, and then he sank into your frame with a grunt and another stuttered breath. Like he was ready to collapse.

“Don’t leave again,” he said quietly.

The pain in your chest elevated, in bloom.

“Bucky I didn’t— wasn’t—” you started to say.

The friction between your bodies was almost too much to bear. You couldn’t be sure if you were talking to your husband, soldat, or some strange, inconceivable mixture of the two, but you could tell that this one was desperate.

Pleading.

“I can’t lose you again.”

The head of his cock grazed your most sensitive spot inside, and a whine seeped out through your teeth. Bucky’s whole body was blanketing yours, torso flush with your front and hips working an erratic cadence as he got a glimpse of release himself. He groaned out in pleasure and begged you to stay. You promised that you would. Your legs were still wound around his sides, but both of your bodies were slick with a sheen of sweat; it was hard to hang on. Bucky’s hair was wild and pushed back from his face, but his eyes were clear when they finally met yours, and you heard him mumble again, ‘Please stay.’

You didn’t know what else to say but okay, baby, I will.

You swore you would stay, and in between oaths, your mouth was consumed by a barrage of kisses—Bucky got to feast with a full set of teeth again, primal as ever—and then your climax hit. Euphoria washed over you whole with a force you weren’t expecting to feel, and you couldn’t help but cry out and whine as waves of pleasure coursed straight from the innermost depths of your core.

Bucky’s hips collided with yours in two more stuttered thrusts, and when he bottomed out at the last, you felt a heavy spurt of warmth. A groan coiling out of his chest. Muscles growing lax and two sturdy arms coming to bracket your head as your husband’s whole body weight went folding into yours. You kissed some more, in between frenzied intakes of breaths and steadying moments where you were simply trying to ground your body and get your heart to slow down to a normal rate.

You held each other in silence for a while. Bucky’s head fell next to yours on the pillow when the last of his spend had been emptied, but otherwise, he didn’t stir. At some point, his hands slid behind your back, and the second he hugged you to him, you felt secure in that embrace.

You were probably as far as you’d ever been from understanding who the fuck your husband was, but all it seemed you were capable of feeling for now was pity.

Pity for the years he’d lost to captivity; pity for what was little more than mere existence under HYDRA’s thumb; pity for all the things you still didn’t know about his past.

You held Bucky tighter, and, flooded with this strange, grating emotion and an overwhelming sense of powerlessness, you wished you could protect him, too.

“James?” you mumbled into his hair.

Bucky didn’t respond.

You squeezed his shoulder. Still nothing.

Against your better judgment, you tried to shift yourself underneath his body. You figured you wouldn’t make it far at all, but at least he would be aware that you were trying to get up. Maybe even start to move with you.

He didn’t.

It took everything in you just to wedge an elbow back, struggle to prop yourself up against his weight, and when you were about to let out a huff of an exasperated laugh and tell him, Bucky, you’re crushing me, honey, could you please ease up a little, your request was answered before the words could even leave your mouth.

At the sound of two new muffled voices carrying up from the living room and what appeared to be noises from shuffling feet, Bucky rose straight from the bed, off you.

Your gaze trailed his to the door, and you reached for him.

“Baby, it’s just—”

Bucky was back on his feet. Yanking his boxers and pants up his legs and buckling his belt in no time at all.

The movers. It’s just the movers bringing in furniture—

You moved your hand closer to your husband in the hopes of stalling his movements for half a second, but then a set of ruthless blue eyes had you pinned, quick:

“Stay.”

Your outstretched arm was taken up in a much stronger, stiffer one, and you were suddenly pulled over to Bucky.

But you knew from the eyes it wasn’t him at all.

And you weren’t so much being tugged toward him as you were being hauled to the floor. Thrown on your knees beside the bed, next to Bucky. He was about to leave.

Without thinking, you reached for one of the legs of his trousers and sank your nails into the fabric to hold him in place, to tell him again that there was nothing to see out there but the people you knew, no threat outside at all. But Bucky was deaf to your pleas, it seemed. He shrugged you off easily and made a move for his gun, expression blank, stolid, calm, hardened. Decided.

You tried to rise to your feet but were stopped.

“STAY,” Bucky boomed again, this time an order that he didn’t even deign to complete with a look your way.

If he had—if he even possessed the ability to consider anything but the immediate task at hand—he would’ve seen his own hand knock you to the floor to keep you from standing. Might’ve caught a glimpse of the instant your head struck the edge of the nightstand before you hit the ground. Could’ve even made out the first traces of blood that came trickling out from above your temple. Would’ve seen you cower back, viscerally, out of fear.

But holding the side of your head and watching him leave, grim realization twisted at the pit of your stomach, and you knew the man wouldn’t have stopped if he had.

If your soldat’s objective was to protect you from any harm lurking outside that door, real or illusory, nothing you were capable of doing now could stop that. At expense to yourself, at expense to him, at expense to whatever lives stood between the Winter Soldier and that unwavering, hardwired goal, he still would not ever stop.

Thinking of new, innocent lives in the balance, now, you scrambled for your phone the next second to call Steve.

You tried him once. Twice. A third time crawling on your knees, then standing, then staggering over to the door and pulling the phone from your ear just to send a string of texts to your friend while the thing continued to ring.

SOS

Need help

Pick up please

Bucky’s stuck and he’s

About to hurt people here

A crash sounded outside. You hurried to the door. Your hand closed around the knob and tried to turn it. The handle turned freely, but something behind it was refusing to let you leave the room. You pressed again.

“Bucky!”

Your cry was useless in the face of the barricade outside.

You pushed your shoulder and, behind it, the whole force of your weight against it anyway, trying to get out.

The line went dead. You tried again.

Now with your phone to one ear and the bedroom door taking the brunt of your hits from the other, bleeding side of your body, you scarcely heard much of anything else. The ring started. Stopped. Began again when you pressed a shaky finger to Steve’s contact name, and continued in a cycle for some time while you tried to force whatever was on the other side of the door away.

The second a voice broke through the haze of your frantic, half-crazed state of consciousness, you cried:

“STEVE!”

“Mrs. Barnes?”

You were shocked to hear a woman on the other end. Your pulse was still racing, shoulder aching from the impact of each desperate push you’d been forcing against the door, and then you stopped. Another loud something sounded down the hallway, further away, but you were too startled and unnerved to take any note of it.

You started to ask, ‘Where’s Steve?’ when the voice continued:

“This is Mrs. Barnes?”

“Yes,” you answered woodenly.

You held the phone as close to your ear as you could, but still, the woman’s words were coming in and out in bursts. You must’ve mistakenly accepted the call when trying to reach Steve—you couldn’t think right now; could barely retract the phone far enough to see a strange number displayed on the screen. You swallowed.

“—from Lenox Hill Hospital at Northwell Health—”

The high-rise medical center on the Upper East Side you’d visited that week. Bucky had wanted you tested for nutritional deficiencies and anemia, of all fucking things.

“—if you had a moment or two to chat and maybe—”

No, you needed Steve, not this outpatient courtesy call.

You would’ve liked to hang up. Should’ve hung up. In fact, your fingers were practically itching to hit the button the whole time the nurse was speaking to you, but something in you just couldn’t be persuaded to do it. It took several more seconds before your senses began to creep back, and by then, when you were about to drop the call, you heard a phrase that stopped you on a dime.

“—but the doctor advises prenatal vitamins—”

“What?” you snapped, far more harshly than you meant.

The nurse paused a beat, whether from incredulity at how rude you’d just sounded or to consider something. When she resumed, she sounded a little more guarded.

“Yes…Dr. Watkins did reach out to you about your bloodwork from your last visit, didn’t she? I thought—”

“No,” you said, rushed and painfully brusque, again. You tried to rein in your tone some before continuing, “She didn’t—didn’t reach out about anything. What vitamins?”

Another pause.

“Prenatals.”

You hated that she gave you another second to chew on that word before taking a breath and pressing on.

“I’m terribly, terribly sorry to be the one to spring that on you, Mrs. Barnes—I thought you knew…um—” The nurse was sheepish now, almost embarrassed to be speaking, “—you’re about…three weeks along in your pregnancy.”

Three weeks along.

Advised prenatal vitamins.

For the child growing inside of you.

A rivulet of blood trickled into your left eye.

Your whole body was apt to convulse, but it didn’t.

You hung up.

—

Taglist: (please lmk if I missed anyone! I can only tag 50 at a time so will continue in a separate post) @vicmc624 @she-could-never @mcira @kentokaze @identity2212 @unaxv, @buchi91, @ordelixx @stinkerbelle007 @opibarnes @wilsons-striped-ties @desigirlxx @pono-pura-vida @geminiflanagansblog @buggy14 @sky-full-0f-fl0wers @buckysdoll1520 @armystay89 @minimarvelingmarvel @kunakizen @ghostiebby06 @blackhawkfanatic @dameron-grantspector @sushiseoks @deansapplepie @mrsjoequinn @gyokujyn @lunaroserites @first-edition @kaybaby2494, @jaggedsi @excusememrbarnes @daisychainsoflove @mostlymarvelgirl @diannana @shawnberry @yujyujj @urmomsalex @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @athenabarnes @christinabae @sluttylittlewaistenthusiast @wintrsoldrluvr @bethbunnyy @i-heart-smut @aagn360 @dahliawolfe @fantasyfootballchampion @lilyevanstan1325 @kandis-mom @thealyrs

[runecatwrites]

Let’s talk about Warriors and Wild

This was another “weird” pairing that came out of the latest update.

You’d think that the two with no dungeon experience should each be paired with someone more experienced, right? Well, Warriors isn’t really thinking about that. He has a different motive for choosing Wild to team up with, and no, it’s not because he’s “mad” at him. The reason actually reveals a lot about both of their characters, and displays a great deal of character growth on Warriors' part specifically.

Deep dive under the cut!

Okay first off, let’s get something out of the way. Just because Warriors and Wild have no traditional dungeon experience, that doesn’t make them ill-equipped. Warriors has tons of combat experience and is demonstrably very intelligent. And Wild? Sure he didn’t have traditional dungeons in BotW, but you know what he did have? Puzzles. A TON of puzzles. That guy can do puzzles in his sleep. I highly doubt that he’s gonna have trouble with dungeon puzzles once he figures out how to approach them (which won’t take long).

All right, now that we have that cleared up, moving on!

From the very beginning, Wars holds great respect for Wild:

Because at the start of the adventure, Warriors doesn't realize just how different he is from the others. He gets put with a bunch of guys who share his name and his spirit, so of course he thinks his experience isn’t unique. They’re all just like him, right?

Okay, uh, maybe not? But they still can’t be that different, Warriors thinks. Sky is also a knight, and he acts exactly the way Warriors expects a knight to act.

He catches onto plans immediately:

And follows through flawlessly:

It’s not about authority and Sky’s ability to follow orders. It’s about the fact that Sky is on the same page. He went to military school. He has extensive training. He knows what to do and when, with barely any prompting, because he’s been taught to think the same way Warriors thinks. Warriors and Sky work together perfectly because of this:

But with Wild? Warriors is expecting the exact same thing with Wild, a fellow knight, but what he gets from the Champion is far from what he gets with Sky. This is very unexpected for Warriors. He gives what he thinks is a clear directive:

“Clear out the rest” to Warriors and Sky means “get rid of all the little guys so we can focus on the big guy.” Solid strategy. But Wild does not interpret this the same way, because he does not remember his military training and therefore any of the strategy he was taught. “Clear out the rest” just means get rid of everyone to him. And he decides to eliminate the biggest threat first. It’s important to note here that he’s not “defying orders” because his emotions are getting the better of him, or even because he thinks he shouldn't have been given orders. The way he sees it, he is following orders. Warriors said “clear out the rest.” And that’s what Wild’s helping to do. But then afterwards? Warriors is angry!

The plan? What plan? There was no plan! The goal was just to get rid of everyone! Why does it matter if Wild took out the big guy before the little guys?

It’s at this point that Wild realizes he’s done something wrong, but he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. (Any other neurodivergent folks here? If so, yeah, you know how this feels. I know I do.)

It’s clear through subsequent interactions that Wild genuinely does not understand what the problem is:

He thought he made the right move, but others don’t seem to think so. He’s already emotional, and this is just adding more fuel to the fire. He snaps, starts a fight with Four, and runs off still feeling confused.

Meanwhile, Warriors is also confused. Why didn’t Wild act the way Warriors thought he would? He’s a knight, right? Why did he do what he did, and how did he not understand that his choice of strategy was incorrect after?

And it’s not just Wild that Warriors failed to read correctly; the others are clashing with him too. Case in point, Twilight’s refusal to hang back after being injured:

In the aftermath of the battle, it’s at this point that Warriors makes a realization: he’s the one who made a mistake. He had preconceived expectations of people, and that ended up majorly backfiring on him.

Warriors knows that he can't be a good teammate - and a good leader - if he doesn't understand where his companions are coming from. Again, it's not about authority, it's about being on the same page. Ever since, he has been trying to seek better understanding. Maybe Wild doesn't feel comfortable taking orders from Warriors, and only listens to those he knows well?

But Twilight said, "No he doesn't." Huh. Okay. Well, maybe Warriors can try to get inside Wild's head? Let's try some bantering! These guys love to banter!

Oops. Fumble. That didn't go well. But hey, at least Wild seems to have figured out what he did wrong!

That's a step in the right direction! Okay, they're getting somewhere, Warriors thinks.

But Wild is really down on himself. He now realizes that he misinterpreted a directive that he should have understood. And thinks that Warriors thinks he's stupid, and hates him. (Again, where my neurodivergent peeps at? Yeah. That feeling.)

Meanwhile, things are becoming clearer to Warriors. Not only does he realize that he shouldn't have viewed his teammates through his own preconceived notions, but for the first time, he also realizes just how different his experience was from everyone else's:

He realizes he's got a LOT of learning to do. His discordance with Wild is proof of that. But Wild has never been in a dungeon either. Maybe this is their chance to connect? Warriors tries once again to get inside Wild's head. Maybe he can try to understand why Wild isn't approaching this dungeon the way Warriors would:

Aaaaand Wild froze up. Dang it. Warriors isn't getting anything. He really needs to figure out what's going wrong here so they can work together. It's for both of their benefit, and the group's benefit as a whole. They need to get on the same page so that they can not only fight together, but be good friends to each other. And when the opportunity arises to team up one-on-one, Warriors jumps at it! This is the perfect opportunity, he thinks!

But right now? Wild doesn't realize that. He thinks that Warriors is mad at him. Warriors is NOT mad at him. Warriors is trying to learn, to better himself, and to forge a connection.

And I believe that even though it's been a bumpy road, we're going to see some amazing growth between Warriors and Wild in the future.

[writingfics-passingtime]

This Means War

synopsis: When cabin fever reaches boiling point, your teammates' boredom turns into a test of your stamina. After a bit of tickling sends you crumbling to the mat during training, you're goaded into proving you wouldn't spill state secrets if an enemy found your weak spots... by subjecting yourself to the hands of the God of Mischief.

wc: ~5200

pairing: Loki x female reader (flirtatious). Bucky, Thor, Steve also included platonically.

cw: MINORS DNI, swearing, use of physical restraints, interrogation scenario, tickling (a lot of it. this is a tickle fic)

extra content warning: this story contains a faux-interrogation scene. the reader consented to it and has the ability to stop it at any moment. i do not usually allow the word "stop" to be ignored in a tickle fic - this fic is the exception because the reader has a safe word. The tickling in this feels a lot more intense (to me) than my previous fics so please be warned.

Your fate was sealed before it even started.

It happened too fast to control.

It started so innocuously. You were locked in a spar with Loki. Parrying high, pivoting low, flirting around that usual edge of real violence.

You had been sharp today - precise, clean, dangerous. Steve was nursing a bruise. Bucky’s jaw was red where you’d clocked him. Even Thor looked impressed, his cape torn at the hem where your blade had snagged it mid-spin.

But Loki always had a way of slipping past your guard.

You got the sense that he'd figured out the softest spots of you - mentally and otherwise - long ago. That he'd... catalogued them. That he took great delight in silently holding the knowledge of where to press. And how. He could get under your skin like no one else could. Burrowing deeper with heated looks at unpredictable moments, then ebbing back with pure professionalism at others.

It kept you humble when it came to facing him on the mats.

Usually.

Today... you didn't know what it was. Maybe the thrill of landing solid hits on two super soldiers and a Norse god. Maybe you got cocky.

Maybe the curl falling loose from the hair knotted low at his nape was just too distracting.

But you tried a move too risky, and he slipped past your guard. You caught his brow raising brow as he evaded your fist. The micro-second comment in the gesture went something like:

You really thought that would work?

Yes. It would've worked against a lesser fighter. The fact that you thought it might work against him... well, that was paramount to insult. Not something he'd let slide. Not when you made clear, time and time again, to all of these super-people: going easy on you wouldn't help be better.

So they didn't go easy - but that didn't mean they'd meet your mistake with a punch that could shatter your sternum. Usually, you'd just get pushed off balance, or pinned to the mat, or locked in some uncomfortable position until you could explain what you'd done wrong. Which was fine. It all helped.

Today, however, it seemed Loki wanted to teach you an extra little lesson.

His palm swept up, thumb hooking into the soft space under your arm. You slammed your bicep down on reflex, wincing, trapping his thumb as his fingers wrapped around and pressed into the sensitive muscle under your scapula.

His fingers didn't stop at pressing. A choked gasp was forced from your mouth, your body jolting before your mind realising that his fingers were wiggling, you were squirming, he was tickling you.

Your knees buckled, eyes wild and flying to his calculated stare.

He watch you as you slowly sunk lower, his head cocked, his smirk spreading when the first startled, hapless giggle bubbled over your lips.

Get away get away get away- every single base animal instinct flooded into flight. You pushed back on your heels, dislodging his hand from under your arm as your backside hit the floor. You were spluttering, panting, giggling - fucking giggling, of all things - and you felt yourself moving to scoot back, eyes fixed on the god standing above you.

He didn't press his advantage. He didn't have to. He just stood over you, that same brow arched, blue eyes glinting with something cold and curious and satisfied. "Well," he murmured. "That's new."

You clenched your jaw, regaining composure, forcing yourself back up to stand. "Dick," you grumbled, straightening your clothes as warmth crept up your neck.

"Fascinating, really," his smirk grew, eyes scanning over you. "Have you always been so-"

"Shut it," you warned, glare cutting to him.

"Oh no," he gave a single shake of his head. "You're not getting out of this one."

Not after what you just tried to pull, was the unspoken subtext.

Shit. You should've known better than to try such a cheap trick on a god with an ego the size of the fucking continental United States.

Loki locked his fingers behind his back, started pacing around you, appraising. “Battle-hardened Avenger felled by a few seconds of tickling…" He swung his gaze to the others. More specifically, Steve. "You didn't think to train this out of her?"

Steve had straightened, fists gripping the ends of the towel slung around his neck, eyebrows raised. "Train?"

Bucky tilted his head, watching you like a hawk. "Huh."

"Oh, come on," you started, rolling your eyes, hands on your hips, trying to brush it off. "This is not something that requires training."

“You squealed,” Bucky said, grin now forming.

“I did not.”

"You crumbled," Steve grimaced with a playful edge behind it.

“Like wet paper,” Loki added. "It was rather... adorable, actually."

"This could be a problem," Thor hummed in thought. "Could it not? If your enemies learn of this."

Your head snapped to him. Then your eyes back to the others.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

The team had been without mission for almost two weeks; the boys were bored. And you'd just handed them some free entertainment.

You took a measured breath through your nose, and assured Thor: "They won’t."

"But if they did..." Steve started, slowly.

You turned. He was looking at you - not mocking, not smug. Just… calculating. Thoughtful.

You frowned. "Then what?"

"They’d have leverage," Bucky said.

"I wear full body armour."

"Armour can be compromised."

You could feel the shift happening.

The slow, creeping change in the air.

Loki was already grinning again, full teeth. "Pressure point training, perhaps?"

You scoffed. "Absolutely not."

Thor crossed his arms, ducking his head as if weighing the option. "It may be wise."

You crossed your own, arguing, "There's no proven method of desensitisation; you can't train someone out of being ticklish, Loki's just stirring mischief."

But Steve was quiet, eyes shifting to Bucky. Bucky’s arms were crossed too now, mouth twitching, his eyes finding Steve's.

You clocked the exits.

Three of them. One closest, but Thor stood near. The second was by Steve, and Loki, in his pacing, had subtly moved to block the third.

Fucking shit.

"Let’s just say," Bucky started, shrugging one shoulder, "we’re in the field. You’re caught. Someone finds a sweet spot-"

"-and they want to know where some files are hidden," Steve adds.

Loki hums in agreement, faux-consideration painted across him. "Security codes... contingency plans..."

You shifted from one foot to the other, hackles raising. "This is not a realistic scenario. On what planet would I ever be tickled for information?"

"Several," Thor nodded thoughtfully, looking to Loki. "At least four in this universe alone."

"Hmm, yes," Loki confirmed. "And I do believe in some factions on Sakaar."

You rubbed your temples. "This is not happening," you said. Mostly to yourself.

"There’s no harm in proving you’d withstand it," Steve said, voice calm. It almost sounded reasonable.

Your eyes flicked to him. You scoffed again. "Don't use your Captain America voice on me like you actually-"

He met your gaze evenly. And you stopped talking.

Because suddenly... you knew.

He wasn’t joking.

He was serious.

Not cruel. Not cold. Just… decisive. Like an older brother about to teach you a hard lesson for your own good.

You felt the breath stick in your chest.

"Steve. C'mon."

He straightened up, slow.

Bucky’s grin widened.

Thor stretched his arms with a lazy flex.

Loki turned toward you, smirking.

Your stomach dropped clean through the floor. Bucky took a step forward and you flinched, body readying to bolt.

"Hey," Bucky said, lifting his hands like he was trying to ease the tension. "You don’t have to prove anything."

You glared. "That’s exactly what this is."

"No," he corrected, smile just shy of cruel. "This is about making sure you don’t give up state secrets just to make it stop."

Your face burned. "I would never-"

"Good," Loki cut in, eyes glittering. "You're confident. You'll have no issue proving it, then."

You blinked. "What?"

Steve’s voice was low. Final. "We should put it to the test."

And just like that, the temperature in the room dropped. Your heart slammed into your ribs.

You were boxed in. Outnumbered. Outplayed.

"Steve. You’re not seriously suggesting simulating an interrogation where I'm..." you winced at the mere thought - betraying your nerves.

He shrugged in that infuriatingly calm, Captain America way. “Look, I trust you. But you always say training should cover every angle. This is just... one of them.” He tried not to smile.

You hated how much they were enjoying this. Bucky wasn’t even hiding his grin. Thor was scratching his beard thoughtfully, nodding like this was all so fucking reasonable.

Your jaw hung slack, you glared at Steve. "You're seriously gonna make me do this?"

Steve's head went to the side in thought. "No. It's your choice."

Loki didn’t even pretend. His smirk stayed plastered across his face like he had been waiting its whole life for this moment. "Of course, we'd never force you to prove it..." Loki raised his hands in surrender. "Not if it would be too much for you."

Okay. Now your pride was involved.

Loki continued. "If you're afraid... you just can say so."

He knew exactly how to bait you. It was so obvious.

But it still fucking worked. And that was on you.

You sucked your teeth, arms still crossed, jaw tense, looking between the varying degrees of smug in your teammates.

And a thought passed over you. About Steve. His leadership, his honour, and the way you trusted him so intrinsically with your life you knew he'd never let something like this go too far. So your eyes met his.

“Well?” He asked, calm and expectant.

You let out a tense breath through your nose.

"I'll follow your orders, Cap," you said, dropping your arms, squaring your shoulders. "What'll it be?"

.

.

This was one of those freeze-frame record-scratch moments where the narrator says 'Yep - that’s me. You're probably wondering how I ended up in this position.'

You flexed your fingers before gripping the edge of the armrest. The cuffs were snug but not uncomfortable. The chair itself - fetched by Bucky while the terms of the test were set - wasn't too bad, either. Cushioned seat and back, padded cuffs securing the wrists to the armrests and ankles to the front legs. It wouldn't hold any of the men around you, but you didn't have lightening or serum in your veins.

One small test proved no give, no rattling, was enough for that little molten thread of helplessness to start curling down your spine. All part of the mind games.

Trying to relax into the chair, your eyes landed on Loki, who was approaching you with all the slow, deliberate lethality of a black panther.

Of course, he was the one chosen to... do this.

His hand reached out and tested one cuff. "You seem tense."

"Bite me."

He chuckled, beginning to circle the chair slowly, trying to get in your head. Trying to build tension. It was working.

"The objective is simple. Don't give up the code word." His eyes flicked to Steve and Bucky. "Have you decided on what that word will be?"

Bucky nodded once, calling out, "cucumber."

You groaned. "That is the stupidest-"

"Exactly," Steve said. "You won't say it by accident. You try to hold out. You say it - that's surrender."

You felt Loki's fingers rest against the back of the chair. "Do you understand the rules, agent?"

You sniffed, jaw tight. "Don’t say the fucking vegetable."

"You ready?" Steve crossed his arms, failing to hide his amused smile.

No one in this room was under the impression that this was anything other than an exercise in the folly of boredom and pride. But here you were, about to hit play on that that freeze-frame record-scratch moment, and you wondered why the hell you ever agreed to this.

You did have an out - whenever you wanted it, you could say the word - but that steady fire inside you was stoked. White hot. You'd be damned if Loki snuffed it.

You'd be damned if he won.

"Ready," you confirmed.

He began.

Loki's touch was feather-light at first. Deceptively gentle. Fingers trailing over your sides like whispers.

They wanted a show? You'd give them a show. You'd show them exactly what you'd do if this was an enemy situation.

You flinched. "What the fuck are you doing?" Your head swung around, wearing a mask of confusion, fear, and pure innocence.

Loki's eyes narrowed. Ah. He seemed to say. This is how you want to play.

His voice was ice. Frostbitten. Severe. "What's the code word, Agent?"

"Wha-" you jerked again, eyes darting down to see his fingers at your sides, pressing a little firmer. Seeking. "I don't- what are you doing?"

He didn’t fumble or poke randomly. No, he searched.

"I'm under strict orders to not leave a mark, Agent," Loki's cold voice sounded vaguely distracted. "You have a code word I need..."

Then he found a spot. Just under the lower edge of your ribs, to the side. Your breath caught. Muscles locked. He paused.

"And I think I've just found a way to get it from you."

He wasn't clumsy. Not even a little.

"What code word? What are you even talking about? What-"

You stopped, looked down, watched as his middle finger and ring finger readied. You felt his other palm flatten against the opposite side of your waist in preparation to keep you in place.

You opened your mouth to say something, but then his fingers moved.

Sensation exploded like a switch had been flipped. Your hips jolted in the chair, a strangled sound caught in your throat as he pressed into that cluster of nerves with terrifying precision. Not a scratch or a dig - no, he hooked and circled slowly, keeping a maddening pressure on just the right spot. You were squirming violently in seconds, laughter ripping out of you against your will.

"Shit- Loki, fuck-" you broke your character, gasping between fits of laughter, voice hoarse and breaking. You tried twisting away, but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.

"Code word," he demanded.

You scrambled to collect your thoughts. Okay - okay - you could work with this. Fortify your mind. Let your body react. You tried to get a grip. Tried to find his rhythm and tell your brain it was no grave threat.

But half a minute later and he hadn't eased off. And it was only tickling more with every passing second.

"Please!" You gasped out, shaking your head. "I don't know what you're-"

He doubled - the palm against your other side began mirroring the same pattern with eerie symmetry. Pinpoint accuracy into that soft spot. Every movement surgical. Like he’d done this a thousand times.

Somewhere in the haze you sense him leaning down, felt his breath hot against your ear. "I know you have what I'm looking for."

"I don't!" you squealed, head hitting back against his shoulder as you twisted helplessly, laughing so hard your stomach hurt. "Fuck- please stop!"

"I can't stop this. Only you can. Say the word," he said softly.

You whimpered through breathless giggles as you tried to collect yourself enough to respond. "I don't- fuck- I don't know what you're talking about."

"I don't believe you."

His pointer finger joined the fray and your body convulsed with laughter, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. He hadn’t even moved from that godforsaken spot on your ribs. And he hadn’t lost rhythm once.

"Fuck!" You thrashed, as much as the chair would let you. "I- this is- this is inhumane!"

A low hum by your other ear. The other devil on the other shoulder. "You're in control, Agent. You can make this stop any time."

He didn’t move fast. He didn’t need to. It was the control that was killing you. The way he’d learned your body in seconds. That single spot already made your arms jerk, your breath hitch, your laughter take on a desperate edge.

"Make no mistake," he murmured. "I'm going to win. You really think this is the worst it can be? Give me the word. Now."

"I don't have the fucking word!" you shrieked between wheezes, before falling into a new spout of laughter. You gave a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a sob, it was hard to tell. Loki’s wicked hands hadn't stopped.

"She's doin' good," Bucky observed, tilting his head. "Holding out. The denial is still convincing."

"Stubborn," Thor nodded with a proud smile. "Like a goat."

"She’s trembling," Loki noted, sounding pleased. You were - your thighs tensed, stomach quaking with every new ripple of sensation.

Without warning, he shot his hands downward.

You practically launched out of the chair when he reached the top of your hip, just above your belt line. Another pressure point. The nerves there sent shocks across your pelvis, up your spine. It was like your body didn’t belong to you anymore.

"No- no, no, no-!" you laughed, voice wild now, cracked from overuse.

"You’re strong," Loki said quietly, voice still near your ear, breath warm on your neck. "But not unbreakable. I’m going to find where you crack."

You turned your face away, blinking tears of mirth from your lashes. "I’m going to kill you when this is over."

"I look forward to it," he said, moving inward to the sliver of skin on your lower stomach, scratching with feather-light precision.

You jolted again, high-pitched laughter tearing out of your lungs, knees bucking instinctively as he zeroed in.

Cucumber. It was on the tip of your fucking tongue. So you bit down on it. Sealed your lips as best you could.

Loki leaned in. "What's this? Trying to keep quiet now?"

You swallowed it. Shook your head.

A particularly cruel and precise tickle along the dips of your hips pulled a shrieking laugh from the loud place in your throat, wrists pulling against the cuffs.

He chuckled, knowing he was closer to winning.

So he went back to your ribs.

Your laughter returned in full, broken and helpless, your face hot with fury and embarrassment.

But still, you didn’t say cucumber.

You'd be damned to let him win after all of this.

Loki’s voice dropped, barely audible now. "You’re going to lose," he whispered, "So be a good girl, and surrender. Just say the word."

Your mouth opened. Then closed. You shook your head violently.

Your pride was still stronger, even as your breath was now ragged, chest rising and falling as you jerked against the cuffs, muscles locked and twitching from the relentless tickling, even as your laughter had taken on a half-wheezing, half-growling edge.

Loki hadn’t let up for a second, his hands maddeningly precise, but then...

He stopped. Pulled his hands away.

You gulped air. Relished in the reprieve. Wondering if-

"Don't think for a second I'm done with you," his voice curled around the base of your neck. "Tell me the code word."

You panted, head lolling. It had only been a few minutes, you knew that, but it had felt like a fucking lifetime. Shit.

"You're not listening," you let defeat permeate your tone. "You got the wrong person. I don't... I don't have what you want." You gave a weak tug at the cuffs, acting the part.

"Oh, you're very good," Loki praised in a dark chuckle.

You felt him grip the back of your chair. And you knew what he was planning.

"Wait-"

He pulled. The chair tipped backward as he lowered it slowly, until the rear legs landed on the floor and you were laying on your back, head against the mat.

You thrashed instantly. "Wait. Wait- fuck," you winced.

He moved with a maddening slowness, shooting an amused glance to the chuckling onlookers.

"Don't you fucking dare."

But he stopped in front of where your ankles were cuffed, your boots perfectly level with where his hands naturally rested at his sides.

"Uh oh," Bucky laughed outright. You shot him a pissed off yet wary glance.

Steve laughed. "You can say the word," he reminded you, but there was a teasing note behind it.

That smugness nudged you to get back in the zone. To prove them all wrong. Make them all pay.

Loki tugged. The first boot came off with a soft pull. And then the second. The cold air hit your socked feet like a ominous wind, curling in the atmosphere like dread.

You winced again. You weren't prepared. You weren't prepared. Feet were always protected, armoured, out of reach. You can't remember the last time someone touched your feet, much less-

"I've seen that look before," Bucky clicked his tongue. You shot him a nervous glance. His eyes met yours but he spoke to the others: "That's the look of someone who knows they're in trouble."

You weren’t wearing thick standard-issue tactical socks. No, of course not. You’d thrown on some stupid breathable pair. They were thin - too thin.

You shot an indiscernible look to the Captain.

He shrugged. Giving you that gleam in his eye that said: You can make this stop any time you want. All it'll cost you is pride.

You licked your drying lips, turning back to Loki. His hands hadn't touched you yet. Still, he was studying your reactions.

You kicked, knees jolting, but your ankles didn't move. He smirked.

"You've gone quiet," he said, cool and detached. "Is that fear?"

"Fury," you seethed. "Pure. Fucking. F-fffrrmm-!"

You bit off the noise as his fingers barely stroked across the arch of your right foot. It was a featherlight graze, and it'd already sent pressure prickling behind your eyes. You swallowed a whimper, sealing your lips, squeezing your eyes shut.

He hummed. "Interesting."

Then he began in earnest.

His fingertips pressed into your arches with a kind of maddening detachment. Methodical. Exploring. Not scratching or scribbling like some fumbling kid; no, he pressed, kneaded lightly, then circled. You shrieked. His thumbs dragged slowly under the balls of your feet. Your entire body bucked against the restraints.

"NO!"

Laughter then burst out of you, unfiltered and broken. It was worse than your ribs - infinitely worse. You weren’t used to touch here, weren’t braced for it. It was raw, vulnerable. Your laughter turned desperate in seconds.

"NO! LOKI! PLEASE NOT THERE!"

But that wasn't the code word. So his hands didn’t stop. If anything, they moved slower. More precise. He was watching your face the entire time - his eyes locked onto every flicker of reaction, every twitch of your mouth or squint of your eyes.

"PLEASE! PLEASE - ANYWHERE ELSE!"

"Well, shit," Bucky snorted. "That worked way too fast."

"What’s the code word?" Loki asked, voice low and flat.

"Fuck YOU-AHH! NO- SHIT!"

His fingers slid to your toes, tracing beneath them with deliberate purpose. You howled with laughter, head flinging back, toes curling as if that could protect you. The nerves in your feet were shot. You couldn’t even pretend composure anymore. He’d hit a level of sensitivity that was obscene.

"Code word," Loki said again, unblinking.

You shook your head, thrashing wildly.

"Don’t know it!" you yelled, tears streaking down your cheeks from the force of it. "I swear - I don’t know it!"

"Oh?" Loki tilted his head. "I think you're lying to me, Agent. Do you know what happens to liars?" His thumbs returned to the spot right beneath your toes and began that horrible circular pressure again.

You screamed - an actual, ragged scream laced with helpless mirth. Your back arched, every muscle straining against the cuffs. Your following laughter was high and unrelenting, like bursting open a dam and letting everything flood out.

"PLEASE!" you cried, playing it up now, blending real helplessness with theatrics. "I don’t know anything! I swear! I’m just a grunt. I’m just a - I’m not fucking built for this!"

The bystanders erupted in laughter.

"Good use of the helpless act," Steve noted, chuckling. "Classic withholding tactic."

Loki paused his movement, fingers still poised. "Code word. Now."

"Lemme go. Please," you begged, shaking your head and bracing as his fingers resumed. Your laughter trembling as your whole body quaked with it. "I don't know what you want!"

Loki’s face didn’t change. Cool, unaffected. His fingers danced under your toes, targeting the very edge of skin at the base where nerves lit up like a live wire.

"You’re lying."

"No I'm not!"

"You are. And I’m going to get the truth out of you."

He found another pocket just under your toes and lingered.

Your laughter cracked apart. Your lungs burned.

"This is going to get much, much worse for you, Agent," Loki's cold voice dropped a weight in your stomach.

"I’ll- I’ll kill you I SWEAR-" you gasped, words broken by high-pitched giggles.

"Threats, now?" Loki's brow lifted. "How quaint."

Bucky whistled low. "You gotta hand it to her. She hasn't cracked."

"I like this training," Thor declared.

Loki ignored the audience, dragging his blunt nails along the length of your arches. Back and forth, up and down. Face calm and unbothered as you went silent, laughter trapped in your upper chest, body tensing and twitching as the energy built and built and... he... he wasn't stopping. Gods, he wasn't moving from that godforsaken spot.

It tickled so fucking much.

There were no words for it. It shouldn't be possible for such a simple action to trap the breath in your chest, to send buzzes of energy through your whole body, it tickled so. fucking. much.

But the worst part? You knew this was building. Priming you for some grande finale. Readying to decimate your willpower.

"Can she breathe?" Steve's voice floated across the edge of your clouded attention.

It must've been almost fifteen seconds since you last made a sound.

Back and forth. Up and down.

Pressure building and building and...

"Hey." Bucky's wary voice was in the mix.

"Wait for it..." Loki hushed them. Your eyes were shut but you could feel his gaze on you.

Back. Forth. Up. Down.

"Loki," Thor's stern voice came. "She's mortal."

"I know, almost there..." Loki cooed.

It was coming. Cucumber. You could feel it coming. Feel the scream coiling in your chest. Almost there...

And then-

The doors hissed open.

"FRIDAY alerted me to a potential HR violation in progress," came Tony’s dry voice as he entered the room

The moment froze like a frame in a cartoon. You, a wreck, cuffed to a tipped chair, flat on your back. Boots off. Loki with stilled hands at your feet. The rest of them standing around like this was some clinical procedure and not your personal nightmare.

Tony looked around. Blinked.

"Well," he said, "this is… deeply unsettling."

The trapped laughter whooshed out of you as air flooded your lungs in deep and gratifying breaths. Loki had paused. Assessing the atmosphere. And for that, you thanked every god in this universe and beyond. You had been so close to surrender.

"She agreed to it," Steve said, unbothered.

"She volunteered," Bucky added, nudging Thor, who nodded solemnly.

"Oh, yes. She may stop the trial at any moment," Thor assured. "She need only speak the sacred word."

Tony blinked again. "And the sacred word is...?"

"Cucumber," they all said in unison.

You wanted to die.

Tony stared at them, then at you - now breathless, sweat-slick, and still twitching from residual sensation. He sighed. "Y'alright, giggles?"

You attempted to speak. But it came out as several coughs, so you just gave a weak thumbs-up.

"Okay, okay," he said, waving a hand. "As much as I’d love to see where this is going - and I mean that purely as an academic curiosity - we cannot shackle an Avenger to a chair and administer tickle torture in our down time. It’s literally in the handbook. Somewhere. It must be."

Loki had the audacity to look disappointed.

But he sighed, then reach down with maddening ease, lifting your chair upright with one smooth motion - like it weighed nothing. You slumped against it, head tilted back still gasping for breath, socked feet twitching, toes curling, body still shaking with aftershocks of laughter, a thin sheen of sweat glowing your skin.

"I hate you," you croaked at Loki.

"How tragically untrue," he chuckled.

Then the cuffs popped open with a click.

You didn’t hesitate.

The second your hands were free, shaky legs be damned, you launched yourself at Steve.

"Rogers!"

He didn’t even flinch. Just accepted his fate.

Your weight hit him square in the chest, and he let himself fall back onto the mat with a loud whump, arms catching you automatically.

"You star-spangled shithead!" you growled, rising to straddle his waist and grab his collar, jolting some sense into him. "You sanctioned that shit!?"

“I did,” Steve said evenly.

"You let Loki-... you- I'm gonna- ugh!" You grabbed a fistful of his hair and mussed it like a feral cat, gritting your teeth and growling.

"Alright, alright!" He laughed, trying to block you. "I deserved that!"

"You’re damn right you do - fucking cucumber - I’m gonna shove one straight down your- hey!"

Bucky's hands wrapped around your waist and casually hauled you off Steve like a disobedient dog. "Alright. Down, girl." You kicked the air on the way up.

"Let me at 'em. I'm not done!"

"Oh, you’re done," Bucky set you on your feet while Steve still lay disheveled on the mat.

"I’m gonna get all of you," you vowed as you straightened your clothes. "You’re all complicit."

Tony raised a finger. "Um, I actually-"

"Obviously not you, Tony!"

"Hey. You could've said the word at any time," Bucky smirked, shrugging, pulling Steve to his feet by the metal hand he offered.

You glared murder at all of them. Until your eyes landed on Loki.

He hadn’t moved.

That’s when you saw it.

The glint behind the calm. A flicker of something low and heated, still burning from the intensity of before.

Your stomach turned when you realised; you never surrendered... so he never won.

He looked at you, head tilted, mouth curved ever-so-slightly at the corner. Not smug. No. This wasn’t arrogance.

It was unfinished business.

You glared, pointing a shaky finger. "There will be retribution."

He inclined his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours. "I’ll be waiting."

You turned slowly to the rest of them, accusing finger sweeping.

"You’re all going down for this."

Bucky raised his hands. "Worth it."

Thor clapped a hand on your back that nearly knocked you over. "You lasted valiantly, dear friend."

You ignored him. "FRIDAY," you barked, steadying yourself. "Mark these bastards for revenge."

"Noted," she replied helpfully.

Tony rubbed his eyes, muttering, "You people have too much time on your hands. I should start charging rent."

But rest of them laughed at your threat. As if they weren't the slightest bit afraid.

You clenched your fists.

And then you smiled.

Sharp. Dangerous.

"You’re all gonna wish I’d said cucumber."

.

.

PART TWO (your revenge) coming soon

.

.

[fairytaleendingss]

Room for One More?

Chapter 11

Summary: James has had time to think during the days he'd been away and through this, has come to a shocking revelation.

CW: Swearing, creepy man being unnerving (nothing inappropriate happens though).

Pairing: Poly!Marauders x fem!reader

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10

This is a shorter one but I just wanted to get something out. I have more of a solid plan now of what I want to happen next to stay tuned for some more updates soon!

--

You started to feel better over the next few days. Remus checked on you periodically to make sure you were making progress while Sirius hovered awkwardly, not quite sure what he was supposed to do whenever the two of you happened to be in the same vicinity.

You weren't sure what had come over him recently, but things between the two of you had been stilted to say the least.

By Wednesday you were back on your feet and back at work, meaning Remus' job was done, however, you desperately hoped that things between the two of you would continue to be civil in the aftermath. Who knows? Maybe you'd even become friends.

James was also getting home from his trip today and you were bubbling with a combination of nerves and excitement. You'd found yourself missing him while he was away. Everything had been strange, to say the least and James was the person out of all your roommates who you were the most comfortable around by far. He just had this light energy about him that was able to balance everything out around your house and without it, things had just felt off. You couldn't quite place your finger on what it was but James Potter just had a way of putting you at ease.

Although, you couldn't help but feel slightly guilty for wanting him there for your own selfish purposes. You knew things had been particularly rough for him after the revelation at New Years and you knew he needed this time to get away from everything and clear his head.

You pondered this concept as you sat back in your desk chair, pen pressed into your cheek and eyes gazing off to nowhere. When did things become so complicated? you thought to yourself.

"Whatcha thinking about?" Mary sang, sliding across the linoleum office floor on her own chair. Mary was always pretty but you took note of it today in particular. Her hair was pulled up on top of her head in a tidy bun and she had a burgundy lipstick on, one that was a departure from the usual neutral tones she went for at work.

You raised a brow at her, choosing to pass by her question.

"You look lovely. Got plans tonight?"

Mary bit her lip as she often did when she was excited.

"It's Lily and I's four month anniversary tonight! I know it sounds silly to celebrate it but if I'm being honest, it's kind of a big deal! Today marks the longest official relationship I've been in!"

"Oh my gosh! Mary, that's wonderful!" you chirped. Then you paused. "Hold on, what do you mean 'official relationship'?"

Mary sighed. "Well, technically there was this guy in high school that I talked to for like a year over Snapchat but he lived in America and we never met in person so it doesn't really count."

You rolled your eyes at her fondly. "You had an internet boyfriend?"

She gave you a gentle slap on the shoulder. "What? I was like fourteen!"

"Okay, fine. Whatever. Congratulations anyway," you replied.

"Thanks girl! Now tell me," she scooted forward slightly on her chair, leaning in as if to share a secret. "What's going on with you and Sirius?"

You sighed thickly. "Unfortunately, there's nothing to tell."

"Really?" she looked surprised. "So you still haven't talked about anything that happened on New Years... or you know, before that?"

You shook your head. "Nope. In fact, honestly, we've barely talked at all recently. It's like he's avoiding me or something."

"That's is odd," Mary muttered. "I mean Sirius isn't usually known for being subtle. For some reason I had it in my head that maybe he would've gone all prince charming and come to your aid while you were ill," she chuckled.

"Ha! No, none of that. Every time we were in the same room, he'd just stare at me like I had two heads and then stutter out some excuse to rush away."

Mary let out a genuine laugh at this. "Yeah, actually that does sound like him. He's uh, not really much of a caretaker."

"No. Well, actually, it was... um, Remus who ended up doing most of the caretaking," you muttered bashfully.

Her eyebrows shot up like rockets. "I'm sorry, WHAT? Did I just hear you say Remus, the man that supposedly can't stand you, looked after you while you were unwell this last week?"

You shrugged but you couldn't deny the way your cheeks warmed at the thought. "He was quite wonderful actually."

A playful smirk overtook her. "Yeah, I bet he was. What? Did he like, bring you soup, and stroke your hair until you fell asleep?"

"Shut up," you joked. "You read too many romance novels."

"Hey! It's not my fault that you're living out the plot of New Girl!"

"You know, it actually kind of is, right?"

She shrugged. "Well, maybe that was the plan all along. I think Remus would definitely be Nick-"

"Anyway," you stated pointedly, before her comparison could get too deep. "You should probably get going. It's after 5 and you don't want to be late for your special date tonight!"

"Oh, shit! You're right," she exclaimed, jumping from her chair and racing to grab her coat.

You chuckled to yourself as you watcher her scramble for her things, calling out a hurried "goodbye" as she headed for the exit.

You took your time packing up that night, both having nowhere to be and also not looking forward to going home. You wondered if maybe Sirius would be out working tonight but you doubted it since James was supposed to have arrived home today and you suspected they'd want to spend some time together.

"Are you heading off now then?"

You abruptly turned on your heel, eyes wide as you noticed Glenn standing closely behind you. You hated when he did that. He was always creeping up on you when you were distracted.

You gave him an awkward smile, hoping he would say a quick goodbye and then leave you be.

He returned the gesture broadly, flashing his perfectly pearly white teeth in a way that you could tell usually worked to make girls swoon. It didn't, however, work so well on you.

"Yeah. Just finishing up now."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Ah. Well I see that Mary has made an early exit. Do you need some company walking out?"

You cringed internally. There was something just so artificial about him. Like he was constantly putting on an act, displaying qualities that he thought people liked to see. But you could see right through it and honestly, it left a bad taste in your mouth.

"That's very kind but I'm okay by myself."

He shook his head stubbornly. "Nonsense! What kind of gentleman would I be if I let you go alone in the cold?"

You restrained yourself from rolling your eyes. Clearly it wasn't going to be so easy to shake him off.

"Okay, then," you relented unwittingly. "Lets go."

The walk from your office on the seventh floor down to the front exit was particularly awkward. Glenn hovered at your side, not saying much but just sending you that unnerving smile of his every so often. As you approached the front steps, you were more then relieved to see a familiar figure waiting by the door.

"James! What are you doing here?"

He looked up from his phone, flashing you a genuine grin, one that made your heart feel warm, instead of causing bile to want to rise in your throat the way Glenn's did.

"Hey!"

He approached with rapid footsteps, engulfing you in his warm arms. You relaxed into his hold for a moment, savoring the feeling.

You pulled away at the sound of a throat clearing beside you. Glenn was looking between the two of you with an unreadable expression.

"Oh! Sorry," James corrected himself, only then noticing the other man. "I'm James, Y/n's roommate. Nice to meet you."

He stuck a hand out towards Glenn, which the latter man shook with a reluctant hesitation.

"Glenn Mulciber. We work together."

You didn't like the way the man was looking at James, something akin to jealously flashing across his eyes in a way that made your skin crawl.

"Well, thanks for walking me out, Glenn but James and I'd better be going. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, right. Okay," was all he said before he turned on his heel and stalked away, his demeanor suddenly very cold.

"Well, he's an odd sort of person," James observed as the two of you began the journey home.

"I'm not a fan of his, to tell you the truth," you responded. "He's weird. He kind of creeps me out."

"Hmm," James muttered thoughtfully, although you could tell his mind was elsewhere.

"You don't have to keep coming to pick me up from work, you know? I'm perfectly capable of making it home myself."

James shrugged. "I know, I just like spending time with you."

You felt your heart swim at his words and had to turn your gaze away from him in the hopes that he wouldn't see the embarrassment on your face.

"Well, um... how was your trip?"

"Good. Yeah. It was good."

He was fiddling with the hem of his coat, looking vaguely off into the distance as he spoke to you. Something seemed off about him. You furrowed your eyebrows, wondering what was going on.

"Is everything okay?" you questioned. "You seem nervous or something."

"Um, well," he hesitated for a moment before turning to face you. "Actually, there's something I wanted to talk to you about."

You felt your heart sink into your stomach as a slew of worst case scenarios began to run through your mind. You did your best to keep composed.

"Okay, what's up?"

James released a heavy breath as if he was preparing himself for the words to follow.

"So, while I was away, I had a lot of time to think about things,"

"What kinds of things?"

"Well, you know, just everything that's been going on. When I found out about Lily and Mary back on New Years Eve, I was heartbroken..."

You sighed feeling a rush of sympathy. "Yeah, James about that, I'm really sorry. You shouldn't have had to find out that way, I-"

"No! No, it's okay!" he interrupted. "What I was going to say was actually that I was heartbroken at first. But then the more I thought about it, the more I realised, I've been in love with Lily for so long that I think at some point I just started to like the idea of us together more than I actually liked her, if that makes sense."

You sent him a look of confusion.

"That's not to say I don't like her of course," he rushed to amend. "She's a great friend and obviously she's beautiful and a wonderful person and all that but I think that I just got so comfortable with wanting her that I didn't realise when I didn't really want her anymore..."

You couldn't help but chuckle at the boy’s rambling. "James, what are you trying to say?"

Then he stopped walking suddenly and you followed suit. He turned to look at you then, his face serious and eyes ablaze with an unfamiliar friction.

"I think what I'm trying to say is... that night made me realise that I have feelings for someone else."

In that moment, despite the cold of the street, heat began to swirl around you. You felt energy of an unknown source drawing you together in a magnetic pull as James gazed down at you with a look of yearning clouding his dark eyes. Your heart stuttered in your chest as you looked up at him. Your eyes raked over every inch of his face; his sweet smile, the dimples in his cheeks, the stupid curls that he couldn't contain no matter how hard he tried. He was beautiful.

Then, without warning, he leaned in and your lips connected.

It was like the world faded around you. The noise of the cars and the crowds and the hustle and bustle of London in the evening, all just melted away. You didn't care that you were standing in the middle of the street, with icy tendrils of wind piercing your skin. You didn't care that you had a rock in your shoe or that your hair was blowing in your face. In that moment, all you cared about was him and the feeling of his soft lips against yours.

It wasn't desperate and passionate the way it had been with Sirius. No, James' kiss was sweeter, gentler, filled with warmth and comfort just like he was.

When you pulled back, James had a playful smirk on his face. He licked his lips, looking down at you affectionately as he used a finger to push his glasses up on his nose.

"So," he muttered. "Will you go out with me, then?"

You rolled your eyes. "Of course I will, you idiot."

He laughed a little and intertwined your fingers with his own.

"Okay good. I just wanted to make sure."

You scoffed as you began to walk once more, hand in hand and smiles painted on your swollen lips.

--

Taglist:

@hisparentsgallerryy @navs-bhat @shushbruv @magicwithaknife @eeviee4 @notapoetjustscar @gugggu6gvai @robertsmithclone @ilovesugurugeto69 @taytayy178 @its-notkiee @bugworldsworld @switchingfandomslikecrazy @evangelquill, @delusional-4-fake-people, @ch4rlotte35, @insideoutjulie, @hiireadstuff, @laniirackssss, @starrystormwritings, @strategicsweetheart, @1800brat, @sammyreid, @frootloops1213, @ill-be-okay-soon-enough, @loveelylani, @ilovejamespottersomuch, @that-gay-person-27, @serenadingtigers, @lily-mylove, @arielthee-potterhead, @treefairy-28, @happycatanxie, @lettertovera, @captainlunaxmen, @ellieshifts3, @marauderslover18, @hidontmindtheintrovert

[lustlovehart]

Angst Idea with the formerly human Monster!Twst cast where they realize if they didn’t end up the way they are right now, maybe they could’ve pursued a romance with you. It would’ve been acceptable, and… they could shower you with affection the way you deserve.

But they can’t. Not anymore. If only they were still human… Perhaps they could lean into you without feeling unworthy.

Pairing: Riddle, Ace, Deuce, Trey, Leona, Kalim, Epel x Reader

Warnings: Small Rollo x Reader, Slight hint of possession, A little angsty, talks of marriage, Attempted biting, Blood, mentions of Death, Little cheesy, Limb stitching, Indirect kissing

Riddle who lets his cold hands ghost over you while you sleep. He knows you said he could always sleep next to you, you wouldn’t mind… you never do. Yet, there’s an intense feeling of shame. He thinks it’s his head acting as if his mom is reprimanding him for such scandalous behavior. But then you shoot up from your sleep and look at him, goosebumps coating your skin.

No, it’s not due to his mom's hold on him. It’s simply because you’re human and he’s not.

“Riddle? I told you if you want to lay here you—”

“It’s okay. I don’t need to.” he retracts his apparitional hand, floating away in a daze. If only you saved him with your light when he was human… too bad, it’s too late for that.

A blanket is thrown at him as if it were an arrow, the cover phasing through his body. He turns around in confusion at the sudden abrupt assault, should he… reprimand you for the mess?

“You’re cold, aren’t you?” A very… self answering question with an obvious answer. Yet, he can’t seem to correct you on the mistake. He’s quiet for a moment, looking at you from the shadows. From your perspective, all you see is a glowing Riddle illuminating the shadows.

“Well… yes.” He watches you shift off the bed, the mattress compressing under your weight. He wonders if your question is genuine, and if you’re really asking if he’s cold. Shouldn’t someone in your profession know these things?

But then, he remembers your true goal. Is this when you send him off? If it is, he thinks he’s ready.

He shuts his eyes, ready for the familiar pain, but he’s greeted with something soft. Your hand phases through his face, acting like his skin is solid at the moment (he wishes it was), your thumb rubbing his cheek.

“Then, you should be in bed.” If only, he was still human.

Ace who watches you play with a kids toy, your head lazily rested on his shoulder. The scene is so… Mundane, domestic. Entirely unlike the life, he’s been living in the… well not living. He isn’t talking, he isn’t silently joking with you like typical. He only stares. You look up and you swear this is the most alive he’s looked, and it’s ironic because it’s the deadest his face has ever been. Yet, this vacant expression is so mortal, so full.

“What? Did you die a second time—? Ace, what are you…?” The way his partly exposed face rests on your forehead is… an interesting feeling to say the least. You’ve never touched human bone, so it’s a bit unnerving… The contrast of his cool skin on yours is a further reminder of just how far the both of you are in life.

He’s cold, and you’re very much the opposite. Warm.

You won’t ever notice the silent words in his decaying brain. In truth, he wished some higher power would let his thoughts reach your mind, but then again, there’s no brain in his head anymore.

I wish you met me when I was alive. He moves his head back, the confusion on you making it obvious it didn’t work, obviously.

“Why are you looking at me like that? Oh, wait… is it cuz you’re a human without a brain?” You pinch his cheek in response, his protests and hisses of pain filling the silent atmosphere.

Deuce who feels the most need to be human when you’re vulnerable. He hides behind the trunk of a tree as he listens to you mumble about NRF. He listens when you complain about Crowley, yet can’t help but wonder how he’s doing. He listens when you talk about missing Rollo's specialized flower bouquets he would give you. He listens when you talk about wishing to laugh again while you sit on Jack's back as he does push-ups. It isn’t long before you’re silent.

He’ll finally moves away from his hidden spot, sitting down next to you. The soft breathing tells him you must’ve fallen asleep. His hand reaches out to your tear-stained face, leaning the part of his head still covered in skin. His cheek touches yours, akin to the way animals nuzzle each other.

“Deuce…” he wonders if you’re still awake, or if you’re dreaming about him. He hopes it’s the later, but if it’s not, he won’t blame you.

“I’m… Here.” His arms wrap around you, furthering the embrace even more. He avoids letting his bones touch you, it’s gross, it must be. He doesn’t want to disgust you. But he can’t help from deepening the skin-ship you share while your faces touch.

In a way, he’s attempting to transfer your pain to himself, but no matter how hard he tries, those tears will always bleed from your eyes.

If he was still human, perhaps he could’ve been your beacon of life. But the pale decaying skin of his, will always be a cruel reminder he will never be the same as you.

Trey is the least obvious with this bother, somehow. At least, it’s how he looks. He essentially doesn’t seem very observant of the difference, only attending to what you need as a person. Very reliable.

His observation comes in when you don’t need him, or rather, you’re caring for him.

Trey’s eyes watch you curiously inspect his stitched arm, his fingers opening and closing with each turn of the limb. Though the joint might not be connected to him, he can still feel you exhale on his skin, each puff sending chills down his spine. He doesn’t let the feeling show though, still smiling at you when you take out a needle.

It’s nice to be cared for, rather than be the primary caregiver.

“… Why are you look at me like that…?” He didn’t notice

“Oh, sorry.” The awkward laugh leaves his throat. Before he can think of an excuse for staring, he feels the weight of his arm fall into his lap, your stature rising to your full height. “… You know, I think I kinda need that.”

“No, you’re eating.” … Right, he hasn’t eaten yet, that’s silly.

“Well then you should probably stitch me back up—“

“I’m gonna feed you, Trey.” He takes a moment to fully calibrate before he’s smiling. Though, it’s not very clear what kind of smile it is, whether happy or sympathetic. Sparks of electricity trickle from the bolts in his neck while he waits. When you place the bowl in your lap, his tall form bends towards the utensil, mismatched eyes staring into yours.

He watches you bring the fork back down to your lap, his hand quickly grasping your wrist before you can grab it You quirk an eyebrow at his actions.

“I don’t think I’m hungry,” he whispers. You shrug your shoulders, muttering a hushed ‘ok…’ You attempt to reach his limb only to be stopped again. “… I can do that too. Don’t worry.” The hand around your wrist releases, placing itself on your head instead, a single pat telling you to sit down.

There’s a silence that isn’t usual between you too. You don’t dare to question what’s on his mind though.

But, even he’s not too sure about this silence, the only thing he understands, is the arm detached from his shoulder, is just proof of the difference between you both. Maybe, such a tender scene would’ve been better in a shared home, rather than the dingy room of an abandoned hospital.

Leona who leans towards the doesn’t mind side. Yeah? So what if he’s a monster? It doesn’t change the fact you at least used to have something in common. But then he watches the way you fondly talk about humans from your home. Suddenly he feels like your affections are putting him in second place. You place your hand on your chest, an imaginary vow taking place right in front of him. A vow, not for marriage, but a promise, to return to this…

“Rollo. If he hasn't gone crazy and burnt the capital yet, I’m sure he’s taking care of my stuff for me.” you pause, a pause that only leads to Leona's hidden attention, shifting down your face. “I’ll come back to him.”

“…” he’s quiet, leaning back into the wall. You assume he’s on the verge of a nap, but you’re proven wrong when cloth snakes around your entirety. It’s not aggressive nor malicious. If anything, the way they move somehow seems… discontent. The wraps gently lean you on his shoulder, your body stiff at the sudden proximity. You freeze further when his head lays a top of your own. “They don’t need you there.”

“Oh yeah? So i’m needed here than?” you laugh, it was meant to come off as a joke.

“…”

But his silence might’ve told you everything you need to know, and possibly even more.

“Leona…” he doesn’t reply to the call of his name, his bandaged head falling from yours into your lap. Your hand reaches for his hair, but stops just shortly, returning to their rightful place, your sides.

He continues to stay in your embrace, golden cloth nudging your hand into his hair, for it’s the only thing that can tell him you won’t leave.

Even if it’s a lie.

Kalim, who sometimes, in moments like these, forgets he’s not a conceivable human anymore. He’ll look down at the slight fumed state his body is in, but he can’t process the harsh fact, he’s to live like this forever. He has no fortune, no home, no family, only Jamil.

And you.

Kalims body mystifies in the air, smiling at the way you cling onto him with a vigorous grip. The carpet that flies beneath you is one of the wilder select in his room. It’s a sight he’s always wished to have with his future spouse, and he’s sharing it with you; the only thing in his wishful life closest to any form of a lover, is you.

The carpet comes to an abrupt stop, your arm still wrapped around Kalim’s while your free hand remains hugging his lamp to your chest. So close to your heart, and in theory, his own, if you could count that piece of gold as his.

“Kalim, are we… done…?” His eyes look into yours, a hint of fear engrained into your irises, yet the way you smile tells him you’re accelerated. His lack of an answer throws you off, it’s a first for the genie to never burst into words of jovial, and the first he doesn’t look you in the eye as soon as he can. A moment passes before Kalim slowly turns his head towards you, his typical smile painted on his face. “You have something to say don’t you…” The moon shines on his glittering, feint skin, like a golden lamp. “… What is it?”

“If I could grant my own wish, what do you think it’d be?” He laughs, grabbing you by your shoulders and pulling your bodies together. His eyes linger at the cage in your arms.

“Huh… I’m not sure… What would it be—?” The bangles on his wrist jingle when he moves his hand to the lamp, lifting the object between your faces, softly kissing the metal as his eyes stare deeply into you.

“To marry you.” He lifts from the object, the brightest smile lighting onto his face as he laughs. His eyes trail down to the lamp both your hands overlap. “But your wish always comes first…! Because… you’re the human!”

Epel is similar to Leona, in the regards that he doesn’t care about your humanity and his inhumanity. The difference though, is Epel willingly chose this life for himself. So, he can’t blame anyone but himself for the distance between you and him.

Your palm rests on Epel’s face, pushing him with weak strength. It works somehow, as the lunging position he was in falters, his arms falling to the side while crimson pupils dilate at your face. You can feel the stab of tiny rocks pushing your skin where you sit.

You move your hand away, Epel falling onto your legs.

“I thought you said—“ his speed has him moving his face inches from your own, blood dripping from those fangs of his.

“Yeah yeah, whenever… I did say that.” Your hand pushes his face to the side, the vampire rolling onto the ground next to you. If Vil saw such a sight, he would scoff at the filth.

“So then what is it—“ he stops when he finally notices the pant in your words, and the way you sway from dizziness. He sits up even faster than he lunges, steadying your body. You laugh at the worry in his expression. How could you laugh at this…?

“Be careful, you could kill me earlier than I’m meant to be dead… Those reapers surely… Wouldn’t like that…”

Right. He forgot. You, can die.

…

He wordlessly hoists you up, carrying your body to wherever he can find people. Surely, you need that blood more than they do.

Yet again… he’s at fault for forgetting something so precious about you.

[bosbas]

Chapter 2: I won't confess that I waited, but I let the lamp burn

series masterlist previous part || next part

pairing: anthony bridgerton x fem!daphne's best friend!reader WC: 2.1k words

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, idiots in love, i still ship daphne and y/n tbh, daphne kinda going wild but i still love her your honor she's just a girl

Summary: At her wit's end after Anthony's multiple attempts to scare away her suitors, Daphne employs her best friend's help to keep her brother distracted while she tries to find a husband. It's a foolproof plan, except it ends up working a little too well. (or, a Bridgerton version of The Taming of the Shrew/10 things I hate about you)

May 27, 1812 - It was two weeks after Daphne had finally started being able to talk to her suitors, and you couldn’t help but feel your excitement bubbling when you saw her speaking with Phillip Norwood once again. He had little money, at least for Mayfair standards, and no title to speak of, but he made your best friend laugh. And that was all you really wanted from the man who would potentially be her husband. 

You were interrupted from over-analyzing Daphne’s body language toward her suitor by someone clearing their throat next to you. 

“Anthony!” you exclaimed as you turned, happy to see him. “I hadn't seen you tonight, my apologies.” 

Just as the eldest Bridgerton began to respond, you caught Daphne laughing what could only be described as a flirty giggle, while Mr Norwood placed a hand on her upper arm. Distracted, you squinted to see if your best friend had placed a hand on his arm, too. You couldn’t wait until tomorrow when you would hear all about this encounter. You had been hearing about Mr Norwood for a few days now, and it was endearing to see how taken Daphne was with him.

“Hmm?” you asked Anthony, having entirely missed what he had said. 

“I was just wondering whether you were going to… ask me to dance,” repeated Anthony, uncharacteristically hesitant.

You distractedly took in his words, tearing your eyes away from Daphne and seeing the man in front of you nervously rubbing his neck as he waited for your response. 

“Oh, right,” you said, remembering where you were. You were supposed to stop Daphne’s brother from obsessing over her and her suitor, not obsessing over them yourself!

“The past few balls you’ve asked me to dance; I had just come to expect it at this point,” continued Anthony, still seeming a bit off-kilter as he reminded you that dancing with him had become a quasi-routine. “I didn’t know whether I’d done something to upset you or if you simply didn’t feel like dancing tonight.”

Seeing Phillip start to kiss Daphne’s gloved hand out of the corner of your eye brought you back to your senses completely. 

“Not at all; I’d love to dance!” you blurted out, turning Anthony so his sister and her admirer were directly behind him.

You quickly grabbed Anthony’s hand and led him to the dance floor, tripping over yourself in an attempt to distract your best friend’s brother.

Almost instinctually, Anthony grabbed your waist to keep you from falling, an arm placed firmly around you as he held you close to him. When you finally felt solid ground again, you met his eyes. 

“Thank you,” you breathed, suddenly feeling extremely aware of where his hands were placed and just how close your chest was to his. “I’ve just been a tad distracted tonight,” you apologized, doing your best to ignore how close his mouth was to yours.

Once again, as had become habitual, the pair of you began to dance. In all honesty, it was a delightful endeavor, at least for you. It was quite unexplainable, really, but you and Anthony seemed to move as one, and you had never expected something as simple as a dance to feel so… right. 

“This is the first time you’ve asked me to dance, you know,” you teased Anthony as he spun you around. 

“Is it?” he responded, amused at your observation. “Would you like me to call on you tomorrow, too, or is asking you for a dance enough?” 

You knew he was only teasing, but you grew flustered nonetheless, tripping over your feet and almost falling to the ground once again. Even though Anthony was there to steady you with a hand on your hip and another wrapped around you, you ripped his hands away from you.

“No! That wasn’t– I mean, I didn’t–” you spluttered, an unexplained panic rising in you. 

“I was only joking, Y/N,” he said softly, eyes wide as he took in your extreme reaction to what was meant to be a light-hearted comment. He supposed you very well and truly weren’t interested in him. And though this was a fact he knew already, this did nothing to quell the slight pang of disappointment he felt as he looked at the beautiful woman in front of him.

As the music ended and he led you back to the crowd, Anthony muttered to himself, “Though there are only so many times we can dance without courting before it’s considered improper.” 

He shouldn’t have asked you to dance tonight, he scolded himself. Look at you, practically trembling at the mere idea of Anthony calling on you tomorrow. He should have just let it lie and not come to talk to you tonight. As was his nature, he would never forgive himself if your standing in the ton suffered because of a silly crush he could never act upon.

“Would it really be considered a scandal?” you inquired, feeling a tad self-conscious because you and Anthony had danced at every ball for the last two weeks. 

Mortified, he turned to face you properly. “I didn’t mean for you to hear that,” he apologized. “But I promise you have nothing to worry about. It's only been a few dances, and seeing how close you are to our family it's hardly worthy of any gossip.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, you nodded at Anthony, feeling much more calm. 

Trying to lighten the mood, you teased him. “I didn’t know you cared what people thought of you, seeing how you’re the biggest rake in all of England, and probably beyond, too."

He rolled his eyes bashfully, never until this moment having felt embarrassed about how easily he was able to charm women, unmarried or otherwise. 

“Well, I don’t care about what it means for me,” he said as if it were obvious. “I have no plans to marry anytime soon. But I’d like for you to be able to court anyone you want whenever you feel ready.”

“Oh,” you breathed, taken aback by how earnest Anthony was being. “I didn’t know you were so concerned about my prospects,” you said finally.

Quite nonchalantly, Anthony responded, “I vowed to my father to take care of you and my sisters, and I have no plans of betraying that promise.”

You felt your face growing hot. Perhaps it was the sincerity of the Bridgerton’s words, or perhaps it was how easily he showed his concern for you, but you had never felt quite so taken care of. 

Your mouth was wholly uncooperative, and you couldn’t find the words to respond. Instead, you reached for Anthony’s hand and squeezed it, hoping it was enough to communicate how much you appreciated him. 

His easy smile as he squeezed your hand back told you that he had heard your message with clarity. 

Turning to scan the ballroom, Anthony grumbled, “Now where on Earth is Daphne? If she’s with that Norwood fellow again I swear I’ll ban her from leaving the house again.”

“I'm sure I have no idea,” you said innocently, having just seen the pair hand in hand as they made their way to the dance floor.

“Good-for-nothing rake without even so much as a title,” he muttered, setting off in the direction of his mother in the hope that she would know where Daphne was.

You shook your head amusedly. It was alarmingly easy to slip into this routine with him. You had known the Bridgertons for most of your life, but it had never felt so… natural with any of the other boys in the family as it did with Anthony recently.

But you paid this no mind. At least Daphne was getting to find a love match, Phillip Norwood or otherwise. So what if you were having a bit of fun with your ploy? You got to dance at ton balls without having to court anyone and watch your best friend fall in love at the same time. There didn’t really seem to be any downsides to Daphne’s little plan. 

—

“Daphne, I can’t do that,” you insisted, your voice firm. "I don't even want to do that!"

“Please, Y/N. It’s the only way,” she begged.

Standing in front of you in your sunroom, on a perfectly normal Friday, she was asking you to start properly courting Anthony. As if it wasn't one of the most preposterous things you'd ever heard. As if your worth in society as a woman came almost entirely from whom you married, and she was asking you to make a mockery of it.

It had been two weeks of you breaking all social norms and asking Anthony to dance with you, and in the meantime, Daphne had managed to find a gentleman she actually liked. You should have known from the way she looked at Phillip, but it seemed that Mr Norwood wasn't just another suitor. He truly seemed to make your best friend happy, but you wondered if it was worth it for you if you had to court her brother. 

Setting your feelings aside, you remembered that hadn’t seen Daphne this happy since before she came out last year, and it was upsetting to know that it could all go away if you decided to discontinue your ruse.

“Daphne, I don’t know that this is such a good idea,” you said, not as resistant as earlier but certainly not on board. Yet. "What is your goal with this? I can't for the life of me see how this would be more effective than just continuing to dance with him.”

“I would never force you to do this, and I would never want you to feel like you have to do it,” Daphne started, prioritizing your friendship as usual. “You are correct. Getting the chance to meet Mr Norwood has been absolutely wonderful and I am forever grateful to you for it. However, one dance every other evening is simply not enough to build a courtship. I need to properly be able to actually speak with Phillip when he calls on me, and I can’t very well do that if Anthony is watching me like a hawk. I would be able to do all of the regular courtship activities my brother does not allow me to if he is busy courting someone himself.”

Admittedly, she had a point. You found yourself nodding, not terribly repulsed by the idea of having Anthony show up at your door the morning after a ball with a bouquet, despite what you'd told Daphne earlier. 

“But how exactly would this end?” you pressed. “Anthony and I can’t very well get married.”

Though you wanted nothing more than happiness and fulfillment for your best friend, courting the most well-known rake in all of Mayfair could have consequences for you, too. It was true, you weren’t particularly interested in marrying this season, but being romantically associated with the likes of Anthony Bridgerton was bound to start some gossip around Mayfair. So would ending said romantic association, which you knew had to happen eventually. As much as he was a rake, Anthony was one of the most desired bachelors in polite society, and ending a courtship with him might inadvertently harm your social standing. 

Squealing, Daphne grabbed your hands and led you to the chaise near the window. As you sat down, she started talking excitedly. 

“Well, it would only be for a few weeks. A month, at most. Or at least until it’s obvious enough that we’re getting married and my brother can’t do anything about it,” she assured you. “That will be enough time to have a proper courtship, and you can break things off with Anthony.”

You hum, deep in thought. “Won’t Anthony be upset?” you asked. Daphne knew him best, of course, but this seemed like the sort of thing that would tick off a man. That is, starting a courtship that was never bound to result in anything. 

“You know he has no interest in marrying anyway, so I doubt you ending the courtship would be of concern.”

“That’s a fair point,” you agreed reluctantly. “He did mention that it might be seen as improper that we dance together so often yet aren’t properly courting. And though I don’t want to marry this season, I would eventually like to find someone. So I suppose this is what makes the most sense.”

Daphne squealed again, reaching over to hug you. “Oh, you truly are the best friend anyone could ever ask for.”

You giggled at her excitement, relieved that you could help your best friend find a fairy-tale love. And besides, you wouldn’t mind having to spend more time with Anthony. 

—

previous part || next part || buy me a ko-fi!

Turn on post notifications for @bosbas-library to stay updated when I post!

[delirious-donna]

Kento finds your journal and vows to return it, but not before he accidentally sneaks a peek… or, the time he read that you wanted to climb him like a tree.

Oh fuck - no! No no no. Please don’t have read it. I’ll do all my weekend chores rather than playing videogames and I’ll even unpack that final box that has been sitting in the spare room if you’ll do me this one solid favour.

pairing: Nanami Kento x female reader

tw: embarrassing situations, teacher Kento and teacher reader, thigh riding, use of pet names (darling and sweetheart), dirty talk, Kento being more forward than usual, rewrite of an old story (it’s better now, promise), brief appearance of Satoru

The notebook caught his eye; magenta in colour, clearly well-thumbed and definitely not meant to be here, in the teacher’s lounge. He rolled his neck against the uncomfortably lumpy couch until the cracking noise of stiff joints popping made him wince.

With a resigned grunt, Kento sat forward and glanced at his watch.

His next class was due to begin in ten minutes and if he were honest, he felt rather unmotivated to inspire the next generation on this particular day, a feeling that was becoming painfully regular. Fixing the knot of his tie, which he had loosened upon entering the lounge, he lamented on how every day seemed to bleed into each other.

It had been so stiflingly long since anything new or of interest had occurred and he was starting to feel drained from the mundane, walking through each day like a zombie. Heaven help him, it was a frighteningly familiar feeling.

On his way towards the door, he picked up the offending notebook that was stuck between the couch cushions and glanced at it curiously. Your name was emblazoned on the front cover, written in glittery silver ink. Nanami passed a finger over the lettering, his lips tilting into a thin smile at how irreverent it appeared.

He knew you were a few years younger than he was, that you had only become a teacher at the start of this academic year after a sudden change in career, and to say you were a little shy would be a gross understatement. Kento could probably count the times you had spoken to him on one hand, and each one had been a rushed experience, as if you couldn’t wait to retreat from his presence–was he really that intimidating?

At that rather depressing thought, he resumed walking, intent on delivering your notebook before arriving at his own classroom to greet his darling little bastards charges for the afternoon lecture.

Of course, things would never be that simple, nor straightforward when you worked alongside Satoru Gojo.

The white-haired whirlwind hurtled into him as soon as he ventured into the hall. A barking laugh bounced off the walls as Gojo clapped him heartily on the back and effectively knocked the notebook from his grasp to flutter to the floor.

“Ah, Nanami-san, just the man I was looking for,” he thundered. “Could you do your bestest friend in the whole world a favour?”

“If you are referring to yourself with that sentiment, Gojo, then the answer is of course, no.”

Satoru pouted, Kento grimaced.

Celestial blue eyes peered over the rim of his round sunglasses whilst Kento bent to retrieve the book that had tumbled out of his hands and was now spread open at his feet. His eyes narrowed on the hastily scrawled text that he couldn’t quite make out, but… that was his name that he was staring at.

He was aware that Satoru was still talking, the man would continue to ramble away to himself forever, but Kento held his hand aloft to cease the incessant drone.

A strange, but not unpleasant heat coursed through his veins, and something he hadn’t felt in the longest time stirred in his chest. The wild thump of his heart drowned out his pesky colleague’s yammering as he was finally able to read the line of text that referred to him. A sentence that you had hastily scrawled and then ringed again and again with a fluffy cloud border.

Why does Nanami-san have to be so goddamn big and sexy? What I wouldn’t give to climb him like a tree…

He was sure that he could feel the warmth spread up his neck, his collar suddenly too tight, and his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed the runny saliva pooling inside his mouth.

It would be a lie to say he hadn’t admired you, although always from afar. He knew he wasn’t the most social of men, a sentiment his annoying friend constantly reminded him of. Added to the fact that Kento had been sure you were terrified of him, and he had no intention of making you feel uncomfortable, he kept his distance and his daydreaming to himself and the privacy of his bedroom and shower.

Only now, did he wonder if that discomfort had been something else entirely…

“Will you do it?” Satoru asked, shaking his arms with his long spindly fingers and offering a wide cocky smile.

“I wasn’t listening, and no. I’m going to be busy,” he replied, brushing his fellow teacher’s hand from his forearms and pushing past him to his classroom.

He could care less for the deflated look that the snowy-haired menace threw over his shoulder, there were more important matters on his mind and a knowing smirk curved his lips. The smirk was mirrored by the very man he gave his back to, and that was just fine in his book.

No longer did he detour to return the notebook. Oh no--he’d deliver it back to you safe and sound once the day was over and everyone else had cleared out.

~

It had been a long day. A tiring one too, and the prospect of spending your precious evening hours behind your desk marking exams and writing assignment commentary was unwelcome.

As if the universe could hear your lament, they sent you a curve ball you could never see coming…

A determined knock shook you from your thoughts. The pen in your hand fell to the desk at the same moment you leaned back in your chair, inviting your unexpected visitor to enter.

Your mouth ran dry as the very man you least expected to be calling in on you, walked inside. Least expected but most wanted, secretly, of course. There was no way you were earning yourself a reputation for flirting with your colleagues, even if he was so painfully handsome it made you chew the insides of your cheeks every time you were in his presence. Not because you were shy, because you were a little, but because you didn’t trust what might come out of your mouth! Best to keep those thoughts inside your head where they were safe.

Kento turned to shut the door, the lock flicking silently into place so as to avoid any embarrassing interruptions, before he bowed his head in greeting.

“Nanami-san, what can I do for you?” you asked, impressed that you had managed to speak without tripping over your words. It was certainly an improvement on previous attempts.

It was near impossible not to admire him as he stood near the back of the class. The collar of his azure dress shirt had been loosened, the tie askew as if he had been pulling at them both with insistent fingers. Fingers that were currently drumming against the taut muscles of his forearms. There was something about a man with his sleeves rolled to the elbows that never failed to send you into a feral kind of heat, and right now was no different.

Why did he have to look so downright tantalising? Why did your thighs have to clench together like you were some horny beast in an actual heat?

The aloof expression, the way that he seemed to caress you with his hazel eyes and the simple pleasure of how big he was. At the end of the day, you were no better than an animal, and you animal brain was saying that big was good. Big would rock your world given the chance.

“I found something that belongs to you and thought I should return it,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Oh? That’s kind of you, what is it?”

You wondered what he could have found, mentally scanning your memory of something you might have misplaced or been looking for. Standing, you took two steps forward but froze in place at the sight of your personal notebook held in his large hand. Surely your heart had seized in your chest, it certainly felt like it had.

Oh fuck - no! No no no. Please don’t have read it. I’ll do all my weekend chores rather than playing videogames and I’ll even unpack that final box that has been sitting in the spare room if you’ll do me this one solid favour.

Your eyes widened, looking from the notebook to his face and back again. For a second you thought your silent pleas had been answered, but when had life ever been so benevolent to you before? Kento winked almost imperceptibly, and you wished that a sink hole would form beneath your feet to save you from this mortification.

Heat rose to your cheeks in rushing waves. You swayed unsteadily on the spot with your hand outstretched for the book, desperate for some distance but needing the offending item back in your possession.

Kento chuckled and the deep baritone rumble felt as if the sound resonated within your own body. It stroked at you with exploratory phantom touches although he hadn’t moved. Your every muscle tightened whilst you waited for him to hand over the notebook that held some of your wildest fantasies.

When he held it over his head instead of depositing it into your awaiting sweaty paws, you swore it felt like the air was sucked from the room. It seemed like he had read a very specific piece of information, and you would die of embarrassment.

“I suggest…” he drawled almost lazily. “That if you want it back, you best climb me for it.”

“You—you weren’t meant to read that,” you whispered, staring into the depths of the floor.

A pair of sturdy but unassuming boots came into view. You frowned, surprised.

Two fingers fit beneath your chin and raised your head up to meet his gaze. There was a prominent frown between his eyes that hadn’t been there seconds prior, and you couldn’t help but admire his sharply angular face even if you were doing your best to look anywhere but into his eyes.

“I apologise… perhaps that was a bit too forward. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, but you see... I’ve thought about you a lot and not just because I found your notebook? Journal? Doesn’t matter.” Kento exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. “You think I’m big? I don’t see it myself, but then I was never my best critic.”

You nodded in affirmation, where was the point in denying it now? His eyes softened, crinkles forming in the outer corners whilst his thumb lightly grazed your jaw. Roasted coffee grounds and notes of sandalwood invaded your nose as his head bent lower, towards your ear.

“Then I will repeat myself only once, sweetheart, climb me if you want it back.”

And so, you did.

You climbed him like a feral little animal.

You reached the offending notebook and hurled it to the floor without a second thought. His laughter was warm and the most boisterous you had heard from him. It made you follow through with your impulse to hook your arms around his strong neck, fingers curling into the rough undercut at his nape. Your legs were quick to follow, circling his waist until your entire front rocked into the wall of muscles that was his body.

“Tell me, what else have you put in that saucy little journal about me, hm?”

“You didn’t read it all?” you asked, almost shocked at his level of restraint if it were true.

Kento shook his head, and you believed him. He wasn’t one for lying. “I wanted to hear them from your mouth.”

“Oh… that’s… mm. Anyone ever told you that you’re as perfect as a fictional man, preferably one created by a woman? Don’t answer that,” you clamoured, pressing your hand across his mouth as it stretched open to reply.

“There’s—uh—this one thing.” You nudged the tip of his nose with yours, moving to speak directly into his ear.

Kento’s breath caught in his throat as you whispered about getting off on his thigh, his hold at your waist, which has stayed appropriate until then, tightened and moved towards your backside—squeezing.

With you still attached to him like a koala, he seated himself on the edge of your desk, lowering you until you were spread over one of his incredibly thick thighs. Your skirt bunched around your middle to accommodate the position as his expansive palms wandered your sides, pawing at your hips and palming your ass with a groan.

In no time at all he was dragging you along the length of his thigh. Your underwear was ruined by this point, your clit throbbed from the friction, the seam of yours and his clothing catching you in deliciously new ways and you still hadn’t kissed him.

You remedied this terrible oversight with enthusiasm, delighting when he startled at your forwardness before he melted, shoulders sagging. It was everything and more. No fantasy could live up to the reality. Kento kissed softly, thoroughly. Whilst he continued to lead the rhythm of your body as you rode his thigh, he was more than happy to let you lead here.

His mouth was surprisingly hot for a man who always seemed to remain cool and composed, a deep groan rumbled in his throat when you curled around his tongue and sucked on the warm, wet muscle. The warmly spiced scent and taste of Kento filled your lungs and evaporated any sense of reason you might have had about making out with a fellow teacher in your classroom. It didn’t matter. Only this mattered.

“Feel good?” he asked as you parted for much-needed air. His rough fingers gripped into the fat of your behind, reaching beneath the hem of your skirt to bunch the cotton of your underwear until he was forcing the material between your slick pussy lips.

You nodded enthusiastically, drawing his lower lip into your mouth and sucking on the tender flesh in earnest. Kento was manhandling you in a way that would make any staunch feminist blanch, but it was exactly what you wanted, exactly what you needed.

“You’re making a mess on me, darling.”

“So, I’m you’re darling, am I?” You quipped back despite sounding out of breath. He was right about the mess, there was an embarrassingly long wet streak on his tailored slacks from being manipulated along his thigh. You were fucking yourself against the strong muscles that flexed beneath you and leaving the evidence for anyone to see.

“I think I’d like that,” he admitted with a hum, planting kisses to your neck and collarbone.

Your orgasm was coming in fast; the combination of the friction against your clenching cunt, the large palms gripping into your ass as if he owned it and his delicious mouth teasing your skin was speeding you towards the finish line in haste. His admittance that he might like some kind of relationship with you was the final nail in your coffin, so to speak.

“Nanami-san!”

Blond hair fell into your vision, urgent lips pressing open-mouthed kisses to your cleavage and the swell of your breasts. His tongue flickered at your flesh, warming you up before sucking possessive purple bruises that would be hard to explain later.

“Kento,” he breathed against your collarbone, “call me Kento, my darling.”

Gods, could he be any more perfect? It was as if he knew exactly what to do and say to set you off like a firecracker!

You shrieked in surprise when Kento lifted you like you weighed nothing—you most definitely did not weigh nothing. He held you tight as he turned your body so your back was flush with his chest, rearranging you over his broad thigh once more but this time you could feel the prod of his prominent erection at the outside of your hip. It was thick and imposing, distracting but only in that you wondered what it would look like, feel like—in your hand and stretching your walls.

“Go on, be a good girl and get yourself off on my thigh,” he cooed, nipping at your earlobe.

Kento grabbed at your breasts, squeezing the doughy mounds between his fingers whilst you rode his thigh to completion, pinching you through lace and chiffon. The orgasm that hit was staggering; it stole the air from your lungs, the equilibrium of your body and the sight from your eyes.

White lights pulsed behind your eyelids as you gushed like a surging waterfall over his trousers, ruining your underwear and skirt in the process. It would be embarrassing if it wasn't for the primal-sound growl that emanated from his chest. The almost bestial sounding war cry that made you shiver whilst you floated back down from ecstasy.

“Atta girl. There it is. Mhm, so good for me. So receptive. Can I take you home?” Kento asked, his voice thick and strained with unspoken emotion. “Cause I think it’s my turn now, and I can't wait to see how goddamn perfect you’re gonna look taking my cock.”

You smiled, drunk on the bliss. “Sure thing, big boy, but let’s not make this our get together story for the grandkids, yeah?”

You were so glad he found your notebook, even if you had no idea that it was Satoru Gojo that you needed to thank in the first place...

[juceys]

proud of you jey uso

— based on this request; where a disagreement on your new storyline brings more tension than it does happiness.

pairing jey uso x wrestler!fem!reader wc 2.8k+ genre angst fluff warnings explicit language not proofread… like usual note shoutout to my bby @bratzzzdoll ! hope i made ur request come true queen

listened to nothing’s gonna hurt you baby by cas, blessed by daniel caesar, back to you by selena gomez

you’re jumping, no, skipping up the driveway. you’re so excited, probably the most excited you’ve been in a long time.

you just left the meeting with the producers, feeling as electric as you used to back in your nxt days — you felt wanted. seen. like they’re finally acknowledging that you deserve more, rather than being the reliable midcarder that everyone loves and gets along with.

this time, the plan they had for you was big. it wasn’t another solid match or something where the fans knew you could be doing something better.

this time it was a real storyline. one with depth. one that could really help you climb up the ladder. it has camera time. layers. emotions. crowd heat.

this could be what skyrockets you to the upper tier! and you couldn’t wait to tell your boyfriend, who you were sure would support you.

you enter jeys house, still skipping with the letter that contains the storyline information in hand. you make your way to jeys room, where he sits at the edge of the bed, hair still dripping. he probably just got out the shower, you thought.

he looks up and sees your happy-go-lucky self skipping towards him, making him chuckle. “what’s got my baby in a happy mood, hm? guessing the meeting with the producers was good?”

you plopped onto the bed right next to him, grinning from ear. “they’re giving me a storyline! a real one!”

his happy face turns into one with shock. “fo’real? it’s ‘bout time, that’s great, mama! ‘m happy for you.”

“thank you baby,” you say, giving him a peck on the cheek. “they’re gonna pair me up with carmelo.”

jeys face drops.

he doesn’t say anything at first, causing you to look at him. his grin was replaced with a thin line at his mouth. his brows were now furrowed, nose slightly scrunched.

“… melo?” he says, unamused.

“uh… yeah?” you say, confused at his sudden mood change. but still, you continue anyways. “it’s gonna be a romance story, y’know, kinda like indi and dexter or dom and liv right now. they said it’ll be a backstage, slow burn typa thing.”

his jaw tightens. “so yall gon’ be fake dating? on camera and in the ring?”

if you didn’t clock his mood change before, you’re definitely feeling it now. “i mean… yeah baby, but it’s just for show. you know this,” you say, shier than how you originally walked into the room.

he stares at you for a minute. his arms are crossed as he leans back, like he’s trying to stay calm and keep cool. spoiler, it’s not working.

“tell ‘em no.”

you blink. “what? what do you mean?”

“i mean, tell ‘em no. you’re not doing no romance story — especially not with melo. they can come up with a different story.”

you think he’s joking, until you meet his eyes. they’re boring into yours — there’s no sign of playfulness or humor on his face. he looks the most serious you think you’ve ever seen him.

“josh… why would i give up this story? this is huge, and it could be huge! this could be what really pushes me up there! baby, this is the first big opportunity i’ve gotten in years,” you try to defend yourself.

yet, he still looks indifferent. stubborn, almost.

“yeah well, you don’t need to be fake dating nobody, especially not melo? like are we fo’real right now?”

that’s when it clicks in your head.

“you’ve seen me lose match after match,” you say, quieter and now looking at your lap. “go weeks without screen time, never being pushed to my full potential. and you’ve always told me that my story and my time would come.”

you look up at him, voice more stern now. “and now you’re telling me to drop the biggest opportunity i’ve ever had, all because it’s a romance story? because i’ll be fake dating someone you’re getting insecure over? are you so fucking serious joshua?”

for a second, you swore you thought he’d felt guilty. maybe he did, but he certainly didn’t show it.

“i just don’t want someone else touchin’ up on you, thas’all,” he says while getting up, pacing back and forth.

you scoff and look at him in disbelief. “so let me get this straight. i don’t get to have this little romantic storyline, which could be the big break in my career, but you get to run around on raw every monday in your little crop tops and flicking your tongue around on camera, showing out like you’re a real eater? you can do all this flirty shit with the other women but i can’t do one fucking storyline? i’m just supposed to sit here on the sidelines, watching and cheering you on while i lose every friday for the rest of my career?”

his face softens. “that’s not what i mean-“

“no, that’s exactly what you mean. you know, i thought you’d be happy for me. proud. excited for me. if you are happy for me, then this is a funny ass way of showing it.”

he runs his hand over his face, frustrated. “look, this isn’t about work, okay? this is about us. they got you doing some story with some guy closer in age with you and-“

you stand up in disbelief. “so that’s what this is about?” you scoff. “what, you think simply because carmelos near my age that i’ll fall for him and leave you? are you serious? now you’re insecure about our age gap?”

he stays silent, avoiding eye contact now.

“no. no, it’s not that you think i’ll cheat on you. it’s that you think i’ll like that he’s younger than you. that maybe i’ll realize it’s less complicated with him since he’s younger, isn’t it?”

your words hang in the air, as well as tension between you two. the tension is so strong, it’d twang if you plucked it, you think.

“i didn’t say that.”

“no, but you didn’t have to. it’s written all over your face.”

he swallows hard, his hand moving to sit on his forehead right above his eyes.

“… i just don’t wanna lose you, especially not over this,” he says, quiet. raw. almost like he’s ashamed to admit it.

you sigh. “y’know, i thought you’d always be the one person i can count on. the one who’ll always fight for me. turns out — you’re just fighting me.”

you turn and grab the envelope, making your way to the door. you turn your head over your shoulder, “i’m not telling them no.” and just like that, you were gone.

and for the first time since meeting you, jey didn’t chase after you.

-

his house, his room, is too quiet after you leave.

jey stands there, his hands still on his hips. your words ring in his head like an alarm he can’t turn off.

you’re just fighting me.

his chest is heaving the same way it does after a match. but the fight wasn’t in the ring — it was standing in front of him, in a light gray tank top with eyes full of fire and disappointment.

his head is screaming at him. he hates this feeling. he hates himself, for letting his insecurities get the best of him. he lays on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

how am i gonna fix this shit, he thinks.

meanwhile, you’re at your place, ranting to poor trinity over the phone.

“girl, he said what?!” oh. and jon, of course. his nosy ass.

“yeah, he said all that! i was so shocked! honestly, as of right now, i don’t even know where we stand as a couple in general.”

you and jey have been together for a good year and a half now. it wasn’t exactly a secret, but it wasn’t public either. only those who really know, know. honestly, you would’ve never guessed that he’d be insecure over your age difference with him. i mean… 8 years isn’t that bad… is it?

“well yall definitely need some time apart. especially josh, i don’t know what’s gotten over him,” trinity says.

“don’t worry sis, i’ll talk to his stupid ass about it,” you hear jon say from a bit of a distance.

you sigh. “thanks guys, i appreciate yall. ima let yall go now though, i think i just need to sleep on this.”

“okay girl, call me if you need anything. love you,” trin says, jon also letting out a quick “love you”.

“mhm, love you guys too, bye,” you say before hanging up.

you sit at your kitchen counter. confused, disappointed, angry. then you look at your phone, two notifications grabbing your attention.

new texts from: diva jon

i talked to him, told him to give you space for a bit that boy is so stupid smfh talk to him whenever you’re ready to, love you sis 🤞🏽

you chuckle at his text, sending a quick reply to him before checking your other one.

your chest tightens.

new texts from: josh <3

i’m sorry mama i’m so proud of you, more than you know you deserve this baby i’m cheering you on from a distance call me whenever you’re ready. i love you.

you don’t reply, leaving him on read. you can’t reply, not yet. you need to prove to yourself that you’re capable of doing this storyline, prove to the world that you deserve a storyline like this.

that night, you fall asleep cuddling his hoodie that you put on top of your stuffed animal.

-

it’s been two weeks since your last conversation with josh. but it’s also been two weeks of your popularity skyrocketing. you’ve been getting more and more traction after starting the romance storyline with carmelo. you couldn’t be happier.

but you also can’t ignore the heavy feeling on your heart — the growing void, the ache of something missing. the ache that josh is missing. the man you’ve always supported, isn’t here to do the same for you. physically, at least.

“you know he watches all your segments,” trinity told you the other day, while you were staring at your phone. you were reading back texts he had sent you.

saw you earlier, didn’t know if you wanted to talk just wanted to let you know tho, you looked good you always do

just watched your promo you were amazing baby, i’m so proud! i miss you. sleep well mama, i love you

since going no contact on jey, he’s texted you once everyday. nothing too long, nothing too short. just simple compliments or a quick “good morning, i love you”. his texts are always gentle. intimate, in a way. he still respects your wish for space, yet he won’t ever forget to text and remind you how much he loves you.

you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss him. bad.

-

a couple days go by and you still haven’t replied to jeys texts, or talked to him in general. tonights monday night raw, and of course, you were watching it live along with the millions of other fans worldwide.

raw ended a good 30 minutes ago, and you find yourself staring at a frame of jey. and then you find yourself opening your shared chat together, replaying the voice message he left you earlier today.

hey baby

God. his voice was deep, raspy. you miss hearing it — not on live television, but when it’s just you two.

just landed in pennsylvania saw you was limping a lil bit bet you wish i was there to give you a fōfō, huh

he chuckles to himself, and you do too. you really do wish he was here to give you a fōfō, or massage. you know the ache in your calf would go away with his, so-called, magic hands.

then he sighs.

i miss ya mama, doesn’t feel right going to all these places without you… i love you baby, always. no matter the distance, no matter anything. always us.

and then it ends, and you let out a breath that you didn’t know you were holding. that’s when you decide that enough is enough. you turn off your tv and lamp in your living room and head to your bedroom. you’re already wrapped in his hoodie that still smells like him and you figure that’s what pushed you over the edge.

you hit call.

it only takes one ring before he picks up.

“hello?”

his voice brings immediate comfort. comfort you forgot that existed, comfort you didn’t realize only he can bring you.

it’s low and rough, like he’s trying to disguise how surprised he is that you called.

you lay back on your bed. “hi,” you say, voice quieter than you had planned it to be.

“you okay baby?” he says, concern rushing over him at the sound of your voice.

“mhm, ‘m okay… just, forgot how nervous you make me.”

he lets out a breathy laugh — full of relief, disbelief and love tangled in one. “c’mon mama, ain’t nothin’ to be nervous about.”

you smile to yourself. despite not speaking to him for the past two weeks, jey’s still himself. still the same silly, easy-going and lighthearted boy you fell in love with. and somehow, that made you feel better.

“are you in your hotel room?” you ask.

“yeah, why?���

“just wanted to make sure you’re not busy and that i’m not bothering or something.”

“i could be in the middle of a match and i’d still drop everything for you” he laughs out. “you can never bother me baby, what’s on your mind ma?”

you sigh, all of a sudden feeling nervous. “was just thinking about you… me… us… y’know?”

“mhm. me too, everyday mama,” he says. “how’ve you been baby?”

“good — really good actually. all this traction from the media and stuff are really boosting me up there. last week on smackdown, oh my gosh, it felt so good. the crowd was so insane j, it doesn’t feel real,” you say, ignoring the twinge of guilt you feel. ignoring the sadness you feel because he isn’t there to share the feeling with you. “just wish you were here,” you whisper.

on the other side of the call, in a dimly lit hotel room, jey freezes.

“yeah? me too baby. but i been keeping up with ya, i’ve seen the crowds mama, they love you,” he says with a smile on his face.

he hears you shuffle, “yeah i know… and i’m grateful, really. but it doesn’t really matter if the one person i wanna hear cheering me on, isn’t there.”

jey feels his heart break.

he sits up straight in the hotel bed. “baby…” he starts. “i’m sorry. i’m sorry i wasn’t being supportive at first and for being selfish. i wasn’t being the best boyfriend, and i know that. y’ain’t deserve my insecure ass that day, and i’ve regretted actin’ like that ever since. but you do deserve all this — all the love you’re getting and the attention. you’re doin’ all the shit you said you would. ‘m happy for you baby, so happy. i was jus’ scared of losing you. scared of… ion know, everything i guess.”

“i needed you to be proud of me… not scared of me josh,” he hears your voice being strained. and that kills him.

“i am proud of you mama. ‘m so proud, more than you’ll ever know. always have been and always will be. ‘m not scared anymore baby, just needed time to figure that part out,” he reassures you.

now you’re holding the stuffy with his hoodie on it tight to your body, wishing it were really him rather than your poor squishmallow.

you told yourself you wouldn’t give in to him until you’ve proved yourself — to yourself, to him, to the world — that you have what it takes to be in the big leagues. and you know what? you have proved yourself. so, you let yourself cave.

“i miss you… come home.”

unbeknownst to you, he’s grinning and kicking his feet in the air at that. but he maintains his tone, “i’ll book a new flight right now mama, i’ll be there soon.”

you close your eyes, holding onto your stuffy even tighter. “soon,” you whisper into the quiet room, more to yourself though. because soon, you won’t have to hold onto a scent or a memory anymore. you won’t have to wake up wishing he was next to you. soon, he’ll be right there. right there when you wake up and go to bed. when you come home or leave.

and that was enough for you — for now.

note pt.2 it’s currently 9pm and i’ve just realized this is the earliest i’ve posted… someone tell me to stop posting so late </3

[anonmousegosqueak]

I don't need much, I just need-

Soap and Ghost cuddling on the porch outside.

It had been a long mission. It's amazing Soap even survived. There was even a close call in those tunnels, If Price had been even one second slower in shooting him... Soap doesn't want to think about what would have happened.

But that's all over now.

Makarov is dead.

The world is just that little bit safer.

Cap had obviously sent them off, practically chasing Soap off the second they got back. He honestly had to feel a bit bad for the guy, it's pretty clear he was under a lot of stress the whole time. Besides, Soap never was one to turn down a free vacation.

He didn't even think twice before grabbing Ghost, packing a small bag for the two of them, and heading off towards his family home up in Scotland.

They had just arrived the other night, having spent the day relaxing and catching up on sleep. Even Ghost, the insomniac he is, didn't leave the bed till 1300.

Gaz and Soap had chatted earlier that day over text, mostly Gaz bragging about the nice date he was planning for Red and himself. Soap couldn't blame him too much, he's definitely not that much better off with how often he talks about Ghost. They were both a bit hopeless, weren't they? Lovesick fools, the pair of them.

Now Johnny is sitting on the back porch, watching the wee barns play around in the backyard. He's shoved himself into Simon's side, close enough he can feel the other man's heart. Thankfully he doesn't seem to mind that much, his only real reaction was a hum before pulling Johnny even closer.

The sun had already started setting, casting a nice glow over everything. The air had started to get a bit of a nip to it but not enough to be uncomfortable. More of an excuse to cuddle, no?

They hadn't talked in a while, simply enjoying each other's company. The warmth of dinner still sat nicely in their stomachs, the first real meal either of them had eaten in... A long time. Rations were fine short term, but even Simon could get a little tired of them.

Dinner was nice for other reasons as well.

Johnny had found himself quieting down for once. Not out of fear or anger, no, more out of... Focus.

Simon was smiling. He was smiling and laughing with Johnny's family. He had taken the mask off to eat, but even then he wouldn't slip it back on while he chewed like he sometimes did when he was uncomfortable. His face was warm and full of life, his posture open and welcoming for once.

And if it didn't all go straight down to Johnny's crotch...

They didn't fool around though, no matter how much Johnny wanted to pull the other man into the nearest bathroom. Instead, they went out to the backyard for the kids to burn off some energy before bed.

His sister was off playing with the kids, his ma working on the garden and his da not too far off so he could lend a hand if she needed it. The rest of the family was all scattered around, too spaced out to really be trackable.

Johnny and Simon had simply relaxed on the porch together.

Snapping brought him back, the slight jostle of his shoulder making him look up.

"y' alright? 'been quiet... In your head again?"

It's not often Simon is worried about him being quiet, usually he's telling Johnny to shut up. He must have spaced out quite a bit to get this kinda reaction from him.

"Mhm. Solid. Just thinking, nothing bad though."

That seems to be enough for Simon, settling for a 'humph' and pulling Johnny closer. If that was even possible.

They drifted back into a quiet cuddle, the silence comforting like a blanket.

And for once? Soap didn't mind the empty space.

Because it wasn't empty. It was full.

Home.

Lmao. Look at these idiots, they're in love haha. Anyways, I'm going to go pass out for a few hours, I'll see y'all when the sun collapses.