#i hope i got better. i certainly think i have

[reidrum]

purple lace bra

A/N: wish y'all could see the explosion that happened when i was listening to purple lace bra for the thousandth time and then saw that tattoo pic on twt. anyways. based on this post. p.s. do we like the new fic color layout pls say yes

summary: in which spencer knows better than to let you go home with a loser, which has nothing to do with his recent discovery of your tattoo. obviously.

cw: smut 18+ minors dni, p in v sex, oral (m receiving), enemies to lovers, brat tamer!spencer heheh

wc: 3.5k

The condensation dripping down his glass does nothing to quell the white hot emotion rising within Spencer. The death grip he has on it is about a few minutes away from bursting and shattering everywhere if he doesn’t find a way to calm himself down. That’s not in the cards for him however, not for as long as he keeps watching you across the bar talking to Ryan from cyber crimes.

He’s not supposed to feel this way about you. He’s not supposed to feel any way about you. The majority of your time together as coworkers is spent at each other’s necks with no room for logic, only malice.

But he sits at a table in O’Keefes, awkwardly hanging off the edge of the seat listening to Derek and Emily talk about god knows what.

You look very interested in your conversation from what Spencer can tell, your body language certainly shows it. You’re leaning in just a bit too close for comfort into Ryan, laughing loudly—and fakely—at Ryan’s dumb jokes. You don’t move away when Ryan lays a hand on your waist, tilting your head up so it’s a few inches from his.

“Reid,” Derek nudges him, “You’re going to break the glass, man.”

Spencer looks down at his white knuckled grip and instantly loosens up, intently watching the blood return to his hand. Derek’s smug smile doesn’t falter, “Got something on your mind, pretty boy?”

Emily follows his gaze across the bar to where you stand with Ryan and chuckles, “Or someone?”

He immediately looks back at the table, “No. Nothing.”

“Very convincing, but it might be less effort to just you know. Get up and go talk to her.” Emily teases.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” she winks at him, “but in case a small part of you does know what I’m talking about, I’d say you have about five minutes before she goes home with him.”

He attempts to shrug nonchalantly. “I don’t care.”

Derek and Emily share a knowing look and return to their previous conversation, deciding to let the boy genius stew in his stubbornness. Spencer slowly brings his gaze back to you, except he doesn’t find you uncomfortablely close to Ryan anymore. No, where he finds you is arguably much worse for him.

You’d decided your drink needed a refresher he assumes—why Ryan couldn’t be bothered to get you another drink he’ll never understand—but Spencer lets his eyes trail the expanse of the bar top to find you waiting to flag the bartender down. You’re leaned against the counter, bent slightly at the waist and hips jutting outwards. A compromising but seemingly normal position, however Spencer’s eyes catch something from the raise of your top exposing your lower back. His throat all but nearly dries once he registers what it is.

Raised ink on the swell of your lower back, a tattoo.

Lucky you.

It takes all the restraint in him to not get up abruptly and walk over to you, that is not what he wants. That is not how he’s thinking about you—he doesn’t think about you like that. He’ll settle in his own lie and deny that for all his days, but his resolve grows smaller each second he finds Ryan eyeing the same discovery he’s made.

Ryan isn’t even your type, not that he knows or even cares what your type is, he knows it at least isn’t that man. You like to be challenged, to be tested. Spencer doesn’t even need to be within earshot to know that Ryan is playing the perfect ‘yes man’ listener to you in hopes you’ll go home with him.

Spencer is fairly confident you won’t, but your body language hasn’t changed and you lean in much closer to him after your refill.

The breaking point is when he watches Ryan place his hand on your lower back—over Spencer’s treasured discovery—as he begins to guide you towards the exit.

That’s all it took for him.

Spencer doesn’t think when he bolts out of his chair and speeds over to you, barely registering the “Atta boy.” from Derek as he gets farther from their table towards you.

Your eyes widen as Spencer all but crashes into you, “Are you okay?”

“Hm?” he tries to regain his balance, “Fine yeah, um. Sorry, but we just got called in.”

“For a case?—” you question.

“I thought you guys were off. We were just about to head out.” Ryan interjects. Ugh.

“Contrary to popular belief, serial killers actually don’t abide by a schedule Ryan. So if you don’t mind, we’ll just be heading out on our own.” 

“But—“

You eye Spencer for a second, trying to figure out the angle he’s playing. Emily and Derek haven’t moved from their seats yet the empty glasses around them grow by the minute. Not to mention you would have gotten a text from Hotch or JJ if there was a case, and your phone hasn’t so much as buzzed in the last hour. 

But then you really look at Spencer, and you take note of his clenched fists, the slight heavy breathing. The vein on his neck popping out with pulsations. He’s mad, you conclude. About what, you’re not too sure. 

You pull out your phone and fake react to the blank screen, “Oh gosh, thanks for telling me I almost didn’t see this. Maybe next time, Ryan?”

Spencer smirks to himself as Ryan grumbles something incoherently and maybe offensive to the BAU before sulking away while you let out a soft giggle.

“So…I take it there is no case.”

At this point Spencer realizes the consequences of his rash actions, and has no idea how to explain to you why he warded this man off of you like he was an omen of evil.

He clears his throat, “Um, no. No case, sorry you just looked like you needed help.”

You cross your arms, “I find it hard to believe you wanted to help me with something.”

Spencer narrows his eyes, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you never want anything good for me unless there’s something in it for you.”

Caught red handed. “There’s nothing in it for me, I think you’re overreacting.”

“And I think you’re displacing your emotions,” you step closer, your voice dropping an octave, “I could feel you staring at me, you know. When I was at the bar.”

He gulps, “I—I wasn’t…”

You step closer so you’re nearly chest to chest, “So I’m going to ask you again. Tell me what it is you want.”

You’re so close to him he can still smell the spritzer on your lips, the maraschino cherry you ate with it coloring them an inviting hue that Spencer isn’t sure he can hold off not tasting for any longer. 

For the second time tonight, his actions move faster than his brain as you’re suddenly being dragged through the crowd and towards the back of the bar. You think you’re headed for the storage closet but he makes a bee line for the bathroom next to it at the w minute, which is thankfully unlocked.

He tugs you inside and shuts the door behind you before pressing you against the back of it, “I know what you’re doing.”

Your confused face morphs into one of knowing, “And what am I doing, Spencer?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“Play dumb? I know you don’t think so highly of me,” he presses your hips against the door harder in anger, “If you want something from me, all you have to do is ask.”

“There isn’t anything from you that I could possibly want.”

Oh, he wants you to push his buttons. “Yeah? That’s why you dragged me into the bathroom after lying to Ryan so I wouldn’t go home with him?”

“You wouldn’t have liked it, I know you.”

You grin wickedly, “Oh, you know me? Should I…thank you? For you know, saving me from a treacherous night with Ryan?”

“I don’t care what you do—“

Your hands drag down to the buckle of his belt, the light pressure feeling a million times heavier as Spencer’s breath hitches at the contact. 

“You don’t?” you pout, ghosting over the outline of his bulge.

His body stills entirely as you continue to undo the belt loop, agonizingly sliding it out and running your hands down the sides of his hips. Spencer isn’t sure what to do. He doesn’t think about you like this, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t wonder what it would be like to have you writhing beneath him, hearing you scream his name in ecstasy. The different ways he would fuck the attitude out of you whenever you defied him, how he would shut your little mouth up whenever it ran just a little too much.

Spencer’s eyes darken as realizes the opportunity in front of him, soon to be below him. He gulps, “Y—You know what I want.”

You coo, tracing your lips up hips neck to the crest of his ear, “Oh but Spencer, I thought I was dumb. You might have to spell it out for little ole me.”

Christ help him. “On your knees.”

You giggle and sink to your knees, running your hands up his sides to his belt buckle and pants button to undo them. You peel the fabric of his pants back to expose his boxers, nearly salivating at the wet patch forming in the middle. You slip a hand inside and gently palm him through the fabric, he inhales sharply and grasps the sink counter in front of him for balance.

You finally put him out of his misery and take him out of his boxers, your pout returning again seeing how angry and red his tip is. “Spencer, this looks painful. Maybe if you weren’t so stubborn I could’ve helped you out earlier.”

“If you weren’t always fucking talking nonsense at work, maybe I would’ve.”

“Now,” you tsk, wrapping your fingers around him and gently giving him a single stroke, “that’s no way to talk to someone about to give you head.”

He all but whimpers, “F—Fuck, please can you just…”

“Ask me nicely.” you look up at him doe eyed, lazily stroking him.

You’re going to be the death of him, and it’s starting to look like the most promising way to go out.

“Will you please—shit—please can you just, suck me off?”

You don’t respond but simply lean in close to his base to lick a stripe to the top, swirling your tongue around his tip before you hollow your cheeks out and lower your mouth on him.

“Oh fuck,” he whines, his hand moving to grab your hair in a makeshift ponytail as you take him whole. He can feel himself hit the back of your throat as you gag in response, another guttural moan leaving him.

You continue to bob your head up and down on his length as you feel his hand on your head subconsciously begin to guide your movements on his own.

“Why are you so good at this,” he moans, “It’s because you never shut up, huh? All you do is run your mouth and there’s no one to keep you in check.”

You hum pathetically around him, sending vibrations through his body. He almost misses the hand you’ve snaked between your legs to touch yourself, “Look at you, just couldn’t help yourself? If i’d known this was all it would take to keep you quiet I would’ve had you on your knees for me ages ago.”

He can feel your throat distend in response to his crude words, and like a man depraved he instinctively bucks his hips into your mouth. In any other instance he would feel bad, he should feel bad. But he finds that feeling hard to come by as your eyes water to the tear line and you just look so pretty stuffed in the mouth full of him. Spencer has never heard you be so quiet whilst in the same room as him, and he’s becoming very fond of the new method he just discovered to keep you subdued.

Spencer’s thrusts into your mouth become erratic and sloppy, and you can tell he’s getting close. In no world did you think sucking Spencer Reid off would be this enjoyable, and yet you’re already mourning the moment he pulls out of your mouth. You pull back slightly to be able to speak, “Want you to cum in my mouth, please.”

That’s all Spencer needed to thrust a final time into your mouth and spill himself all down your throat. He’s in awe as he watches you take it whole, making sure you don’t miss a single drop and milk out every last bit from him. You pull him out with a grand sigh, your head leaning back about to hit the bottom edge of the sink counter before Spencer releases the makeshift ponytail he has on you to use his hand to pad the impact.

“You okay?” he pants.

You nod, “Yeah, you?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, “Come here.”

He helps you up from the floor and doesn’t give you time to adjust before he pounces on you, attacking your lips as he holds your body as impossibly close to him as he can. “Didn’t take you for someone who swallows.” he mutters in between kisses.

“Clearly there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

Spencer chuckles, his hands beginning to wander again, “I’ll say.”

His fingers brush over the letters on your lower back, you let out a sharp gasp and pull back as he continues to press kisses down your neck, “How did you know—“

“I can’t believe I didn’t know you had a tattoo here. All this time I’m forced to spend with you, you think I’d notice at some point.” he mumbles.

“Well I don’t exactly show it off.”

“Shame, I think I’d be willing to hear you out a lot more if you did.”

“That so?” you tease, “Is that why you were staring daggers at me at the bar?”

“No, I was wondering why you would get a tattoo there of all places,” he whispers, “then I realized.”

“Why?”

“You want to be bent over and fucked like a whore, don’t you?”

You’re near speechless, “I—I…that’s not—“

He turns your body around with a force and bends you over the sink counter, a smirk forming as it reminds him of how you were positioned at the bar. His hands shrug down your jeans and panties, “Don’t ask for things you can’t handle, princess.”

You look at him through the mirror, “I can handle it.”

Spencer puts his hips out to meet the back of yours, his length imprinting between your ass, “I’m sure you can, baby.” He pushes the edge of your top further up to expose the ink on your lower back, thumbing the letters once again as they glare back at him tauntingly.

Lucky you.

He chuckles to himself before angling at your entrance, “Lucky me.”

The feel of him filling you up causes you both to moan in tandem, you hadn’t expected Spencer to be reaching places you didn’t even know existed.

Your forearms brace you against the sink counter as you try to hold yourself up, with every inch he enters you rendering you more and more defenseless. 

Spencer lets out a shaky whimper once he bottoms out, “Fu—uck, you’re so tight.”

“Sorry, it’s um. It’s been a minute.” you breathe out.

“That’s okay, baby. Tell me when you’re ready.”

You squeeze around him subconsciously at his tenderness as he lets out a strangled groan. “I—I’m okay, you can move.”

He meets your eyes in the mirror, “You sure?”

“Please move. Now.” you plead.

Spencer drags his hips back slowly before reentering you at the same pace, soft moans spilling out of you the entire way. Once he feels the resistance inside you fall he picks up his pace and starts thrusting into you like a man determined.

Your hips begin to meet his thrusts back on his hips as he continues to hit deep within you, “Spence…” you babble, “feels so good.”

“Yeah? You think Ryan could make you feel like this?”

You moan languishly, unable to form words as his pace picks up even faster.

He jams his hips into you and stops, “I asked you a question.”

“Fuck, please don’t stop.” you whine.

“Then tell me, could Ryan make you feel like this?” he slowly begins to move his hips again.

“N—No, no he can’t.”

His thrusts become harder and faster, “Who’s making you feel like this, baby?”

“You! You Spencer please, I’m going to cum I—“

He ruts into you even faster, his hand threading around to touch your clit, “Say it again.”

“Only you can make me feel this good, Spence, no one else.” you murmur, “Please.”

Spencer would say that was satisfactory. “Cum.”

Your orgasm hits you like a wave crashing down, hard and moving everywhere into every crevice it can find. Your nerve endings are on fire as he continues to fuck you through your high, endless moans and babbles pouring out of you.

Spencer reaches his high not long after, the incessant clenching around him being his breaking point. He groans loudly as he spills himself into you for the second time this night, making sure he’s fucked every last drop inside of you. His pace finally falters and slows down, gently pulling himself out of you. He grabs tissues from the dispenser nearby and delicately cleans you up.

“Shit, that was—” you say as you try to catch your breath.

“Yeah. That was.” he helps you up from the sink counter, kneeling down to help you put your pants and panties back on securely. He stands up to his full height and holds your face square in his hands, holding you to press a firm kiss against your lips that quickly turns into kisses all over your face.

You giggle, “What, you’re all nice to me now because I let you hit?”

He groans again, “Don’t say it like that, it makes me sound like an ass.”

“You kind of were. An ass, that is.” you joke.

“For a reason that you probably are aware of now.” he jests back.

You pretend to look deep in thought, “I don’t know, I think I might need more convincing.”

“That can be arranged,” he leans in to kiss you soundly again when the sound of both your phones ringing startles you. He pulls his phone out, “Oh my god, we actually have a case.”

“You jinxed it!” you laugh, “Guess we really have to go now.”

Now Spencer looks deep in thought as he turns his phone on do not disturb before taking your phone and doing the same thing, sliding them to the end of the sink counter, “Well, I don’t think they’ll miss us for another ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes? Ambitious.”

“What can I say, I love a challenge.”

[noforkingclue]

Hey, ya. I have got a bucky Barnes x reader idea which I would like to share (i can't remember if I have already sent this in, but if I did, then I apologise) may i please request a Bucky Barnes x reader where they are fighting loki and Loki uses the dialogue "How will your friends have time for me, when they're so busy fighting you!" He then goes to use the chittari/mind stone sceptre on the reader, but bucky pushes the reader out of the way and now the reader has to fight a mind controlled bucky and try and break the mind control. Prehaps if you like the fight can awaken powers hidden within the reader.

Please of course feel free to edit as much as you want, sorry if this is too detailed. I hope you have a great day.

Note: requests are currently closed

So I didn't directly specify Loki in this, just that Bucky was under some sort of mind control. Hope that's ok and you like the fic!

Title: Trusting You

Warnings: choking, Bucky's self doubt about being the Winter Soldier

Of course you had heard all the stories about Him. Sam, and even Steve before he disappeared, had warned you about Him. Of course you had managed to see some of the footage and you would be lying if you had said that you weren’t scared.

The Winter Solider was really fucking terrifying.

But you wouldn’t have to deal with Him. No more trigger words to bring out the Winter Soldier. All you had to deal with was Bucky and he was interesting. Not in a bad way, definitely not, but it was strange finally meeting him. You were expecting someone different and not someone so… damaged.

The two of you got on surprisingly well. Once the initial awkward introductions were out of the way that is. You found him oddly charming, in his own weird way. You even tried to help him get to grips with the modern world. You could see the knowing looks Sam gave you which you pointedly ignored. No, you certainly did not have a crush on James ‘Bucky’ Barners.

Absolutely not.

No way.

No.

The two of you were just friends. That’s it. Friends.

Which made what you were doing right now all the more difficult.

“Fuck!”

You dodged out of the way of Bucky’s swing just in the nick of time. It was one thing seeing old footage of him like this and a completely different thing seeing it in the flesh. Sam swooped down at Bucky but this time it was Bucky that dodged. Sam lifted you into his arms and carried you to safety.

“I thought you said he was ok,” you panted, “that he wasn’t like this anymore.”

“He was,” said Sam, setting you down, “but that was before we ran into someone who could fucking alter people’s minds.”

The two of you looked over at Bucky.

“We can’t let this get out,” you said, “if the authorities found out-”

“It’ll be a shit show.”

“Yeah. Well, you know him better. What do we do?”

“You tried talking to him?”

You gave Sam a disbelieving look.

“I’m not a fucking shrink!” you hissed, “and you tried that and it didn’t work. Why do you think that I would have any luck?”

“Because it’s you.”

You felt your cheeks heat up at Sam’s words. He was giving you that Look again. The knowing one that said far too much which you didn’t like.

“I don’t-”

You were cut off by Bucky taking another punch at you. Sam and you split into different directions and you rolled away. Bucky turned to you and you held your hands up.

“Buck, listen, it’s me-”

You jumped out of the way.

“This isn’t you,” you continued desperately, “this isn’t the you I know. I know you’re fighting this. I know you-”

Bucky’s metal hand suddenly curled around your throat. You were aware of Sam shouting your name and instinctively you slammed your fist against Bucky’s head. In a flash he let you go and you sunk to the floor, taking in large gulps of air. You heard Sam land next to you and wrapped an arm around your shoulders. You glanced up at Bucky and could see his eyes clear.

“Buck-”

Before you could finish your sentence Bucky practically ran away. You shut your eyes and rested your head against Sam’s chest.

“Fuck.”

*

It was days until you saw Bucky again. You knew he was avoiding you and it pissed you off (even though you understood why). You decided to wait up one night, nursing a cup of tea and waiting for him to come into the kitchen. When Bucky saw you sitting at the kitchen table he froze before turning to leave.

“Wait.”

Bucky froze, metal hand curling around the doorframe.

“We need to talk.” you said softly

“We don’t.”

“Please Bucky,” you said desperately, “I can’t stand this any more. Please, just talk to me.”

For a moment you thought that Bucky was going to leave. Then he sighed and turned around and sat down. For a few torturous seconds neither of you spoke then he said,

“I hurt you.”

“I had worse.”

Bucky glanced up at your bruised neck and quickly looked away again.

“All this has shown is that he will always be a part of me,” he said, “no matter how hard I try I will always be the Winter Soldier. I’m too dangerous to be around. If you hadn’t-”

He cut himself off and frowned.

“How did you stop me?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” you admitted, “Sam think that maybe I have some,” you waved a hand, “mutant power that got unlocked. But right now, that’s not important.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows at your casual dismissal of your potential powers.

“What matters,” you continued, “is that this wasn’t you.”

“I-”

“Had your mind altered,” you said, “you were under mind control. It wasn’t you.”

Bucky sighed and looked down at his hands. He linked his fingers and grimaced at your words. You reached forward and grabbed his hand, grabbing his metal hand by coincidence. Bucky looked up, clearly shocked by the action and tried to pull away. Immediately you tightened your grip on it.

“I hurt you-” he started

“You didn’t,” you said, “not the person I know and I-” you felt your cheeks get hot and looked away before you revealed too much, “I have faith in and I trust.”

You and Bucky locked gazes and there was so much unsaid in that gaze. You smiled softly at him again and this time, Bucky returned it. Maybe, just maybe, things would begin moving in a more positive direction.

[sillygoofyqueer]

Ough, I don't have much to offer, but I miss crowyuan (rereading everything in that tag rn)

Do Crows and snakes get along? I wonder how crowyuan will interact with tianlang-jun & his nephew...

Also, the old palace master! With how... creepy his character is, and how strong crowyuan's wifebeam seems to be in this verse (damn peak lord catnip lmao), I can imagine him doing some veeeeery unsavory things, if you wanna have fun with that (that post abt Yuan's wings being crippled was so TT, god damnit old crook)

Anyw, just throwing out some ideas, if you ever wanna come back to it. I see your current hyperfixation seems to be wangxian lol. Not many thoughts on that since I haven't read the novel, but looks fun

This is just so sweet...I'll respond to it ahead of the other ones, just because I was like "AWHHH" as I was reading it. Honestly, my hyperfixation is always wangxian, nothing is as strong as them in my mind - you should totally read MDZS....it's so good....it's the best MXTX series in my humble opinion- *gets shot* ANYWAY!!! First off, I have actually done a post about how Crowyuan would interact with Zhuzhi-Lang and Tianlang-Jun!!! You can find that here, but thinking about it generally (and doing a bit of research), I've got a few things that I'd like to highlight about how crow demons and snake demons would interact generally. Did you know that crows actually eat snakes in real life?? I certainly fucking didn't until I was like "yo how do they interact in real life?" THEY EAT THEM. CASUALLY. Honestly, crows are just out here eating predators like it's NUTHIN'. Anyway, applying this to Crowyuan, I've decided that crow demons and snake demons would have a very...strained relationship. Unlike the underwater demons (because I've decided they're very similar to how I portray them in the Leviathyuan AU), ground demons are all squaring up and ready to fight to the death over a murdered demon, so of course these two groups are very at odds with each other - I mean...crow demons probably feast on snake demons like they're a gourmet meal. However!! I feel like this is probably from before Crowyuan came into the equation, so like the basis of life that he starts with. AFTER he comes along, I like to think he (along with Shang Qinghua who was a *checks notes*..chicken demon?) manages to bring in a new age (generally, because you can't change everyone's views) where crow demons and snake demons have a better way of dealing with this. Snakes are a large source of protein for crows in real life, so I don't think that Crowyuan would be like "stop eating snake demons," I think it'd be more of a "hey why don't you eat the already dead ones, instead of the alive ones?" and, after a lot of talking with snake demons, they manage to bring a lot more of a relaxed relationship between the two groups. HOWEVER!! That doesn't mean that they're chill. Crow demons still find joy in fucking with snake demons - like, in real life, how crows disorient snakes through loud cawing, swooping around near the snake, and just pecking on their tails sometimes. Crow demons have this sort of spiritedness to them when they come across snake demons, and snake demons try to steer clear of snake demons because they're so annoying. AND THE OLD PALACE MASTER!!!! If, if, he wasn't almost instantly killed off or stuck in the lowest levels of the abyss, I feel like he'd see Crowyuan (of all kinds) as a sort of trophy or weapon that he needs to get his hands on so he can use this demon - who everyone seems to love?? He just wants the power and control that comes with owning this demon, he's disgusted by Crowyuan himself. Despite his disgust, of course, he would flounce Crowyuan around to events bedecked in garish gold, but would probably keep him in the Water Prison behind the scenes.....BEFORE, of course, he's killed off or stuck in the lowest levels of the abyss. So, there are some thoughts I came across while reading your ask, I hope that helped out with the drought of Crowyuan upon my blog right now.......READ MDZS SO YOU CAN ENJOY MY OTHER AUS!!! /silly/silly

[theskee]

Reflection Ruesday?

I was tagged by the lovely @nineblackgoatsart to play along. I knew immediately which piece I was gonna throw up here that is unfinished. The yearning to actually finish it is Strong but aaaaaaa. It's the start of an Emmcanis 1980s AU fic that I love in concept.

How to Play: Go through your writing, art, gifs, etc. that you started but never finished and find something you love. Brush it up a bit if you want and share it. I am tagging @ghostoftheyear because ily <3

--

‘We’re going to bleed. Out.’

Lucanis presses a hand against the seeping wound in his side. The bullet is still in there, a hot chunk of metal, a grinding sensation against his nerves, molten and agonizing with every breath. His fingers are sticky and wet against the wheel while the car begins to sputter. He’s driving on at least one of the rims. He can’t go much farther like this. He needs—something. Anything. He needs to get off the road. A quick whip of the wheel that almost slips from his grasp sees him turning down a gravel road, into the cover of thick trees, the car bumping and trundling along, slowing down. Stopping. Stalling. Smoke pours from the engine and Lucanis knows he has to leave it behind.

At the end of this strip of nothingness he’s expecting a residence, which isn’t great, but he doesn’t have a better choice right now. However insane he might be, the voice in his head is right. The incorporeal passenger occupying his peripheral vision that looks like him, but certainly isn’t him, is glaring, nostrils flaring around snarling breaths. There is such judgment there, from this fragment of himself. It’s more harm than good these days but inescapable. It only ever seems to have one real goal: survive, as violently and shamelessly as possible. And it thinks they’re going to die. Lucanis would like to disagree, but…

“Mierda, I know—I know.”

That job had not gone according to plan, and his suit is soaked with the evidence of unexpected complications. There were supposed to be five armed guards. Not six. A last-minute hire? Or was it a trap from the start? He’ll be having a chat with Viago after all this about just how they acquire information and ensure accuracy. Little slips like this are costly, in more than one sense. But for now—For now he needs a clean-ish environment and something to get this bullet out of his body before it starts to travel. He can feel it digging with every single inhale, every movement that carries him forward, away from the dead vehicle, deeper into the dark.

He runs. Breath hard won, feeling warmth and wetness seeping between his fingers where they’re pressed against his wound just beneath the edge of his suit jacket. There’ll be no saving this one. He’s starting to think there might be no saving him if this long stretch of winding gravel grinding beneath the soles of his wingtips doesn’t offer something soon.

‘Let me. Let me do it, Lucanis.’

“No.”

Once tonight is more than enough. But even as he denies it, he feels like he’s seeing less and less. The dark feels darker, encroaching on his vision, his eyes not fully registering the blurring shapes of trees passing him by in the dark. But eventually, there is a light. A lone sign, worn and wooden, ostentatious, lit by ailing metal lamps that curve over the chunky wooden filigree. They flicker with the breeze.

V & H Funeral Home

It doesn’t ring a bell, but it doesn’t need to. It sounds like it’ll work. It certainly beats having to deal with a house full of people who might have children. It’s well outside of business hours. It’d be nice to get lucky. Maybe he will. It’s enough to put a little pep in his step as he carries on down the long stretch of side road, despite the skepticism of his irritable companion. It’s feels like a race to the finish line, and each crunch of his shoes against gravel fills him with just a little more hope.

When the building finally comes into view, it makes Lucanis wonder if the Maker hates him, very specifically.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

It’s a towering, gothic nightmare of a bygone age when viewed in the dark. The circular drive is pearly white gravel around a towering statue of two skeletons in a lover’s embrace, draped in robes, sharing a lipless kiss, all covered in creeping vine. Beyond it, the house itself stretches to scrape the sky beyond the tops of the surrounding trees. There’s something overwhelmingly foreboding about the dark, covered porch that wraps the entire building, the bushes full of roses pale white that seem to glow of their own accord in the moonlight, the tall, narrow windows, and the heavy door with its gleaming bronze knocker. There isn’t a car outside, nor a light that he can see from where he stands, but that hardly means the building is uninhabited.

‘No such thing. As ghosts.’

Rich, Lucanis thinks, glancing at his own personal haunting as he drags himself around the massive statue and toward the aging wooden steps. They creak beneath his weight, like an ominous greeting, but he presses on. He has no better choice. He needs a sink. Something sharp. He can make do with some basics. A phone would be helpful, too. He needs a pickup. There’s no way he’s walking back to Treviso in this condition. Not all the way from the outer reaches of Nevarra City. Damned Nevarrans and their deep pockets. Lucanis makes a mental note to refuse these contracts. At least for a while.

He expects the door to be locked when he tests the handle, but it slides down smoothly with a loud, metallic click. He dares to take the pressure off his wound as he pushes the door inward, reaching instead for his gun. Safety on, finger placed against the barrel, he steps slowly over the threshold and looks around the darkened interior. There are no lights, but a runner of rich, plush carpet, and a grand staircase before him. A small concierge desk sits unoccupied off to one side, and there’s signage on the walls that he can’t quite make out until he’s right on top of it, looking for a place to go. A heading of any kind.

He’s not exactly interested in aimlessly wandering around an old mansion that may not actually be haunted, but certainly feels like it is. What he needs, he imagines he’d find in a morgue, if there is one. A kitchen might also do, in a pinch. But if there’s even a chance at better, more sterile implements or supplies, he’ll gladly take them. Morgues are usually in a basement, aren’t they? He hopes. With the single minded pursuit of survival in mind, Lucanis drags his ailing body down a hallway to his left and through various rooms that can clearly be arranged for viewings or services.

There are flowers almost everywhere. Their scent is light, not quite enough to cover the scent of sterility in the air. He steps as lightly as he can, mind his feet on the wooden floors for soft spots, small creaks, doing his best to move soundlessly through the building, peering around corners while he continues to grow dizzier from his injury. Adrenaline is wearing off, he realizes. Things are about to get worse. Much worse. But after a winding path, checking doors that turn out to be closets or bathrooms more than once, finally, he finds himself face to face with one that says “Employees Only”, and on the other side of it, a staircase. Dimly lit from below, the cold, uninviting light makes him lift his weapon, placing his back against the wall as he slowly descends at a sideways angle.

Better safe than sorry.

There’s no sound, no movement he can detect, as he creeps ever closer to the bottom, finally coming to the end to see a door that stands ajar. The scent of chemicals and something faintly, but sickly sweet, like over-ripe fruit, hits his senses. The scent of burnt almonds and something rotten beneath the nose-burning astringency of cleaning supplies. He moves as quickly as he can toward the door, back flush beside the frame. Leaning, looking, and—nothing. An empty room with gleaming white tile floors and a chill in the air. He steps through to get a better look around. There’s a desk with a chair, adorned with a soft cardigan in a lively shade of forest green, and hooks to hang one’s coat on the wall where a long, oxblood trench made of soft supple leather is waiting for its owner to return. Paperwork stacked in tidy folders with tabs. A phone on the desk. One he can use to call Viago as soon as he’s no longer fighting the bullet in his flank that seems to have made it’s personal mission to deliver Lucanis maximum misery with every breath instead of just killing him outright. He’s fading, though. He can feel it. Weakness in his legs. Vision growing blurry. He passes the desk.

Someone else is down here.

It’d be ideal if Lucanis could avoid being seen. Simpler. It’d give him plausible deniability. He doesn’t want to kill anyone else tonight. He’d like to get something approaching restful sleep in the near future if at all possible. So he moves quickly, quietly, checking corners as he pushes through a swinging door, leaving a smear of red behind on the metal plate. The room is lined with cabinets. Cold steel counters. A deep sink. There’s a drain in the middle of the floor and a hose wrapped around a hanger that connects to the pipes behind the wall. It stinks of something that Lucanis can’t place but it makes his eyes water. The floor itself is shining, damp, recently cleaned. His shoes leave filthy prints along the damp that clings to the tile. He doesn’t have time to worry about it. Instead he begins quickly rifling through cabinets, looking for forceps and alcohol. A first aid kit—Maker what he wouldn’t give for a first aid kit.

The sound of something hard and heavy hitting the door behind him makes him jump, spinning in place and leveling his gun toward the noise before his eyes are able to catch up and fully register what he’s looking at. A metal gurney bearing a body beneath a pale draping sheet swims into his vision first, and then, the very bewildered man pushing it. Tall, lanky, grey hair with a streak of stubborn darkness on the left side. He’s wearing a pair of bright yellow headphones and the expression of a man who’s just envisioned himself as dead as the body he’s pushing.

There is real fear in those wide eyes, and Lucanis can see him debating on what he should do, the gears turning as he considers running.

“If you’re asking yourself if it’d be easier to be shot in the back, the answer is no. It still… hurts like hell,” he grinds the words between his teeth as he speaks. His own bullet is still a pressing problem. It would be the simplest thing in the world to switch off the safety and shoot this man. He’s older. Maybe in his mid fifties. He’s likely lived a full life and he’s seen Lucanis now. There’s really no other way this can end.

The man lifts his hands off the gurney and reflex alone sees Lucanis flicking the safety off. Quiet, assured, and steady despite how much he feels as though he dragged himself here by his eyelids.

“I can’t—hear you. If I could just—” the man’s voice quivers as he speaks, hands slowly lifting, palms turned outward so Lucanis can watch as he reaches slowly, so carefully for his headphones, taking them off his ears and moving them to hang about his neck. Off the tiles, the tinny sound of some kind of poppy music bounces, too quiet for Lucanis to identify, but still just enough to be familiar.

“I’m sorry about this,” Lucanis offers, though this does not have any sort of calming effect. The man tenses, pupils shrinking in his wide-open eyes as he swallows audibly in the tense quiet that follows.

“You’re bleeding. A—A bullet wound? I can help,” the man says, voice thin with terror. If he’s hoping for some kind of mercy, well, he’s on the right track. Lucanis wants to deny it, lean into professionalism, but pain and desperation make for very convincing bedfellows in the matter of unprofessional decisions.

“You might just be delaying the inevitable.”

“I don’t think so. If you wanted to kill me, I feel as though that would have… happened. By now?” The nervous edge is so palpable. There’s a fine sheen of cold sweat gathering on the man’s brow. Lucanis leans back against the counter, slumping slightly under the weight of exhaustion and blood loss.

“Maybe. Do you really want to take that risk?”

“What other choice do I have? I don’t… want to die.” The man’s voice cracks with such real, palpable fear and Lucanis’ chest tightens at the sound. It’s enough to make him flip the safety back. Enough to let him lower his arm. Enough to let him exhale and shut his eyes for a moment as his brain sloshes around in his skull as he hangs his head.

“You’re right. I don’t want to kill you. I… I could use some help.”

Viago would be giving birth to not a single cow, but an entire heard, if he ever found out about this. The man clears his throat and nods, seeming to visibly find some confidence as he straightens his posture to its full, impressive height and finishes pushing his way through the door. He wheels the body toward the center of the room where the wheels lock into little tracks on the floor. As the man steps around the gurney, Lucanis’ weary eyes take stock. Long limbs and graceful fingers, gloved hands, rolled sleeves. The print on his shirt, upon closer inspection, is a delicate floral embroidery, not the fine pinstriping Lucanis had though at first glance. Everything about him is meticulously tailored, his hair well coifed, tidy moustache, though his sharp jaw bears a shadow that tells of long hours.

“Do you think you could sit on the counter there? If you grow faint, it will be far easier to keep you from hitting your head,” the man says as he approaches, his nerves and the stern set of his expression still present and bleeding through. Bleeding like Lucanis is bleeding all over the pristine white tiles as he leverages himself up onto a cold and unforgiving metal counter to sit and hiss a breath while his head tries desperately to detach itself from his shoulders and float away.

Sitting was probably the right call.

“What’s your name?” Lucanis asks, grasping at something to keep him within his own body. If shock sets in there’s not much anyone here can do about it.

“Emmrich,” the man says, the delivery clipped by the tightness of his jaw as he locates a cabinet and begins to pull out implements. Shears, forceps, a first aid kit. Maker’s breath a first aid kid— “I’d prefer you don’t tell me yours.”

“Why? Seeing my face is reason enough to kill you.”

The sudden clatter of the metal box slipping from Emmrich’s grasp and to the floor on his path toward Lucanis makes the assassin startle. Emmrich stands there for a moment, eyes shut, breathing deep through his nose while the tinny beats of his music continue to waft through the air more subtly than the scent of chemicals. It’s a jarring addition. Emmrich steels himself and kneels to pick up the kit, taking the last few steps to stand beside Lucanis, setting everything out on the counter before he moves to a sink to wash his hands.

The droning sound of water hitting the deep basin sinks into Lucanis head as he watches, hypnotized by the precise movements of elegant fingers beneath the stream of water, his body wavering, swaying, and his mind drifting a little further away. He feels the brush of his ghostly companion. The presence is there, heavy against his shoulder, sinking into his skin, making it harder to recognize where he is or that he has a body at all. The pain dulls and when Emmrich turns to look at him, drying his hands on a strip of white paper towel, Lucanis’s vision shrinks to tunnel around the shape of him. He shakes his head. Once. Twice. Wincing as he fights the feeling that begs him to dissociate into nothingness and rest for a while.

[twistedheartsclub]

His Favorite Mistake- Yandere Ex Male X Female Reader

⚠️ CONTENT WARNING — This story contains themes of emotional manipulation, cheating, toxic relationships, possessive obsession, and psychological tension. Features morally gray characters, jealousy, non-graphic sexual scenes, and blurred lines between love, lust, and revenge. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

She begged him once. He left. Now she smiles when he burns.

Aisle Seven

Y/N hadn’t expected to see him again.

Certainly not in the middle of the grocery store, under warm fluorescent lights and soft pop music, while she reached for fresh thyme.

But there he was.

Him.

The man she once loved with every aching part of her.

The man who broke her.

He was pushing a cart. Laughing. A woman clung to his arm—pregnant, glowing, unaware.

Y/N froze.

She could’ve turned. Walked away. Pretended she hadn’t seen him.

But it was too late.

“Y/N?”

His voice hadn’t changed. That effortless charm. That smile she used to melt for.

“Wow, it’s been a while.”

She didn’t speak right away. Just… looked at him.

At the woman.

At her hand on his arm.

At the small swell of her belly.

She blinked once. Then smiled—perfectly.

She looked stunning. A tight sundress hugging her curves, wedges lifting her calves just right, her makeup soft and glowing. In her basket sat fresh herbs, red wine, pasta, garlic—his favorite. The recipe she used to make when he was hers.

“Hi,” she said sweetly, voice smooth as silk.

Something shifted in his expression.

She looks good. Better than I remember.

Who’s she making dinner for?

The woman beside him adjusted her bag. Nervous. Unsure.

“Hi, I’m Elle,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m his fiancée.”

Y/N smiled even wider. Shook her hand gently.

“Lovely to meet you.”

She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t linger.

“I’m in a bit of a rush. Hope you both have a beautiful day.”

And just like that, she walked away.

But not before catching the flicker in his eyes.

He watched her go.

Like a man who just realized he lost something he should’ve held onto with both hands.

Y/N’s Apartment — 7:42 PM

The apartment smelled like garlic, white wine, and basil.

Y/N stirred the pasta with one hand and scrolled on her phone with the other while her best friends lounged at the kitchen island, sipping rosé and nibbling cheese.

“You’re so domestic lately,” Maris teased, stealing a tomato off the cutting board.

“Yeah,” said Bree. “Like, scary domestic. You’re making fresh pasta now? Who are you feeding like this?”

Y/N smirked and shrugged. “I just wanted comfort food.”

She didn’t say his name.

Not yet.

But it slipped out during dinner. Between bites of the creamy sauce he once moaned over, she said it—

“I saw him today.”

Both girls stopped mid-chew.

“Wait. Him him?” Bree asked.

“Matt?” Maris blinked. “Your Matt?”

Y/N nodded, sipping her wine. Her voice was casual. But her grip on the glass was a little too tight.

“Market aisle seven. With a very pregnant fiancée.”

“Jesus,” Bree muttered. “What did he say?”

“Hi,” Y/N said sweetly. “He looked… surprised. I think I made his brain stop.”

They all laughed, but there was a quiet under it.

A hum of something bitter.

Matt’s Apartment — 8:05 PM

Dinner was plated in front of him.

He hadn’t touched it.

Elle smiled gently, rubbing her belly as she watched TV from the couch.

“Who was that girl earlier?” she asked. “You seemed weird after.”

Matt barely looked up. “No one.”

“She was really pretty.”

Silence.

Elle looked at him.

“Seriously, who was she?”

He exhaled. “Just someone I used to know.”

“Old friend?”

“…something like that.”

He pushed his food away and got up. Walked into the bedroom. Shut the door softly.

Then grabbed his phone.

He searched her name.

Clicked on her profile.

And froze.

Her latest post was from last night. A photo at her apartment—candles glowing, pasta plated beautifully, two friends laughing in the background.

She looked good.

Her lips were glossed. Her dress soft and short. Her eyes glowing in low light.

He stared at the caption.

"Girls’ night in 🍷✨ comfort food, comfort people."

Who’s she cooking for?

She never looked like that with me.

Is someone else touching her now?

Does she even think about me?

He saved the photo.

He didn’t know why.

But he couldn’t stop looking.

Matt hadn’t meant to check her page again.

But it was muscle memory now.

Y/N’s name.

Tap. Scroll. Watch.

The 4:05 a.m. selfie—face flushed, ponytail messy, captioned “beat the sun 🌅”.

The yoga video her friend reposted—tight black leggings, form perfect.

The pic from school—“My students made me cry today 🥹 #teacherlife”.

She was doing good.

No.

She was doing better.

And that made something sour coil in his gut.

He clicked her tagged photos next. Every brunch, every bookstore run, every glass of wine with her girls. He studied the background. The angles. Looking for a shadow of a man. A wrist. A second glass. Anything.

He didn’t find one.

But that didn’t calm him.

It infuriated him.

She cried for me.

She begged on her knees. Her voice shaking. Hands gripping my shirt like she’d die if I walked away.

And I did. I left.

The night before I left, I made love to her.

Slow. Deep. Her whispering “I love you” against his neck like a prayer.

He remembered the way her lip trembled when he said it was over.

How she broke.

And now?

Now she glowed.

Now she thrived.

And something in him… fractured.

He wasn’t sorry.

Not in the normal way.

He was angry.

Angry that she healed. That she smiled. That she lived in a world where he wasn’t necessary.

She was supposed to shatter without me.

Not become something more.

He closed the app.

Sat in silence.

And whispered to himself—

“She was mine.”

His fiancée called from the next room.

He didn’t answer.

He was already planning the next time he’d “accidentally” run into Y/N.

And next time?

He wouldn’t be smiling.

Y/N’s Apartment – 6:47 PM

She stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the sleeves of her satin blouse, smoothing the hem of her skirt.

Her makeup was soft. Hair curled. A warm red lip she hadn’t worn in months.

Her friends buzzed around her, giggling, handing her a glass of wine she barely sipped.

“Come on, Y/N,” Bree said. “This guy is perfect. Handsome, steady job, no weird ex drama, wants marriage and a dog.”

“He’s seriously looking to settle down,” Maris added. “And he’s seen your photos. He asked us if you were single.”

Y/N laughed quietly, shaking her head. “That’s terrifying.”

“It’s called fate, babe.”

And so, at 7:30, she walked into the warm glow of the downtown restaurant. Candlelight. Leather booths. Glasses clinking.

And across the table—Luca.

Tall. Calm. Easy smile.

He asked her questions. Listened. Laughed at her jokes. Held the door open when she got chilly and offered his coat.

It felt… nice.

Easy.

Too easy.

And someone else—somewhere else—was watching.

Matt’s Condo – 8:06 PM

The second she posted the photo—just a plate of pasta, a glass of wine, the blurred edge of a candle—he knew.

She’s on a date.

He stared at the screen, heart thudding.

He refreshed her friend’s story.

There she was.

Laughing.

Her hand near a man’s wrist.

“Who the f*ck is that?”

His knuckles cracked as he gripped the phone.

He didn’t recognize the guy.

Didn’t care.

He paced his kitchen like a caged animal, every breath sharper than the last.

She’s dressed up.

She’s smiling at someone else.

She doesn’t look sad. Doesn’t look like she’s waiting for me.

She looks happy.

That’s what pushed him over.

That’s what made him snap.

He threw the wine glass against the far wall.

It shattered.

He stared at the shards.

“You little liar,” he whispered. “You said you’d always love me.”

Meanwhile — Y/N’s Doorstep – 10:42 PM

The date had ended with a soft goodbye. No kiss. Just a hug, a warm smile, and a “Let’s talk again soon.”

She was halfway through taking off her heels when her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number:

You looked beautiful tonight.

Her blood went cold.

Then another:

But you looked more beautiful crying on my floor.

She dropped her phone.

Her heart pounded.

Outside, a car sat idling at the curb.

Dark. Windows tinted.

She didn’t know it yet…

But Matt had already followed her home.

Y/N’s Apartment – Night Before

Her phone was face down on the kitchen table, untouched.

Her hands shook.

“He followed you home?” Maris whispered.

“Did he see you?” Bree asked, already pulling up a lock change service on her phone.

Y/N nodded, eyes glassy. “He texted me. Said I looked beautiful. And then—he reminded me of the night I broke down for him.”

The silence between them went heavy.

Maris wrapped her arms around her. Bree joined, warm and fierce.

“He doesn’t get to come back now,” Bree said. “He left. That was his choice.”

“You’re not that girl anymore,” Maris added gently. “Don’t let him make you one again.”

The Next Day – 10:12 AM — Bookstore

It was her safe place.

Always had been.

The scent of old pages, quiet piano music overhead, warm sunlight slanting through the windows. She took her time, trailing her fingers along the spines of novels, pretending everything was still okay.

Until she felt it.

That shift in the air.

That presence.

She turned—too late.

Matt was there.

Eyes dark. Hands in his pockets. Blocking the aisle.

“Y/N.”

Her heart slammed into her ribs. “Don’t do this.”

“I needed to see you.”

She stepped back, clutching her bag tighter. “You moved on. You said I love you once too. You burned the love I had for you.”

Her voice cracked.

“You had your chance. Go enjoy your perfect little family with Elle.”

He closed the space between them fast.

Too fast.

She hit the wall behind her with a soft gasp. His hand slammed beside her head. His other hand gripped her hip.

“I didn’t burn it,” he hissed. “You’re still burning.”

She flinched as his face came close—too close.

His eyes dropped to her lips. Her neck. Her dress.

“I still know this body. Every. Inch.”

“Let me go.”

But his hand didn’t move.

His thigh brushed hers.

His voice was low. Breath heavy. “You let him touch you? That soft little boy from your date?”

She shoved his chest.

“You don’t get to ask me that.”

He grabbed her wrists.

Pressed them against the wall.

And kissed her.

Hard. Possessive. Messy. Like he was starving.

She twisted beneath him—but somewhere in it… something broke.

And she kissed him back.

The pressure of his body. The fire in her stomach. Her fingers curling into his shirt. His groan vibrating against her lips.

It was familiar.

It was wrong.

But it felt so good.

When they pulled apart, they were both breathing like they’d run a mile.

Their eyes locked.

Neither of them said a word.

The air between them didn’t cool.

After that kiss—wild and burning—Y/N couldn’t breathe. Matt didn’t give her time to think. His hand was already gripping hers, tugging her toward the exit of the bookstore like he owned her path.

She should have pulled away.

She should have said no.

But her lips were still tingling. Her heart was still racing. And when he opened the passenger door of his sleek black car, she got in.

“This is a mistake,” she whispered as he pulled onto the road.

His hand slid over her thigh. Firm. Hot.

“Then tell me to stop.”

She couldn’t.

In the Car

The city lights passed by in a blur. Her breath hitched every time his thumb stroked soft circles on her bare skin, just beneath the hem of her dress.

“You’re shaking,” he said, glancing sideways.

“This is wrong,” she whispered. “You have a fiancée. A baby.”

“I only see you.”

His voice was low. Raw. Like something inside him had snapped and spilled out.

She swallowed hard.

But she didn’t move his hand.

Y/N’s Apartment — The Door Clicks Closed

The second it shut, her back hit it. His mouth was on hers again, rougher this time. Desperate. His hands roamed down her waist, under the curve of her dress.

She gasped as he lifted her, carrying her toward the bedroom like she weighed nothing.

Her hands gripped his arms—hard, sculpted, familiar. His scent was intoxicating, his mouth moving from her lips to her neck, biting and kissing down to her collarbone.

“I shouldn’t want this,” she breathed.

“But you do.”

What Follows Is Fire

Clothes hit the floor in flashes.

The way he touched her—like he’d never stopped knowing how. His mouth on her breasts, sucking hard, tongue circling until she cried out.

His hands on her thighs, spreading them wide.

Every thrust was punishment and worship.

She arched, her head thrown back, moaning his name like it was pulled from the deepest part of her. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling as he groaned into her skin.

He didn’t stop.

Not when she whimpered.

Not when her body shook.

He took her again. And again. Until her voice cracked and her body melted against him.

After

They lay tangled in her sheets, skin sticky, hearts pounding.

He pressed soft kisses to her shoulder, his chest rising and falling behind her. One strong arm wrapped around her, his fingertips drawing slow circles into the curve of her arm.

“Why,” she whispered into the dark.

He didn’t answer at first.

Then—

“Because no one else gets to touch you like that.”

“You’re mine, Y/N. You always were.”

Matt’s House — 2:14 AM

He unlocked the door quietly.

Elle was asleep on the couch, one hand resting protectively on her belly, the TV still glowing in the background. A baby onesie ad flickered across the screen.

Matt stood there in the dark, still tasting Y/N on his lips.

His shirt smelled like her. His skin, her perfume. His thoughts? Only her.

He stared at Elle for a long time.

But he didn’t feel guilt.

He felt… annoyed.

She’s not Y/N.

She never was.

Sunday Morning — 9:42 AM

Y/N sat on a sunny patio, sipping coffee with Luca.

She wore a soft yellow blouse and a pair of delicate earrings. Her hair was tied up loose. The same fingers that gripped Matt’s shoulders the night before now toyed with a silver necklace as she smiled.

“You have a really cute laugh,” Luca said, eyes warm.

She laughed again, tipping her head.

“You’re just saying that because I ordered pancakes and a croissant.”

He chuckled. “I respect it.”

She leaned forward a little, her legs crossed, casually gorgeous.

Like nothing had happened.

Like she hadn’t moaned Matt’s name hours ago.

Like she wasn’t still sore from the way he devoured her.

But her smile?

It was real.

Because this was control.

Meanwhile — Matt’s POV

He was still lying in bed.

Staring at the ceiling.

Elle had asked if he wanted to go out for brunch. He said no.

He opened Instagram.

And there she was.

Y/N. At a café. Croissant. Pancakes. A man’s arm in the corner of the frame. Her smile wide.

His jaw clenched.

She doesn’t look wrecked.

She doesn’t even look like she’s thinking about me.

He locked his phone.

And threw it

Sunday Morning — Café Jardin, 10:06 AM

The sun filtered through the patio umbrella, casting soft shadows over Y/N’s table. Her coffee was still hot. The plate in front of her was nearly cleared. She was glowing—fresh from yoga, skin soft and flushed, the barest shimmer of gloss on her lips.

Across from her, Luca smiled with that effortless charm. Warm, polite, well-dressed in a crisp button-down.

He was easy to talk to.

Safe.

“So,” he said between bites of his omelet, “your friends said you were in a pretty serious relationship before?”

Her fingers paused around the coffee cup.

She smiled.

“Yeah… it ended about a year ago.”

“I don’t want to overstep,” he said gently, “but you seem really grounded. Not everyone gets through something like that and still believes in… you know, dating. Love.”

She tilted her head, watching him over the rim of her mug.

“I believe in second chances,” she said sweetly. “But only when someone deserves one.”

He smiled. “Fair.”

She didn’t say his name.

She didn’t need to.

But inside her chest, something tightened—an ache she had no interest in naming.

Time Skip — Monday Evening, 6:42 PM

Y/N’s Yoga Studio — Front Entrance

She pushed open the glass door, mat in one hand, water bottle in the other, ponytail damp from sweat and effort. Her body felt lighter. Her mind clearer.

Until she saw him.

Leaning against the black car parked right outside the studio.

Matt.

Still in a white fitted tee and dark jeans. Forearms crossed. That same chain around his neck. Eyes locked on her like a hunter who’d been waiting hours.

She stopped dead.

“Seriously?”

He said nothing at first. Just pushed off the car and walked straight toward her.

“You’ve been ignoring me.”

“Yeah,” she snapped. “That was on purpose.”

“Get in the car.”

She laughed—dry, disbelieving. “Are you serious right now?”

“Now, Y/N.”

“Why don’t you go home and play daddy?” she hissed. “I’m sure your pregnant fiancée is wondering where you are.”

His jaw tensed. His nostrils flared.

He grabbed her wrist—not roughly, but firmly—and yanked the passenger door open.

“We’re talking. One way or another.”

And before she could fully think, she was in the car.

The door slammed.

He got in. Started the engine. Said nothing.

And she said nothing either.

Until she realized—he was taking the turns toward her place.

Her breath hitched.

She looked at him.

His profile was sharp. Angled. His knuckles white around the wheel.

She hated the way her thighs pressed together. The way her chest rose with every breath. The ache.

“You know what?” she said quietly. “We can talk… over coffee.”

Back at Her Apartment — 7:11 PM

She handed him a mug.

He didn’t say thank you.

They stood in the kitchen, the air thick.

“You don’t get to act like this,” she said finally. “You don’t get to follow me, drag me into your car, show up. You’re engaged—”

“You kissed me back.”

She blinked. “That doesn’t make this right.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer, “but it makes it real.”

His voice had dropped. Dark. Rough. He placed the coffee down slowly.

“You smiled at that guy yesterday like he could give you something I didn’t. But you let me fuck you like no one else ever has.”

Her face flushed. She tried to look away.

He stepped closer.

“What did he get? Pancakes?”

“Matt—”

“I gave you everything. And you’re pretending it didn’t mean anything.”

“Because it shouldn’t mean anything,” she snapped.

“Then why are you shaking right now?”

Silence.

Then—she stepped forward. One hand in his hair. The other pressing against his chest.

And kissed him.

Hard.

Hungry.

Like she needed it.

“Shut up,” she whispered. “Just shut up.”

He grabbed her waist, lifted her off the ground like she weighed nothing, and carried her down the hall.

The Bedroom — A Blur of Heat

She didn’t remember how fast her dress hit the floor.

His mouth was on her neck, her shoulder, her chest. He didn’t undress her gently—he tore through the silence, through her restraint.

She gasped as he bit the skin of her thigh, sucking hard until it bloomed red.

He was rough. Deep. Possessive.

Her hands gripped his hair. Her nails scraped his back.

She moaned his name again.

And again.

And again.

After —

They lay tangled in her sheets, again.

His arm around her waist. His fingers tracing her skin like a ritual.

She was quiet.

Until—

“Why do you keep coming back?”

He didn’t answer right away.

But when he did, it was a whisper.

“Because no one has ever ruined me the way you did.”

It had been a month.

A month of Sunday breakfasts and weekday yoga.

Of late-night messages and secret key turns in the lock.

Y/N was still dating Luca—charming, kind, the kind of man who made her tea when her throat hurt and sent good morning texts with heart emojis.

But she was still fucking Matt.

Hard. Secret. Messy.

Sometimes she hated herself for it. Other nights, she let him ruin her until she couldn’t even speak his name.

She was playing with fire.

But she liked the warmth.

Thursday — 3:14 PM — Boutique Downtown

She didn’t mean to run into Elle.

Y/N was just looking at candles, smiling softly at the scent of vanilla smoke and clean linen when a familiar voice chirped behind her.

“Y/N?”

She turned, slow and sweet.

Elle stood there in soft blue maternity wear, a headband pulling her curls back, shopping bags in one hand and polite curiosity in her smile.

“Oh, hi!” Y/N said with practiced delight. “You look so cute.”

“You too!” Elle smiled, a little too tightly. “You… you used to date Matt, right?”

Y/N blinked once, then laughed, covering her mouth lightly.

“Oh, you didn’t know? That’s funny—yeah. I was the one before you.”

Elle’s smile strained.

“He never really talked about you.”

“No, I imagine he wouldn’t,” Y/N said, voice sugar-slick. “Hard to explain that kind of love to your new girl.”

Elle’s lips parted, unsure if she was being insulted.

“How far along are you?” Y/N asked suddenly, tilting her head. “You’re glowing.”

“Six months.”

“Aw,” Y/N said with a hand to her chest. “So sweet. Pregnancy looks so good on you… I was just saying to my friends the other day how Matt always loved that domestic look.”

Elle blinked.

Y/N smiled wider.

“Anyway, I’m running late. Take care of yourself, Elle. And say hi to Matt for me.”

And just like that, she walked out—heels clicking, perfume lingering.

That Night — Girls’ Dinner

The wine had flowed. The pasta was gone.

Y/N wiped her mouth with a napkin and said it:

“I ran into her today.”

Both Bree and Maris leaned in like wolves.

“Elle?”

“Elle.”

“Did you tell her?”

Y/N grinned. “Oh, I let her connect the dots. Told her she was glowing. Asked about her due date.”

“You bitch,” Bree whispered in awe.

“Queen,” Maris corrected.

Y/N sighed, swirling her wine.

“I can’t do this forever. I told myself once Luca asks me to be his girlfriend… I’ll cut all ties.”

“Do you think you will?” Bree asked gently.

“I have to,” Y/N said. “Because the thing about Matt is… if I don’t leave first, he’ll never let me go.”

That Night — Matt’s Home, 11:03 PM

Elle sat on the edge of the bed, brushing lotion into her belly in slow, distracted circles.

Matt had just come out of the shower, towel around his hips, hair damp.

“You didn’t tell me your ex was that Y/N,” she said softly, like a landmine whispered into the dark.

Matt froze.

“What do you mean?”

“I ran into her today.”

Her voice was calm.

That was worse.

“She was very… polite.”

Matt reached for a shirt without speaking.

“She said you used to love the domestic look. That it looked good on me.”

His jaw clenched.

Elle looked up at him slowly.

“She’s beautiful. Even more than in her pictures.”

“Is there something you want to tell me, Matt?”

Silence.

He met her eyes, cold and unreadable.

“No.”

Elle didn’t argue.

She didn’t cry.

But she turned off the lamp without saying another word.

And Matt lay in bed beside her, staring at the ceiling, thinking of the woman who had just played his fiancée with a smile.

Three Days Later — Friday Night, 7:28 PM

Luca’s Loft — Soft Music, Candlelight

Y/N stood on the balcony, wine glass in hand, city lights sparkling below.

She felt safe here. Steady. Like she could almost have a normal life.

Luca stepped behind her, arms warm as they wrapped around her waist.

“You’ve been glowing lately,” he said against her temple. “I like seeing you like this.”

She leaned into him.

“I like feeling like this.”

He turned her gently.

Held both her hands.

“Y/N…”

“I know we’ve only been seeing each other a short while, but I don’t want to keep playing it casual.”

Her heart picked up.

“I’d like you to be my girlfriend.”

There it was.

The moment.

The promise she made.

She stared at him—kind, beautiful Luca—and smiled.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I’d love that.”

He kissed her.

And she let herself believe it would be enough.

But somewhere inside…

Matt’s name still echoed between her ribs.

Matt didn’t hear it from her.

He saw it on her profile.

A soft photo: Y/N in Luca’s coat, her hand resting gently over his, their fingers laced across a café table. Captioned:

“✨He asked. I said yes.”

A simple sentence.

But to Matt?

It detonated.

He didn’t sleep that night.

Didn’t go home the next one.

And on the third day?

He showed up at her apartment.

Saturday — 6:31 PM

Y/N had just opened the door, keys in hand, when she froze.

Matt.

Standing there. Leaning against the wall outside her apartment, black shirt rolled at the sleeves, eyes burning through her.

She blinked, tried to shut the door, but he caught it—fast. His foot slid between it and the frame.

“We need to talk.”

“I’m on my way out—grocery store,” she said lightly. Her voice was too sweet. Her outfit even sweeter—short skirt, tight top that hugged her waist, made her breasts spill just enough.

He stared.

“Dressed like that for produce?”

She smiled. “Don’t girls in relationships dress cute now?”

His jaw tensed.

“You talked to Elle.”

“She talked to me.”

“What did you say to her?”

“Oh, just that she was glowing. Asked about the baby. That sort of thing.”

Matt stepped inside before she could stop him, his eyes dragging over her body like he wanted to carve her open with just his stare.

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m not yours.”

Wrong words.

Too sharp.

He slammed the door shut behind him.

“So Luca’s yours now? That soft little thing gets to touch what I ruined first?”

She turned, heart pounding.

“This isn’t your life anymore, Matt.”

“Then why do you keep letting me back in?”

She opened her mouth.

But he was already on her.

Hands gripping her waist, lips crashing into hers like punishment. Her back hit the door hard, breath stolen from her lungs.

She kissed him back.

Like fire and denial.

Like maybe this would make it easier to let go.

His hand slid under her skirt, gripping her thigh.

“Matt—” she breathed against his mouth, “—this has to be the last time.”

He didn’t answer.

Because he knew it wasn’t.

And so did she.

Saturday Night — 8:12 PM

The restaurant glittered with crystal chandeliers and hushed elegance. Waiters in black. Tables dressed in white.

And Y/N?

A vision in red.

Her dress hugged her curves like it was painted on—backless, slit high, the neckline dipping just enough to earn stares. Her hair curled in glossy waves. Power-red lips. Cute heels. Confidence in every step.

Luca held her hand as they were guided to their table. He couldn’t stop looking at her.

“You’re the most beautiful woman here,” he whispered as he pulled out her chair.

“I know,” she teased with a wink.

And then—

Matt.

Sitting three tables down.

His head turned when he heard her laugh. He went still.

Elle touched his hand, following his gaze—her smile faltering when she saw Y/N.

They weren’t just in the same place.

They were in the same orbit again.

The Collision

Eventually, someone suggested they say hello. Or maybe Elle couldn’t resist. Or maybe Matt needed a closer look.

The two couples stood face to face between tables.

Y/N smiled.

“Elle. Matt. Fancy seeing you here.”

Elle’s eyes flicked over her outfit, her makeup. The glow.

“You look… different.”

“Healing does that,” Y/N said sweetly. “Luca, this is Elle and Matt.”

Luca offered a charming smile, clearly unaware of the tension crackling beneath the surface.

“Nice to meet you.”

Matt said nothing.

He just stared at Y/N’s mouth.

Later — Restroom Powder Room

Y/N was reapplying her lipstick in the mirror when Elle’s reflection appeared behind her.

“You wore that on purpose.”

Y/N kept her eyes on the mirror.

“Wore what?”

“That dress. That color.”

Y/N capped the lipstick slowly. Turned.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I wore red for Matt.”

Elle flushed.

Y/N stepped closer, eyes amused, voice low.

“Remind me—how did you two meet again?”

Elle blinked.

“We… well, he said he was ending things with you.”

Y/N’s smile sharpened.

“Ah. So he was cheating.”

Elle stiffened. “He said it was over.”

“That’s the funny thing,” Y/N whispered. “You can tell yourself that. You have to. Otherwise, what are you really standing on?”

She took a step toward the door.

Then turned back.

“You’re glowing again, by the way. But this time… I think it’s fear.”

With a smile like a blade, she walked out—heels clicking.

Elle stayed frozen by the sink, throat tight, suddenly unsure of everything.

The dinner was done. Drinks finished. Laughter fading.

Luca stood inside by the register, card in hand, chatting casually with the hostess.

Y/N stepped outside for air, heels clicking on the stone steps, the breeze brushing over her bare shoulders like silk.

And there he was.

Matt.

Waiting.

Eyes dark. Jaw tight.

He didn’t speak—just reached out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her around the corner, out of view from the front entrance.

“You’re really doing this,” he hissed. “Parading around like that in front of me.”

She smiled. Dangerous. Radiant.

“I wasn’t parading. I was glowing. There’s a difference.”

“You talked to Elle like that on purpose.”

“Oh, baby,” she cooed, stepping close. “You still think I accidentally hurt people?”

His breathing was heavier now. She could feel it—his jealousy, his need, his rage wrapped in desire.

“You think he touches you the way I do?”

She leaned in slowly, lips a breath from his.

Her voice? Velvet and venom.

“I’ll think of you…”

“…while he fucks me.”

Matt’s hand twitched at his side like he didn’t know whether to drag her closer or shove her away.

But she was already stepping back.

Right on cue, Luca pushed through the front doors.

“Everything good?” he asked.

Y/N turned, radiant and untouchable.

“Perfect,” she said sweetly. “Just catching a little air.”

Matt stood frozen as she walked away, red dress swaying with every step, her hand sliding into Luca’s effortlessly.

She didn’t look back.

But over her shoulder, she said with a smile:

“You always liked watching me leave.”

Luca opened the car door for her like the gentleman he was.

And Matt?

He stood on the curb, burning from the inside out.

[idv-crescent-moon]

@yellow-rose-embalmer replied:

"You know how quickly that can change—how quickly you can change that." It's a sentence, spoken in an empty, matter of fact way, that slips out before he can stop it, before he can bite his tongue and remind himself this is not what is desirable to hear right now. (Even if it is true.) "...Apologies for that. As well as for... being difficult. I hope not to do so in the future." "Glory, ruin... it's not like anyone will see things the same way. But... you still have to act, right? If... if I don't, I'll never reach anyone. I couldn't stand that." What he knows is a kindness is deemed a malice by so many, it hurts. But it's fine, right? He knows death better than they do, anyhow. Ah, past shadows. Is that not what Aesop knows best, to follow the guidance of such things for they are what he has learned? For he has never known how to take a lead? He seems a little warmer as he speaks "...I assure you, the shadows of my past are kinder than you think. Hardly... shadows at all. And yes, they take my hand as I walk through life, but I have become someone who can aid people in turn because of them. It's the best outcome. As such... it's my duty to reach anyone I can. Even if they don't get it, even if they curse me, I have to help them. It would be selfish to only help people who liked me, hm?"

This man was dense beyond saving. Madness did truly run through him. Or rather delusion, but the difference mattered little. Especially with one so dense.

“If shadows were kind, one would not call them shadows but guardian angels”, the Bloody stated condescendingly, disgust clear on his face. Whatever this man had lived through, it most certainly has left him scarred. And he seemingly considered that a blessing. What a fool! A lunatic! Burdening himself with the wishes of those who haunted him...

“But who am I to judge?”

The vampire shrugged. He grew bored. No food. No teasing. No improvement. Just this lost case with issues Bloody has left behind him decades ago. What was he even doing here?

One hand on was resting on his hip, the other dangled lazily. He flexed his fingers, ran them across the fabric of his coat and started toying with the embroidery of his fabric. His eyes scanned the room, searching for entertainment.

A sigh. Or was it a small yawn?

“At least you got something that you want to do in life, I suppose.”

“Yellow roses, huh? Why though? Red is a much more alluring colour!”

~ @idv-crescent-moon

"...I have found that it doesn't suit me. I am hardly... alluring, as you put it." He tries and fails to keep himself from muttering a "I'm not sure if I want to be..." as he steps backward slightly. Deep, bright red. It's a color he knows is popular, but... "It isn't like the color changes the scent and the petals' softness and the thorns that inevitably line the stem, though... right?"

[the-accident-dante]

I will crash out (this is my TD OC)

WHY AM I GETTING BACK INTO TOTAL DRAMA 😭

[valvesoftware]

breakups are so fucking weird. three years and just like that it's gone. huh

[skrunksthatwunk]

AAAAA THIS IS SO GOOD LEMME RAMBLE A BIT OK BECAUSE LIKE. he's ALWAYS trying to make himself fit this box, right? he's always thinking and talking about appearances and what you have to do to get ahead (the suits you wear, the girls you entertain, etc) because he's been studying it. not just to get ahead, but because he knows he's got to do more to get people's approval than kiryu. I think there's an interesting tension there. he keeps trying to give him advice on how to mask and how to fit in because he's put a lot of effort and thought into it because it's how he stays afloat here and he tells kiryu to protect/help him, and then kiryu gets to disregard it and be fine anyway. he doesn't need it like nishiki does

and while nishiki loves kiryu dearly i think there's a sort of jealousy that often comes with that dynamic (speaking from my experience, ohoho). kiryu's allowed to be himself and not even try to be Correct or Normal and people let him because they like who he is as a person more. nishiki masks because he knows the base version of himself, who he is at his core, would be unacceptable... but if kiryu isn't and he is then there has to be something wrong about the way he is. something shameful he has to hide. or at least a liability he's got to always be accounting for, always stepping in front of to obscure.

and he loves kiryu. he really does. but maybe it annoys him when kiryu does things that are blatantly autistic because he wouldn't let himself do that. he has more self control. he's more aware of things than kiryu is. and nobody seems to see that advantage (one of the only ways he's better than kiryu) nor that effort. how bad he's trying to fix himself for them. they don't care. but the lesson he takes away from that isn't that he should stop trying because he's never going to please them, but that he needs to try harder and harder. he's going to pass. he's going to sneak it by them this time. he'll be the son kazama always wanted eventually if he keeps stuffing himself in this damn suitcase.. even though he knows kazama already has the son he wants. it's kiryu.

i think a lotta this is because neither are ever diagnosed (maybe kiryu is later in life, but nishiki? no chance), and because nishiki's not masking consciously. there's a part of him that's annoyed at kiryu's blatantness, and i think it really is rooted in jealousy, because he wants to be free like that. he wishes people would accept him if he were like that but he's on thin ice as it is. but i don't think he's necessarily conscious of it as jealousy, he just thinks kiryu needs to get a clue or get his act together or whatever.

and the thing is, i don't know if nishiki would have been liked better if he unmasked. people think of him as a snivelling kissass, y'know? and i think that comes from the masking. but i think he probably would be more chatty, more open. more inconvenient and more annoying, as far as his peers are concerned. strong and silent type? sure, they have a place for that. but that's not nishiki, and he won't be if he unmasks, either. and not knowing what the problem is (autism) nor what the outcome would be to fix it this other way (unmasking), he doesn't have much of a shot at it either. but if he did he'd probably stick with masking, because shit, it's better than nothing. he's gotta have armor. if people hate the mask they hate the job he's doing at fitting in. if people hate him without the mask, they hate him. he can't risk finding that out even if he already suspects it's true. it would break him.

but they'll always hate him anyway. nishiki, at the end of the day, could never win. that's his place in the narrative and in his own life. he fought a losing battle and he lost and they hated him for it. he just wasn't cut out for this. but the wheel keeps spinning, because if he stops trying, he'll fall apart completely.

[kicks door down]

Autistic Nishiki whose special interest is fashion and not only considers what's trendy but also looks out for fabrics that aren't a sensory nightmare, however sometimes he will force himself to wear something that isn't comfy for appearance's sake, which leaves him more vulnerable to getting overwhelmed and therefore 'emotional' Also means he has his collar popped like Kiryu's for sensory reasons too and slutty reasons, which would once again make me correct in saying if he undid his collar in Kiwami he'd be normal again because if I were constantly experiencing sensory discomfort I too would be fucked up and evil.

Cause like here's the thing, autistic Kiryu and Majima headcanons are more obvious (especially the former), whereas Nishiki probably comes off as the most 'normal'; he can likely maintain eye contact and talk to people 'normally' and not like, go off on some random tangent about a special interest or hyperfixation. And then you remember masking is a thing.

And okay, so I actually think it's unfair a lot of fandom considers him a 'crybaby' right, cause he's cried in situations MOST PEOPLE WOULD RIGHTFULLY CRY OVER! BUT, I can use this to my Autistic Advantage and have this be he actually struggles to regulate his emotions, and considering he's been exposed to the yakuza world since a young age where ANY emotion that isn't 'respectable stoicism' or 'righteous fury and indignation', he's seen as even MORE overly emotional. Hence the need to start masking so early, PLUS having to protect Kiryu who couldn't mask if his life depended on it because he doesn't realise he may HAVE to (speaking from personal experience, Kiryu definitely went his whole life unaware there was anything ""wrong"" with him (for lack of a better word) and had people just like "oh yeah he's just Like That dw bout it" and went on with his life), so Nishiki takes up the mantle of I'm The One Who Knows What We're Doing Lad's desperate to gain acceptance and will change whatever he has to but people still somehow pick up that Something's Off About Him and so they tend to be disdainful or brush him off. It's easy charisma that can win over hostesses and brief encounters with civillians but can't carry across in the yakuza. Kiwami is him trying his DAMNDEST to act neurotypical even at the cost of his own comfort, and the worst part is it's not working

[britneyshakespeare]

Also wasn't the 2020 election so miserable with how we were all waiting for results for literal fucking days??? Oh my God...

[greatlordfluffernutter]

[orcelito]

Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I didn't switch out of engineering after my freshman year of college. I could've been a computer & electrical engineer.

Or if I'd pursued my middle school interest in architecture (that I still lowkey have). I used to draw floor plans just for the fun of it. I think it might've originated from building in the sims, bc I recently did a massive build in the sims 2 after years and years without playing, and I was having the time of my Life. I ended up deciding to pursue engineering in high school tho bc there's a family history to it (my grandpa was one, my sister is one, my dad studied it before dropping out of college, & my ex step grandpa was one too). Also it pays better lol.

But what if I didn't give it up? I could've been an architect. Just the other day I found out from European friends that their buildings don't tend to have ventilation systems built into the walls & I went on a whole nerd research binge learning about how European buildings have air circulation (it generally varies by region, colder climates often having ventilation systems while warmer climates often just get air circulation from windows). Yeah, the architecture interest is still there.

If I go Real far back, little me wanted to be a nurse lol. But that was just because my mom was one and I still looked up to her. I've long since accepted I wouldn't be able to make it as a nurse (I'm too squeamish + tend to get attached easily, so i think it'd be pretty soul crushing for me to work in a job where patients do die sometimes)

Idk. I'm close to finishing my degree in IT, so my general life path is pretty set. And it just has me wondering about the different jobs I've wanted throughout my life & what things would be like if I went to that instead.

[seddair]

,

[marvelstoriesepic]

Change your mind

Pairing: College!Athlete!Bucky x College!Reader

Summary: Natasha drags you to an NYU baseball game. And despite yourself, one player catches your attention.

Word Count: 6.5k

Warnings: Bucky’s charm; Bucky being flirty; Bucky showing off; Reader checking out baseball players lol; Reader not being interested in baseball (at first)

Author’s Note: I've been craving some flirty college Bucky after all the angst I've been writing. So that’s what I came up with. It is also meant as a little celebration fic because I've got over 1500 followers and that’s so amazing! Thank you so much!! Hope you enjoy! ♡

Divider by @thecutestgrotto ♡

Masterlist

You haven’t been to a single game since the semester started - since any semester started, to be real. And honestly, you have been content with that. Satisfyingly so.

Your time is better spent attending to assignments, slogging through your part-time job at the library, or doing literally anything else besides sitting in the stands and watching a bunch of guys chase a ball around a field, or whatever the hell this sport even is about.

Baseball isn’t your thing, it never has been and it never will be.

You’ve been complaining about it the whole way here. Dramatically so, but you didn’t care. Your best friend can handle you and your antics.

“You know, I can think of at least a dozen things I should be doing right now instead of this,” you grumble, trailing behind her as she weaves through the crowd in search of seats.

Natasha sighs sharply and throws you a glare over her shoulder. “God, would you quit whining? This is good for you.”

“I fail to see how,” you shoot back, adjusting the strap of your bag as you begrudgingly follow her.

But Natasha just smirks. That dangerous little smirk that means she’s about to say something you won’t have a comeback for. “You know,” she muses, eyes darting playfully in your direction. “I didn’t think I’d have to twist your arm to come watch a bunch of hot guys running around out there.”

A brow of yours lifts. “Alright, hold on-” you jab a finger in her direction “-I never said I was against that part.”

She scoffs, clearly pleased with herself, and you grin, nudging her with your elbow as the two of you settle into your seats.

“Besides,” you continue, voice dripping with amusement. “I don’t think you should be making comments like that when we both know you’re here for one guy in particular.”

Natasha only shrugs, all nonchalant, but the corner of her mouth tugs lightly upward. “So what if I am?”

You snicker. “I mean, nothing. I just think it’s cute how whipped you are.”

She rolls her eyes, but her lip is still twitching. Natasha and Steve have only been dating for a few weeks, but you see the way she looks at him. And as much as you complain about being dragged here, you suppose watching your best friend fall stupidly in love is kind of entertaining.

Even if you have to suffer through a baseball game to witness it.

You lean back against the hard metal bleachers, arms crossed as your gaze falls across the field.

It’s a decent night, warm with just enough of a breeze to keep the air from feeling stifling. And even though you’d rather be anywhere else right now, you can’t deny that seeing Natasha like this - light in her eyes, a weird softness in her expression - makes the whole ordeal slightly less painful.

Steve is out on the field, stretching with his team, and Natasha is watching him with this reserved kind of smile. The kind that sneaks up on a person when they don’t realize they’re doing it. You smirk to yourself. Yeah, she’s got it bad. But honestly, you are happy for her. They look good together, and she certainly deserves someone who looks at her the way Steve does.

Natasha must catch you watching her because she suddenly turns, an all-too-knowing glint in her eye. You don’t like that look.

“And who knows,” she says, spreading her legs out in front of her, voice hinting at humor, “maybe your future husband’s down there right now.”

You snort, rolling your eyes so hard they might get stuck. “Oh, yeah, sure. He’s just waiting for me to sweep him off his feet in the middle of a stretch.”

She smirks. “Could happen.”

You shake your head. “Yeah, no thanks. I'm all for watching a bunch of hot guys get all sweaty and run around in tight pants, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” You gesture vaguely toward the field. “That’s just spectating. Everything else is a hard pass.”

Natasha quirks a brow, tilting her head at you. “Oh, come on, Y/n. It’s not that bad.”

You shoot her a look. “Nat, the last guy I went out with, Peter Quill, you remember?-” You don’t wait for her nod “-he told me, verbatim, that he doesn’t believe in seasoning his food. And the guy before that showed up to our date in cargo shorts and a fedora and spent two hours explaining why The Wolf of Wall Street is the peak of cinema.”

She winces. “Oof.”

“Yeah. So forgive me if I’m not that eager to throw myself back into the trenches.” You pause. “Also, I’m super busy.”

Natasha laughs, shaking her head as she turns back toward the field. “Well, if you ever change your mind, I’ll be sure to put in a good word with one of Steve’s teammates.”

You scoff. “Wow, generous and delusional. I’m so lucky to have you as a friend.”

She nudges you with her shoulder, smirking. “The luckiest.”

Huffing, you sink deeper into your seat. Well, at least there is one upside to all of this. If nothing else, you can at least appreciate the view.

Your eyes wander over the team as they move across the field, warming up, adjusting their gloves, casually tossing a ball back and forth.

And yeah, you can admit it - objectively speaking, they look good. Athletic builds, toned arms, legs that fill out those pants just right. It’s a nice view, even if you’re not about to go throwing yourself into the dating pool again, so soon.

Your gaze drifts back to Steve, mostly because he’s the only one you actually know - if only a little. But before you can really focus on him, someone steps into your line of sight, half-blocking the blonde from view.

The number 17 fills out your vision.

Your head tilts instinctively, curiosity sparking before you know it. The guy in front of Steve is tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy stance that suggests he’s completely at home out there on the field.

His uniform fits him in a way that makes you annoyingly aware of just how well built he is - jersey stretched firm across his upper back, the sleeves tight around his biceps, pants snug in all the right places. His chestnut hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck underneath the baseball cap he is wearing, and he stands so casually confident that it makes it impossible to not look at him.

Have you maybe seen him around campus before? You should have, right? Someone like him doesn’t just blend into the background. Maybe in the halls, in one of those massive lecture rooms, passing by in the library, maybe when you're on shift. But you are sure, that if you saw that guy, you would have remembered him.

“See something you like?”

Natasha’s smug voice snaps you out of your thoughts and you catch the smirk she is throwing your way.

Scoffing, you tighten your arms around yourself and glance back at the field. Number 17 is still standing there, talking with Steve, completely unaware of the fact that you’ve just spent the past minute analyzing every inch of his backside.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you deny, keeping your tone even.

Natasha snorts, bumping her knee against yours. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“For what?”

She nods her head to the field. “For dragging you here. For the eye candy. For giving you the opportunity to meet your future ex-husband.”

You huff out a laugh. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll see.”

Inevitably, your eyes move back to number 17, and you can’t help but think that if you haven’t seen him before, why it feels like you should have.

He’s turning.

Wait, he’s turning.

Your breath hitches and stays stuck in your throat uncomfortably, and suddenly he’s looking at you. Did he feel your eyes on him? Does he somehow know that you eyed him up like a complete creep? But just as the heat of panic can spark in your chest, you realize he’s not even looking at you.

He’s looking at Natasha.

Your shoulders loosen slightly. Steve also has turned his gaze toward the stands, his affective smile directed at your friend as well. He probably told the brunette that she’s here.

Number 17 lifts a hand in a casual wave, movement smooth, and even that simple gesture kind of looks way hotter than you want to feel right now.

Natasha only gives a small, lazy nod in return.

You expect the brunette to turn back around after that, to go back to whatever pre-game thing they were doing. But he doesn’t.

His attention shifts. To you.

Your stomach makes a flip before your brain can decide how to handle it.

His eyes are sharp, the exact color lost to the distance, but it seems to be something blueish. His expression is unreadable, his head tilting slightly as if assessing you. The stadium lights cast a glow over his features, highlighting the sharpness of his jaw, and the way his mouth seems to settle into something just shy of a smirk.

Immediately, you whip your head around to Natasha, eyes wide.

“Do you know that guy?” you ask, trying to sound more casual than you feel.

Natasha doesn’t even bother looking at you. She’s still watching Steve, her lips curving higher as if knowing what she’s doing.

“He’s Steve’s best friend.”

You blink. “Steve’s best friend?”

Your gaze falls back to the field against your better judgment but Number 17 has already turned back to Steve, talking to the blonde who now is sporting a smirk just like Natasha’s.

“You never mentioned him before,” you comment, though it comes out a little too measured.

Natasha of course picks up on it immediately.

“Should I have?” she counters, dragging the words out just a little.

You narrow your eyes at her but she only continues smirking.

And again, your gaze falls back to Number 17. God, why can’t you stop checking him out. The white baseball pants of his do absolutely nothing to hide the strength in his legs. His hair at his nape is slightly messy from running around and you wonder if it would feel soft if you put your hands on it.

You shake that thought right off again.

It’s not like it matters.

Still, you shift in your seat, arms tightening. “I just think it’s interesting that you never brought him up before when he’s his best friend.”

Natasha exhales a laugh through her nose, finally glancing over at you, her eyes glinting with something mischievous. “I mean, I could have.”

“And you didn’t because…?”

“Because,” she says sultry, shrugging one shoulder. “I figured you’d meet him eventually.”

There is something pointed in the way she says it, something deliberate, and you don’t like that it sends a small tingle of anticipation through you.

“So, what’s his deal, then?” you keep going, not even knowing why.

Natasha hums, stretching her limbs languidly. Her voice is sly. “His deal?”

“You know,” you press, trying not to sound too interested, although, fucking hell, you are. “Like, what’s his major? Have you seen him around before?”

She turns to you again, and oh, that look on her face is entirely too smug. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You huff. “Nat.”

Her smirk only deepens. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Before you can answer, she looks past you, over your shoulder, down the steps.

Her expression doesn’t change but her smirk gets a little too satisfied, a little too wicked.

You quickly follow her gaze and, oh shit.

A heavy beat thuds against your ribs before your heart remembers how to move properly as your eyes follow the unmistakable figure making his way up the stairs.

Number 17.

And he is coming right toward you.

You inhale sharply, sitting up a little straighter, trying to act like this isn’t throwing you off balance. His steps are easy and unhurried as if giving you the time to check him out some more. And even though you should know better, you do.

His uniform is wrinkled from warm-ups, the fabric clinging in ways that are frankly unfair, and his dark hair curls enough to look annoyingly good.

He reaches your row. And despite the fact that Natasha should logically be the person he came up for, he isn’t looking at her when he speaks.

His eyes land directly on you.

“Steve sent me up,” he says, voice low and smooth, a pleased drawl rolling through his words. “Said he forgot his water bottle or somethin’.”

You blink and try to shake off what his voice does to your body. Crossing one leg over the other, you feign indifference.

“Yeah,” Natasha says, sounding way too delighted. “She’s got it.” She slaps your arm lightly with her hand.

You turn to her confused. “Huh?”

“I asked you to put it in your bag since mine’s smaller.” She raises an eyebrow.

“Didn’t know it’s Steve’s,” you mutter, then glare at her for a second before reaching down to retrieve the damn thing.

Natasha looks triumphant.

When you pull the bottle free and hold it out to the guy standing in front of you, he takes it with his fingers brushing against yours in a way that feels very intentional.

“Thanks, doll.”

His tone is silk spun into sound and hell, it glides over your skin, making it prickle underneath your sweater.

He has the bottle now but doesn’t step away yet. His eyes linger on you.

“Never seen you ‘round here before,” he remarks, studying you with open interest. His lips tug a little as if he is holding back a full grin. As if he is pleased.

You meet his gaze and swallow, keeping your expression open but neutral even as something sparks under your skin. “Yeah, it’s my first game.”

His lips press together like he’s trying not to fully smirk. “No kiddin’.” There is something about the way he says it that you can’t place.

You lift a brow and tilt your head slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “Just figured I woulda noticed you before, is all.”

Oh.

Oh, damn.

You know flirting when you hear it. And that was flirting.

You clear your throat, but a smile is trying to makes its way over your mouth. “Do you say that to all the girls in the stands?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Nah. Just you.”

Heat winds through your stomach. Because there is an easy, matter-of-fact kind of confidence in his voice.

Biting his lip, he studies you some more. Eyes intensely on you. “So you ain’t much of a baseball fan, then,” he hums. His voice is a low timbre.

You scoff, but can’t help the amused smile lifting your lips. “Not quite my thing.”

“Maybe I can change that.”

You almost choke on your next breath, because oh. He’s good. And hell, that came fast.

Natasha cackles. You ignore her.

Your fingers play with the fabric of your jeans. “Smooth,” you assess, unable to help the wry lilt in your voice.

He grins. Lopsided. Charming. Devastatingly handsome, oh god so help me. “Yeah? That workin’ for me?”

You roll your eyes, but it’s all for show. “Debatable.”

Natasha snorts.

His smirk is deep. There is a twinkle in his blue eyes. He stares at you like that for a second.

“I’m Bucky.” His voice is softened a fraction. His tone is genuine.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

His head moves to the side a little, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And you are?”

You tell him your name and his gaze lingers, his smirk edging into something thoughtful.

“Huh,” he muses.

You frown slightly. “What?”

He shrugs, still watching you, maybe even looking a little bashful. “Dunno. Just- I like it. Suits you.”

That somehow feels worse than the flirting.

You feel your face heat and you hate that Natasha can probably see it.

There is a shout coming from the dugout. “Barnes, get your ass down here, now!”

That must be their trainer Fury.

But Bucky stays standing there, looking at you for a beat longer, biting his lip and scratching the back of his neck. Then he takes a step back, spinning the water bottle once in his hand. “Guess I’ll see ya next game, doll,” he charms.

You blink, eyebrows up. “That’s a bold assumption.”

He just grins, throwing you a wink. “Nah. I got a feelin’.”

And just like that, he turns, heading back down toward the field, leaving you sitting there slightly dazed.

It takes a moment for your brain to start working again.

You feel Natasha leaning in but are not ready to meet that sly expression.

“We both know you’ll be here next time.”

Infuriatingly, you know she is right.

“I hate you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The game kicks off, but you are not watching it the way you thought you would.

Because he’s on the field.

And, well damn.

You tell yourself you’re just curious. That’s all it is. You’re not actually watching him. You’re just keeping an eye on him. Casual observation. A purely academic interest in how the game works.

Except, the longer you watch, the more you have to admit that he is good.

Really good.

His movements are seamless. It’s like an unbroken flow of precision and control as if the game is merely responding to him, not the other way around. He’s so natural, seems so at ease, and yet he moves so fast and sharp.

You can see the innate understanding he has, of how the game breathes. It’s impressive.

When he’s at bat, his stance is balanced to perfection, knees bent just enough, shoulders loose but poised. The pitcher winds up, releases, and before you can even register it fully, Bucky crushes that ball.

The sound of it is sharp, a crack that echoes through the field.

You track the ball as it soars high, way over the outfield. And then he’s running. He’s a cloud of white and navy as he rounds first base, feet hitting the dirt hard.

Natasha whistles low beside you. “Not bad, huh?” She doesn’t hide her smirk.

You press your lips together, determined to be neutral. “Yeah, well. Maybe I was just expecting less.”

Your best friend lets out a half-amused, half-exaggerated breath through her nose. “You weren’t.”

You want to throw her a glare but that would mean you’d have to take your eyes off Bucky and somehow you can’t manage that.

So you only huff and lean further into your seat.

But even as he plays, you can’t shake the feeling that perhaps he somehow tries a little more than necessary.

There are subtle indications. The way he lingers just a bit longer when he looks up toward the stands, the slight, extra flourish in the way he moves. The exaggerated ease of it all.

Oh, hell.

As he rounds third base, his gaze snaps up.

Right at you.

And he winks.

Your stomach plummets. Heat boils along your spine, and you freeze for half a second, caught completely fucking off guard.

The grin he shoots you is smug and holds a knowing edge, seeing the way your eyes are already on him, seeing your reaction, and thriving on it.

Natasha grasps your arm, gasping. “Oh my God.”

She is overly dramatic on purpose and you hate it.

You tear your gaze away from him and glare at her. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I'm starting,” she laughs, delighted. “That guy’s showing off for you.”

“He is not,” you hiss, trying and failing to ignore the warmth along your neck. Spreading and spreading up to your cheeks.

“That was textbook showing off, babe.”

You bite your lip, refusing to give her the satisfaction of the reaction she wants to see.

But maybe she’s not wrong.

The game continues, and despite your best efforts, your eyes keep finding him.

The more you watch, the more obvious it becomes.

The smooth way he catches the ball in the outfield, hardly needing to look before launching it straight to second base. The way he moves just a little bit slower after a play like he knows there are eyes on him. The way his grin sharpens when he hears the cheers, the teasing comments from his teammates.

And apparently, Steve notices, too.

Because after a particularly showy throw - one that was definitely more dramatic than necessary - Steve jogs past him and smacks him on the back of the head.

You faintly hear Bucky’s startled grunt from the bleachers.

Natasha snickers beside you.

Steve is muttering something to him, but the brunette only grins, backing away with his arms outstretched and shoulders pulled up in an unbothered shrug. And his eyes immediately find you. You look away hastily.

Your best friend leans in, voice low and teasing. “Change your mind about dating yet?”

Sinking lower in your seat, you move your hand through your hair. “This is ridiculous.”

But even as you say it, you glance back at Bucky.

And he’s still looking at you.

This time, you don’t look away.

Another smack lands across the back of his head and he is forced to drag his eyes away from you to grumble at the guy who is grinning from ear to ear, enjoying whatever the hell this is between Bucky and you.

“You’re actin’ real thirsty right now, Barnes,” the voice of the other player sounds out, loud enough for you to make out some words. “Hey, I mean, I get it. She’s cute. But can you focus, man?”

Flustered, you shove your hands between your thighs and curl a little bit inward.

“Shut up, Sam,” Bucky warns, rolling his shoulders and throwing a hard look at his teammate before jogging back to his position.

You don’t miss the way he shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair after lifting the cap for a moment as if he is trying to gather himself.

Your heart is beating in a weird rhythm. Your hands are a little sweaty and you hate that Natasha notices.

“Well, well,” she teases, watching Bucky get into position. “Looks like you’re a motivator.”

“Do you ever stop?”

“Not when it’s this much fun,” she grins, eyes swimming in mischief. “And clearly not when my best friend’s about to have my boyfriend's buddy ask for her number.”

It’s your time to smirk. “Boyfriend?” you chirp. “I'm sure Steve would like to know you calling him that behind his ba-”

“There’s no turning this around, babe. I’m the one with the power here,” she chides, but she is suppressing a smile. “No go ahead and continue to watch your future boyfriend.” She turns your shoulder forward to the field.

“He’s not-”

“Watch.”

You do.

And the longer the game goes on, you try to keep telling yourself that you’re going to stop watching him. But no matter how much you try to focus on anything else - the scoreboard, the crowd, even the actual game - your eyes don’t listen.

They keep wandering back to him. To the way he moves, his effortless command of the field.

It’s the way he seems to own every second he’s out there like he is meant to be on the field. And he seems to love it. His body moves with an instinctive kind of grace, muscles shifting under the snug fit of his uniform, every motion thought through but natural.

When he takes his spot at shortstop, you admire the confidence of his stance. He’s completely at home. He stands relaxed but his eyes are sharp and focused, scanning the field.

And when the ball comes his way, his gloved hand snatches it mid-air before his arm whips it across the diamond in a clean throw.

It’s irritatingly impressive.

You try to convince yourself that he plays like this all the time - that this isn’t for you at all - but there is something nagging at the back of your mind. Something in the way he carries himself, the extra little flair in the way he moves.

He really seems to be putting on a small show and you can’t shake the feeling that you might be the only one in the audience that actually matters to him. You don’t know how to feel about that.

Natasha catches you watching again. “Mhm,” she hums, knowingly. Not at all subtle about it.

You throw her a burning look. “Shut up, Nat.”

She smirks and tilts her head. “You want to be the one he’s showing off for.”

You release a sharp breath, looking at the darkened sky faintly lit by the stadium lights. “If I did, I’d be enjoying it, wouldn’t I? I just think he’s- trying a little hard. Like he’s-”

You don’t get to finish that sentence because the crowd erupts again. The score is tied. This is the final inning.

Your throat constricts as Bucky walks up to plate, adjusting his cap like he’s been waiting for this moment. He taps the bat against the plate once, twice, and tilts his head at the pitcher. You watch the way Bucky’s muscles coil, the readiness, the concentration.

The pitcher winds up. The stadium is silent.

The ball is pitched.

Bucky swings.

Crack.

The sound echoes across the field as Bucky swings and connects perfectly, the entire stadium staring with bated breath. The ball rockets up into the night sky, impossibly high, soaring straight over the center field fence.

It’s gone. A home run.

The crowd erupts, students leaping to their feet, fists pumping, voices carrying through the air. Natasha is already up, grabbing your wrist and yanking you up beside her.

“That’s your man,” Natasha yells over the noise, pointing at the field. “That’s your home run, babe!”

“Oh my god, Nat, he’s not-” you start, but you are cut off by the thunder of feet around you, students leaping onto the bleachers, fists raised, chanting his name.

Just like the others, you are watching Bucky jog around the bases at a confident pace, brushing a hand through his sweaty hair again.

You’re honestly a little overwhelmed with this whole thing. Trying to catch up to the way Bucky moves as if it’s the easiest thing in the world for him, like sending a ball out of the park is just something he does on a casual Tuesday.

And then, just as he crosses home plate, the team swarming him, he turns his head up.

Right to you.

The whole world seems to slow for just a second. Your breath is lost in your throat when your eyes lock. There is a heat in his gaze, but it shifts from exhilaration to something softer. He beams up at you for that special moment, blue eyes shining under the stadium lights, his grin wide.

Your pulse hammers in a way you really don’t want to acknowledge.

You are clapping, like all the others.

And there is something changing in his expression. The corner of his mouth curls in a way as if he can’t believe what he is seeing. His confidence falters for a brief second, replaced by something almost sheepish. His hand scrubs over his face, attention caught by his teammates, but there definitely is a hint of pink dusting his cheeks at your small cheers.

The other players pull him into a rough embrace and for a moment you don’t see him at all, the rest jumps around him in celebration.

“Alright, come on, let’s get down there,” Natasha says, grabbing your wrist again.

“Wait, what?” you sputter as she pulls you toward the railing, making her way down the steps, dragging you with her.

“You are not going to be the only one still sitting while your boyfriend-”

“Stop that-”

“-just won the damn game,” she finishes, waving you off as you scowl at her.

Before you know it, you’re at the very front of the stands, your hands coming together as the roar of the crowd vibrates through your bones.

You see Bucky looking over the chaos, his arms slung around his teammates, his chest rising and falling from exertion, when suddenly, his gaze catches you again.

That bright, wide grin now definitely softens. In a shit, you really were watching kind of way. His blue eyes scan your face as though he is trying to read every single thought rushing through your head right now.

Natasha is practically jumping beside you, cheering happily, so you don’t want to be a bummer and start clapping again. Looking at him.

His smile tries to widen, but Bucky bites his lip. And then, he actually looks bashful.

He dips his head just slightly, running another hand down his face, and this time it’s him looking away first.

But not before you catch that tiny flicker of something almost shy. For all his confidence, for all the easy charm he’s been throwing at you, all the flirtatious lines, something about your reaction to him is what makes him falter that little bit.

And oh how it does something to you. You don’t even fight the little smile on your lips as Natasha bumps her shoulder into yours.

“Shut up,” you murmur, but it sounds too light.

Natasha smirks. “I didn’t say anything.”

You roll your eyes and fold your arms over your chest to hide the way your hands are still itching to continue clapping.

The roar of the crowd slowly begins to settle, the energy of the game remaining charged in the air. The bleachers empty languidly, students pouring onto the field or shuffling toward the exits, their excitement buzzing in hurried conversations and triumphant chants.

The players begin filtering off the field, disappearing into the tunnel leading to the locker rooms. Some of them are still exchanging shoves and laughs, adrenaline still pumping through their veins.

Bucky walks alongside Steve, his uniform tightly handing off his frame.

But before he disappears with the rest of them he glances behind one last time. And, of course, it’s at you again. You shiver.

His glance is just a flicker of blue under the harsh stadium lights but it’s just a beat longer than you would expect. As if he is making sure you’re still here. As if he is worried you won’t be when he comes back out.

Then he’s gone.

“You see that?” Natasha assesses, leaning her weight into one hip, arms crossed.

“See what?” you ask, obviously annoyed.

She’s unbothered. “That boy just looked at you like a man checking to see if his car’s still parked outside.”

You groan. “God, shut up.”

“That never worked on me. You should know better.”

With an impish grin, she tugs at your wrist and guides you away from the bleachers.

“Come on, we’re waiting for them,” she says, already pulling you toward the tunnel exit.

“What? Nat-”

“Well, I’m waiting for Steve,” she says, “and you, my dear, have been eyefucking his best friend all night, so don’t even try to act like you don’t want to see him again.”

“Okay, come on,” you defend. “I have not-”

“-been staring at him, sure,” she interrupts, her smirk widening. “But only every time he wasn’t looking. Which, by the way, wasn’t often.”

You groan again but follow her anyway, because, at this point, you’re not even sure if you’re protesting for show or out of actual resistance.

Minutes go by as more people slowly tickle away, leaving only a few clusters of them lingering around, chatting under the lights.

The air is still warm, but the breeze carries enough of a chill to make you shift on your feet, arms folding over your chest as you wait.

And then, Steve and Bucky emerge from the locker room, side by side.

Steve’s blond hair is still damp from the shower, his team jacket slung over one shoulder. The moment he spots Natasha, his whole face softens. His stride quickens as he reaches her and he pulls her in for a kiss that is far sweeter than you expected from someone fresh out of a game.

Your best friend, for all her teasing confidence tonight, melts against him, fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket.

You feel happiness for her but you look away, feeling like you’re intruding on something intimate.

And before you can prepare yourself, Bucky is standing right in front of you.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he says, voice lower, less playful than before.

His hair is damp too, looking darker like that. He doesn’t wear his cap anymore, short brown tendrils resting on his forehead. His uniform is gone, replaced by a dark hoodie and jeans. And yet, he still looks every bit like the man who just stole the game with a home run. He looks handsome. You can even admit that.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll leave with Nat,” you answer, voice a little quieter than you would have liked it to be.

Bucky smiles. He shifts his weight, hands slipping into his pockets.

“Well, had to make sure you actually enjoyed yourself,” he says, tipping his head to the side, smirk slowly appearing. “Didn’t want you to suffer through it since you’ve already been dragged out here.”

You huff out a small laugh, looking at the ground before up at him again. “It wasn’t terrible.”

“Not terrible?” he echoes, feigning offense. “Sweetheart, I won the damn game. You were cheerin’ for me.”

It’s as if he needed to say it out loud. As if he’s been telling that to himself the whole time.

You bite your lip. Those nicknames will send you tumbling to the floor if you’re not careful. “Yes, well. You put on a good show.”

He grins something slow and smug. “And here I was thinkin’ you weren’t much of a baseball fan.”

You shift, laughing softly. “Still not, really.”

He hums, studying you so deeply. In a gentle way. But he takes his sweet time and it’s making you nervous. “I’ll change your mind.”

Your stomach does something weird - something that has everything to do with the way his voice dips slightly, the way it rumbles out so smoothly.

You narrow your eyes, trying to keep your cool. “I’d like to see you try.”

Bucky chuckles softly, rocking on the balls of his feet. He can’t stop watching you, moving his eyes around your features, your whole frame, as if wondering where you have been the whole time. He looks like he is trying to read every little thing written across your face.

Your chest feels a little too tight, and your pulse picks up the longer you look at him, the longer he looks at you.

The air is cooler now that the game is over, the heat from the crowd dissipating into the open night, and although you feel plenty heated up by his gaze and presence, you instinctively rub your arms, shifting on your feet.

“You cold?” Bucky’s voice is lower, and there is a soft gentleness to his tone, that sounds so sincere, you feel your knees grow weak.

You shake your head. “I’m fine.”

“I’ve got an extra jersey in my bag,” he offers as if he didn’t even hear you, already moving. “Or you can take this one-” He seems about to shrug off his hoodie instead.

You quickly hold up a hand to stop him. “No, really. I’m okay.”

Bucky pauses, squinting at you, mouth quirking as he eyes you a second longer. Then, as if he’s figured something out, his lips form a real smirk again.

“Alright,” he concedes easily, his weight tipping slightly to one side, then back again. “Guess I’ll just give it to you next time, then.”

You freeze just slightly, blinking up at him.

Next time.

You don’t quite know what to do with that.

You clear your throat, forcing words out. “Yeah. Next time.”

Bucky beams.

It’s a full-on, dazzling grin, cheeks high and rosy, eyes bright in a way that makes something overturn in your stomach.

He looks way too pleased with himself now. And you are way too aware of how warm your face feels.

You try to push yourself past the sudden rush of flustered energy. “Well, I guess I will see you around campus, then.”

Bucky hums, considering, still not taking his eyes off you. “Maybe,” his head turns to the side, making a pause. “Or I could just make sure.”

“Make sure?”

He pulls his hands from his hoodie pocket, adjusting his footing and running a hand through his hair, messing with the damp strands a little. He might just seem the slightest bit nervous.

Flipping his palm up expectantly, he looks at you with a glint of hope in his eyes. “Your phone.”

Your stomach does that turning-over thing again as you realize what he’s going on about. “Oh.”

You are fumbling to grab your phone out of your bag, fingers perhaps wavering a little and you are glad that Natasha is preoccupied at the moment to see this. Unlocking it, you hand it over to him.

Bucky takes it gently, fingers brushing yours. Again, it feels intentional.

The glow of the screen illuminates his face as he punches in his number, and presses to call himself so he’ll have your number as well before handing your phone back to you.

You glance down.

A new contact. Bucky Barnes.

Bucky watches you with a soft smile.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve calls, still standing with Natasha. You don’t see the triumphant smile those lovebirds share, busy trying not to show your disappointment of the night coming to an end. “We heading out?”

Bucky sighs, but he doesn’t break eye contact with you just yet.

“Guess that’s my cue,” he murmurs.

“Guess so.”

His feet shuffle against the floor. He seems not quite ready to end this conversation, taking a slow step backward, not turning away from you.

“See you next game, doll,” he says, words landing softer, quieter in a way. He speaks as if it matters.

You fidget with the sleeve of your sweater and let out an almost shy laugh. “Sure.”

Bucky smirks, holding up his phone and waving with it when walking further backward to Steve. “I’ll remind you.”

You watch him walk off with his best friend, watch him throw another grin over his shoulder at you, still feeling the heat that won’t stop tingling along your skin.

Your own best friend throws her arm around your shoulders.

This time, she keeps her mouth shut. She knows she doesn’t have to say anything anymore. There is no denying it any longer and you are well aware.

Because yeah, you might not be into baseball.

But you might be into Number 17.

“Flirting is a promise of something more.”

- Milan Kundera

[urmum-lovesme]

Ok but toxic!dad!rafe where this don’t effect the children’s life but when it come to the mother of his kids he’s still very overprotective. I mean she is a MILF.

This is the best thing I've ever heard anon I hope both sides of your pillow are cold.

Toxic!Rafe as a dad?

Surprisingly present. 

His kid adores him, and in their eyes, he’s just their cool, protective father. He spoils them, takes them out on the yacht all the time, and he makes sure they have everything they could ever want. He told himself he would never be like Ward if he ever became a father, and he- for a change- was living up to his word.

But when it comes to their mom? That’s where the real problem is.

Because Rafe does not change when it comes to Y/N.

Y/N falling pregnant, certainly wasn't planned. It wasn’t supposed to happen. She was young, she had a future and more than anything, she wasn’t sure if she even wanted to stay with Rafe, let alone have a baby with him. She didn't tell Rafe right away. Not because she was hiding it, but because she knew- deep in her gut- that he wouldn’t react like a normal person. She needed time to think, to weigh her options, to figure out what she wanted before he got involved.

But Rafe found out anyway.

Y/N had been so incredibly careful, she didn't leave any trace of the positive pregnancy test in Tannyhill; but he just knew her too well, sensed that something was off when she stopped drinking.

“What?”

His voice was quiet at first, his brows furrowed, like he didn’t quite believe what he was hearing. But then the realisation hit. His blue eyes darkened, his jaw tightened, and he stepped closer, the room suddenly feeling too small. His voice was calm, but there was something dangerous underneath it.

“You were gonna tell me, right?”

“Rafe, I—I don’t know what I’m going to do yet—”

Wrong answer. His hand shot out, gripping her jaw, forcing her to look at him.

“The fuck do you mean, you don’t know?” His breath was hot against her face, his fingers digging into her skin.

“That’s my kid, Y/N.”

Her stomach churned, her heart hammering against her ribs.

“I just- Rafe, I need time to think—”

“No, you don’t.”

He cut her off, shaking his head like the idea itself was ridiculous, angrily running a hand through his messed up hair.

“You don’t need to think. It’s already decided.”

She tried to take a step back, but his grip tightened, his other hand settling on her waist, firmly keeping her closer to him.

“We’re having this baby.”

Her breath caught in her throat as the words passed his lips, tears stinging her eyes before she could stop the feeling.

“I don’t- Rafe, this is my choice—”

His fingers pressed harder, his face inches from hers.

“No, it’s ours.”

Even now when they have a child together, he still watches her like a hawk. Still gets unreasonably possessive when she dresses a certain way, still makes a scene when he catches another man looking at her for a second too long. And she knows better than to fight him on it- most of the time.

It’s a summer afternoon, and she’s lounging by the pool, drink in hand, wearing a bikini that makes Rafe’s jaw clench. The sun was high, casting a golden glow over her as she adjusted the thin strap of her bikini top. It was tiny- too fucking tiny. The black fabric barely covered her tits, which, thanks to breastfeeding, were even fuller now, spilling slightly over the edges. His jaw clenched as his gaze dragged down, taking in the way the strings hugged her hips, digging into soft, newly gained curves that had him gripping the bottle in his hand just a little harder.

His friends are over, and while they’re talking, his eyes keep flicking toward her, watching the way the fabric clings to her curves. And then- Topper nudges him, nodding toward one of the new neighbours talking to her.

Rafe’s face goes dark.

She’s laughing at something the guy said, totally unaware of the way Rafe’s grip tightens around his beer bottle. He doesn’t make a scene- not yet- but when the guy finally walks away, Rafe strides over, towering over her as she peers up from her sun bed. His voice is deceptively smooth, but she knows that tone.

"Having fun, baby?"

"Yes."

His fingers skim her thigh, tracing the edge of her bikini bottoms.

"You looked like you were having a little too much fun."

She sighs, pushing her sunglasses up to rest on her head, she had a feeling she knew exactly where this was going.

"Seriously?"

"Dead serious." He leans down, voice dropping.

"Go inside and cover up."

She scoffs, shifting to sit up, the towel underneath her crumpling slightly as she moved,

"It’s our backyard and it's a pool party-."

"-I don’t give a fuck."

"Rafe, you’re being ridiculous."

"Yeah?" His grip tightens on her thigh.

"Then why’s he looking at you like he wants to fuck you?"

Her stomach flips.

"Stop," she hisses, even as heat creeps up her neck. But Rafe just smirks, leaning in so only she can hear.

"Maybe I should remind you who you belong to, huh?"

Her breath catches.

And the way he says it? The way his hand tightens on her thigh, just enough to send a warning? It sends a shiver down her spine, even as she glares at him. Because she knows- if she doesn’t listen now, he’ll make her.

Somehow, their kid never see this side of Rafe, he makes sure of it.

To them, their dad is just protective, he just 'cares about mommy so much!'. They never see the way their mother bites her lip in frustration when Rafe pulls her away from conversations. They never see the bruises he leaves- not always from violence, but from gripping her too tight, kissing her too hard. They don’t hear the way she argues in hushed tones behind closed doors, or the way she eventually gives in and melts into him anyway.

Because as much as she hates his jealousy and his control, she loves him too much to walk away.

He is the father of her child after all

[cheriecoke]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ HOME COOKED MEAL — nanami kento

you bring itadori home for dinner & he gets to see a different side to kento

contents. aka you dig up some teenage photos of nanami, fem!reader, husband nanami, fluff, yuuji being your adopted son, i haven't watched the new ep (& i won't) but there is enough nanami angst so i am here to fix that — 1.7k

when you got ready to leave the school, your jacket on and bag tugged over your shoulder, you passed yuuji itadori in the halls, his expression suspiciously similar to a kicked puppy. 

yuuji perked up a bit as you walked by, offering you a small smile and a wave. and though you considered heading on home for the night, eager to see your husband, you slowed, hesitant to leave the poor kid all alone. 

“everything okay, yuuji?” you asked, frowning as he rested his elbows on his knees, studying a stain on the floor of the school. 

“hm?” the teenager glanced up, eyes bright and wide. his sweet smile was back on his face, so innocent and kind. for someone who had been through so much already, he was more caring than many people that you’d met in your life. “oh, everything’s fine. everyone’s just out on missions, so i feel a little…” he pulled up one shoulder in a shrug. “useless.” 

you knew it must have been hard for him, being a student that wasn’t quite like the others, having to train a little differently, adapt differently. but yuuji took it in stride, and he handled it better than any normal person would. 

with a nod, you secured your bag around your other shoulder, shifting your feet. “it’s just going to be you here tonight, then?” 

he hummed, sticking his hands in his pockets as he leaned back against the wall. “i think so. some of the others might be around, but they’re resting up.” 

“oh.” though you were certain yuuji had no qualms about spending an evening on his own, the thought of it made you feel like you were leaving a kitten out in the rain. almost pitiful. 

yuuji waved before you could say another word, smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “have a good night! i’ll see you tomorrow.” 

the car ride was spent listening to yuuji tell you story after story, the boy opening up to you in a way that he hadn’t quite related to any of the other sorcerers, even gojo.

you smiled to yourself, enjoying his stories as you wondered how to tell kento that you were bringing your student home for dinner. 

there was still a bridge to cross between them, and though you knew they both liked the other more than they let on, kento hadn’t quite connected to the boy like he wanted to.

you hoped that by inviting him over, yuuji would see that kento, truly, wasn’t as intense as he let on. he was sweet, caring, and he did have a sense of humor… even if gojo didn’t really believe that. 

you led yuuji into the house, and stopped him when you heard the sound of kento in the kitchen. his mission had ended earlier than yours, and he’d offered to cook tonight; there would be more than enough food for the three of you. 

“i’ll be right back,” you said, tapping yuuji on the shoulder. “let me go tell kento you’re here.” 

you’d considered letting your husband know before you arrived, but you hadn’t wanted him to protest. kento would try to make a fuss of having a guest over, even if it was only yuuji, and he certainly didn’t care about formalities. 

your heart skipped when you reached kento, his back turned, finishing up the meal that was steaming on the stove. even just standing in the threshold of the kitchen, you were overwhelmed with all of your love for him. 

but it didn’t take much… it never had. you’d always been sickeningly in love with nanami kento. 

your footsteps were soft as you snuck up behind him. “kento,” you said, just above a whisper, snaking your arms around his waist. you kissed the muscles between his shoulder blades, listening to the steady thrum of blood pumping through his body. 

“hi, sweetheart.” he’d heard you approach, and he turned, eyes softening when he glanced at you over his shoulder. “everything okay at the school?”

you nodded, squeezing him tighter. even though you’d seen him just a few hours prior, it felt like a long time—time apart when you were battling curses always dragged as you worried for each other’s safety. “did your mission go okay?” you asked. 

he took your hands from around his waist, bringing them to his lips softly. “everything went fine. dinner’s almost ready so—” then, he noticed your guilty expression, one that you were clearly horrible at hiding. “is something wrong?” 

you smiled innocently. “no! i just… brought a guest.” 

kento’s eyebrows raised, his smiling falling quickly. “well, you could’ve told me before.” he sighed, shaking his head as he turned around to face you. 

“sorry, i thought i’d surprise you.” 

kento’s lips drew into a thinner line. “honey, please tell me gojo satoru is not in my house right now. he’s not welcome here anymore, because the last time he almost destroyed our fucki—” kento glanced up, his words falling away as he glanced over your shoulder. “itadori. hello. i didn’t realize you were there.” 

you turned, releasing kento as yuuji gawked back at you. he’d caught in such a loving embrace with kento. yuuji’s normally stoic teacher was in the middle of swearing, blonde hair tumbling over his forehead. kento had replaced his suit with casual wear, and his contacts had been taken out. in place of them were wire-rimmed glasses. 

“nanamin!” yuuji gasped. “you look so different.” 

“yes, well, i apologize for my apperance.” kento sighed, looking at you from the corner of his eye. “i wasn’t aware we were having guests.” 

“one guest. its just yuuji,” you said, poking him in the middle of the chest as his professional tone returned, so easily taking over. “i don’t think he cares what you’re wearing.” 

“no, i don’t!” yuuji backtracked, eyes wide as he shuffled forward. “no, you look cool, you don’t look so…” 

kento raised his eyebrows, amused, even if yuuji couldn’t detect the humor in his expression. “so what?” 

the boy’s cheeks turned pink, embarrassed as he rubbed the back of his neck. “um—”

“you don’t look like you’ve got a stick up your ass.” you said, voicing yuuji’s obvious thoughts as you kissed kento on the cheek with a short laugh. of course, it was only to embarrass him further in front of his student. 

kento feigned a scowl, but didn’t push you away, his gaze firmly planted on yuuji. “that’s because i try to keep my relationships at work strictly professional.” 

“really?” yuuji grinned, stuffing his hands back in his pockets, his posture relaxing as he grew more comfortable in your home. “not very professional to marry someone you work with, is it?” 

you laughed loudly, already caring so deeply for the boy that you’d known for such a short period of time. 

“that was certainly an accident,” kento muttered, but his fingers lingered on your spine, tracing each of the bones. “i’ll have you know we were not working together when we got together.” 

“really?” yuuji’s curiosity spiked. “how long have you been together, then?” 

you thought back to when you were teenagers, when kento had a haircut that he had since regretted, and smiled mischievously. reaching into your pocket, you pulled out your phone and scrolled through old photos, back from when you were just kids, the images grainy and of much lower quality than the ones from your recent vacation. 

“hey, don’t show him those!” kento protested. he reached for your phone, but you scrambled under his arm, stretching your hand out to give yuuji the device. “itadori, don’t—” kento’s voice held a hint of panic, his cheeks hot with embarrassment as he grabbed you around the waist, trying to stop you from giving yuuji the phone. 

but it was already in yuuji’s hands, and you laughed loudly, knowing that while you looked a little more awkward than you did now, your appearance had changed near as drastically as kento’s. 

yuuji squinted his eyes at a sixteen year old nanami, blond hair long enough to reach his eyes, dressed in an all black ensemble, an earbud in one ear. kento was hardly smiling, but you beamed next to him in the photo, dressed more childishly than you were now, but just as pretty. the image from when you still fumbled around each other, unsure how to admit that you were both in love. 

a roar of laughter left yuuji as kento’s expression fell, and he released you, snapping the phone out of itadori’s palm. “that’s you, nanamin? no way. how did you…” yuuji glanced between you, squinting his eyes. “well, i guess looking at you now it makes sense.” 

“i know,” you agreed, covering your smiles with your palms. “we looked a little silly together back then. i saw the potential in him, but satoru certainly loved to make fun of us, didn’t he, ken?” 

“i have absolutely no desire to relive those days.” 

yuuji laughed. “you were just like fushiguro, i bet!” 

“scarily similar,” you agreed, as kento rolled his eyes beside you, putting your phone in his pocket to keep you from scavenging any older photos to share with the kid. “and he still loves to listen to—”

“don’t finish that sentence or i’ll save this dinner all for myself.” 

yuuji eyes flew up to his hairline, but you just snorted, knowing that kento’s threats were about as scary as a puppy.

“he’s still sensitive about it,” you whispered to yuuji. “gojo and his friends made fun of him all the time.” 

“oh really. just me?” kento retorted under his breath.

“you must have been pretty popular, then!” yuuji grinned. “if you were friends with gojo. he said all the girls in school loved him!”

kento made an irritated sound, stirring the spoon roughly against the pot. “well, satoru is the last person you should listen to. he has an ego bigger than the sun. and my wife is leading you astray. she was not similar to satoru, she was painfully shy, and it took weeks for either of us to talk to each other.” kento took the pan off the stove, peering over his shoulder at you. “and she is very lucky i love her too much to dig up any embarrassing stories of her.” 

“well, stories about me aren’t that interesting anyway.” you laughed, pointedly turning your back to kento. “yuuji, the good news is, i’ve got some more photos in kento in the old photo books. let’s go see them!”