#i want to talk to my friends but the only one who will say anything to me is extremely pessimistic

[urdreamydoodles]

Hi hi!! Hope your day’s going well!!

I adore the krakoa headcanons you have for the x-men, how willing would you be to do something similar for mcu characters?? Idk if there’s an equivalent though, if not it’s no problem ❤️

MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

A year after your death, you are resurrected and reunited with your lover

Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker (Tom H.), Stephen Strange, Thor Odinson, Loki Laufeyson, T'Challa, Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley, Scott Lang, Wade Wilson, Logan Howlett, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff & Erik Lehnsherr

Requests are reopened since I'm going to have surgery for my scoliosis...yes, it's bad news, it's a major operation, so I need your requests to feel better. PLEASE SEND ME REQUEST. I don't have surgery for another four months so I have plenty of time since I'm at home! I can't wait to see all your ideas, I LOVE YOU <3

Tony Stark

- Tony Stark, the man who could build a new world with his hands but could not stop them from shaking when they lost you. He spent a year in ruins, laughing too loudly at parties that could not fill the silence you left behind, drowning in half-finished projects where your ghost lingered in the curve of every wire. He never stopped talking about you—not to his friends, not to himself, not to the night. You were the equation he could not solve, the loss he could not engineer his way out of.

- When he sees you again, standing in the flickering light of his workshop, the wrench in his hand slips, clattering to the floor. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. His mind, sharp as ever, gives him ten different explanations, each more impossible than the last, but his heart—his battered, grieving heart—gives him only one. “Tell me I’m dreaming,” he says, voice hoarse, because the alternative is something he cannot afford to believe.

- And then you speak, and the walls he built to keep himself from shattering crumble in an instant. He is across the room before he knows it, hands gripping your arms, your face, tracing the proof of you. The ache in his chest is unbearable, but not from pain—it is the sheer weight of having you again. “They told me I was crazy,” he murmurs against your lips, against your skin. “Guess they were right.”

- You are back, but time has moved without you, carving deeper lines into Tony’s face, dulling the arrogance that once carried him like armor. He watches you like you might disappear again, fingers always brushing your wrist, your hip, the pulse at your throat. He doesn’t sleep much—he never did—but now, when you wake in the night, he is already awake, watching the rise and fall of your breath as if it is the only thing tethering him to reality.

- He brings you everywhere, makes no excuses for it. “My ghost, my rules,” he says when someone questions it. He builds new suits and doesn’t let you out of his sight, not when danger is near, not when a single misstep could take you away again. He has never been a man who believed in second chances, but for you, he will believe in anything.

- The world thinks he is Iron Man, but you know the truth: Tony Stark is just a man who loved and lost and refused to let death win. He holds you like a miracle, like proof that he was right to fight for the impossible. And for the first time in a long time, he is not afraid.

Steve Rogers

- Steve Rogers has always known loss—has carried it like a second skin, worn it like a name he could never leave behind. But losing you was different. It was not the cold silence of the ice, nor the distant ache of time slipping through his fingers. It was immediate, brutal. It was your blood on his hands, your last breath against his cheek. A year passed, and he carried on because that was what he did, because that was what you would have wanted. But he stopped looking at sunsets. Stopped drinking coffee the way you used to make it. Stopped believing that the world could ever feel warm again.

- When he sees you again, standing in the doorway of the safe house, the shield strapped to his back feels heavier than ever. His breath catches, his heart stumbles, and for a moment, he wonders if this is some cruel trick played by an enemy who knows exactly where to cut him open. But then your lips part, and you say his name, and the sound of it is like the first breath after drowning.

- He moves toward you slowly, hesitantly, as if one wrong step will shatter the illusion. His hands hover over your face, your shoulders, trembling with the unbearable need to touch, to feel, to know. And when you don’t disappear, when you are warm and real beneath his fingers, something inside him breaks. His arms crush you to him, his breath shaking as he buries his face in your hair. He is crying, but he doesn’t care. “I held you,” he whispers. “I held you.”

- After that, he does not let you go. The world calls him Captain America, but to you, he is just Steve—the man who wakes up in the middle of the night just to press his forehead against yours, the man whose grip tightens every time you reach for his hand, as if to reassure himself that you are not a dream. He does not know how to make peace with this miracle, so he does not try. He simply loves you harder, holds you closer, refuses to waste a second of the time he was so cruelly robbed of.

- He is more protective now, but it is not the suffocating kind. It is the quiet, steadfast kind, the way he always positions himself between you and an open door, the way he memorizes the sound of your breathing while you sleep. He does not speak of the past year unless you ask, but when you do, the grief in his eyes is something ancient, something that will never fully fade.

- Steve Rogers has always carried the weight of the world, but with you beside him, it is lighter. You are proof that even after all the battles, all the sacrifices, the universe still has kindness left to give. And he will spend the rest of his life earning it.

Natasha Romanoff

- Natasha Romanoff has survived on borrowed time for as long as she can remember. She has lost, she has bled, she has walked away from battlefields without looking back. But losing you was different. It was the one wound that did not heal, the one loss she could not turn into fuel. She did not cry. Did not speak of you. She simply moved forward, faster, harder, with reckless abandon—because if she slowed down, even for a second, she would have to feel the hollow space you left behind.

- When she sees you again, standing in the shadows of a dimly lit alley, her knife is in her hand before she even registers what she is seeing. Her body reacts the way it was trained to, but her heart—her traitorous, fragile heart—stutters in her chest. “No,” she breathes, shaking her head as if denying it will make it any less real. “No, I buried you.”

- And then you step closer, into the light, and she sees the familiar curve of your smile, the warmth in your eyes. She drops the knife. It clatters against the pavement, forgotten, as she crosses the space between you in two strides, her hands fisting in the fabric of your jacket. Her lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if she can taste the truth in the way you breathe against her mouth.

- After that, she is different. Softer, in ways only you will ever see. She touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reverence. A hand at the small of your back, fingers trailing over your wrist, knuckles brushing against yours as if reminding herself that you are here. The world may question, but Natasha has never cared for the world's judgment. You are hers, and she is yours, and that is all that matters.

- She does not let you fight alone anymore. Not because she doubts your strength, but because she refuses to feel that kind of loss again. She watches you when you sleep, when you move through a room, when you laugh. She memorizes the details she once took for granted—the exact color of your eyes in the morning light, the rhythm of your voice when you call her name.

- Natasha Romanoff has spent a lifetime making peace with ghosts, but you are not one. You are flesh and blood, a heartbeat beneath her palm, a warmth she never thought she would feel again. And this time, she will not let you go.

Bruce Banner

- Grief is not an emotion Bruce Banner can afford. He has spent a lifetime suppressing, locking away the parts of himself that feel too deeply, because feeling too much is dangerous, and losing you nearly ended the world. The Hulk roared in agony that day, the earth itself trembling beneath his wrath, but even in his most furious state, even as he destroyed everything in his path, you were gone. And no amount of strength, no amount of science, could bring you back.

- He stopped fighting after that. Retreated. Isolated himself in a place where no one could see the way his hands trembled when they weren’t balled into fists, where no one could hear him whisper your name like a prayer, a question, a plea. He stopped shifting into the Hulk—not because he was afraid, but because the monster within him had nothing left to fight for. There was only silence, only the ghost of your touch, only the unbearable weight of having lived when you did not.

- So when you return, standing before him in the quiet of his lab, he does not react at first. His mind, trained to doubt, to question, to disassemble and understand, tells him it cannot be real. That the chemicals in his brain are firing incorrectly, that his grief has finally shattered him in a way no transformation ever could. But then you say his name, and it is not just sound—it is gravity, it is a force pulling him from the abyss.

- He crosses the room in a single breath, hands hovering over your face, your shoulders, your waist, unable to trust his own touch. He is afraid to break you, afraid to break himself. And then your fingers slip into his, grounding him, reminding him that this is not a hallucination, not a cruel trick of his subconscious. You are warm, real, here. And just like that, the weight he has carried for a year crumbles to dust.

- After that, he does not leave your side. He watches you sleep, not because he doubts, but because he cannot waste another second of the time he was so certain he had lost. He builds new defenses, new protections, because if death could not keep you, then neither will any enemy foolish enough to try. He teaches himself to trust happiness again, to allow himself to feel, because with you beside him, it is no longer a danger—it is a gift.

- Bruce Banner has always been afraid of his own power, but with you, he is not afraid. He is a man, not just a monster, and for the first time in a long time, he believes in the possibility of a future. A future where he is not alone. A future where he is not running. A future where you, against all odds, are still his.

Clint Barton

- Clint Barton has never been one to dwell. The life he leads does not allow for it—grief is a luxury, mourning a weakness, and the only way to survive is to keep moving. But when he held you in his arms, felt the last shudder of breath against his skin, something inside him shattered. And he did not put the pieces back together. He let them fall, let them burn, let the silence swallow him whole.

- The others saw him continue—heard his sharp wit, watched him loose arrows with deadly precision, saw the same easy smirk that had always been there. But they did not see the empty spaces where you used to be. Did not see the way he avoided the places you had loved, the way he drank in solitude, the way his hands curled into fists whenever someone mentioned your name.

- So when you return—when you step into the dim light of his hideout, when your voice cuts through the silence he has lived in for a year—he does not believe it. He grips the bow at his side, tension in every muscle, because this is a trick, a trap, an illusion designed to destroy him completely. But then you move closer, and the way you look at him—the way only you ever have—makes the doubt in his mind fracture.

- And then he is there, hands gripping your waist, your arms, his forehead pressed to yours as he exhales a breath he did not know he had been holding. He does not ask how, does not ask why. He only pulls you closer, lets himself collapse into the only thing that has ever truly felt like home. His fingers are tight against your skin, unwilling to let go, unwilling to lose you a second time.

- After that, he is different. Lighter, in ways only you will notice. He is still Clint—still sharp, still reckless, still throwing himself into danger without hesitation—but there is a warmth now, a flicker of something that had long been extinguished. He touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reassurance. His hand on the small of your back, his fingers brushing against yours, a quiet, wordless promise that he will not take a second of this for granted.

- Clint Barton has always been a survivor, but he did not truly live until you returned. And now, with you beside him, he has no intention of losing that again. He is yours, wholly and completely, and this time, no force in the universe will take you from him.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes knows the taste of loss better than most. He has drowned in it, clawed his way through decades of it, watched everyone he has ever loved slip through his fingers like sand. But losing you was different. Losing you was not the slow, creeping erosion of time. It was a blade to the gut, a wound that never closed, an ache that settled deep in his bones and refused to let go.

- He did not grieve the way others did. He did not cry, did not rage, did not seek solace in memories. He simply stopped. Stopped talking, stopped trying, stopped allowing himself to feel anything at all. Because feeling meant acknowledging the gaping wound your absence had left behind, and that was not something he could survive.

- So when he sees you again, standing in the doorway of his apartment, he does not move. Does not breathe. His mind—trained to expect deception, to anticipate betrayal—tells him this is a trick. But then you step forward, and the way your eyes soften when they meet his, the way your lips part in a quiet whisper of his name, makes the world tilt beneath his feet.

- And then he is there, crossing the space between you with the kind of desperation that only comes from losing something you thought was gone forever. His hands tremble as they frame your face, his breath shuddering as he drinks in the impossible reality of you. He does not trust words, does not trust his voice to hold steady, so he simply presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in, grounding himself in the proof of your existence.

- After that, he does not let you go. He does not speak of the past year, does not tell you how empty it was, how he spent every night staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never came. He only shows you in the way he touches you, in the way he holds you closer at night, in the way his fingers linger on yours as if afraid you might vanish again.

- Bucky Barnes has spent a lifetime being taken, being controlled, being used. But you are the one thing that was his, the one thing that was real, and now that you are here, he will fight for you with everything he has. You are his salvation, his anchor, his second chance at something he never thought he deserved. And this time, he is never letting go.

Sam Wilson

- Grief is a weight Sam Wilson carries well, but carrying it does not mean it is light. It sits in his chest, heavy and unmoving, an ache that never quite fades. Losing you was not a clean wound—it was jagged, raw, a battlefield farewell written in blood and breathless whispers. He held you, watched the life slip from your eyes, and still, somehow, he had to stand up. He had to keep fighting. Because that’s what you would have done. That’s what you would want.

- But wanting and doing are not the same thing. He laughed in public, told stories that made others grin, carried himself with the same easy confidence. But alone? Alone, it was different. He spoke to you sometimes when the night was too quiet, when the wind sounded too much like your voice. He ran until his lungs burned, trying to chase the memory of you, knowing he never really could.

- So when you stand before him, alive, breathing, real, the world does not feel like the one he left behind. His first instinct is denial—a trick, an illusion, a cruel joke played by something with too much power and not enough mercy. But you look at him, and there’s something there, something he recognizes too well. Love. History. You. And suddenly, the weight in his chest is gone.

- He moves before he can think. One step, then two, then his arms are around you, his head buried in your shoulder, a shuddering breath breaking from his lips. His grip is tight—too tight, maybe—but he doesn’t care. He needs to feel you, needs to know this isn’t a dream he’ll wake from. He says your name like it’s the only word he remembers, his voice thick with everything he couldn’t say when you were gone.

- After that, Sam is different. Lighter, freer. He still fights, still leads, still carries the burdens of the world on his back—but he does it with you at his side, and that changes everything. He touches you constantly, a hand on your back, fingers brushing against yours, small, quiet reassurances that you are here, that he did not imagine this.

- Sam Wilson has lost many things. He has seen friends fall, watched the world tear itself apart. But this? This is something he never thought he’d get back. And now that he has you, he swears to himself—he’s not losing you again. Not now. Not ever.

Peter Parker (Tom Holland)

- Peter Parker does not know how to exist in a world where you do not. The pain is not sharp, not a clean wound he can stitch together with time. It is suffocating. Slow. A weight pressing down on him, stealing the air from his lungs, making every step feel heavier than the last. He was holding you, talking to you, and then you were just… gone. And nothing he did, no amount of strength, no web-slinging through the city, no late-night patrols could change that.

- He keeps going. He has to. That’s what Spider-Man does. That’s what you would have wanted. But some nights, when he is alone, when the mask is off and the world is quiet, he feels like a boy again—small, lost, powerless. He whispers apologies into the dark, tracing the memory of your touch, trying to pretend he still remembers exactly what your voice sounded like. Because he’s terrified he’s forgetting.

- And then, one day, you are there. Standing in the shadow of a flickering streetlamp, watching him with the same eyes he never thought he’d see again. At first, he doesn’t move. He can’t. His brain refuses to process it, refuses to accept this impossible, beautiful reality. And then you smile—small, hesitant, you—and he breaks.

- He crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost hurts. His breath stutters, hands shaking as they press against your skin, your hair, anything that proves you are real. “You—” His voice cracks. “You died.” And it’s not an accusation. It’s a question, a plea, a broken whisper of disbelief. But you are warm, solid, here, and he holds onto that with everything he has.

- After that, Peter is clingy. He doesn’t mean to be, but he is. His fingers find yours without thinking, his arm curls around your waist at every opportunity, his webbing pulls you to him when you step too far away. He is afraid—afraid this is temporary, afraid that one day he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again. But he also smiles more, laughs louder, lives in a way he hasn’t since he lost you.

- Peter Parker has lost so much. But this? This is a miracle. And Peter—Peter is going to make sure he cherishes every single second of it. Because this time, he has you. And that? That is everything.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange is no stranger to loss. He has lived through pain, through heartbreak, through the destruction of things he once believed unshakable. But losing you—that was something else entirely. That was not just loss. That was devastation. It was the kind of pain that settled into his bones, that made the world feel quieter, colder, less.

- He did not weep. Did not rage. Did not crumble beneath the weight of it. Instead, he buried himself in his work, in his magic, in the relentless pursuit of something—anything—that could fill the void you left behind. He scoured the multiverse, searching for answers, but found only silence. Death, it seemed, was absolute. Even for you.

- So when you stand before him, alive, whole, untouched by the grave, he does not react at first. His hands twitch at his sides, eyes sharp, mind racing through a thousand possibilities, a thousand explanations. This must be a trick, a deception, some cruel game played by forces beyond his understanding. But then you speak his name, and the way you say it—the way only you say it—breaks him.

- He crosses the room in three steps, hands cupping your face, searching for any sign of illusion. But there is none. There is only warmth, only life, only you. His breath stutters, his fingers tighten, and for the first time in a long, long time, Stephen Strange allows himself to feel. His lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if trying to convince himself that this moment is not slipping through his fingers.

- After that, he is possessive. Not in a way that is suffocating, but in a way that is unmistakable. His cloak wraps around you when you are cold, his hands find yours beneath temple robes, his magic lingers in the air around you like a silent guardian. He does not say it—not outright, not often—but you know. You have always known. He cannot lose you again. He will not.

- Stephen Strange has faced the impossible, has bent time and reality to his will. But this? This is the greatest miracle of all. And he, a man who once scoffed at faith, finds himself believing in something again. Because if the universe had any mercy, any kindness at all, it would let him keep you. And this time, he will fight for that with everything he has.

Thor Odinson

- Grief and gods have never mixed well. Mortals mourn with time, with rituals, with whispered prayers to the sky. But Thor? Thor does not know how to grieve in a way that does not tear the world apart. He held you as you died, cradled you against his chest, his hands helpless against the tide of fate. The sky wept with him that day—thunder cracking, the heavens splitting open in rage, the storm inside him unfurling with no battle left to fight.

- He left Earth after that. It was too loud, too full of life, too painfully real in your absence. He searched for answers in the stars, in old myths and forgotten magic, in the whispered promises of gods who had lost more than he had. But the truth was simple: not even the might of Thor, not even the power of Asgard, could bring back the one thing he truly wanted. So he drank, and he fought, and he laughed too loudly to hide the fact that he was breaking.

- And then, one day, he turns, and you are there. Standing in the golden light of the Bifrost, impossibly, beautifully alive. His breath catches in his throat, Mjolnir slipping from his fingers, his entire body frozen between disbelief and desperate hope. “This is a trick,” he says, but his voice is hoarse, unsteady, as if saying the words out loud might make them false. But then you smile, and he is undone.

- He crosses the space between you in an instant, crushing you against him with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. His hands tangle in your hair, his forehead pressing against yours, and his chest heaves with something between laughter and a sob. “You have returned to me,” he whispers, reverence in every syllable. And then he is kissing you, fierce and unrelenting, as if proving to himself that this is not some cruel jest of fate.

- After that, Thor does not let you go. Not truly. His arm is always around your waist, his hand always at the small of your back, his eyes watching you as if you might disappear the moment he looks away. He tells you, constantly, in grand declarations and quiet murmurs, how much he loves you, how he will never lose you again. You are his greatest treasure, more precious than any throne, any kingdom, any power the cosmos could offer.

- The God of Thunder has lost much—his home, his family, pieces of himself that may never fully return. But you—you are here, in his arms, alive once more. And Thor, a warrior who has fought countless battles, swears that he will fight against gods and monsters alike to keep you at his side.

Loki Laufeyson

- Loki knows loss better than he knows himself. He has lost love, trust, family. But losing you—that was different. That was a wound he could not charm away with silver-tongued words, a pain he could not outwit or outmaneuver. You died in his arms, your fingers curling weakly around his wrist as the light in your eyes faded. And for the first time in his life, Loki Laufeyson was powerless.

- He did not rage. He did not scream. Instead, he withdrew, wrapping himself in silence and solitude, retreating into the shadows where grief could not be seen. The world continued without you, and he played his part well—smirking, deceiving, spinning tales as if he were not hollow inside. But in the quiet moments, when no one was looking, he traced the ghost of your touch on his skin and whispered your name like a prayer.

- So when he sees you again, standing before him in the flickering candlelight of some forgotten sanctuary, he does not react—not at first. His body stills, his breath catches, and his mind races through every possibility, every cruel illusion that could explain this. But then you speak his name, soft and familiar, and something in him shatters.

- He reaches for you hesitantly, his fingers brushing over your cheek as if expecting you to dissolve beneath his touch. And when you do not—when you are warm, and real, and here—a sharp breath leaves his lips, and he pulls you against him with all the desperation of a man drowning. His grip is tight, unyielding, as if trying to convince himself that you will not be stolen from him again.

- After that, Loki is different. Not softer, not weaker—if anything, he is more dangerous, more cunning, more willing to do anything to ensure you remain by his side. He keeps you close, always within reach, his sharp wit reserved for those who dare to threaten what is his. There is no force in the universe he fears, no power he will not challenge, if it means keeping you safe.

- Loki Laufeyson has never believed in fate, in mercy, in second chances. But you? You are proof that even the most broken of men can find something worth living for. And this time, he will not lose you. Not to death. Not to gods. Not to anything.

T’Challa

- T’Challa was a king before he was a man, a warrior before he was a lover. But you—you—were the one thing that belonged solely to him. With you, he was not a ruler, not the Black Panther, not the protector of a nation. He was simply a man in love. And then, in a single moment, in the chaos of war, you were gone. And he—T’Challa, the unshakable, the wise, the just—fell to his knees, holding you as the life slipped from your body.

- He did not mourn in ways the world could see. There were no public displays of grief, no speeches of loss. He carried the weight of your death in silence, bearing it with the same quiet dignity that he bore every burden. But in the stillness of his chambers, when no one was watching, he let the sorrow take him. He traced the last place he had held you, whispered your name to the night, and wondered if he would ever learn to breathe without you.

- So when he sees you again, standing beneath the glow of Wakanda’s golden lights, his heart stops. His breath catches. And for a moment, he is afraid to move—to hope. But you step forward, your eyes locking onto his, and everything else ceases to matter. The world falls away, and there is only you.

- He crosses the distance between you in a single step, his hands cupping your face with reverence, with disbelief, with a depth of emotion he has never let himself show before. He does not ask how or why. He only whispers, “My love,” as if speaking the words aloud will make them real. And then he kisses you—slow, deep, a promise, a prayer, a thousand unspoken words pressed into your skin.

- After that, T’Challa is your shadow, your shield, your unwavering protector. He does not smother you—he respects you too much for that—but he watches, always. His fingers linger against yours in quiet moments, his gaze softens whenever you speak, and when he holds you at night, it is with the quiet, unyielding certainty that he will never let go again.

- T’Challa has lost many things—his father, his home, pieces of himself in battles fought for the greater good. But this? This is something sacred. And a king who has been given back his heart will protect it with everything he has.

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector has never been good at losing people. He has lost too much, buried too many, carried ghosts in the hollows of his ribs and the shadows of his mind. But losing you—watching you die in his arms, feeling your body grow cold as his own blood soaked into the ground—was something else entirely. It didn’t break him. It obliterated him.

- He stopped pretending after that. Stopped holding himself together, stopped fighting for anything beyond survival. He threw himself into missions with reckless abandon, took every fight as if he was begging for someone to land a fatal hit. He couldn’t sleep in your bed, couldn’t bear to hear your name spoken aloud. He tried—Khonshu knows, he tried—to find a way to bring you back. Bargained with gods, hunted down forbidden magic, but nothing, nothing, worked. So he gave up. He accepted that this was his punishment, his curse, to keep losing the things he loved until there was nothing left of him.

- And then—then—you were there. Standing in the doorway, alive, whole, looking at him like you weren’t a phantom haunting his grief. He didn’t move at first, didn’t breathe, convinced you were another trick of his fractured mind. But then you spoke—soft, hesitant, like you weren’t sure if he would even want you back. And the moment your voice reached him, Marc snapped.

- He was on you in an instant, his hands on your face, your shoulders, your arms—anywhere he could touch, anywhere he could convince himself you were real. “Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he whispered, voice shaking, breath unsteady. And when you smiled, when you nodded, he kissed you—desperate, bruising, like a man drowning who had finally found air.

- After that, Marc is different. Not softer, not gentler—he has never been those things—but determined. He refuses to let you out of his sight for too long, refuses to take a single moment for granted. The nightmares don’t go away—sometimes he wakes up reaching for you, convinced he’s lost you all over again—but you are always there, grounding him, reminding him that miracles exist.

- He still fights, still follows the path Khonshu carved for him, but now, there’s something else driving him. Not vengeance. Not guilt. You. You, alive and breathing, laughing in the golden light of morning, rolling your eyes when he gets in one of his moods. And if he has to fight every god, every monster, every force in the universe to keep you by his side? So be it.

Steven Grant

- Grief is a lonely thing. And for Steven, it was lonelier than most. He didn’t have Marc’s rage or Jake’s cold detachment—he just had absence, an empty space beside him where you used to be. You had been his bright thing, his sunbeam, the warmth in his life he never thought he deserved. And then, in a moment of violence and blood, you were gone.

- The flat was too quiet after that. He still made tea for two, still caught himself turning to tell you something, still found little reminders of you everywhere. Your books on the shelf. Your perfume lingering in the air. A sweater you’d stolen from him, draped over the back of a chair. He couldn’t let go, couldn’t move—just existed, stumbling through the days with a polite smile and eyes that held too much grief.

- And then, one evening, as he shuffled into the flat with the exhaustion of another day spent pretending he was okay, he saw you. Standing there, real as anything, watching him with that soft, hesitant look you always had when you weren’t sure how he’d react. He didn’t even think. Didn’t question. Just dropped whatever was in his hands and ran to you.

- “Oh, love,” he breathed, his voice cracking as he cupped your face, pressing his forehead to yours. He was crying—of course he was crying—but he didn’t care, didn’t even try to stop. “I—I thought—oh God, I thought I lost you.” His hands trembled as he touched you, as if afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t careful. But you didn’t disappear. You were here. And when you kissed him—gentle, reassuring—he let out a broken, disbelieving laugh.

- After that, Steven becomes more himself again. The light comes back into his eyes, the warmth into his voice. He tells you every day how much he loves you, how grateful he is that you came back. He holds you for hours sometimes, murmuring little things against your skin, afraid that if he lets go, the universe will take you away again.

- You are his miracle, his impossible, wonderful second chance. And Steven, the man who never thought he was enough, now knows one thing with absolute certainty—he will never take you for granted again.

Jake Lockley

- Jake doesn’t grieve the way others do. He doesn’t sit in sorrow, doesn’t cry himself to sleep. He compartmentalizes, shoves it all into a locked box in the back of his mind and throws away the key. When you died, he didn’t break down. He didn’t scream. He just acted. Found the ones responsible. Made them pay. Made everyone pay.

- He convinced himself that was enough. That revenge was all he had left to give you. But when the dust settled, when the blood was washed from his hands, there was nothing. Just an emptiness so vast it threatened to swallow him whole. He became a ghost, slipping through the world unnoticed, unseen. He only spoke when necessary, only acted when called upon. If Marc and Steven noticed how much darker he’d become, they didn’t say anything.

- And then—then—you were there. Sitting in the backseat of his car like you belonged there, like you hadn’t died in his arms a year ago. He slammed on the brakes so hard the tires screeched, his pulse roaring in his ears. He didn’t turn around at first. Couldn’t. His hands gripped the steering wheel like a vice, his knuckles white with tension. “Not funny,” he rasped, his voice low, dangerous. “Not a game I wanna play.”

- “It’s not a trick, Jake,” you whispered. And that was all it took. He turned, his breath catching as he finally let himself look. Let himself believe. And the moment he did, something inside him snapped. He surged toward you, pulling you into his arms with a desperation he rarely let himself show. His face buried in your neck, his breath shaky and uneven, his body trembling as if the entire world had just shifted beneath his feet.

- After that, Jake is ruthless about keeping you safe. He doesn’t care how you came back—only that you did, and that nothing will take you from him again. He’s always watching, always waiting, always a step ahead of any potential threat. He doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s in the way he tucks you close against him in crowds, in the way his fingers ghost over your pulse like he’s memorizing it.

- Jake Lockley is not a good man. He never claimed to be. But you—you are the one thing that makes him want to be. And if death couldn’t keep you from him, nothing else will either.

Scott Lang

- Scott never truly believed in happy endings, but he believed in you. He believed in the way your laughter could turn an ordinary day into something extraordinary, the way your hand in his made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he was enough. Losing you shattered him in ways he didn’t even know were possible. You died in his arms, your blood on his hands, and in that moment, he stopped believing in miracles.

- He tried to hold it together for Cassie. He smiled, told jokes, did his best to pretend he was okay. But he wasn’t. His apartment felt too big without you, the bed too cold. He found himself talking to the empty air, half-expecting you to answer. The worst part was the moments right before he woke up, when his brain still tricked him into thinking you were next to him, breathing softly in sleep. And then he’d open his eyes and reality would sink in like a knife to the gut.

- When he sees you again, it’s like the universe plays a cruel trick on him. He blinks, rubs his eyes, thinks he’s hallucinating. But then you smile, that soft, knowing smile he dreamed about, and everything collapses. He doesn’t think—just moves, just grabs you, just feels. “Oh my God,” he breathes, his voice shaking, his arms wrapping around you so tightly he might never let go. “Tell me this is real. Please tell me this is real.” And when you nod, when you whisper his name, he lets out a half-laugh, half-sob against your shoulder.

- Scott becomes clingy after that—not in an overbearing way, but in a you-can’t-leave-me-again way. He constantly reaches for you, constantly checks if you’re still there. He makes up for lost time—cooking you breakfast (badly), taking you on spontaneous road trips, making you laugh until you can’t breathe. Every moment is precious now, every second a gift. He refuses to waste a single one.

- He tells you everything he couldn’t before. How much he missed you, how much it hurt, how many times he caught himself looking for you in a crowded room. He never wants to take you for granted again. Every night, he holds you like you might disappear in the morning, presses kisses to your skin as if he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

- Scott Lang doesn’t know why the universe gave you back to him, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is that this time, no force in the world—no villain, no bad luck, no cosmic cruelty—is going to take you away from him again.

Wade Wilson (Fox)

- Wade doesn’t mourn like other people. He doesn’t wear black, doesn’t cry softly in the night. No, Wade’s grief is ugly, loud, chaotic. After you died, he became worse—more violent, more reckless, more unhinged. He threw himself into fights he knew he couldn’t win, hoping—praying—someone would finally land the killing blow. But they never did. His healing factor cursed him to keep living, to keep hurting.

- He talked to you like you were still there. Made jokes to the empty side of the bed. Left your favorite snacks untouched in the cabinet. The others tried to check on him—Weasel, Domino—but he just shoved them away with a laugh, a joke, a bloody fight he walked away from without a scratch. “I’m fine,” he’d say, voice hollow behind the mask. “Totally normal levels of depression. Probably a seven out of ten. Maybe an eight. Who’s to say?”

- And then, one day, you walked through his door. Just like that. No fanfare, no dramatic music—just you, standing there, looking at him with that same familiar amusement in your eyes. He froze. Blinked. Looked down at the bottle of vodka in his hand. “Oh,” he muttered. “Guess I finally drank myself into hallucinations. Took long enough.” But then you said his name, your voice real, and everything inside him broke.

- He tackled you before you could even take a step closer. Knocked you onto the couch, onto the floor, onto him, his arms squeezing so tight it was a miracle you could still breathe. “If this is a dream, I swear to Ryan Reynolds’ beautiful abs, I will murder my subconscious,” he babbled, his voice cracking. He touched your face, your arms, every inch of you, just to be sure. And when you laughed—when you really laughed—he just lost it. Full-on ugly sobs, face buried in your neck, refusing to ever let go.

- After that, Wade is worse—but in a different way. He never shuts up about how lucky he is. Clings to you, wraps himself around you like a human (questionably clean) blanket, dramatically declares that if you ever die on him again, he’ll personally go to hell and drag you back himself. He texts you every five minutes when you’re not around. If you so much as sneeze, he’s already googling life-threatening illnesses.

- But beneath all the jokes, the over-the-top antics, there’s something soft there. Something raw. Wade Wilson doesn’t believe in happy endings. But he believes in you. And if the universe was kind enough to give you back to him, then maybe—just maybe—he’ll finally start believing in second chances too.

Logan Howlett (Fox)

- Logan is no stranger to grief. He has lost more people than he can count, buried more loved ones than he dares to remember. But losing you—you—was different. It wasn’t just another loss, another name on the long list of people the world had taken from him. It was the loss. The one that finally made him want to lay down and never get up again.

- He disappeared after that. Vanished into the wilderness, into the places where no one could find him. He drank himself into oblivion, picked fights with men twice his size just for the chance to feel something. The nightmares were worse—your face, your voice, the way you reached for him as you died in his arms. He could still feel your blood on his hands, still hear your last breath. There was no escaping it. No running fast enough.

- When he sees you again, it’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s silent. He turns, expecting an enemy, a threat—only to see you. Standing there. Alive. His breath catches in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to break free. For a long moment, he just stares, his jaw clenched so tight it aches. “No,” he finally rasps. “No, that ain’t possible.” But you just step closer, your hands trembling, your eyes pleading. “Logan,” you whisper. And something inside him snaps.

- He moves before he can think, his arms wrapping around you with the force of a man drowning who has finally found solid ground. He buries his face in your hair, breathes you in, his whole body shaking. “If this is some kinda sick joke,” he growls against your skin, “I swear to God—” But you just hold him tighter, and he finally—finally—lets himself believe it.

- After that, Logan is fiercely protective. More than before. You are his second chance, his proof that maybe—just maybe—the world hasn’t taken everything from him. He keeps you close, always within reach. He doesn’t talk about the time you were gone, doesn’t say how lost he was without you—but you see it in the way he touches you, like he’s making sure you’re still real.

- Logan has lived a long life, filled with too much pain, too much loss. But now, with you back in his arms, he thinks—just for a moment—that maybe, maybe, he finally has something worth fighting for again.

Matt Murdock

- Grief became a quiet shadow in Matt’s life, a presence that never left. He carried it with him in the way he adjusted his tie, in the way he spoke to Foggy and Karen like he was fine when he wasn’t. He still went out at night, still fought in the streets, but the fire inside him had dimmed. He no longer fought to save the city—he fought because it was the only thing that numbed the ache of losing you.

- He whispered your name in his prayers, his voice breaking over the syllables. In his apartment, your absence was louder than anything else. He reached for you in his sleep, his hands closing around nothing, waking up with an emptiness so heavy it stole his breath. He let the guilt drown him—because you died in his arms, and no matter how many bones he broke or how much blood he spilled, he couldn’t change that.

- When you return, he knows it’s you before you even speak. The world is full of sound, full of heartbeats, full of voices—but yours? Yours has always been different. His entire body stills, his breath hitching in his throat. He listens, waiting for the trick, the deception, because he knows what death feels like. But then you say his name, and the world tilts sideways.

- He moves without thinking, reaching for you, his hands trembling as they trace over your face, your hair, your lips. “You’re real,” he breathes, almost afraid to say it. “You’re real.” And when he finally lets himself believe it, when he pulls you into his arms and holds you so tightly it aches, he lets out a broken sound—somewhere between a sob and a prayer.

- After that, Matt is different. He refuses to let you go alone anywhere, his protectiveness manifesting in quiet touches, in the way his fingers always seek yours. He’s softer now, more open with his emotions, because he’s lost you once and he won’t make the mistake of taking any second for granted.

- At night, when the city is quiet and his scars ache, he traces over your skin as if memorizing every inch of you all over again. “I don’t know how I deserve this,” he whispers against your hair, his voice raw with devotion. “But I’m never letting you go again.”

Frank Castle

- Frank has always been good at loss. Not because he accepts it, but because he survives it. Losing you, though? It was a different kind of wound, one that never stopped bleeding. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just became colder. The world lost all color, all meaning. He didn’t live after you were gone—he just existed, a weapon with no purpose but destruction.

- He stopped talking. Stopped caring. The men he hunted became nothing more than names on a list, their deaths nothing more than numbers. He never said your name, never spoke of you, because acknowledging you were gone would break something inside him that even he couldn’t put back together.

- And then, one night, you stand in front of him, breathing, alive, looking at him like he’s still the man you loved. He doesn’t believe it at first. His grip tightens around his gun, his entire body coiled and ready for a fight because this? This is cruel. And yet—your eyes. Your heartbeat. The way you whisper, “Frank?” like it’s his name that brings you back to life.

- His hands shake as he reaches for you. He touches your face like it’s something fragile, something that might disappear if he presses too hard. And when you don’t, when you lean into his touch with a softness he thought he’d never feel again, something inside him shatters. He pulls you against him, his grip almost desperate, his breath ragged. “I lost you,” he rasps against your hair. “I lost you, and I didn’t—I didn’t know how to keep going.”

- Frank becomes your shadow after that. He’s gentler with you than he’s ever been with anyone, but that protectiveness? That fire? It’s stronger than ever. If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, they won’t live to make the mistake twice. But with you? With you, he is something softer, something almost human again.

- He doesn’t pray, doesn’t believe in fate. But at night, when you sleep beside him, warm and real, he presses a silent kiss to your forehead and whispers, Thank you. He doesn’t know who he’s thanking. Maybe the universe. Maybe you. All he knows is that this time, he won’t waste a single second.

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter

- Losing you broke Dex. And when Dex breaks, he destroys. He tried to keep it together—tried to pretend he could move on, that he could keep living without you—but the anger, the madness, the unbearable emptiness inside him only grew. The world felt wrong without you. He felt wrong. He stopped sleeping, stopped feeling anything but the burning need to punish whatever took you away from him.

- He lost control after that. Killed without hesitation, without remorse. Let his mind spiral, let his demons win, because what was the point of fighting them without you? You were his anchor, the one person who made him believe he could be more than the monster inside him. Without you, he had no reason to pretend anymore.

- When he sees you again, he doesn’t react the way most people would. No tears, no disbelief. He stalks toward you, his entire body trembling, his breath uneven. His fingers twitch like they’re reaching for a weapon—like he can’t decide if you’re a dream, a trick, or something worse. “You’re dead,” he says, voice flat, empty. “I held you while you died.” And then, quieter, almost desperate—“Tell me this is real.”

- The second you touch him, the second your fingers brush over his, he breaks. He surges forward, his arms crushing around you, his breathing ragged against your skin. “Don’t leave me again,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “Please. I can’t—I can’t do this without you.” And for the first time in a year, his mind is quiet. The rage, the spiraling thoughts, the unbearable emptiness—it all stops the moment you’re back in his arms.

- After that, Dex is obsessive. He always had that trait in him, but now? Now it’s even worse. You are his, and he refuses to let anything take you away from him again. He follows you like a shadow, sleeps with his arms locked around you, memorizes every detail of your body just in case the universe dares to rip you away from him again.

- There’s a darkness inside him, one that never truly fades. But with you alive, with you real, that darkness is tempered by something softer. Something dangerous. He’s not just a killer anymore. He’s yours. And if anyone tries to take you from him again? He’ll burn the whole world to the ground.

Wanda Maximoff

- Grief clung to Wanda like an old, tattered shawl, woven with the ghosts of everyone she had ever lost. She had thought she had reached her limit—that the universe could take no more from her than it already had. But then it took you. And that, she realized, was the cruelest cut of all. She had survived wars, watched cities crumble, lost her family, her brother, her home. But losing you? That was the first time she felt herself break.

- She became something else after you died. A ghost walking through her own life, untethered from the world. The wind carried whispers of you—the echo of your laughter in a marketplace, the ghost of your breath against her skin in the moments before she woke up alone. And the anger—God, the anger. She lashed out when she fought, red energy sparking at her fingertips with a ferocity she couldn’t contain. She wanted to hurt the universe the way it had hurt her.

- And then, like an answer to a prayer she had never dared to whisper, you stood before her again. At first, she thought it was another cruel trick, another illusion meant to unravel what little remained of her sanity. But then—then she felt you. Your heartbeat, your warmth, the undeniable reality of you. And the moment that truth settled into her bones, she collapsed into you, shaking, weeping, hands clutching desperately at your arms, your shoulders, your face.

- “You were gone,” she sobbed, burying herself in you like she could merge her soul with yours. “I—I felt you leave me.” And for the first time in a year, her magic did not rage. It did not spark and burn with untamed grief. It simply was. It curled around the two of you like a shield, like a silent promise that she would never let you be taken from her again.

- After that, Wanda became something softer, but not weaker. She still held the storm inside her, but now, it had purpose. Now, it had you. She held you like she was afraid the wind might steal you away again, always touching—fingers brushing over yours, arms wrapping around you in sleep, a protective hand against the small of your back in public. She had lost everything before. She would not lose you again.

- At night, when the world was still and your breath rose and fell against her chest, she whispered things she could never say in the daylight. Apologies, promises, prayers in a language she had almost forgotten. And when you stirred, murmuring her name, she simply kissed you—deep and slow, like she could pour her very soul into you, like she could make you stay this time.

Pietro Maximoff

- The world never felt fast enough after you were gone. Time slowed into something unbearable, something suffocating. Pietro had always outrun grief before, always left it in the dust, but your death? That was a weight even he couldn’t shake. He stopped joking. Stopped running for fun. The world lost its color, its spark, its meaning. What was the point of moving quickly when you weren’t at the finish line anymore?

- He tried—he really tried—to pretend. To act like he was okay, to throw on that smirk and tell people, “Eh, I’m fine.” But Wanda knew. She saw it in the way he sat still for too long, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking, the way he lingered in places that reminded him of you. His speed was once his escape, his freedom. Now, every step forward only took him further away from the last time he held you.

- And then—then he sees you. And for the first time in his life, he can’t move. He just stares, his heart a violent drumbeat against his ribs, his breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “No,” he whispers, blinking rapidly, because this has to be some sick joke. “This isn’t real.” But you are. And the moment you take a step toward him, he snaps.

- He moves too fast, too desperate, grabbing you like you might vanish if he lets go. His hands cup your face, his lips press against every part of you he can reach—forehead, cheeks, hands, lips. “You’re real,” he gasps between kisses, between shaky laughter and choked sobs. “You’re—you’re real.” And suddenly, the world isn’t slow anymore. You are his new gravity, the only thing keeping him from spinning out of control.

- After that, Pietro is obsessed with feeling you close. He picks you up just to hear you laugh, carries you even when you insist you can walk. He talks more, filling every silence with his voice because silence is what haunted him for a year. And he touches—not just because he wants to, but because he needs to. Holding your hand, leaning against you, brushing his fingers over your cheek just to remind himself you’re here.

- And at night, when he curls around you in bed, his heartbeat thrumming like a song against your skin, he whispers things he’s never said before. “I thought I lost you forever.” “I never stopped looking for you.” “If you ever leave me again, I swear I’ll outrun death itself to bring you back.” And when you tell him you’re here, that you’re not going anywhere, he presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder and finally—finally—lets himself breathe again.

Erik Lehnsherr (Fox)

- Erik was already a man carved from loss, molded by grief, his soul tempered in the fires of tragedy. Losing you was not just another wound—it was the moment he snapped completely. He did not rage. He did not weep. He simply became something else. Harder. Colder. More dangerous. Without you, there was no reason to hold back. No reason to believe in anything but vengeance.

- The world paid for your absence. He became relentless, his war against those he deemed responsible for suffering escalating beyond reason. He did not believe in mercy anymore—because if the world had shown you none, why should he? But in the rare, silent moments when he was alone, when his hands were still for once, he would stare at the space beside him and feel something that terrified him. Emptiness.

- When you return, he does not react as a man should when seeing his lost love brought back to life. He does not run to you. He does not whisper your name like a prayer. He simply stares, cold and unreadable, his mind calculating every possibility—illusion, manipulation, deception. And then—then you reach for him, and the moment your hand touches his, his composure shatters.

- His hands shake as they frame your face. His breathing is shallow, his eyes burning with something unreadable. When he speaks, his voice is low, trembling with something dangerous. “Who did this?” he demands. Because someone had to bring you back. And Erik Lehnsherr does not believe in miracles. But when you smile—when you whisper, “I’m here, Erik”—his fury dissolves into something broken, something human. He kisses you like a dying man gasping for air, his hands gripping you as if afraid the wind might steal you away.

- After that, Erik is ruthless in his protectiveness. He keeps you close, watches you with the sharp gaze of a predator waiting for the world to try and take you again. But in private, in the spaces where no one else can see, he is something else. His hands are reverent as they hold you, his voice is soft when he speaks to you, and his nightmares—the ones filled with loss—fade when you press a kiss to his temple.

- He does not believe in peace. He does not believe in forgiveness. But he believes in you. And that? That is the only thing in this world he will not let go of again.

[clockwayswrites]

Fresh Birb! Part 32

masterpost

“Thanks for the excuse to get some fresh air,” Danny said. He sounded grateful enough that Jason felt a little bad for using the ‘stroll around the yard’ as an way to gather some intel.

“Hey, trust me, I get how overwhelming the manor can get,” Jason said, “and there are a lot of us in house right now. It’s easier in small doses for sure.”

“I could see that,” Danny agreed. “But there’s also something nice about the full house. It’s all very… alive feeling.”

The words were more melancholy than they should be. They were more like how Jason, who knew the feeling of death all too well, might say them. It brought troubling thoughts to mind.

“Yeah, that can be nice about it. Sure is quieter if I’m not here or at Roy’s,” Jason agreed after maybe too long a moment.

“Is Roy that much more talkative when it’s just the two of you?”

“Oh, no. Well, yeah, but it’s more about his little girl, Lian. She’s three and a half and an absolute handful most days. She’s also at that age where she’s pretty much narrating her own life in half understandable babble so there’s just a lot of constant noise.”

Danny chuckled. “I bet. Stayed with a friend for a bit when I was between jobs and stuck there for a few months by a non-complete clause. Her one kid was that age at the time and the oldest five. I didn’t know just how much everything there was when having kids that age. It made me actually feel a little sorry for my parents.”

“You the youngest, oldest, or middle?”

“Youngest. I’ve got one older sister, Jasmine,” Danny said. “You could sorta say there’s a half a sibling too. I basically grew up with my best friend and there were some weeks I spent more time at his house than ours.”

“That close to him?” Jason asked.

“Yeah. That and it was easier, sometimes, to not be at home.”

“Oh.”

That implied some unfortunate things that Jason hadn’t quite been expecting. Danny seemed pretty well adjusted. He was even good at handling Damian, but Jason supposed that maybe part of that was because Danny had been through his own issues.

Danny just shrugged. “I have a life long friend out of it. We don’t see each other in person much these days since we’re on other sides of the country, but we still talk plenty.”

Jason gave a soft hum and, a beat later, asked, “What made you end up in Gotham of all places?”

“Wayne Enterprises, actually,” Danny said. “The rep in the industry as place to work is unparalleled really, especially for what I want to do.”

“And what’s that?”

“Help people,” Danny said, honestly and with a crooked little smile. “Which I know sounds cheesy, but I really wanted to create things that help people. It’s not like I mind making a better cellphone battery or anything, but it’s nice to know that I get to work on things that help not just with the little, everyday issues but also the big, life changing ones. The fact that those things get to help the city I live in too is a real plus.”

“Gotham has a way of getting to you like that,” Jason said.

“Yeah,” Danny replied softly, gaze in the direction of the Gotham sky line.

And then a scream split the air.

Not a human scream, thankfully, but a repeated screech that had both of them starting and looking around for the source. The screech turned to a warbling clucking as Jerry emerged from behind the landscaping. His tail was high and spread, his wing tips brushed the ground, and he was looking almost shockingly colorful.

“A turkey?”

“Damian’s.”

“Damian has a turkey,” Danny said slowly.

“And a cow,” Jason said. “Cat, dog, a few snakes. He tried to keep a rat but Alfred stopped that pretty quickly.”

Danny rubbed at his temple. “This is why he knew how to take care of wings, isn’t it?”

Jason tried not to smile. “That came up, huh?”

“He’s been sending Bruce information about it,” Danny answered.

Jerry made another loud warble and struck what Jason could only describe as a pose.

“So… does he do this often?”

“His name is Jerry, and nope,” Jason said and pulled out his phone.

Jerry strutted closer to Danny, tail feathers shaking.

“Oh… oh,” Danny said with the tone of someone for who horrible realization was dawning. “Can you, ah, talk him down?”

“I’m afraid I’m morally obligated to film this,” Jason said somberly. He couldn’t hold back his smirk any longer.

Danny shot him a withering look and started to back up towards the Manor. “Really.”

“Really. Good luck.”

“Well, fuck,” Danny said and then took off running.

Jerry followed at top speed with a scream.

Jason sent the video to Bruce. ‘You have competition.’

[daxisyzz]

Lost for words

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader (established relationship)

Summary: Bucky can't keep his hands to himself while your on a call with Yelena, wanting all your attention, making you lose your focus.

Based off this prompt from Pinterest

Word count: 3.1k+ (I kinda got too into it lol)

Warnings and tags: Clingy Bucky, he's a menace, Yelena mentioned (bestfriend), neck kisses, more kisses, Bucky is basically touch starved, cute relationship dynamics, Bucky can't keep his hands off of you.

A/n: this is my little treat for my 100 followers milestone. Thank you guys!! Enjoy the fic!!

Love you guys <3

Ps. Go read chapter 1 of my new series Business Proposal ♡

Also requests are open.. feel free to send 'em.!!

You liked to think of your apartment as a sanctuary. Sure, the walls were a little thin, and the paint on the windowsill was starting to peel, but it was yours. A cozy home that smelled of vanilla-scented candles, fresh laundry, and the faint aroma of Bucky’s cologne that seemed to linger everywhere these days.

Most days, Bucky Barnes, your sometimes frustrating, always handsome boyfriend—respected that sense of peace. After all, you’d established a routine of sorts: quiet mornings sipping coffee together, mid-day breaks where he’d slip away for a run or to tinker with something mechanical in the spare room, and lazy evenings spent on the couch binge-watching the latest Netflix series.

But today, it seemed, he had other ideas. You were leaning against the kitchen counter, your phone pressed to your ear, talking to Yelena Belova—your best friend, occasional partner-in-crime, and the only person who could drag you into the most unexpected of situations. Today’s phone call was nothing dramatic, though. She was simply updating you on her day, complaining about a near-disastrous grocery trip, while you nodded and made little sounds of sympathy at all the right times.

It started out innocently enough: Bucky roaming into the kitchen, glancing your way, flashing you a quick grin. You raised your eyebrows in greeting, mouthing I’m on the phone, which typically was code for don’t do anything weird. He gave a small salute, as if to say Understood, ma’am, and disappeared around the corner.

But then, just as Yelena began launching into a story about the horrors of supermarket lines and fighting an old lady for pickles, you felt the faintest brush of warmth at your back. At first, you thought you were imagining it. You continued listening, your phone tucked snugly against your ear. But then a hand—large, warm, and far too confident, settled on your hip. You startled, nearly dropping the phone in surprise.

“Bucky,” you whispered, craning your neck to look at him. He was standing behind you, a lazy smile playing at his lips. “I’m on the phone,” you mouthed.

He only grinned in response, blue eyes sparkling with mischief. His voice, when he leaned in, was barely above a murmur. “I know.”

You shot him a pointed glare, one that said Behave yourself. But Bucky, of course, had never been particularly good at following that order.

Yelena’s voice in your ear continued, completely unaware. “So anyway, the cashier looked at me like I was some kind of weirdo for buying that much hot sauce. But it’s not my fault the best brand was on sale—are you even listening?”

“Yes,” you managed, voice slightly strained, “I’m listening. Sorry, I just—”

Bucky took that moment to press closer, his chest aligning perfectly with your back. The warmth of him was impossible to ignore. His lips brushed the shell of your ear, a barely-there touch that sent a chill of awareness down your spine. The phone nearly slipped from your fingers.

“Everything okay?” Yelena asked, clearly catching the odd shift in your tone.

“Fine,” you said too quickly. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to force yourself to focus. “Just, uh… I spilled something. Go on.”

You felt, rather heard Bucky’s chuckle against you. His arms slid around your waist, locking you in place. Slowly, he lowered his head to the crook of your neck, pressing a gentle kiss there. It was so light you might have imagined it—if not for the way your entire body tingled in response.

You could practically hear Yelena’s eyebrow arching on the other end of the line. “You sure you’re not busy? I can let you go if you’re… preoccupied.”

“No, no,” you insisted, ignoring Bucky’s soft hum of amusement. “I’m not preoccupied. Really, I’m—” You sucked in a sharp breath as Bucky’s lips dragged across your skin, teasingly slow. “I’m good,” you finished, sounding decidedly not good.

Bucky was a menace. You realized that with startling clarity. He was enjoying every second of this, too—the way your breath hitched, the way your shoulders stiffened when he kissed just behind your ear. If he’d come in loud and obvious, you could have pushed him away, shot him a glare, or at least excused yourself from the call. But this was worse. He was stealthy, methodical, lulling you into a trap with that soft voice, gentle kisses, and the faint scrape of his stubble against your neck.

And oh, you were definitely trapped.

“Let me guess,” Yelena said, suspicion in her tone, “Bucky’s there, isn’t he?”

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Bucky took advantage of your silence, kissing a trail from the base of your neck up toward your jaw, each press of his lips making your heart pound harder.

"Uh,” you managed, “maybe.”

Yelena barked a laugh. “That’s a yes. Put me on speaker. I want to say hi.”

You stared at Bucky, who gave you a quizzical tilt of his head, as if to say What’s she saying? For a second, you debated whether or not to do as Yelena asked. If you put the call on speaker, she’d hear every little sound: the rustle of Bucky’s clothes against yours, the husky laughter you were certain would spill from his lips at any moment. But you couldn’t exactly refuse her, not without raising even more suspicion.

Reluctantly, you tapped the speaker icon. “Yelena, you’re on speaker,” you said, trying to sound composed. It was a losing battle.

“Barnes,” Yelena said, her tone mocking, “are you bothering my best friend again?”

Bucky cleared his throat. You felt the rumble of it against your back. “I wouldn’t call it bothering,” he said. His voice was low, smooth as silk. “I’m just showing her a little attention.”

You could practically see Yelena rolling her eyes. “She’s on the phone, you know. With me. Some people might say that’s rude.”

Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened slightly. “Rude, maybe,” he allowed, “but she’s been ignoring me all day. I had to get her attention somehow.”

You wanted to defend yourself, but the words lodged in your throat as Bucky nuzzled against the side of your neck again. Your eyes fluttered shut, and you had to bite your lip to keep from making any embarrassing sounds.

“Oh, I see how it is,” Yelena said, her amusement obvious. “You’re tormenting her.”

Bucky’s lips curved into a smirk against your skin. “Torment’s a strong word.”

“That’s because it is torment,” you finally managed, your voice shaky. “He’s being insufferable.”

Bucky hummed. “You don’t sound too unhappy about it, doll.”

You could hear Yelena snort. “I’ll let you two figure this out. Call me back when Barnes isn’t acting like a cat in heat.”

You tried not to laugh, but the giggle bubbled up anyway, half from the absurdity of the situation, half from your own flustered state. “Okay, okay. Talk to you later.”

The moment you hung up, Bucky wasted no time. He spun you around in his arms so that you were facing him, your phone clutched tightly in one hand. He wore a cocky grin that made you want to kiss him and slap that grin away, all at once.

“You have the worst timing,” you scolded, although your voice trembled with laughter.

He shrugged, not the least bit repentant. “You looked too adorable not to bother.”

You tried to arch an eyebrow in disapproval, but your heart wasn’t in it. Not when Bucky was looking at you like that, with those soft eyes and that infuriatingly handsome smirk. “I was on the phone.”

He leaned in, the tip of his nose brushing against yours. “I noticed.”

“You’re so full of yourself,” you grumbled, but you didn’t pull away when he ducked his head to press a slow, lingering kiss to your lips.

His hands settled on your hips, drawing you closer. “I learned from the best.”

Despite yourself, you melted into the kiss, letting the warmth of his body and the taste of his lips chase away your frustration. It was impossible to stay mad at him for long. Not when he kissed you like he was savoring every second.

When you finally pulled away, you were breathless. “I swear, you’re worse than Yelena sometimes.”

He laughed. “High praise.”

You tried to scowl, but the affection in his gaze made it impossible. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He pressed a playful kiss to the tip of your nose. “I’ll take it.”

Later, you found yourself curled up on the couch, scrolling through messages on your phone. Yelena had sent a few texts, each more teasing than the last. You alive? Surviving Barnes’s torment? You typed back a quick reply: Barely. But yes. Thanks for leaving me high and dry.

Bucky appeared in the doorway, hands tucked in his pockets. “Need any help fending off Yelena’s jokes?” he asked.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re the one who gave her ammunition.”

He smirked, coming over to flop onto the couch beside you. “True. But I’m also the one who can help you forget about it.”

“Oh?” You arched a brow. “How exactly?”He reached out, plucking your phone from your hand. “By stealing your phone, for starters.” He tossed it onto the coffee table, far out of reach.

“Bucky!” You reached for it, but he caught your wrist, tugging you closer until you fell against his chest.

“You work too hard,” he said, settling you against him. “And you spend too much time on your phone. I’m just making sure you take a break.”

You snorted. “A break from Yelena’s teasing, or from your own mischief?”

He shrugged, running a hand up and down your arm. “Maybe both. Besides, I like having your full attention.”

“You had it in the kitchen,” you pointed out. “Remember? You nearly made me drop the phone.”

His smile widened, and you felt the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he laughed. “That was different. Now you can actually enjoy it.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but his fingers slid beneath your chin, guiding you into a kiss. It was slow, deep, and achingly sweet, every bit of teasing replaced by genuine warmth. Your annoyance melted away, replaced by a comfortable haze that made you forget anything beyond the two of you.

When you finally broke apart, he traced a thumb across your cheek. “I’m sorry if I bothered you,” he said softly, though there was still a playful glint in his eyes. “You know I can’t help it sometimes.”

You brushed your lips over his knuckles. “I know. And… I don’t actually mind.”

His grin turned lopsided. “You say that now, but wait until next time.”

You let out a mock groan, shoving him lightly. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Never,” he promised, though the twinkle in his gaze suggested otherwise.

A little while later, you found yourself in the kitchen again, rinsing dishes from a late lunch. Bucky hovered nearby, drying each plate you handed him. The domestic routine was soothing—until he decided to nudge you with his hip, nearly making you drop a fork.

“Seriously?” You glared at him, though you struggled to keep a straight face.

“What?” He feigned innocence. “My hand slipped.”

You snorted. “Sure it did.”

He set the plate aside, then stepped closer, the warmth of his body pressing against your back. You felt his breath on your neck again, and your heart kicked up a notch, recalling how he’d distracted you earlier. His lips grazed your ear.

“You’re adorable when you’re annoyed,” he murmured.

“Funny,” you replied, fighting a grin, “I was thinking you’re adorable when you’re not annoying me.”

He laughed quietly, nuzzling into your hair. “You still love me.”

With a soft sigh, you turned in his arms, letting the water run. “I do,” you admitted, resting your hands on his shoulders. “But you have to promise not to sabotage any more phone calls.”

His eyes sparkled with mischief. “I can promise to try.”

You knew that was the best you’d get. Rolling your eyes, you leaned in to kiss him, the warm press of his lips sending a pleasant hum through your body.

A sudden buzz echoed in the kitchen, and you both turned to see your phone vibrating on the counter. Yelena’s name flashed across the screen. Bucky grinned, lifting a brow. “Round two?”

You huffed, reaching for the phone. “Don’t you dare.”

He put his hands up in surrender, stepping aside with an exaggerated show of good behavior. You picked up the call, putting it on speaker before you could change your mind.

Yelena’s voice came through loud and clear. “Hey, troublemaker. You done making out with Barnes?”

Your cheeks flamed. “That was quick. And you’re the troublemaker.”

“Details, details,” she quipped. “Anyway, I was thinking about that recipe I mentioned earlier—”

“Oh, right. The spicy pickle challenge,” you said, glad to steer the conversation somewhere safer.

“Exactly. I need your help. I can’t figure out if I should make them into some kind of hot sauce, or if I should try a marinade. But I need to test it on someone who’s not me. You in?”

You glanced at Bucky, who mouthed, Absolutely not. Smirking, you replied, “Sure, why not?”

Yelena laughed. “Perfect. I’ll text you the details. And by the way, I’m bringing extra pickles so no old ladies can steal them from me.”

Bucky cleared his throat, stepping closer to the phone. “You’re not going to drag her into any fights, are you?”

“No promises,” Yelena shot back, then paused. “You being nice to her, Barnes? Or do I need to show up and save her?”

Bucky’s gaze flicked to you, a playful challenge in his eyes. “She doesn’t need rescuing from me.”

You decided to intervene before Yelena got any ideas. “Alright, enough bickering. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Fine,” she replied with a dramatic sigh. “But if he bugs you again, you call me.”

“Will do,” you said, rolling your eyes affectionately.

The call ended, and you braced yourself for another round of teasing, but Bucky just slipped his arms around your waist, looking surprisingly thoughtful. You looped your arms around his neck.

“You know,” he murmured, “I like seeing you happy. Even if it means occasionally getting on your nerves.” A warm flush spread through you. There was that sincerity again, the undercurrent of genuine care that anchored all his playful chaos. “You make me happy,” you said softly.

He brushed a stray hair from your face. “Good.”

That evening, you and Bucky ventured out for a walk. The late sunlight gilded the buildings, and a gentle breeze ruffled your hair. With your hands intertwined, the two of you wandered the streets, content to let the conversation flow.

He told you about his latest hobby—fixing up an old motorcycle he’d found cheap online—and you filled him in on Yelena’s plan to experiment with spicy recipes. Every so often, he’d nudge your shoulder or lean in to press a quick kiss to your temple, as if he couldn’t go too long without touching you.

Eventually, you ducked into a small corner café that you both loved. You ordered dessert first, justifying it with a laugh: “Life’s too short not to have cake for dinner.” Bucky agreed wholeheartedly, paying for your order and guiding you to a cozy table by the window.

Once seated, he studied you from across the table, fingers drumming idly on the surface. ��So,” he said, “am I forgiven for earlier?”

You tilted your head. “I don’t know. You did cause me a lot of embarrassment in front of Yelena.”

He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “Would it help if I said I’m sorry?”

“Maybe,” you replied, smiling. “Try it and see.”

“I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice that made your heart flutter. “For distracting you while you were on the phone.”

Your smile widened. “And?"

He reached across the table to take your hand. “And for enjoying it so much.”

You squeezed his hand, unable to keep the fondness out of your eyes. “Apology accepted, menace.”

The café door chimed, and a few more customers wandered in. You sipped your drink, relaxing in the warm atmosphere. Bucky kept your hand in his, occasionally rubbing gentle circles with his thumb.

When your cake arrived, you split it, laughing as he stole the larger piece. He offered you a bite from his fork in apology, and you leaned forward, letting him feed you.

“Good?” he asked, eyes bright.

“Delicious,” you managed, savoring the sweetness.

He watched you with open admiration. “I like seeing you happy,” he repeated again, his voice softer now.

You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers together. “I’m happy because I’m with you.”

He held your gaze, and for a moment, the rest of the world fell away. You saw the man beneath the mischief—the one who cared so deeply, who’d learned to laugh again despite the shadows of his past.

“You know,” he said, clearing his throat, “I never thought I’d have this. Someone to tease, someone who gives it right back. Someone whom i could becso free with.”

Your heart clenched with affection. “And now you do.”

He nodded, a slight smile on his lips. “Now I do.”

When you finally left the café, the sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in dusky blues and pinks. Bucky’s arm looped around your waist as you headed home, the city lights flickering on around you.

You strolled in comfortable silence until you reached your apartment. Once inside, you both kicked off your shoes and made a beeline for the couch. He settled in first, patting the cushion beside him in invitation.

“Come here,” he said, and you sank down, letting him pull you into his side.

He grabbed the remote, but instead of changing the broadcast, he clicked it off. The apartment went quiet, the only sound the distant hum of traffic through the window. You leaned your head on his shoulder, feeling his steady breath.

After a moment, he turned to press a soft kiss to your temple. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“For what?”

“For this. For us.”

You smiled into his shirt. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

He tilted your chin up so you could meet his gaze. “I want to,” he said, and the quiet sincerity in his eyes made your chest tighten with emotion.

You reached up, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “Well, you’re welcome, then.”

He bent down, capturing your lips in a kiss that felt like a promise—of laughter, of mischief, of all the little moments that made up a life together. You let yourself sink into it, letting the warmth of his body and the softness of his mouth fill your senses.

Eventually, you both pulled back, breathless. He smoothed a hand over your hair, cradling you against him. “We should do something fun tomorrow,” he said. “Before you go help Yelena with her spicy pickles.”

You chuckled, snuggling closer. “Sure. But only if you behave the next time I’m on the phone.”

His laugh rumbled in his chest. “I’ll do my best, doll.” You didn’t quite believe him—but then again, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

In the end, Bucky was a whirlwind of affection and playfulness, and though you sometimes pretended to protest, you secretly relished every teasing moment. Because beneath the jokes and the stolen kisses, there was a profound sense of belonging that tied you together.

As the evening came by, you drifted off in his arms, content and warm. The memory of his soft laughter echoed in your mind, reminding you that even when he was a menace, he was yours—and you were his. And that was all that mattered.

[ladygelfling]

I saw @awardenandacrow do this so I thought why not?!

These answers are for my Rook, Tessora.

Do they sleep with a stuffed animal? If they have multiple, who’s the favorite? No she doesn't. She did get a stuffed nug toy from Harding that lives on her side table.

Can they take care of a plant? What about a pet? What about a child? Plant - absolutely not, she does not have a green thumb at all. Pet - probably. Tess likes cats over dogs. A child - Tessora doesn't think she's very maternal despite her getting more and more maternal as their mission progresses. She ends up with several "adopted" kids. She has unresolved issues that make her feel that she wouldn't be a good mom.

Ask them to describe their love interest. "Emmrich is patient and kind. He is my calm in the storm. Also, have you seen him? He's tall and sexy and has the most amazing pair of hands. He's also the smartest person I know."

Do they look good in red? She likes to think so.

Speech! Speech! Speech! Speech! Will they give one, and what about? How much as she had to drink? If she's had a few, Tess will go on about her ship and crew. She also knows a lot of facts about sea creatures so she may just start rattling those off.

Who will they take advice from, no matter what it is? Who won’t they take advice from, no matter what it is? Emmrich - yes. Thomas Hawke - no.

Describe them in three words. Now let them describe themself in three words. Badass. Sarcastic. Survivor. "Unserious. Crass. Reckless."

Do complex puzzles intrigue or frustrate them? Tess loves puzzles. More complex the better. She may still get frustrated but it only pushes her to solve it.

Do they empathize with non-sentient things (dolls, plants, books…)? I think so. Does talking to her ship and lovingly stroking its wood count?

What age do they most want to be right now? She lives in the now so her current age.

They’ve won the lottery. Spend, or save? For gold and glory, baby. Lord of FORTUNE. Tess would spend and spoil her friends. Emmrich, ever sensible, would try to get her to put some of it away.

Do they like romance in the books they read (or in the book they’re in)? Tess doesn't mind romance in books. She learned to read with Isabela's smutty romance collection.

Name one thing their parents taught them. Considering she's an orphan. Not a damn thing.

Would they agree with the term ‘guilty pleasure’? Do they have any? If Isabela and Hawke taught her anything, it's that one should never feel guilty about pleasure.

What would they consider a waste of time– other than school or work? Meetings where nothing gets decided and it's just circular arguments. Usually having to do with politics or nobility.

If money wasn’t a limit, what would they wear? Whatever she wants which is pretty much what she does already.

Do they like children? Contrary to considering herself as not maternal, Tess does like kids. Her crewmate Domneth's kids call her Auntie Tess and she loves them. She sometimes can act like a kid herself (Rowan says it's to make up for her own horrible childhood), so she's been known to entertain the Lord of Fortune kids with pirate stories or sea shanties.

Kissing: tongue or no tongue? Whatever the situation calls for. She likes both with the right person.

Do they study before tests? Practice before job interviews? Tessora never had any formal schooling. At all. She's a learn on the fly or just wing it kind of gal.

What do they like that nobody else does? Cliff Diving

What would it take for them to break up with someone? What would be the last straw? If he became the complete opposite of who he is - controlling, violent, power hungry, unsafe. Basically, the qualities of her former master.

Do they like being called pet names? Do they call other people pet names? What’s their go-to? Tessora melts everytime Emmrich calls her "darling" or "dearest". She loves it. She calls him "my love" sometimes.

Stability or novelty? Novelty

Honesty or charity? Honesty

Safety or possibility? Safety

Talent or effort? Effort

Forgiveness or vengeance (or…)? Vengeance

Would they date a fixer-upper? Tessora would consider herself to be the fixer upper.

What recurring dreams do they have? Tess still has dreams about being trapped in the regret prison.

What would they do if they knew it would be forgiven? Treasure hunt in the Necropolis. So much gold just sitting there.

oc asks that reveal more than you think

Do they sleep with a stuffed animal? If they have multiple, who’s the favorite?

Can they take care of a plant? What about a pet? What about a child?

Ask them to describe their love interest.

Do they look good in red?

Speech! Speech! Speech! Speech! Will they give one, and what about?

Who will they take advice from, no matter what it is? Who won’t they take advice from, no matter what it is?

Describe them in three words. Now let them describe themself in three words.

Do complex puzzles intrigue or frustrate them?

Do they empathize with non-sentient things (dolls, plants, books…)?

What age do they most want to be right now?

They’ve won the lottery. Spend, or save?

Do they like romance in the books they read (or in the book they’re in)?

Name one thing their parents taught them.

Would they agree with the term ‘guilty pleasure’? Do they have any?

What would they consider a waste of time– other than school or work?

If money wasn’t a limit, what would they wear?

Do they like children?

Kissing: tongue or no tongue?

Do they study before tests? Practice before job interviews?

What do they like that nobody else does?

What would it take for them to break up with someone? What would be the last straw?

Do they like being called pet names? Do they call other people pet names? What’s their go-to?

Stability or novelty?

Honesty or charity?

Safety or possibility?

Talent or effort?

Forgiveness or vengeance (or…)?

Would they date a fixer-upper?

What recurring dreams do they have?

What would they do if they knew it would be forgiven?

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[alpali]

You didn’t necessarily know what your relationship with Kei was.

If it was up to labels probably friends with benefits or a situationship.

You never really knew.

Neither of you have ever brought it up. But your reasoning was solely because you liked him and you were convinced he was only in this for the sex.

A drunken night was what spurred this up and after that the you both couldn’t stay away. A booty call away, a late night text message.

You were half expecting him to come tonight but you weren’t up for doing anything. You were tired. Physically and mentally.

In a cower of your own thoughts, you confessing like a normal human being didn’t please as an option for you. So you thought pushing him away was better. You knew things would end like this. In one person getting hurt. And since you assumed he wouldn’t have feelings for you, you’d rather be the first to leave.

As you lay in your bed, the moonlight makes its way through your curtains. The chill of the night caressing your face. You felt yourself slipping away.

Yet your door opens and you already know who it is. His tall figure casts a shadow in your room. The moonlight hitting his face so perfectly he looks heavenly. He slides in behind you, pulling your back flush against his chest. His big hand gliding across your tummy.

“M not in the mood Kei.” You whisper.

Your heart is beating rather fast and you’re sure that he could feel it. His movements freeze for a moment but he continues.

“That’s ok.” He whispers against the rim of your ear.

You shudder, your body not knowing whether to warm up or tense. You’re a little shocked that he stays, full heartedly expecting him to leave. You cast a glance behind you and he opens an eye.

“What?” He grumbles, closing his eye once again.

“You’re not gonna leave?” Which you agree sounds terrible but you didn’t mean any harm.

“Jeez, do you want me to?” He perks up and you shake your head.

“No. Sorry. I just thought you’d want to.”

His brows furrow.

“Why’s that?”

“Well, I don’t know I figured you’d just wanna have sex.”

Now he’s definitely confused and even offended.

“Is it really that weird for me to just stay over?”

You purse your lips, embarrassment getting to you.

“A little yes. You’re always gone by the morning.” You mumble.

“Because I have practice.” He says softly.

You sigh, your malicious thoughts getting to you. You both fall silent. Both of you to far in your head.

“Did you really think I just came to fuck?”

You gulp.

“Yea.”

Your voice is soft. Kei probably wouldn’t have heard you if he wasn’t next to you. But he does and that confirmation hurts him.

“Why?”

You’re growing a little frustrated or maybe it’s the embarrassment getting to you.

“I-I don’t know. We never talked about what we were so I just assumed you didn’t want anything serious.” You sigh.

“I do want something serious with you. But yea, we never really brought it up.” He blinks.

“Ugh you’re being confusing! How can you say all of this with a straight face.” You pout.

He sits up, looking down at you. He motions you to get up as well and he pulls you on his lap. Your cheeks are redder than ever, your eyes scanning everywhere except him.

“Look at me.” He says softly, cupping your cheek.

You meet his golden eyes, his glasses set on your table so you’re able to really look at him. Your arms wrap around his neck, playing with the hair on the nape of his neck.

“I like you, I’ve always have.” He whispers, a faint smile on his lips.

But you’re finally able to see it. The softness and adoration in his eyes.

All of it.

Just for you.

He kisses the corner of your mouth, letting his lips linger. He pulls away just enough that your noses graze eachother.

“I’ll take you out tomorrow after our classes. If my words aren’t enough.” He mumbles.

“It is enough Kei but I’m not opposed to you taking me out.” You smile so big and he looks relieved.

“There you are.” He laughs, meeting your lips in a sweet kiss.

[zorosangell]

Hi!!! First off I wanna say how AMAZING ur writing is like truly WOW. I loveee how you write jealous Zoro, but I neeeedd some jealous, possessive reader. Reader don’t play about Zoro just as much as he don’t play about her. You can also totally add some spice if you want *wink wink*

⛥ﾟ・。 stall

synopsis: after you catch a girl trying to spike zoro's drink, all hell breaks loose... hell being you.

cw: fluffy fluff, comfort, a whole lot of profanity, reader's crashout is incredibly valid, reader is a BADDIE, nami is a down ass bitch, girl talk, zoro looooves his girl.

a/n: i'd be this crazy too if I had zoro as a bf

"Look at her! All giggly and shit... he's never said anything that funny his whole life," you huffed, brows furrowed and lip jutted in a pout as you watched from the window of the bathroom door.

"She is kinda hammin' it up," Nami agreed, peaking along with you. "But that doesn't explain why you dragged me out here."

"'Cause I needed someone to spy with. And I didn't wanna look crazy doing it at a table."

"Hon', you look crazy now!"

"Hey!"

With a harsh sigh, you came off your tippy-toes, your heels making a soft clack against the bathroom tile as you turned to your red-headed friend.

"I do not!"

"(y/n), you are in your best dressed while stalking your boyfriend from the grimy bathroom of a dive bar," she deadpanned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I love you... but this is insane."

Slowly, you deflated, shoulders slightly sinking at the facts presented for you.

It did look kind of crazy.

'A warranted kind of crazy...'

The girl out there with the annoyingly silky hair and infuriatingly beautiful dress had been practically throwing herself at Zoro since the moment she saw him.

And it had only been a week since you and the crew arrived at Asaashi.

The Sunny was in need of repairs, so the crew docked at a nearby port island in order to give Franky enough space and time to fix her up.

And guess who happened to be the harbormaster?

Every day, without fail, she had managed to tail your swordsman, following him and showering him with praise whenever she could.

You hadn't had not two seconds alone with him before she came barging in with some excuse like a pirate crew she needed help collecting from or boats she needed help destroying.

You knew Zoro had never—and would never—entertain her advances, but being his girlfriend, you couldn't help but feel some type of way.

"She knows exactly who I am, and she knows exactly what she's doing," you stated, firmly, pointing at the window. "I can't just sit around and do nothing, Nami."

"Well, hanging out in the bathroom surely isn't helping."

With a sigh, she stepped closer, resting a comforting hand on your shoulder.

"You've got more history with that idiot than that girl could ever know. And if you actually think she has a shot with him, then maybe you aren't as smart as I thought you were..."

"Hey!"

Amused, Nami let out a small snicker, before focusing on the task at hand.

"You're his girlfriend. And you've got every right to walk out there and plop yourself down on his lap. Kiss him! Shove your tongue down his throat! Lay your claim, girl! Men do it all the time."

Surprised, your nose scrunched.

"Really?"

"You think Zoro starts getting hot and heavy with you whenever Sanji's around just for fun?"

She paused a moment, thinking about her statement.

"Well... yes, for fun, but it's also a power-play."

Shaking her head, she returned to her point.

"So be bold! Take charge! Show that bitch who's boss!"

"Yeah!"

"Yeah!"

With new determination, you turned on your heel, throwing the bathroom door wide open and storming out.

Only to immediately rush back in.

"She's coming! Hide!"

"(y/n)!"

Quickly, you snatched up Nami's wrist, dragging her into a stall and shutting the door just in time for the woman and her friend to walk in.

"Oh, my god, Siva, the guy you're talking to is so hot," the friend commended, audibly plopping her bag down on one of the sinks. "Where did you find him?"

"At work," she smirked, going straight for the mirrors to check her makeup. "His crew's been docked here for about a week. We've been getting to know each other better."

"I'm surprised a man like him isn't snatched up already," the friend remarked, slowly gliding the bright red lipstick across her lips.

"Oh, he is," Siva grinned, her lips curling in an almost witch-like expression. "But she's practically out the picture already."

At that, anger began to bubble in your stomach, your brows furrowing at the statement.

'Oh, she fuckin' didn't.'

Just as you were about to open the door, Nami looped her arms under your armpits, frantically holding you back.

"Clearly not enough. He hasn't touched you all night," the friend reminded, beginning to touch up her eye shadow.

"All week," Siva corrected, annoyed, as she grabbed something out her dress pocket. "But this little baby's gonna change all that."

You and the navigator paused your struggle for a moment, brows quirking as you both peeked in the crack of the stall to see what she was holding.

It was a small bottle.

"Few drops of this in his sake and he'll be up for anything."

"Few drops? He'll need ten bottles just to get a buzz," the friend scrunched her nose.

"Nuh-uh. Whole bottle's enough to kill a dragon."

You were clenching your fists so hard, your knuckles were turning white.

"What about the girlfriend?" the friend asked, amused.

"What about her? She'll be old like last week's shoe sale. Tossed out and left with the trash."

"Girl, you are bad..."

"It's good to be."

"Y'know what's gonna be really good?!"

Without hesitation, you kicked open the stall door, the resounding boom scaring the shit out of them

"When I kick your fucking ass!"

Seamlessly, you kicked off your heels before launching forward, grabbing Siva by her silky hair and letting off a rapid-fire round of punches, her poor balance easily taking you both to the ground.

"My extensions!" Siva shrieked as you tossed a clump of fake hair, attempting to lift her arms in order to shield her face.

"Siva!" the friend gasped, quickly moving to assist. "Don't worry! I'll get her!"

"Get who?" Nami scoffed, hopping on one foot as she attempted to take off her heels and take out her earrings. "You're not jumping my girl, bitch!"

Stalling for time, Nami stepped on the girl's toes with the point of her heel before finally managing to get it off, promptly snatching her up before she could grab you.

"Get the fuck off me, you fucking cunt!" Siva spat as you continued to throttle her head.

"Shut the fuck up!" you barked, tossing her into a tiled wall.

"Oh, that is fucking it!" she growled, brows furrowed and newly invigorated.

"C'mon, bitch! I'm right here!"

With a roar of anger, she charged you, slamming you both against another wall before you flipped her over and tackled her out the bathroom, taking the door completely off its hinges.

"Keep fuckin' trying me, hoe! I'm not scared of you!" you spat, the two of you right back where you started as you grabbed her hair once again, slamming her head against the hard wood of the door—Nami still being in a fist fight with the friend in the bathroom.

"Ohhhh, shit! Cat fight!" a random patron exclaimed, calling the attention of the entire bar.

Everyone cheered, letting out shouts of oohs and aahs as you whooped the woman's ass, the sight honestly a marvel as you did so effortlessly, without devil fruit powers nor freakish strength to back you up.

Just will and a whole lot of grit.

Though, it wasn't long before a certain pair of strong arms grabbed you, pulling you away from the woman as you frantically thrashed around like an angry cat.

None other than your boyfriend.

"No, Zoro! M'not done beatin' her ass!" you whined, attempting to wiggle out of his tight grip.

"Yes, you are," he shut down, instantly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We're leaving."

"Nami-swan, please! A goddess like yourself shouldn't dirty your hands with things like this!" Sanji pleaded, attempting to pry your red-headed friend off the other girl.

"Fuck that! This bitch tried to pull my hair out!"

"Yeah! Run away, bitch!" Siva taunted, sitting up from the ground with a painful wince.

"Run away?!" you scoffed, eyes wide. "Oh, hell nah! Zoro, let me go!"

"No," he denied, tossing you over his shoulder before starting toward the door. "Let's go, cook! Hurry the hell up!"

"Give me a damn second! She's got a death hold on her!" Sanji grunted, finally managing to loosen Nami's grip on the friend's neck before pulling her off.

"My fucking teeth!" Siva screeched, cupping at least five in her palm with horror.

"Thank my man, bitch! He's the only reason you're still breathing!" you barked, grabbing a nearby man's drink and tossing it at her. "Have fun suckin' sailor dick, toothless!"

"Fuck you!"

"Eat my ass!" you pulled down your eyelid, sticking out your tongue as you waved around a humongous chunk of hair. "Bald-headed bitch!"

The following shriek was high enough to shatter glass, but it sounded like music to your ears as you laughed, tossing her extensions on the ground as Zoro finally exited the bar.

With a sigh, he started in the direction of the Sunny—per Sanji's instructions—glancing back at you with a raised brow.

"You wanna tell me what all that was back there?" he asked.

Slowly coming down from your high, your shoulders slightly sank, arms crossing over your chest.

"She won't be coming around you anymore," you huffed, firm and final.

At that, Zoro finally realized what this was all about, forcing a small smirk to curl on his lips.

Letting out a chuckle, he pressed a soft kiss against your thigh, his large palm giving your ass a quick squeeze.

"Crazy woman..."

[verdancy-hime]

Yes except people are withholding things for me to do because they want to force me to be understimulated so I have constant suicidal depression. All the books I try to read either contain weird boring hypnotic inductions for 5 pages before I get to the information or they seem designed to be annoying to read on purpose because they don't get to the damn point or they're romances about people the author of the book thinks I should date but in a way where it explains that I'm not dating them because of my terrible personality and I'm their toxic ex, the music I try to listen to is telling me I suck, all the social media is just rage bait trolls telling me how everything is my fault and everything would be so much better if I wasn't crazy and I'm fundamentally flawed, every YouTube video I try to watch is like "we have 3 sentences of content and it's stuff you've already seen or read and it's hidden behind 30 minutes of nothing content" or "we recorded something you said while you were talking to yourself and put it on a random YouTube channel" or it's the news and it's like "by the way the Jesus freaks have won and they are going to take over your country and turn everything into a giant human trafficking cult and we keep heaping more fake rape accusations on the accusations of that one gay guy who can't come out because it's complicated who helped you when you were a little girl with that thing one time and we're setting it up to do ethnic cleansing and hurt all your queer friends and go back to the 1920s and make sure everyone becomes nazis and also we remade all your favorite shows and made them shitty but at least we also put Abigail Thorn in literally everything which like good for her but it would be cool if they didn't rape the last of the American dream to death also."

Every phone sex caller I talk to is like "I will only do calls when it's not your normal business hours and I want to start actual fights with you on purpose rather than just get my rocks off and I want to intentionally set you up for failure and only do things that I know you don't like because how dare you ever say no to anything we are going to torture you into hating your job and hating men we are going to send you weird vague threats all the time."

I go outside and people are pretending not to know who I am while also saying weird cryptic shit about like blog entries I wrote 10 years ago or something.

Literally it's like all of reality is just a machine for torturing me.

No one is making any demands. No one wants anything. At first I thought there were specific things they wanted me to do or say, but I realized they were literally just things that I would rather die than do like move to someplace very hot when I have summer sad and have a lot of exposed skin when I have sensory issues or get married when I don't think living with other people works for me, or do race play porn when I have personal reasons not to do that.

It's just a giant machine for making me constantly miserable and depressed for no reason until I die from it. But they keep trying to sabotage me trying to kms? So what the fuck is the point?

Recently discovered, fully by accident, that the trick to feeling like you have more time in the day is to actually do shit with the time that's there, which seems fake and wrong and it's frankly infuriating that it works >:|

[sports-on-sundays]

Hello hello, I am back with another request! It's with Oscar again but friends to lovers. Hear me out, the most cliche thing ever. Oscar loves her, she loves him but both too dense to realise it. They are out and about and another dude corners her and tries to make out with her, Oscar saves the day (make him protective and violent pls, make him punch the guy (side note: I would pay money to see Oscar actually punch someone, don't ask me why idk🙈)). So then he comforts her, takes her home and she asks him to stay. I will leave the rest of the convo to you🤗. Let there be a first kiss and cuddle I beg I am the biggest sucker for those bcs Oscar seems like the best guy to have your firsts with.

Holy hell that's a long ass request haha. Thank you for reading all that🤣 have fun with it and feel free to change things up a little bit if you want to!

be / OP81

Summary: Oscar x female!best childhood friend!Australian!reader - You and Oscar are finally forced to realize your feelings for each other.

Warnings: panicking, someone forcing himself onto another person, blood, crying, i did change up the request a little bit 🤏, feeling sick

Requested: Yes! And don't worry about the long request, I really liked it, and thanks so much for requesting! Long requests are better sometimes anyway.

Author's Note: Guys I'm starting to think I seriously need my very own Oscar Piastri....

"It wasn't even that funny-"

"It wasn't even that funny!"

Both you and Oscar look up to who it was mockingly imitating Oscar's friendly teasing, and your eyes set themselves upon Lando Norris, smirking obnoxiously.

"What's your problem?" you demand, crossing your arms, most of the laughter from Oscar's joke that he made fives minutes ago (yes, you were still laughing your head off at it) gone.

"What do you mean? I'm just kidding. It's just funny how your boyfriend can make the most dumb joke, and send you both into a ten minute laughing fit-"

"Boyfriend?" you and Oscar seem to ask incredulously in sink.

The smile falls off of Lando's face this time, and is replaced by a look of surprise and confusion. "Waaaait... So you're trying to tell me you guys aren't dating?"

Oscar blinks a few times in confusion. "Y/n and I are just friends. We always have been."

"Yeah," you add quickly, nodding. "I don't know why everyone thinks differently."

Lando's eyebrows raise in amusement. "Maybe because you guys act like you're mad in love...? Like, all the time? Or maybe the fact that you come to every single one of our races? Or maybe it's the way you look at each other with heart eyes, like the other one is the only one in the room? I mean, I don't know. It could be the way you're always giggling and talking and yapping to each other... But, oh, what do I and everybody else know?"

"Good question," Oscar deadpans. "What do you know?"

Lando shrugs, rollings his eyes, and struts away. As soon as he's gone, Oscar turns back to you with a little shrug and says, "Sorry about that. I guess nobody gets that two people can love each other as friends without feeling romantic feelings..."

You nod, shrugging. It makes sense to you, simply because that's how it's always been with you and Oscar, forever. The two of you practically slept in the same crib (not literally!). You always just assumed he's like a brother or something, and it doesn't pay to consider anything else. So you haven't. Too risky, and besides- that's not worth it to waste your time thinking about. You like things just the way they are, no need to change them.

"-Y/n?"

"Hm?!" you look up, snapping out of your pondering.

Oscar smiles at you, his brown eyes soft, like they always are when he looks at you. You smile back, eyes equally as warm as he says, "Did you hear me?" in amusement.

You chuckle, "No, sorry."

He nods, giving your shoulder a little pat as he stands up. "I've got to go now get ready for the race. First of the season. Wish me luck!"

"Luck isn't needed," you say with a little grin. "You've got enough skill alone to win it."

He grins. "I guess. But luck never hurts, does it?"

"Not at all." You stand up with him and give him a quick half-hug, saying gentler, "Drive safe, and bring it home. I'll be cheering you on."

"Like always?"

"Like always."

"Hey, Y/n?"

You look up from your phone, shutting it off. You're sitting alone, long after the 2025 season opening race, the Australian Grand Prix, has ended. You haven't seen Oscar since the race ended, and have just been sitting around, not wanting to go home until you have a chance to talk with him. And there he is, standing there, back in his regular clothes: a black sweatshirt, sweatpants, and sneakers, looking thoroughly sleepy.

You immediately stand up, smiling, saying simply, "It was a great drive."

"Well, I-"

"Hush. You scored points after what happened, and that's enough, for goodness' sake."

He smiles softly, and though his eyes say a lot more, he just nods and says simply, "Yeah, yeah, you're right. As always."

You nod promptly and say teasingly, "I know!"

He just rolls his eyes and says, already in a better mood just by talking to you, "Mum wanted you over tonight for dinner."

You grin, "She did, did she?"

"You know she always does, whenever I'm around, want me to bring you over. She adores you."

"She's the sweetest," you chuckle. "Well, I wouldn't mind one of your mum's home cooked meals."

Oscar nods, grabbing his coat, and saying, "I agree; that would hit the spot right now. C'mon."

You two make it to the car and get in, before you start heading to Oscar's mother's home. The car ride is mostly silent, but neither of you really mind. It's a comfortable, good kind of silence.

Towards the end of it, though, you ask simply, "So, that's the end of the first race week of the season. How're you feeling?"

Oscar shrugs, thinking for a few moments, before saying, "Hmm... I guess I'd have to say tired, but very hopeful."

You smile. "Good. You just need your beauty rest, huh?"

He glances at you with a cute little smile. "Right."

Dinner is nice. Warm, and reminds you of home, and your childhood, and everything good. And it's perfect for a rainy day like today.

Once he's finished eating, though, Oscar stands up, stretching, from the table, and says, "Well, I should be off to bed..."

"Oh, Oscar, you will give poor Y/n a ride home won't you?" Oscar's mother asks.

He looks over at you with a little smile and nods, saying, "Oh, right, of course."

You walk to the door together, but before Oscar opens the front door to leave, you gently grab his arm and say simply, "Osc."

He looks up from unlocking the door, meeting your eyes. "Hm?" he asks gently.

"You don't need to drive me home. I could get a cab or take the bus or whatever. It's all good. You've had a crazy week, as it is, much crazier than mine-"

"I mean, I was thinking maybe it'd be fine if I didn't drive you home, too, but you don't have to get a cab. I'm sure if I asked, my mum would be fine with you just staying the night or something."

You blink in surprise, but smile at the suggestion. "Oh. Well, I'd hate to bud in-"

He smiles. "You're family, Y/n. Don't worry." He takes your hand, tugging you back towards the dining room, calling, "Mum! Would it be fine if Y/n just stayed the night? We've both had a long day!"

"Oh, of course, honey! Tell her she can make herself just all nice and comfy and at home! Y/n's such a sweetheart, anyways. She's always welcome!"

Oscar smiles, looking at you. "You heard that, right?"

You smile back up at him with a little laugh. "Yeah, I heard that."

He nods, saying, "C'mon, let's go to my room."

The two of you head there, both of you knowing the way to Oscar's childhood bedroom from all the years you used to spend in there together. When you walk in, seeing all the dressers in the same place they always were, and all Oscar's old decorations from his karting days, memories seem to flood back, just like that, and both you and Oscar feel it. You crawl onto his bed, just like you always used to do, flopping down against his pillows, making yourself at home.

Oscar smiles and crawls in next to you. Just like he always used to do, too. "Last time we were both here was..."

"...right after you joined McLaren, right?" you smile at the memory.

"I guess so." He smiles down at you.

"I remember distinctly, one time, you had been gone so, so long, and I asked your mum if I could surprise you when you got home..."

Oscar starts laughing, clearly remembering it to. "Ohhh yeah. I threw open the bedroom door and flopped on my bed, even though you were on it. By the time I saw you and yelped, it was too late."

"Yeah, and I wrapped my arms around you and started tickling you," you say giggling.

He rolls his eyes, grinning. "I remember. By the end of it, I was gasping and near tears. God, Y/n, you know I was tired."

"I know. But I made you laugh and smile, didn't I? And I made you feel better, didn't I?"

"I mean, I was just happy to see you," he says, his gaze comfortably resting on yours.

"I was happy to see you. Do you know how much I missed you those months?"

"You miss me if you don't see me for a week, Y/n, still."

"Why do you think I come to every race that I can?"

"Because I pay for you to?"

You roll your eyes at that, crossing your arms, "I mean, yeah, but that's not the sentiment I was going for!"

He laughs, giving your shoulder a little playful tap. "I know, I know."

You sigh deeply, the sweet silence settling between the two of your for a little while, before murmuring, "And I hope you remember after that tickle attack, when your face was red and you were nearly crying from laughing, I gave you the biggest hug of all time..."

Oscar's face warms at that as he leans a bit closer to you. "Yeah... Yeah, I remember. You wanna know why that moment was special to me?"

"Why?"

"Because that was the moment I realized that there are some people in my life that never truly will leave me. Even if I leave them. And you're one of the best of them. That was when I learned what family is."

You nod slowly, thinking about that for a few moments, before saying, "That's... so sweet. I like it."

Oscar smiles. "Me, too. I like it too. I'm so lucky to have a best friend like you."

"And I so lucky to have a best friend like you."

Oscar smiles at that, nodding, satisfied, before letting out a big yawn, reminding you if a sleepy cat, before folding his hands up into fists and rubbing his watery eyes.

And, as if it's contagious, you let your own yawn, a few moments later.

Oscar smiles, this time more sleepily at you, before slipping his arm over your shoulders and pulling you a little closer to himself. You flop your head to lean against his shoulder, and murmur, "Time for us both to get the much-needed rest our bodies are begging us for?"

"Mmm-hm. Yeah. Whatever you said," Oscar murmurs as he drifts off, the hint of a smile still lingering on his mostly relaxed face.

And you both drift off, surrounded by that perfect warmth and tranquility that feels just like home.

A little under a week later, you're sleeping against Oscar in a very similar position, feeling like you're just as at home in China than you are in Australia, simply because of the person you're resting against, when you're awakened by the painful claims, "I ship it, the mechanics ship it, the other teams' drivers ship it, the fans ship it. My God, even my mum ships it! Literally everyone can see you're mad in love except you and her!"

You stretch, your eyes fluttering open, and murmur before you're even sure it's Lando's unwanted yapping torturing your ears, "Landooo shut uppp..."

Oscar gives your shoulder a squeeze, groaning to Lando in his perfectly alert awake state (contrary to yours), "Look at that, Lando, you made her wake up!"

"Oh, yeah, 'cause you'd hate for her to stop sleeping against y-"

"Lando, stop, it's not like that."

"How come every time a girl and a guy are friends, everyone ships them? I think that's society's problem," you comment as you rub your tired eyes.

Lando snorts, saying, "It's not every time. You guys are just obvious. And oblivious. You just need to admit it to each other."

"There's nothing to admit to each other, Lando," Oscar comments as he watches you slowly lean off of him, slipping his arm off your shoulders.

"Yeah, we're, like, brother and sister."

"Well, I wouldn't say that-" Oscar begins quickly.

"I mean, yeah, like-"

"We're more like just really close friends," Oscar finishes confidently.

"Yes, that's true, I agree," you say quickly, looking up at him. "We're family, but not brother and sister."

"Ah, so you're family, but it's not like siblings. What else could you be other than mad in love but just too dense to realize it?" Lando asks.

You just glare, crossing your arms, and Oscar comments, "I don't know, but it's not like that."

"Maybe it's just not like that simply because you both refuse to admit what you really want."

"Lando, I don't need you of all people being my psychologist. Could you just leave it?" you comment, feeling Oscar's eyes watching you.

Lando sighs (overdramatically), shrugs, and says, "Suit yourself. I'm just saying, you guys have got to get together soon, or else you'll drive yourselves and everyone else insane. We can all tell you guys just need to kiss already." And with that, he once again struts away.

As soon as he's gone, you whine, leaning your head into Oscar's shoulder, "I hate Lando!"

"Don't say that. He's just kidding," Oscar says gently.

You sigh. "I know... it's just..."

"Hm?" Oscar prompts gently.

"I don't want people thinking something that's not true."

"Who cares what they think? We both know how we feel about each other, and that's all that matters." But do we? Oscar's brain echoes.

"Yeah, you're right," you murmur, nodding, comforted by his words, not even picking up the way he stares forward, eyebrows knitted together, deep in thought.

You've heard what you think you want to hear, and that's all that matters to you.

The moment you see Oscar after his podium, after he stood on the first step, winning such a solid race as that, you run into his arms, causing him to laugh as he hugs you back, saying, "Hey, Y/n."

"I'm so proud of you!" you say excitedly. "Amazing drive- amazing!"

"Thank you, Y/n. It means a lot. I'm so happy you were here to cheer me on."

You grin up at him. "Me, too, Oscar. Me too."

He celebrated with his team after the race, you staying in your hotel, since Oscar promised you he'd like to bring you home with him to Monaco, and have a more low key celebration, without as many people. Besides, you'd like it that way better anyway. And this way, you can get some extra sleep and try to avoid some of the jet lag from the long flight to Monaco.

Now you stand in Oscar's bathroom back in Monaco, gazing at yourself in the mirror in your white crop top and silver skirt, knowing that when you step out of the bathroom, all you need is for Oscar to tell you it looks nice, and then all your worries will vanish.

And once you do, of course, he stands up from the living couch and says, "You look really pretty. Ready to go?"

You smile softly, sighing in relief, and nod. "Yes. I'm ready to go celebrate with the winner of the 2025 Chinese Grand Prix." You laugh a bit, and add as you head out to the car, "Oscar, you know I'm so incredibly proud of you."

He grins. "I know, I know." You know he loves your lavishing, even if he wouldn't admit it. He's never gotten enough of it; you're one of the people that appreciate him the most, you think, at least. You appreciate him a whole lot, anyways.

Soon you get to your destination, and the night starts off really fun, you and Oscar just sticking with each other, laughing, singing, drinking, and dancing. But after too long, the air becomes stale, the noise becomes too loud, and the drinks turn bitter. You're tired, and Oscar's off somewhere, swept away with his other friends. You sigh deeply, leaning against the wall, running a hand through your hair.

It's then that you feel a hand on your shoulder, and it makes you flinch. It's unfamiliar.

It's not Oscar's hand.

You look up to see a man around your age with tangled overgrown curly brown hair and dark, cold eyes. He's wearing a gold chain around his neck and a football jersey. It's then that he shows you his unflattering smirk and says in a thick French accent, "I'm Jordan."

You just kind of nod, showing a fake smile and crossing your arms, not really in the mood for any antics with any strange guys.

His eyebrows raise as he says, "Do you have a name, or am I going to have to give you one?"

Your lip immediately curls up as you look at him from the corner of your eye, still not tilting your face directly towards him. "You're not smooth. My name is Y/n."

"Pretty name for a pretty girl. A sassy girl, too, at that. I like that."

You bite your lip, rolling your eyes in utter annoyance at this guy 'Jordan.' "Good for you..." you murmur, trying to send him the message that you really don't want to talk with him.

Jordan just hums and steps closer to you. You glance up at him for the first time, really, feeling a bit sick from how close he is to you. You murmur awkwardly, "Could you please step away?"

"No, I don't think I will. I'm enjoying your reaction too much."

"Please, stop."

He roughly grabs your chin, forcing you to look him in the eyes. You swallow deeply.

"I really like your skirt..." he purrs, leaning in closer to you, completely ignoring your protests. His hand slips onto your thigh and grips it tightly.

"Stop... I don't care-"

"You don't, don't you? Well, what a shame... I reckon there's not much you can do about that..."

"St-"

He lips meet yours in a nasty, rough kiss. Your head pounds and spins as your knees begin to shake, panic of what's happening sinking in, your thoughts raging with anxious thoughts at the same time as your head being completely empty. You push at his chest, but he pushes his whole body up against yours, pinning you to the wall, further into a shadow.

You gasp, the panic sinking in deeper, and hardly register what happens next.

Oscar's familiar voice in all the chaos says in one of the angriest, coldest tones you've ever heard from his mouth, "Get your fucking nasty hands away from her."

Jordan tears his lips away from your mouth as Oscar grabs him, Jordan turning his head to look behind him, but before he has a chance to react, you watch as a fist comes flying across and hits him square across the face. He stumbles back and as blood begins gushing from his nose. For a moment, his eyes meet yours in shock, as if he expects you to help a dog like him, but it's then that you watch Oscar grab him by the collar and murmur in the darkest of tones to him, "I told you to get your nasty hands away from her, and you didn't. That's my girl, and no one dares to touch her like that. You better not think you can go on like this, and I hope this can be a reminder for you not to." And with that, Oscar throws another punch, hitting the guy in his eye. You slowly slip down the wall, still watching in shock as Oscar finishes him off by handing one more punch to him on his bloody jaw, before letting go of his collar, letting him fall to the floor, finishing with a yell, "The pain you're feeling right now is nothing compared to the pain you deserve!"

You watch as Jordan scampers up and, just like that, without even considering a fight, stumbles off, out of sight.

And then, everything hushed, Oscar turns, and his eyes meet yours. His hair is a little sweaty and messed up, falling over his forehead. For a moment, you see that remaining burning anger, but as soon as he takes you in, that vanishes, and is replace by the familiar warmth he seems to always look at you with.

And the moment your eyes lock, the tears start coming, and you break down.

Oscar is immediately by your side, pulling you into his arms, sitting on the floor next to you and holding you in his lap, gently stroking your hair. After a while, you hiccup, slowly leaning away, your body still shaking, and murmur, mopping up your eyes with your hands, "Os- Oscar... That was scary. I'm scared."

He gently takes your hand. "You don't have to be. I'm here. Are you ready to go home?"

You nod slowly, and Oscar helps you up, leading you out back to his car, his arm around your back protectively the entire time.

Once back in the car, as the events of what just happened replay through your head, you hiccup, more tears threatening to flow. Oscar gently takes your hand, murmuring in the dark of the parked car, "Tell me what I can do for you, and I'll do it. I hope you know I'll do anything for you to feel better."

You sigh shakily and just lean into him. He wraps his arms around you, holding you for a few minutes, before you lean away again and murmur, "Let's just get home..."

Oscar nods. "Good idea." He turns the car on and begins driving, and as soon as he does holds his hand that he's not using to drive out to you. You put your hand in his, letting the warmth from it fill you and comfort you.

As he drives, you suddenly say in the empty silence, "'That's my girl.' That's what you said."

Oscar just nods a little. "I know. I did mean to say that, you know."

You swallow, thinking for a few moments, before murmuring the simple question, "Why?"

"Because you've always been mine and I've always been yours, haven't I?"

You swallow. "I don't know what that means."

"Forget what it means. You're the most important girl- the most important person- to me. You're my girl, and I'm not going to let anyone be messing with you."

That feels right to you, and good to you, to hear that. And you're glad, in a way, that he's so confidently figured that out. It frees you to say back, "Well, yeah, then... I guess that makes you my boy, then..."

Oscar smiles very softly, giving your hand a little squeeze as you arrive at his home. Once you're both inside, before you have a chance to start worrying, Oscar says gently, putting a hand on your shoulder, "I want you to be comfortable. What do you need? I could get you something to eat, run a bath for you, get a change of clothes, all three, whatever else you need-"

"Oh, uh, don't worry about it-"

"Hush," Oscar suddenly interrupts, shaking his head. He moves to stand right in front of you, before gazing down into your eyes, and saying in all sincerity, "Look, I want you to be honest. I want to take care of you if that's what you need. I want you to be comfortable."

You swallow, nodding a bit, before murmuring, "A bath and a change of clothes might be nice... I'm not hungry, though."

Oscar nods, putting his hand on your back, leading you to his room. He opens his closet and says, "You can wear whatever you can find. I'm going to go run that bath for you; I'll call you when it's ready. I'll get a towel for you in the bathroom, too."

You nod, find one of his bigger McLaren T-shirts and a pair of black sweatpants, and head to the bathroom just as Oscar is calling for you.

Oscar smiles at you gently when you walk in and say simply, "Anything else you need?"

You shake your head 'no,' saying, "Thank you."

He nods. "Of course. I'll just be in the living room, you can come there when you're done. Call me if you need anything. And take your time, too."

You smile weakly, nodding. "Alright. Thanks, Osc."

He nods, leaving you to have your bath. You peel off your clothes and sink into the water, feeling its warmth surround you like an embrace. You let out a long sigh of relief as the water touches your sore, tense muscles, soothing them. After the night you've had, it feels good to just be. To just experience something genuinely good and calming, knowing Oscar is just in the next room.

Oscar. The way he stood up for you, was so protective of you, and beyond that, has been taking such good care of you... You know Oscar a good man... He was always a really sweet boy, and he's grown up to be a really very upright and sweet man. It was crazy- crazy- to see him go off on that stranger, and beat him up the way he did.

But somehow, it felt right. It was just proving he's good. That he cares so much about and for you, he won't let anyone hurt you without knowing the consequences of it from him.

How much does he really care about me?

The question almost feels good to ask, because you have a feeling the answer is one you like.

And then the way he so confidently called you his girl.

'That's my girl.'

Just looking back on it, for some reason, it makes your heart skip a beat. It's that chest-tightening nervous affectionate feeling you get often when Oscar does or says little things. Although this time, it's not little, and every new thing he does seems to make your stomach flutter a little more. It's a familiar feeling that you're sure you've gotten hundreds of times before with Oscar, but for some reason, you're only realising it now. Why, you have no idea, and what the strange feelings could mean, you have even less of an idea.

Soon, you finish your bath, and after drying yourself put on Oscar soft, comfortable clothes, no matter how over sized they are on you. Besides, you don't care in the slightest about that as soon as you inhale his familiar, comforting scent when you put them on. You go to the living room and see Oscar laying on the couch on his phone, now in a T-shirt and sweatpants, just relaxing. As soon as you walk in, though, he looks up.

"Osc...? Do you have a brush I could use for my hair?"

He nods, hopping up from the couch, and says, "Yeah, I do. Wait here, I'll be right back. Just get yourself comfy."

He leaves, and you shrug, taking his advice, and curl up on the couch, waiting for him to come back. He takes longer than you expect him to, but soon enough, he walks back in and sits next to you, saying, "Why don't you just relax, and I can brush it for you?"

"Seriously? You don't have to," you say immediately, secretly wanting badly for him to brush your hair for you. You love the feeling of other people playing with your hair- and if it's Oscar, even better.

He smiles at you. "I know, but I want to." And with that, to both of your delight apparently, begins gently brushing through your hair. When he's done, he slowly start running his fingers through it, starting from the bottom and going up to the top. You sigh, leaning back into him, and Oscar just simply loves it. After a while he says, softly amused, "You just seem to melt when my hands are in your hair."

You shrug, smiling a little, and say, "What can I say? It feels really good."

He chuckles that low comforting chuckle that feels just like home. "I can tell." After a few more minutes he says, "I found a hair tie I think you must've left here at one point. Do want me to braid your hair or something?"

You smile, glancing back at him, and say, "You can do that? I don't know if I can trust you."

He just smiles back at you. "You should. I'm good at it. Remember, I grew up with three sisters."

You shrug again before saying, "Well, alright..."

He chuckles softly again, before he gently begins braiding your hair, his fingers gently weaving through your locks, slowly, until he finally finishes and ties it on the end. Once he's finished, you turn around to face him.

He smiles at you.

You smile back, taking his hands in both of yours.

"You're beautiful," he suddenly says, looking right into your eyes. "I don't think I've told you that enough. Because I think it all the time, whenever I look at you."

For some reason, your friend saying that makes you blush. There are a few moments of silence, before you look down at your joined hands and murmur, "Crazy that the hands that beat up that guy are the same hands that just gently braided my hair."

Oscar shrugs, smiling a little. "They have different uses in different moments. And I don't regret what I did for a moment, not any of it. I would do the exact same thing if I had to do it all again. In fact, just thinking about it makes me really angry. But what matters most is that you're okay."

You sigh slowly, nodding, your head a bit dizzy at the thought of it all. "I'm just so thankful for you, throughout it all. You, like, saved the day..." you chuckle wryly.

He shrugs, nodding a bit. "I guess." A little laugh.

More silence.

You stare down once more at your joined hands. "But Oscar..." you begin hesitantly.

"Yes?" he prompts gently.

"...I'm sorry."

"Y/n... for what? You did nothing wrong-!" Oscar begins somewhat incredulously.

"It's just... You were celebrating your win..."

"Oh, Y/n..." Oscar begins, his tone softening. "Come on, now. Look up at me, will you?"

You sigh, doing so.

"It's not your fault, what happened," Oscar says. "It's that idiot's fault, and we both know that. What happened happened, and there was no preventing it. And if you're worried about me, don't be. I had a perfectly good time celebrating in China with my team. This was more that I wanted to do something with you, for you. But look at this right now. Here we are, sitting together, anyway. Isn't that what matters the most anyway; isn't that the point? So why don't we just make the most of this moment, right now, hm?"

You sigh again, nodding slowly, before saying, you heart almost feeling like it's being squeezed, "Okay."

"Hey," Oscar murmurs, his hand touching the bottom of your chin. "You're looking down again. Talk to me." He gently raises your chin.

You swallow, and suddenly, words that you hardly knew you even thought start coming from your mouth, and only now as you hear them in your voice do they even begin to make sense: "I guess it's just that... You're so caring and gentle with me, and protective. And we like each other so much and get along so well and we've known each other for years and... I guess sometimes I wonder about us... You know, our relationship, like, what even is it? I mean, I think we'd both readily admit we most definitely love each other, but I guess... well, I don't know..."

Oscar nods slowly, before whispering, as if it's some long kept secret, "You guess you just wonder in what way we love each other?"

You swallow, nodding. "Well, yes, exactly. Because... well, I don't know."

"Can I tell you how I feel about you?"

You study his face for a few moments- his handsome face- and nod.

"I feel about you the most deep feeling I've ever known, deeper than I ever thought I could experience. The love I have for you is beyond anything I could describe in a physical sense- it's beyond a romantic love or and family love or the strongest kind of named love I could think of. All I know is that when I look at you, I see fulfillment, and happiness. I see everything I've ever needed, plus everything I've ever wanted. I see a priceless jewel- the sort of thing that anyone would honor and protect with their life. I see beauty herself, on the inside and out. I see my best friend, my favorite person, the one I would spend any and every moment with, if I could. I see comfort, I see love. I look at you and know the great lengths I would go for you. I know it's all so cliche, but it is a love beyond words. It is. I just..." he trails off, before leaning in and whispering, "Are you crying?"

You sniff, looking away, your heart pounding. "No..."

He smiles gently, his hand leaving yours to reach up and wipe a tear away off your cheek with his thumb, "Don't cry."

"That's just so... sweet... and... everything I exactly feel, too, put into words..."

"Y/n..." he hums gently with a little chuckle. "I don't want you to cry, though."

"Don't worry," you say with a little hiccupy laugh. "They're good tears."

He smiles a bit, grabbing your hand again and giving it a squeeze. "Okay."

You swallow, before daring to ask, "What would the difference be, if you were my boyfriend instead of my best friend?"

Oscar eyes seem to light slightly at the question, and he says simply, "Nothing at all, except for one thing: we would be able to express that deep love for each other in different ways."

You nod slowly, swallowing.

Oscar leans in closer to you. "How does that sound to you?"

"I... I think it could be just what I need."

Oscar smiles softly. "I mean, I feel like... it would be nice to not just have to use my words to tell you how much I love you. You know, to be able to kiss you, or something, instead."

You find yourself smile a little at the words, nodding as pinkness gets to your cheeks. "Yeah... that doesn't sound so bad."

Oscar smiles, just gazing into your eyes. "Yeah?"

"It's just that... with tonight, with what happened..."

"Oh, I wasn't meaning we had to do anything tonight- just to think about. You know...?"

You nod slowly, before muttering, "But maybe... Just maybe tonight is the night to do it." You pause, before continuing, "You know, with all that happened, maybe if we just decided... tonight, let's just take a little step... it would help me to leave that. You know, it wasn't my fault... and I have someone who really does love me."

Oscar smiles. "And I really do."

You smile back, looking back up into his sweet brown eyes.

He slips his hand out of yours and gently brings it to your cheek, muttering, "Well, is it okay if I kiss you? Just a little kiss?"

You smile wider, feeling your stomach flutter at the sincere question. Nodding, you reply, "Yes, I reckon that is okay."

Oscar nods, his thumb stroking your cheek a bit as he leans in, his other hand gently touching your waist. His hand on your cheek shifts to cup the side of your neck, and he whispers, his warm breath on your ear, "You still okay?"

You nod.

And with that, he leans in, and, pulling you closer to himself, kisses you in the most perfect way. His adoration and love for you flows through the kiss, while still keeping it short and gentle. When he leans away, he whispers, "How was that?" with a little adorable smile.

You just sigh shakily and murmur, "I think you should do it again."

And he does without a second more of hesitation. His lips meet yours as he pulls your body closer to himself, lost in the kiss, lost in his emotions. When he pulls away again, he's pulled you onto his lap, but neither of you seem to care, both too swept up in each other's gazing eyes.

"I didn't realize for how long I needed to do that..." he whispers gently.

You smile a little. "I didn't realize how long I needed that from you."

He smiles back. "We'll call that both of our first kisses, okay?"

You nod. "Does this mean I'm your girlfriend now?"

"I like the sound of that."

You smile and throw your arms around him in an embrace. He pulls you closer to him, leaning back so that you can lay your head on him, and rubs your back, whispering, "I love you so much, Y/n. So, so much. To the moon and the stars and all the way back."

You smile up at him. "I don't know about the moon and the stars for me Oscar, but I'll tell you this: I love you enough to want to spend my life with you. I love you enough to want to grow old with you."

At those words, Oscar's arms tighten around you, and he chuckles, "See how sappy we suddenly get as soon as we decide to just give it up and kiss? My God."

You grin into his chest. "Yeahhh... But I don't mind it."

"Oh, trust me, I don't either." He shifts, moving you with him, making you both comfortable, so that you're laying together, cuddling.

"I really like this."

He hums. "Me too."

"You know we'll never hear the end of it from Lando if he finds out."

You feel the vibration of his laugh in his chest. "I guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, let's just relax. I just want to be. Be with you."

"I think that sounds like exactly what I was made for. To be with you."

He smiles, and you shut your eyes, content to listen to his heartbeat and just be.

Just be with him.

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

I love that you are writing for Dr. Abbott! 🩵

Can I pretty please request him with a younger reader like mid 20’s (or just the general idea of an age gap because I love me an old man) where he finds out he’s her emergency contact. He’s obviously older & he thinks she should pick someone her age instead in case something happens to him but he’s the only one she wants in every part of her life and reassures him. I hope that makes sense & isn’t too lame!

Not lame!! Loves an older man!!! They can be so sexyyyyy!!

Listed

Pairing: Dr Jack Abbott x MedStudent!Reader

Summary: Dr. Jack Abbott isn’t a man who lets his guard down easily. He’s precise. Composed. Rational. But when he finds out you — bright, mid-20s, and entirely too stubborn for your own good — listed him as your emergency contact, something in him unravels. Not because he doesn’t care. But because he cares too much.

He didn’t mean to see it.

You left your chart open on the counter when you got called away to Imaging, and Jack just needed the last lab values to sign off on your pre-op clearance.

He scrolled. Found what he needed. And then his eyes caught on something else.

Emergency Contact: Dr. Jack Abbott Relationship: Personal

His brow furrowed. Personal. Not “supervisor.” Not “colleague.” Just… personal.

He didn’t say anything right away. Didn’t bring it up that day, or the next, or even the one after that. But it stuck.

Because he knew he was older. Knew people talked. Knew that in some ways, he’d always have a foot out of the world you were still building for yourself. And part of him had convinced himself that was good. Safe.

But seeing his name there, in black and white, in a space reserved for the one person you trust when everything goes wrong—It scared the hell out of him.

He finally brought it up when you were sitting in his office after hours, half-eaten takeout between you, the city lights bleeding through the window.

You were cross-legged in his chair, scrolling through your phone and humming under your breath when he said, quietly—

“You should change your emergency contact.”

You blinked. “What?”

He kept his eyes on the food. “I saw it. On your chart. The other day.”

You tilted your head. “Okay… and?”

“I just think,” he said, voice too even, too careful, “you should pick someone closer to your age. Someone who’ll be around for a long time. Just in case.”

You stared at him. Slowly put your phone down.

“Jack.”

“I’m not saying it to be dramatic—”

“No, you’re saying it because you’re afraid,” you said, soft but sure. “That you’re not enough. Or not right. Because of the age difference. Because you think I should want someone who can run a marathon with me or go to brunch with my college friends.”

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t look at you.

You stood up, walked around the desk, and sat on the edge in front of him. Your voice was quieter now.

“You’re the one I call when I have a bad day. When I’m scared. When I don’t know if I can do this.”

He looked up at that, meeting your eyes.

You shrugged, small and honest. “Why wouldn’t I want the person I love to be the one who’s called if something happens to me?” The word love hit him like a sucker punch.

“I don’t care how old you are, Jack,” you said. “I care that you’re you.”

He swallowed. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yeah,” you said gently. “It is.”

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling like he’d been holding it in for days. Maybe he had.

You slid your hand into his, thumb brushing his knuckles. “You’re not temporary, Jack. You’re not just the for now part of my life. You’re the forever part.”

Silence.

Then—“I’m not going to live forever,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“No one does,” you replied. “But you’re here now. And that’s who I want.”

He looked at you for a long time after that. Like he was trying to find the cracks in your certainty. But there weren’t any. There never had been.

And finally, quietly—He squeezed your hand and didn’t let go.

[restwellsoon]

Know Me Too Well

Minors and ageless blogs DNI! You will be blocked!

Pairing: Caleb x F!Reader

Summary: It’s only natural that you tell Caleb everything. You’re best friends after all. So it’s no surprise that you come to him for advice about your college crush. What is surprising is that you ask him for a personal request.

/ “So let me set the scene,” you started, ready to get on with your request. “We’re at a party after our exams. We’ve had a few drinks.”

“A few drinks?” Caleb scoffed. “You can’t give proper consent if you’ve had a few drinks.”

You shot him a look, knowing all of the college parties he’d gone to and all of the bar hopping he’d done since joining the DAA. “What are you? My guardian?” You snapped, poking an index finger into his chest.

“Yeah, your guardian angel. Anyway–go on.”

“We’ve had a few drinks but are both clear-minded enough to give enthusiastic consent. I take us to a more secluded spot to talk one-on-one, like a bedroom or an empty corner. And then… and then I kiss you.”

Warnings: power dynamics, dom/sub undertones, praise kink, smut, oral (F! receiving), multiple orgasms, unsafe sex, creampie, jealousy, possessive sex, gratuitous use of the nickname ‘pipsqueak’, background mentions of fake dating and past sexual experiences

Caleb’s blood pressure rose with each tick of the clock and with every word you said. As the excitement of staying at his apartment in Skyhaven for the weekend wore off, you found yourself opening up about your hopes and worries in university. Your biggest concern? Hooking up with some guy you met in your Advanced Hunters course.

The mattress squeaked under your weight as you inched closer to Caleb on his bed, hugging a pillow as you patiently waited for his answer. He flipped through the channels on the TV, lazily lifting the bottom of his shirt to scratch his stomach. Your eyes lingered where his hand laid, just past his hip and half-dug into his sweats to keep his fingertips warm.

“Is it really a good idea to get involved with someone when you’re so close to graduating?” He finally asked, his eyes drifting from the screen to yours.

His question drowned out the sound of whatever reality TV show he put on as embarrassment crept up your neck. Caleb was right.

But still, you argued back anyway not wanting to admit that just yet. “It’s not like it’s anything serious,” you told him. “It’s just a crush.”

Surprised by your nonchalant attitude, Caleb turned on his side to look at you, bending his arm so his hand cradled his face. His free hand poked your knee before settling there as he spoke. “Isn’t it serious if you’re bringing him up to me?”

The afternoon sun peaked brightly through the blinds, and you used it as an excuse to look away from him. It was difficult to ignore him completely though as he squiggled random shapes onto your skin. 

“Well, there’s another reason why…” You gave the pillow a squeeze for reassurance. “It’s been a while since I… and well–I uh, was wondering if you could… helpmepracticeprettyplease?”

Getting what you were hinting at, his voice grew sharp. “Why aren’t you asking your little gal pals for advice?”

Turning the pillow sideways across your lap, it kept his hand steady on your knee. His fingers twitched, a tell of his annoyance, as they scraped the edge of your skirt hem.

“Well, yeah, I did, but you’re the one who always tells me to come to you first if I need help.” You knew you were being bratty, but you didn’t care, knowing that this was one of the quickest ways to get whatever you wanted. “If you don’t wanna show me, then you could just say no!”

He pursed his lips, half-charmed and half-annoyed by your antics. You both knew that he couldn’t resist giving into your wants. But still, the thought of some dweeb touching you pissed him off. But he had a few tricks for turning the situation in his favor.

Hiding his eagerness with reluctance, he answered. “Fine, we can practice together.”

You gave him an incredulous ‘What?!’ pulling back from his touch so you could throw the pillow at his face, but Caleb used his Evol and set it down beside him.

“What?” He taunted. “Changed your mind?”

“No!” You hurriedly exclaimed trying to think of some dumb excuse. “I just thought that you’d protest a bit more.”

It was already a given that your request would irk him. You thought of all the ways that Caleb would try to hide how pissed off he was–from the mildest reaction of saying no without any elaboration to something more extreme like demanding to know everything about your crush in question. In every scenario, there would be some push and pull, some fight that you mentally prepared yourself for. It almost felt anti-climatic to have him readily agree. 

He grinned, using his strength to pull you on top of him. You shivered as you made contact with an exposed bit of skin, his abs flexing against your center, the only thing separating you was some flimsy cloth. “Good. I’m telling you though, this is gonna be way more intense than–”

Before Caleb could mention the last time you practiced this with each other, you cut him off.

“It was only intense because we practically spent the year apart,” you lied, tucking some hair behind your ear and averting your gaze. You were still flustered about it even though it’d been a while since it happened.

Nodding, Caleb gave you a cocky and half-convinced smile. “Sure, pipsqueak, if that’s what you wanna say.”

“So let me set the scene,” you started, ready to get on with your request. “We’re at a party after our exams. We’ve had a few drinks.”

“A few drinks?” Caleb scoffed. “You can’t give proper consent if you’ve had a few drinks.”

You shot him a look, knowing all of the college parties he’d gone to and all of the bar hopping he’d done since joining the DAA. “What are you? My guardian?” You snapped, poking an index finger into his chest.

“Yeah, your guardian angel. Anyway–go on.”

“We’ve had a few drinks but are both clear-minded enough to give enthusiastic consent. I take us to a more secluded spot to talk one-on-one, like a bedroom or an empty corner. And then… and then I kiss you.”

As you leaned down and closed your eyes, Caleb’s laughter prompted them to open quickly. Your cheeks flushed as you tried to figure out why he was laughing.

“I doubt any guy would refuse ya pip-squeak, but you gotta be smoother than that.”

Your tongue clicked. “See! This is what I’m talking about. The girls said that being bold would be enough. But–well, what do you think, Caleb?”

Propping himself up, he grabbed your hips, making sure you wouldn’t fall. Your skirt hiked up, the result of Caleb’s shifting and your own. His hands were just as big as you remembered them, though rougher from what you could recall. Caleb did say that he switched up his gym routine. His calloused palms were probably from that. You swallowed, waiting for his answer but found him looking into your eyes.

His fingers tapped on your side, giving his home some command that you couldn’t see. The TV buzzed off as music filled the room. It was loud enough to drown out any awkwardness as you continued to stare at each other.

He was looking at you with those eyes again, the violet melting into something soft–like the sunset before the night came in or maybe the sky as the sun rose. Even though this was practice, the thought of him looking at someone else this way made you sick. 

“Caleb, what’re you…?” You asked softly, hands planted gently on his stomach as you felt his even breath, slow beneath your touch. You wanted to do something–lean into his chest, stir in your seat, run your hands through his hair, anything–but you were afraid of ruining whatever spell you both were under. What if you both woke up?

Finally his eyes broke away, crinkling into a twilight sky as he smiled. “Making you fall for me.”

Your lips fell into a muted ‘oh’ into his chest. Caleb swore the next time you said it, it wouldn’t be as quiet.

Following the rhythm of the song, Caleb traced its lyrics into your skin, his nails lulling your senses until you found yourself drifting towards him. You couldn’t blame his Evol either. You’d always been drawn to Caleb in some way, and as you grew older, it was easier to give up on finding reasons why and accepting whatever this was.

His hand left your side to trace the soft curve of your cheek, his thumb brushing against your lip to smear your balm in a straight line down your chin, stopping just short of your shirt’s neckline. Caleb always called your name so sweetly, and this instance wasn’t any different. “You have to take control of the situation if you wanna get what you want.”

Dark lashes fluttered, lifting from their gaze on your neck back up to your eyes. You were caught in his stare, a trap you willingly walked into. “So what do you want?”

Biting your lip, you wondered if it was okay to tell the truth. He tilted his chin up expectantly. “Caleb, I wanna kiss you.”

Instead of that easy and reassuring smile he often gave you, this look was darker, backed by self-satisfaction and want.

“Then kiss me.”

Even if your breath caught in your throat, Caleb knew how to draw it back out, breathing life into you then taking it as your vision went from darkness to stars while you kissed. You felt heavy, dragged down into his orbit as you pressed your lips together, before one tongue pried the other’s mouth open, running along teeth before finding what it wanted.

Hands found their way onto Caleb’s chest, his neck, his hair as your bodies pushed into each other, slow friction heightened by the clothes that laid in your way. He had difficulty choosing between your tits or your ass, his hand finding a halfway point on the small of your back. Finally, he decided on your ass, large hands cupping your perfect flesh in his palms. Using his grip, he controlled the way you grinded against him. He was rougher, hips meeting yours as he squeezed. His cock was stiff in his sweatpants, and you used his length as a guide for your movement. He whimpered into your mouth.

Soon enough, your clothes proved to be an obstacle to your desires. The kiss was temporarily broken as you pulled off your shirts, Caleb using his Evol to help slide off your skirt and his sweats. With a familiar hand, he unhooked your bra, tossing it on the floor with everything else.

With hungry eyes, he watched your nipples pebble from the cool air, biting at his lip. He wanted a taste.

Meeting his eyes would have proven too much. Instead you dragged your hand languidly from his shoulder down his chest, fingers dancing across his abs. They followed the rippled muscles before tracing the edge of his boxers.

Before you could get any further, he swallowed hard, catching your hand to pull you back to him. “What?” You asked coyly. “Caleb, you’ve always known how much I liked your body…”

“You’re such a tease,” he mumbled into your ear. Despite his submission, his actions were bold, his index finger inching forward, tracing the damp slit of your panties. “What were you planning to do next?”

You fumbled over your words as Caleb continued with that sliding motion. Burying your face into the crook of his neck, you tried to think straight. “Suck your dick,” you finally decided.

“Suck my dick or your crush’s?” He stopped his touch as he asked his question, the abruptness reminding you of your original request. He only gave you a smirk in return.

“Yours,” you huffed, a shiver going down your spine as you felt him apply pressure to your throbbing center. “Obviously.”

He clicked his tongue. “I thought I was helping you practice for your little crush. But now you’re thinking of blowing me?”

Running your fingers through his hair, you were certain that Caleb could feel the sudden heat on his neck as your cheeks flushed. Hopefully that would distract him. “I…” You trailed on lamely. 

He gave your ass a firm smack to get you out of your thoughts. “If he’s a man, he better go down on you first.” When you cocked your head at his comment, he continued, “What, pip-squeak? Don’t tell me you forgot how that feels…”

Of course you didn’t. How could you? You came to his room after the first few times you had sex, shyly asking if it was supposed to hurt. Caleb’s first reaction was concern, demanding to know who did that to you. Then it melted into disgust towards that fucker as he scoffed and mumbled something about the guy not deserving you if he couldn’t show his appreciation first. 

“No one’s ever licked your pussy?” The directness of his question embarrassed you further as you buried yourself in the covers, the top of your head shaking a sheepish ‘no.’

His chin rested on the top of your head, and he didn’t dare to take away the cover that blanketed your shame. His arms drew you close. “Can I show you then?” He whispered into your hair. “I promise I’ll make you feel good.”

The heat of his breath, his tongue on your clit, the kisses he sprinkled across your thighs–it was a memory you’d never forgotten, something you referred back to whenever you felt frustrated with your lack of imagination. 

“Um…” you mumbled into his chest, “yeah… I did.”

The laugh he let out was strained. “Oof, way to kill my ego.”

Then you felt the familiar tug of his Evol guide you into a different position, your pussy hovering over his face. “This time, I’ll make sure you won’t forget. Just hold onto the headboard if you feel like you’re losing balance.”

Your panties were a damp mess of cotton, the color changed to something darker. With how wet you were, the fabric clung to every curve, highlighting the cute little swollen nub of your clit. Weakening the force of his Evol, he hooked each arm around your thighs, drawing you to him.

“Caleb!” You yelped as you nearly sat on his face, his Evol working just enough to keep you hovering over his mouth. You reached for the headboard, gripping it in anticipation of what he’d do next.

The vibrations from his humming fanned hot air across your core, and you squirmed at the difference in temperature. His grip on your thighs didn’t let you move much though, thick biceps holding you in place. “I’m just admiring you,” he said from below, committing your cunt to memory.

Your knuckles grew white as they gripped the headboard. His tongue traced the outline of your pussy, and you swore under your breath about your panties. Everything was sensitive down there yet not–that stupid fabric was dulling your experience. You squirmed, hoping they’d get pushed aside or that Caleb would get the hint.

“Caleb, you…!” You gritted out as you heard him sniff. “Perv.” 

Your accusation didn’t phase him as he buried his nose in your cunt, sucking on the damp cloth. It twisted the fabric, and finally he used his fingers to brush it aside, dipping the tip of them into your hole as his tongue traced your clit.

It’d been so long since he had you like this, and just like last time, you were too shy, hovering over his face even though his Evol wasn’t activated.

“You can tell him to touch you like this,” he said, his voice slightly out of breath. Your sweetness dribbled onto his chin while he fingered you, tongue licking fat stripes against your tender bud. “But I’m certain it’ll just remind you of me.”

You scoffed at his cockiness until he found a special spot. Your walls squeezed around him and your whimpers weren’t restrained, a mixture of curses, moans, and his name. Caleb continued his assault until you finally gave in, riding his face until your wetness covered him.

You weren’t done with your orgasm when his Evol repositioned you again–this time on your back. “Are you–are you gonna fuck me now?” You asked through heavy breaths. He had his hands on either thigh to stop their trembling, leaving you spread so he could see the exact state he put you in.

Sucking the remnants of your desire from his fingers, your hips whined at your emptiness. Your gaze moved from his face to his cock, a dark spot on his boxers marking its neglect. “You want me to fuck you?” He asked. His hand lingered on its band. 

“Please,” you begged in your sweetest voice, shifting your hips to offer him a better view of your pretty little cunt.

“How will I know if he’s good or not if I can’t compare him to you?”

Caleb paused, a look of surprise crossing his face. He always worked so hard to uphold the image of a man in your eyes yet whenever you praised him for it, there was that strange feeling of disbelief. His chest swelled with pride even though pink flushed his cheeks. To you, Caleb was the gold standard that everyone else would be judged against. 

Letting out a low laugh, he shook his head, a hand running through his hair. “What am I going to do with you?”

Pleased that he gave in, you answered. “You’re gonna fuck me until I cum on your cock.”

He glanced back at his nightstand. “Fuck, I don’t have condoms.”

“So?”

“Safety first, pip-squeak. C’mon now…” He said seriously.

You tugged on his hand, dragging it towards your inner thigh. “Caleb, if it’s you, it’s fine. You’re the only one who gets to do that anyway.” 

The reminder was enough to dissipate any reservations. That pussy was his. You were his.

Impatiently, he dragged your legs towards him, resting your ankles on one broad shoulder. His hand pulled on your panties till they precariously hung off one foot. You kicked it off.

Caleb smirked at your hard swallow as he stripped, his cock bobbing against his stomach before he slotted himself between your legs. Even though you felt the sunshine from the window, goosebumps grew at every spot that Caleb’s eyes swept over, your racing heart a discordant beat against the slow, crooning background music. Finally, his gaze rested at your center, still lovely and wet–all for him.

Immediately, your hand went to your mouth to stifle your moan as Caleb teased his cock between your folds, gathering wetness across his length until it was glossy. He slapped the head against your clit, ruining your last attempts at being quiet.

“What’re you being shy for?” Caleb murmured into your ear as he eased his way into you. “I wanna hear you.” Your orgasm made you tight, but with a little push, his entire cock was sheathed. He smirked at your little yelp, no longer muffled by your hand.

Your nails scraped against his bedsheets before deciding his skin would be a better option. After, lines in varying shades of pink and red would mark his back.

“You’re so big,” you sighed, relieved that he gave you a moment to adjust to his size. “You might ruin other guys for me.”

His breath was hot in your ear as he peppered kisses along its outer shell. “Fuck,” he groaned, “you’re so hot. Does that mean you’ll come back to me and stay forever?”

“Should I?” Placing your hand on the back of his head, you pulled him down to plant a kiss on his lips. Caleb moved in long teasing strokes, grabbing one leg to wrap it around his waist and pull you close. “If I give you my answer right now though, I won’t be able to hear you beg.”

Shaking his head at your cruelty, deep down he knew your answer. Maybe he’d fuck it out of you some other time.

Turning his attention to your tits, he sucked on the right, rolling and pinching the left’s nipple with his other hand. Fingers carded through his hair, you sighed at all the attention, finding it difficult to focus on everything at once–his hot, wet mouth on your tits, the way your back arched when he pinched your nipples, the fullness you felt as he fucked you. His dog tag was warm from the heat between you, marking your ownership. Your toes curled as you felt another orgasm building up.

Shifting his hips and pushing your legs back, Caleb watched as his tip struggled to stay in, inevitably slipping out, pink, angry, and incredibly wet. The slight gape it left behind made him smile.

“Caleb!” You whined. “Fuck me, or else I’ll finish the job myself.” 

Your hand slid between your legs to prove your threat. There was something mesmerizing about your manicured nails rubbing one out before him. But Caleb couldn’t get distracted. He needed to fuck you in earnest.

Starting off with just half his length, his thrusts were shallow until your whining turned to begging ‘oh’s.

You knew he loved it when you called his name. If he wanted to hear you, then he’d hear you. His name drowned out the music.

“Atta girl,” he grunted, sweat making his bangs stick to his forehead as he focused. “You look so pretty when you rub your clit while I fuck you.”

His thrusts were harder, rougher, and you felt yourself getting closer.

“Right there,” you told him. “Fuck, Caleb, don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

Neither of you paid attention to the loud knocking on his shared walls. Heavy breathing and bed squeaking drowned out the next song.

“Can’t wait to fill you up with my cum,” he murmured, his breathing gone ragged. “Fuck, I just want you to be mine.”

Your lips pressed hard against his, open-mouthed and sloppy as you gave him your tongue. “I always have been,” you reminded him before kissing his neck. He smiled into your hair.

His pace was fast and sloppy, and you knew that he knew that you were cumming, that he could feel how tight you were, but it didn’t make him stop. Fighting against your grip, heavy balls slapped against your cheeks as he chased his own high. His release was as warm as his heart, filling you to the brim and spilling over. The noises were lewd as he gave you all of him until he couldn’t anymore.

Falling into your arms, he rolled you both over so you both laid on your side. You were tired enough to not mind the mess.

–

Reading the name that lit up his screen, Caleb answered the call immediately. With how busy the restaurant was, he could hardly hear your voice, plugging an ear to drown out the background noise. Gideon was the first to notice as a knowing smile graced his lips. Then it was Patrick.

“Tell your girlfriend we say hi!” You heard from the other line. You had to step outside to even hear anything, the house party you were at was full of laughter and music as everyone celebrated the end of the exam period.

“Everything okay?”

You leaned against one of the foyer walls, glancing back at the party where your alleged crush was looking for you. That drink he offered you was probably warm now. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”

He pursed his lips at your lie, giving you a moment to explain yourself.

“Hey Cal… I know it’s a long shot, but do you think you could pick me up from this party?”

Feeling for his aircraft’s keys in his pocket, he said yes without hesitation.

“Thanks. The party was fun, but I’d rather be with you.”

He knew what that meant for your little crush–no longer interested. He laughed softly. “Miss me already, honey? Send me your location. I’ll be there soon.”

Caleb’s line erupted into loud cheers, ‘ooh’s, and kissy noises. The location you sent him wasn’t too far from Coelum Station’s landing pad.

“I’ll be waiting, honey.”

Sliding his untouched beer mug over to Gideon, Caleb grabbed his stuff, ready to leave.

“Girlfriend needs you again?”

He smiled. “You know how it is. Well, boys, enjoy your night. I’m heading out.”

A/N: I really loved the fake dating trope introduced in Verified Rumor and how manipulative MC is overall when it comes to Caleb. If Caleb wasn't so pent up and full of yearning, I wouldn't be surprised if he or MC dropped a casual ‘Yeah, we used each other for sexual practice’ and tried to justify it using the most ridiculous logic lol.

What song do ya’ll think Caleb put on/ is on his sexy playlist for Reader? I was listening to “Pretty Boy” by The Neighborhood and “Fade Into You” by Mazzy Star while writing this (they have sexy apocalyptic vibes), but I just know our boy’s got Montell Fish, The Weeknd, and Artemas on there.

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[steveseddie]

kiss it better

written for the @steddiebingo get lucky mini event | prompt: there was only one bed | rating: t | wc: 2,9k | cw: blood mention | tags: different first meeting, post s3, injured eddie, steve takes care of him

read on ao3

Eddie doesn’t know what to do. 

He’s all roughed up and bleeding, his lip stings, and his head is pounding. 

He should’ve known that stopping for gas was a bad idea as soon as he saw Carver and his stupid friends kicking it at the gas station. Foolishly, he thought they wouldn’t notice him or try anything. 

Turns out he was wrong. 

They snuck up on him, cornering him against his van, all four of them.

And maybe if Eddie had kept his mouth shut, they would’ve been fine just stealing his stash but of fucking course Eddie didn’t. Instead, he ended up getting beaten up until the store clerk came out and scared them all off– Eddie included, because apparently he was ‘asking for it’. 

So now he’s driving around, wondering what to do because his uncle is home at night for once, and Eddie doesn’t want Wayne to see him like this. He can’t go to Jeff’s house either– their parents don’t like Eddie, and they’ll like him less if he gets blood on their carpet. The same goes for the other Hellfire guys, especially the kids. Their parents might not know Eddie yet, but showing up like this certainly won’t give them a great first impression. 

A thought occurs to him. A stupid thought. He remembers last week when Henderson crashed his bike, and the person who fixed his cuts and scrapes was no other than Steve Harrington. Apparently, the guy has experience patching people up, and even more surprising is the fact that he’s a nice guy with a soft spot for Eddie’s new sheepies. 

When Henderson told them the story, Eddie scoffed and laughed at the absurdity of it, but Wheeler and Sinclair quickly backed the kid up. Harrington showing up later that night to give all of them a ride further proved that they might’ve been telling the truth. 

That doesn’t mean Harrington won’t tell Eddie to fuck off if he shows up at his door asking for help, but it’s worth a try. Eddie can’t keep driving around Hawkins like this, not when he’s starting to feel dizzy. 

So he drives to Loch Nora, easily spotting Harrington’s house thanks to the familiar BMW parked out front. 

Over the years, he’s heard the rumors about Steve’s parents rarely being home, and as he walks up to the door and rings the doorbell, he hopes they’re all true. That it’s just Harrington in the house tonight. 

But after a couple of minutes, during which no one opens the door, Eddie starts to wonder if Harrington himself might not be home at all.

“Fucking figures,” Eddie mutters, turning on his heels, resigning himself to spending the night in his van, hoping that the new sheriff won’t find him and write him up. 

But just as he takes a step towards his van, the door opens behind him, and when he glances back, he finds a bleary-eyed Steve Harrington peeking through the opening. 

His eyes widen the moment he sees him and Eddie can’t help but notice that he also relaxes a little, like he was expecting something worse than the town’s freak knocking on his door in the middle of the night. 

“Munson?” He says, his eyebrows furrowing.

Eddie gives him a dorky salute. “Evening, Your Majesty!” 

“What are you doing here?” He asks, but then Eddie steps into the porch light, and he gasps. “Jesus, man. What happened to you?” 

“Fucking Carver and his fucking friends. They took my stash and beat me up.” Steve winces sympathetically, but Eddie can tell he’s still wondering why that led to Eddie showing up at his door. “Henderson mentioned that you fixed him up the other day, so I thought– I, uh–” He stops talking as he realizes just how dumb this is. Harrington and he aren’t friends, they don’t even know each other. He grimaces. “You know what? Nevermind, this was stupid, I’ll just fuck off. Night, Harrington.”

“Dude, wait!” He says, opening the door wider. Eddie gets a glimpse of a bat in his hand, and he can’t help but wonder exactly what Steve was expecting to find at his door. 

“You, uh– you’re gonna finish the job?” Eddie asks, staring pointedly at the bat, which he can tell now is covered in nails. What the fuck?

“What?” Harrington looks down at the bat. “Oh. Shit, man, no, I just– sorry, uh–” he trails off, simply setting the bat aside against the wall. “You don’t have to go.”

“No, I do,” Eddie says, tugging a lock of hair in front of his face, embarrassed. “You don’t owe me anything, we’re not even friends–”

“No, but you’re friends with Henderson, Wheeler, and Sinclair.”

“So you’ll help me for them?” Eddie asks quietly. 

Harrington shrugs. “Won’t be the worst thing I’ve done for those shitheads.” And before Eddie can ask what he means by that, he steps aside, holding the door open for Eddie. “Come in, man.”

Eddie steps over the threshold and hears the door click shut behind him. It’s not his first time here, but the house looks so much different without a party happening. Empty, sterile, cold. 

Harrington gestures at the staircase. “First aid kit is upstairs,” he says, and with a nod, Eddie follows him to the second floor and into his bedroom. This– this is new. Never in a million years did Eddie think he’d be in Steve Harrington’s bedroom. So while he looks for the first aid kit, Eddie walks around and snoops. 

He doesn’t find anything interesting. Harrington’s room is pretty boring actually– the plaid wallpaper, the sports magazines on the desk, the action movie posters over the bed. But then Eddie notices a cork board near the desk, and stuck to it there are pictures of Harrington with Eddie’s kids, as well as a few others– the redhead girl who recently moved across from his trailer, the Byers kid that went missing a few years ago, a girl with short curls that he’s never seen before, and a girl who Eddie guesses is Sinclair’s little sister. So the kiddos weren’t lying, Harrington does have a soft spot for them. Or maybe for nerds in general, Eddie thinks when he recognizes Robin Buckley from the marching band in a few pictures as well. 

Maybe that’s part of the reason why Harrington didn’t shut the door in his face. Eddie is a nerd, after all. 

“Found it,” Harrington says, heading to the bathroom and gesturing at Eddie to follow. He sets the first aid kit on the sink, rummaging through it. With a wince, Eddie hops onto the counter next to it.

“Dude, are you expecting an apocalypse or something?” He snorts, staring at the contents of the kit. He expected painkillers and some bandages, but Harrington has a fully stocked first aid kit. Eddie glances up from what he’s pretty sure is a suture kit to see Harrington’s nose scrunched up. 

“I tend to get beaten up a lot,” he mumbles. “I’m sure you’ve heard about that.”

Eddie has. He thinks back to Harrington getting beaten up by Byers, then by Hargrove, and then last summer by– actually, Eddie doesn’t know what happened that time. He just knows it had something to do with Starcourt burning down. 

“So you’re an expert?” He asks, legs dangling back and forth. That is, until Steve moves to stand between them. 

“Yup. You’re in good hands, Munson,” Steve says, playfully wiggling his fingers.

Eddie gulps, suddenly nervous about having Harrington’s hands on him. Maybe he should’ve thought this through. 

Steve probably notices his hesitation, and his hands pause halfway to his face. “This might sting a little, but I gotta clean up the cuts first.”

“Go for it, doc,” Eddie jokes, but his voice wavers a little. 

Harrington huffs out a little snort, the corner of his mouth ticking up for a second before his expression turns focused. He gently touches Eddie’s face with a strip of gauze and whatever he soaked it with makes Eddie flinch when it comes in contact with the cut above his eyebrow. 

“Sorry,” Steve says sympathetically. He dabs at the cut again, and even if he knows what’s coming, Eddie can’t help but inch back. “Dude, stay still,” he chastises, using his free hand to grab Eddie’s chin and keep his face in place. When he finishes with that cut, he moves on to the one on Eddie’s cheekbone. The whole time Eddie is holding his breath, not because it hurts but because Steve is touching him so gently, and it’s making his stomach flip flop nauseatingly. 

“Why did Carver beat you up?” Harrington asks, giving Eddie a short break while grabbing more gauze.

Eddie snorts. “Do jocks need a reason to beat up freaks?”

Steve’s lips purse. “Guess not.”

“I didn’t do anything, if that’s what you’re asking, uh–” He trails off momentarily as Steve grabs hold of his chin again and starts cleaning up the cut on his bottom lip. “I, uh, I might’ve insulted his dear mother, but that was only after he and his asshole friends cornered me.”

Steve’s lips stretch into a bemused smile. “It’s good that you fought them off when you did.”

Eddie throws his head back with a cackle. Steve hmphs and grips his chin more firmly, making his stomach do a backflip. “Bold of you to assume I could fight off four jocks on my own. I’m built like a fucking twig, man.”

Steve’s eyes dart down to Eddie’s bare arms in his cutoff shirt. “You’re not,” he mumbles before clearing his throat and averting his eyes, his cheeks pink under the bathroom light. “How did you uh, get away then?”

“Guy from the store scared them off,” Eddie mumbles as Steve cleans his last cut, the one on the bridge of his nose. He leaves the spot between his legs to get more supplies and Eddie finds himself looking down at Steve’s arms, big and strong with muscles rippling underneath his sleeping shirt. Steve could probably fight off four guys with those arms. 

Or not, he thinks when he remembers how many times he lost a fight in the last couple of years. Still, Eddie bets they could do some damage. At the very least, they could easily lift him. 

“I don’t think you need stitches,” Harrington says, snapping Eddie out of his thoughts. He tries to school his expression into one that doesn’t say he’s fantasizing about Steve lifting him into this very own sink. He really doesn’t need another jock punching him tonight. 

“That’s good news, Nurse Harrington.”

“Your face will probably bruise, though,” Steve says, grabbing some butterfly band-aids, applying them over the cuts.

Eddie grimaces. So much for Wayne not finding out.

“Does it hurt?”

“No, you’re good,” he says, gesturing at him to continue. “I, uh, I didn’t want my uncle to see me like this. That’s why I didn’t go home, he ain’t working tonight.”

“What were you gonna do if I didn’t open the door?”

Eddie shrugs, wincing a little when Steve applies the band-aids over the cut on his nose. “Sleep in my van, probably. Might do that anyway when you’re done patching me up, doc.”

Steve scrunches up his nose. Eddie gets hit by the urge to kiss it. “Yeah, no, you’re not. You can stay here. I didn’t go through the trouble of fixing you up so you can crash your van and die from a possible concussion,” he says, his hands settling on his hips. 

“What do you know about concussions, Harrington?” Eddie asks, trying to ignore the way his body tingles at the prospect of spending the night here.

“I’ve had like, three at this point, man,” Steve says with a snort. “So you’re staying?”

“If His Majesty insists,” Eddie says with a royal twist of his hand. 

Steve shakes his head amusedly and closes the lid on his first aid kit, which Eddie takes as a sign that they’re done here and hops down from the sink. 

“So which guest bedroom is mine?” Eddie asks, following Steve out of the bathroom.

He pauses and gives Eddie a sheepish look. “Oh, uh, actually there are no guest bedrooms.”

Eddie frowns. That doesn’t sound right. “What? But I heard Tommy Hagan brag about hooking up in every one of them during your parties.” 

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fucking Tommy,” he mutters. “Yeah, we used to have guest rooms but my parents turned them into a gym, an office, an art studio. Since they never have friends or family over.”

“So I guess I’ll take the couch?” Eddie asks. It looked comfortable enough from the glimpse he got before Steve led him upstairs. Better than the old one back at the trailer.

But Steve shakes his head. “No way, you just got the living shit beat out of you. I’m not making you sleep on a couch.” Before Eddie can ask where he’s making him sleep, he casually adds, “We can share my bed.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I’ll let you borrow some clothes to sleep.”

“What?”

Steve’s mouth twitches up and Eddie wonders if he’s messing with him, but then he walks over to his closet and starts rummaging through his clothes. “Do you prefer shorts or sweatpants?” He asks over his shoulder. 

The thought of wearing any clothes belonging to Steve leaves Eddie gaping like a fish. 

“Eddie?” Steve says when he doesn’t get an answer. “Uh, sweatpants are fine,” he stammers out. 

Soon, he’s holding in his hands one of Steve’s old Hawkins High shirts and a pair of sweatpants. He excuses himself to change in the bathroom– and takes advantage of the privacy to have a little freak out because he’s about to sleep in Steve Harrington’s bed wearing Steve Harrington’s clothes next to Steve Harrington. 

He wonders if Steve was right about him having a concussion, and if that could be causing hallucinations. That would make more sense than whatever is happening instead.

But concussion or not, Eddie figures he might as well roll with it.

He allows himself a sniff from Steve’s shirt that he’s wearing before he tells himself that he needs to be normal if he doesn’t want Steve to get weirded out and kick him off the bed.

But when he steps out of the bathroom, Steve is the one acting weird, by building some kind of pillow barrier in the middle of the bed. 

“Uh, I know you’ve probably heard the rumors about me, man, but you don’t have to do that, I won’t jump you in your sleep,” Eddie says, hanging a hand from his neck. 

Steve cocks his head, frowns and then when he realizes what Eddie is saying, he frantically shakes his head. “What– oh, no, dude, no– this isn’t for you, I’m not worried about that,” he says earnestly. “This is for me! I tend to move a lot and cuddle anyone I sleep with.”

Eddie relaxes a little. If Steve knows about him and he’s not throwing pillows at him, then maybe he’s cool with it, so he hesitantly gets on the bed– and even lets himself crack a joke. “And you don’t want to cuddle with me?” 

Thanks to the moonlight filtering through the curtains, Eddie sees Steve’s cheeks pink up. “I do, but uh, I just don’t want to hurt you.”

Eddie’s brain screeches to a halt. “Back the fuck up you– you do?”

“Uh, yeah,” he chuckles, brushing his hair back. “Who doesn’t love cuddling?”

“Straight guys sharing a bed with a gay dude,” Eddie says, blinking at him with owlish eyes. “That’s who.”

“Well,” Steve starts casually before upending Eddie’s whole world. “I’m not straight, so your point is moot.”

What in the ever loving fuck? 

“I think– I think you were right about the concussion,” Eddie mumbles dumbly. “I’m pretty sure I’m hallucinating right now.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You’re not. I mean it. Dudes are hot.”

A hysterical laugh tumbles from Eddie’s lips. “Yeah,” he says in a high-pitched tone, giving Steve a pointed once over. “I know.”

Steve’s lips stretch into a smirk. “Thanks, but I was talking about you.”

Eddie squeaks pathetically, and the only thing he can think to do is throw the covers over his head. 

Steve’s chuckles are muffled, but he still hears him down there. “Relax, Eddie, I won’t jump you,” he says, echoing his words. 

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie mumbles. “I, uh, wouldn’t mind.”

“What was that?”

Eddie removes the covers, his cheeks are burning and Steve can probably tell by how red they must be. “I said I wouldn’t mind.”

Something dark flashes across Steve’s face before he gets it under control. He reaches over the pillow barrier to brush his thumb gently over the cut on Eddie’s cheekbone. “Tell you what, if you make it through the night, I’ll do it.”

Excitement and anticipation bubble up in Eddie’s chest. With a feigned pout, he says, “You would deny a dying man his last wish, Stevie? That’s cruel.”

He snorts amusedly. “Let’s say I’m giving you an incentive to live.”

“How do I know it’s worth it?”

Just as he did in the bathroom, Steve grabs Eddie’s chin and uses his hold to pull him closer, over the mountain of pillows until he can press his lips against Eddie’s. 

He keeps the kiss short, sweet, and ends it with a swipe of his tongue over Eddie’s cut lip. It stings a little, but he doesn’t give a fuck. 

Eddie blinks dazedly at Steve, who is grinning smugly. 

“Now you know,” he says, and with a wink, he flops down on the bed. “Sleep, Munson. And don’t die.”

Eddie doubts he’ll me able to sleep after that, but he refuses to die before he has the chance to kiss Steve Harrington again– or before he can send Jason Carver a fucking thank you note. 

[acquelus-ussy]

Im thinking of...

Yandere!jock x wallflower!reader

Yandere!Jock is a fucking playboy, but you chose to ignore that. You've seen him do good things when his friends aren't around.

That's why you had a crush on him...

For a jock, he's pretty smart. He's a frat leader, a social butterfly, and would probably graduate with Latin honors. However, the only downside to him is that he can be a bully.

So, during the time you had a crush on him, he was the first to interact with you. But he wasn’t flirting or anything he was just asking if you were done with something.

And you being the wallflower that you are you blush you think to yourself

"is he really talking to me?"

And him, being the playboy jock, noticed the hue in your cheeks and decided to "play" with you.

"i can't believe you're blushing just because i talked to you wallflower haha cute"

It was a long time of banter between the two of you, and you thought there was something. But of course, reality strikes when a close friend of yours tells you his true intentions.

But...

Ever since you ignored our handsome jock over here He cant seem to get a hold of himself

He goes to nightclubs almost every night, trying to find a girl who looks like you, smells like you, and talks like you. But no matter how hard he tries, he knows he needs you.

The next day at school, you were in the library with a classmate, working on a school project, when he barged in. Oh yeah, he had been asking around if anyone had seen you it's not like he's in love or anything.

He pushes your classmate out of their chair and tells them to get lost. Then, grasping your arms, he looks at you and asks,

"Where the fuck have you been? We need to talk. I'm the most wanted man on campus, and you just ignore me like that? Doing that won’t make me give you more attention, you know."

"so what i don't fucking care i don't like you anymore"

Pang

What you said hurt him, but then again, why is he acting like this? A lot of girls love him and want to be with him, so what’s up with you? He knew you liked him but what the fuck happened?

Later that night... You wake up to glass shattering

Intruder?

A hand suddenly cups your mouth and you feel something hard on your back then you hear

"shh baby you got me all bricked~ up there's no use in fighting me i know how much of a fucking slut you are~"

The last thing you remember was passing out

You wake up to a soft, comfy bed but hold on… Why is there something heavy stopping you from moving? You turn your head and see him.

"You know, my love, a lot of girls dream about this… but you're the only one I want. I'm done being a player." He kisses you on the forehead.

"And also, don’t worry about school and your parents I called up some old buddies," he says, continuing to hug you like there's no tomorrow.

It sucks being a wallflower no one would look for you but don’t worry because he will~

---

This is probably the most longest fucking thing i wrote

[deadwtr]

CUTE k. sakusa

just love the idea of a man who’s different with you

mdni. fem!reader, no other warnings just fluff. based off prompt 21 on this post

content below cut

“isn’t he cute?”

her friend turned to look at her, their expression a mixture of confusion and surprise, mouth slightly agape as if ready to ask who—until their eyes followed her gaze.

“who?” despite being almost certain of the answer, her friend couldn’t help but want to give her the benefit of the doubt. their faze flickered from her soft smile to the figure she was standing at, across the gym, in the middle of a two on two.

her smile only grew, lips curling as she nodded subtly in his direction, her eyes soft with affection as she watched him move across the court—focused and intense.

“number fifteen, of course.”

her friend let out a laugh, rolling their eyes with a slight smirk. “i’m worried about you.”

she couldn’t help but let out a laugh.

“why?”

“you like a guy who’s perpetually grumpy 90% of the time.” they stated, tone mock-serious, turning their gaze back to her.

she shrugged, her eyes never leaving him as he jumped for a spike, effortlessly slamming the ball to the rear end of the other side the net. he was intense, features sharp, his focus laser-like.

a side of him she rarely saw off the court. a side of him she rarely ever saw with her.

“i guess…yeah,” she murmured, voice thick with a fondness her friend had never heard before. “though, he’s different when it’s just us.”

“different how?”

she tore her eyes off him as he wiped his brow, she knew he was tough on the court, and serious to the point of being distant with others off-court, but the way he acted around her was different. there was a softness to him that no one else seemed to see. he had this guarded, prickly exterior with everyone else. but with her? it was like he’d willingly let that wall down, even if it was just a little.

“he’s not as cold as he seems.” her friend blinked, eyebrows raised in slight surprise. her eyes found their way back to him, tracking his every movement, even as he dove to save a particularly hard spike. his curls stuck to his forehead, but only momentarily as he pushed them up upon getting off the floor.

“kiyoomi’s actually kind of sweet when it’s just us. he listens… really listens, and he… takes care of me like no one’s ever done.”

her friend squinted at her, clearly trying to piece together what she was saying. “so you’re telling me you like a guy—who is always irritable, distant, and looks like he hates people, but you’re into him ‘cause he’s soft for you?”

they paused for a moment, before adding with a grin. “so that’s your type, huh.”

“i don’t know… i guess it’s because he’s only like that with me.” her cheeks burned hot, an evident sign of the blush that had crawled up her neck and made home on her face.

��it’s like when he talks to me, the world quiets down for just a moment, enough for him to let me into his bubble.”

“okay well now i’m really worried about you.”

the girl just laughed, swatting her friend before sighing softly. “i think…he’s starting to like me back”

the quizzical look on her friend’s face started to soften. “yeah?”

she didn’t say anything for a while, the only noise between them the thud of the volleyball hitting the floor, the sound of skin smacking against leather, the shouts of the boys below. her gaze softened as he caught her eye, even for a split second, before he returned his attention to the events in front of him.

that was the thing with him.

he didn’t wear his feelings on his sleeve, never the one for any grand gestures of affection. but when they exchanged the briefest of glances, there was something in the way he looked at her that felt like a secret shared between them.

“yeah,” she whispered, heart fluttering as she watched him for a second longer, “i think so.”

it’s 2:30am, i’m tired and borderline delirious my apologies

@bokutoko

deadwtr, do not copy or repost

[favefandomimagines]

I Know Places 4 (r.c)

Summary: Rafe’s mistakes might be finally catching up to him; Y/N tells Kie the truth

AN: things are beginning to happen!!!!

Previous part

Taglist: @luvrclub

It had been a week since Y/N and Rafe’s first date, and she felt like she was floating.

Every text from him sent her heart racing, every late-night call made her stomach flip. He had a way of making her feel important, like she was the only thing that mattered when he was talking to her. She’d never had that before—not really.

Growing up, she had always felt like the friend of the pretty girls. Kie and Sarah were the ones guys gravitated toward, the ones who turned heads without even trying. Y/N never felt invisible, not exactly, but she had never been the one to have someone’s full attention.

But now, she did.

And it was hers and hers alone.

Keeping it a secret, though? That was the hard part.

Rafe had been adamant about their second date being his idea. He wanted something lowkey, something personal, but wouldn’t tell her anything else.

“Just trust me, Pretty Girl.”

And she did.

The problem was Kie.

Kie knew Y/N better than anyone, and the past week, Y/N could feel her best friend watching her. She wasn’t outright suspicious—not yet—but Y/N could tell she was waiting for her to slip up.

And today, with the bait shop quiet and no one else around, Y/N decided it was time to tell her the truth.

||

The shop smelled like salt and baitfish, the usual scent of their summer days. The morning rush had ended, and now, with John B and JJ out doing scuba tours, Sarah handling inventory, and Pope and Cleo getting groceries, it was just Y/N and Kie.

Y/N leaned against the counter, her fingers tapping anxiously. Kie was organizing some fishing lines, humming to herself, completely unaware that Y/N was about to drop a bombshell on her.

Y/N took a deep breath. “Hey, Kie?”

Kie looked up immediately, raising an eyebrow. “Oh no, what happened?” she teased.

Y/N huffed a small laugh, but it died quickly. “I have to tell you something,” she said, her voice a little too serious. Kie’s teasing expression softened.

“And I’m telling you as my best friend first, not my brother’s girlfriend. And I need you to let me explain fully before you react.”

That got Kie’s attention. She set the fishing lines down and turned to face Y/N completely, concern flickering across her face.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “I’m listening.”

Y/N inhaled deeply, bracing herself. “I’ve been talking to Rafe.”

Kie’s expression didn’t change, but Y/N saw the way her shoulders tensed.

“Since the night of the beach party,” Y/N continued. “We went on a date last week. And we’re going on another one soon.��

Silence.

Y/N forced herself to keep going. “I really like him, Kie. He’s different than he used to be. Something happened that made him finally grow up and start treating people like humans.”

Kie was still unreadable, which only made Y/N more nervous.

“He asked me about me,” Y/N said, her voice softer now. “My favorite books, my favorite memories with you, what I want to do with my life. No guy has ever cared enough to ask me that. And I think I really like him.”

The silence stretched, and Y/N’s stomach twisted uncomfortably.

Kie finally spoke, her voice even. “Are you done?”

Y/N nodded slowly, preparing for the absolute worst.

Kie exhaled through her nose, then tilted her head. “Was he nice to you?”

Y/N blinked. She had expected yelling, accusations—not this. “Yeah, he was really nice to me.”

Kie studied her. “And you’re positive you think he’s changed?”

“Yes,” Y/N said, her voice firm. “There’s something different about him. I told him about my dad, and he actually wanted to defend JJ. The Rafe we knew wouldn’t say that.”

Kie was quiet for a moment before stepping closer. She placed her hands on Y/N’s shoulders, looking her straight in the eye.

“I just want you to be happy, Y/N,” Kie said, her voice filled with sincerity. “You’re my best friend. And though I’m not thrilled about keeping this from JJ, you were my friend first. And I get why you haven’t told him.”

Y/N felt her throat tighten. “So… you’re not mad?”

Kie sighed. “I want to be, but no. I trust you. And if you trust Rafe, then I’ll try to trust him too.”

Relief washed over Y/N, and before she could stop herself, she threw her arms around Kie. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

Kie hugged her back, squeezing her tightly. “Just don’t let him hurt you, okay?”

Y/N pulled back, nodding. “I won’t.”

But deep on the Cut, someone was getting hurt

||

Rafe’s truck came to a screeching halt outside Barry’s place, the tires kicking up a cloud of dust as he yanked the keys from the ignition. He barely registered the familiar surroundings—the rusting cars, the half-collapsed fence, the dim glow of a single flickering porch light. His mind was only focused on one thing.

Finding them.

The second he slammed the truck door shut, Barry was already stepping onto the porch, lighting a cigarette like he wasn’t about to have the shit beaten out of him.

“Damn, man,” Barry drawled, exhaling a plume of smoke. “You look pissed. Gotta be careful with all that pent-up rage, Cameron. Might give yourself an aneurysm.”

Rafe didn’t say a word. He crossed the distance in three strides, grabbing Barry by the collar and shoving him up against the wooden porch post.

Barry let out a choked laugh, unfazed. “Oh, we’re doin’ this already? Usually, we at least have a drink first.”

Rafe’s knuckles connected with Barry’s jaw before the man could finish his sentence.

Barry grunted as his head snapped to the side, the cigarette dropping from his lips.

“Where the fuck are they?” Rafe growled, his voice low, dangerous.

Barry wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking despite the fresh bruise forming. “Man, you’re gonna have to be more specific. I know a lot of people.”

Rafe hit him again. This time, Barry stumbled, his back slamming against the porch railing.

“Don’t play with me,” Rafe snapped. “I know you were the middleman. I know you know who came into my house.”

Barry laughed, shaking his head as he leaned against the railing like they were just having a friendly chat. “You think I got control over those guys? Shit, Cameron. You don’t owe me money. I was just the guy making introductions. You’re the one who decided to play businessman and not pay back what you owed.”

Rafe’s fists clenched, his breathing heavy. He was losing control. He could feel it slipping, just like it always did.

“I swear to God, Barry, if you don’t start talking—”

“They know about her.”

The words cut through the rage like a knife.

Rafe stilled.

His grip loosened. “What did you just say?”

Barry wiped at his bleeding lip again, his smirk widening despite the fresh bruises. “The guys you owe? They know about Y/N.”

The air between them shifted instantly.

Rafe’s breath came short and fast, his chest tightening, panic seeping in through the cracks.

“No,” Rafe said quickly, shaking his head. “That’s not possible. No one—”

Barry let out a humorless chuckle, rubbing at his jaw. “Oh, come on, man. You really think you kept that little crush of yours a secret?”

Rafe’s stomach churned violently.

Barry smirked, tilting his head. “You forget how much you used to talk when you were high, Cameron? You wouldn’t shut the hell up about her. Some Pogue girl you couldn’t stop thinking about, couldn’t stop watching.”

Rafe’s entire body felt like it had been submerged in ice water.

Barry leaned in slightly, voice dropping into something more sinister. “Looks like they figured out your soft spot.”

That was it.

That was the moment Rafe snapped.

His fist connected with Barry’s face one last time, harder than before, sending the man sprawling onto the ground with a loud grunt.

Barry groaned, coughing as he rolled onto his side. “Fuck, man. You really gotta work on those anger issues.”

Rafe stepped back, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his bloodied fists trembling at his sides.

He needed to get out of there.

Without another word, Rafe turned, storming back to his truck and tearing out of Barry’s driveway in a spray of gravel.

His mind was spinning, spiraling, breaking.

They knew about Y/N.

They knew.

Rafe’s pulse pounded in his ears as he drove blindly through the Cut, the weight of the revelation pressing against his ribcage.

It didn’t make sense. There was zero chance anyone knew about Y/N. No one had seen them together, no one knew they were talking.

The only reason Barry even knew about his feelings for her was because of the past.

Because of the times Rafe had been too fucked up to keep his mouth shut.

Rafe had always had a thing for Y/N Maybank.

For years, he watched her from a distance, pretended to hate her, pretended she didn’t make his head spin in the worst way. She was the only Pogue he never really saw as one of them.

She was smart, sharp-tongued, unapologetically herself.

And the fact that she belonged to them? That she was best friends with the people he grew up hating? It only made her more untouchable.

But now, somehow, the people he owed knew.

And that meant she wasn’t untouchable anymore.

||

Rafe wasn’t sure how long he had been driving before he found himself in front of the Maybank house.

His heart was pounding so hard he thought it might crack a rib.

And then, he saw her.

Y/N was on the porch, her laughter ringing through the air as she helped Sarah carry in large boxes of inventory. Her hair was falling loosely over her shoulders, her sundress swaying slightly in the warm evening breeze.

She looked happy.

Untouched.

Pure.

Rafe tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his jaw clenching.

Then, he glanced down at his hands.

His bloody, shaking hands.

The stark contrast between the two—the warmth of Y/N, the darkness that had seeped into every inch of his own life—made his stomach turn.

He had already dragged her into this without meaning to.

But he’d be damned if he let her get hurt because of him.

Rafe exhaled sharply, his grip loosening on the wheel.

He had to keep her out of this.

He didn’t deserve her. He knew that.

But he’d burn the whole damn world down before he let someone take her from him.

[heeambi]

𝓹𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ₊ Park Sunghoon x Reader

𝓯𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 ₊YangJungwon ₊parkJongseong ₊LeeHeeseung

𝐀𝐧 𝐞𝐧𝐡𝐲𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞

The dorm was unusually quiet when you plopped onto the couch, phone in hand, lost in your own thoughts. You had been overthinking everything lately—every moment, every glance, every touch that lingered just a little too long.

And it all came back to him.

“Why do you look like that?”

A familiar voice broke you out of your trance, and you looked up to see Sunghoon sitting beside you, casually chewing on a snack. His sharp eyes studied your face with mild concern, though he tried to play it off with his usual nonchalance.

You forced a chuckle. “Like what?”

“Like you just lost a fight with a puppy.”

You huffed, rolling your eyes. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

Sunghoon tilted his head slightly, then, without hesitation, slung an arm over the couch behind you. The warmth of his presence sent a shiver down your spine, but you swallowed it down, forcing yourself to act normal. “Want me to beat someone up for you?” he asked, completely serious.

You laughed despite yourself. “No, it’s nothing like that.” His eyes flickered with curiosity. “Then what is it?”

You hesitated. The words were at the tip of your tongue, the confession that had been weighing you down for months. But before you could decide whether to let them slip, Jungwon strolled in, catching the tail end of your conversation.

“Oh, I know that look,” he said with a knowing smirk. “That’s the I have a crush but they don’t like me back face.” Your stomach dropped. Oh, no.

Your eyes darted to Sunghoon in panic, but he only blinked, interest piqued. “Oh? Who is it?”

“You wouldn’t know them,” Jungwon answered for you, clearly enjoying your suffering. Sunghoon pouted. “You don’t trust me? I’m your best friend.”

And that was the problem.

You clenched your jaw and mumbled, “That’s the problem…” Sunghoon frowned. “Huh?”

“Nothing!” you rushed to say, shaking your head.

But before you could make a run for it, Jay walked in, immediately picking up on the tension. “Oh, we’re talking about Y/N’s one-sided crush?”

You groaned, slumping forward in defeat. “Hyung, please—” Jay shrugged, feigning innocence. “What? I’m just saying, maybe you should confess. The worst they can say is no, right?”

You shot him a glare. “That’s literally the worst possible outcome.”

“But what if they don’t say no?” Sunghoon suddenly asked, his voice quieter this time. You blinked at him, caught off guard. “…Trust me, they wouldn’t say yes.”

His brows furrowed slightly. There was something unreadable in his gaze now, something intense, but before you could figure it out, Heeseung waltzed in “What’s with the tension?”

Jungwon grinned. “Y/n has a one-sided crush. Heeseung snorted. “Oh, on Sungh—” Jay elbowed him in the ribs before he could finish. “—on somebody,” Heeseung corrected, eyes twinkling with amusement.

You groaned again, covering your face with your hands. “I hate it here.”

Meanwhile, Sunghoon had gone completely still beside you. His gaze was fixed on the floor, deep in thought. After a beat, he suddenly stood up. “You guys are dumb,” he muttered.

You furrowed your brows. “Huh??” Sunghoon crossed his arms, staring you down. “If it’s one-sided, that means one person has feelings and the other doesn’t, right?” You hesitated, confused by the shift in his tone. “…Right?” His next words made your heart stop. “But what if the other person is just waiting for them to say something?”

Silence.

Your breath hitched, and you felt your pulse skyrocket. Was he—was he implying something? Or were you just imagining it?

Sunghoon watched your expression closely, his lips twitching in amusement at your stunned reaction. Then, with a small, knowing smile, he reached down and ruffled your hair. “Anyway, I’m going to the kitchen,” he said casually, as if he didn’t just turn your entire world upside down. “Want anything, y/n?” You only just sat there, mouth slightly open, struggling to form words. “…Huh?”

Sunghoon chuckled and leaned down slightly, voice dropping just enough to make your stomach do a flip. “I’ll bring you something sweet.” And with that, he walked off.

The room remained dead silent until Heeseung suddenly gasped dramatically. “Oh. My. GOD.”

Jay bursted out laughing. “This idiot really thought it was one-sided.”

Jungwon then smirked. “Y/n, I think you just lost the game.”

You were still staring at the spot where Sunghoon had stood, your brain short-circuiting. While he was in the kitchen, Sunghoon grabbed a snack, a smug grin on his lips.

“Half a heart?” he muttered to himself. “Not for long.”

[pyrographic-memory]

Holy shit, great to see the internet imploding once again lmao (srsly I'm also pouring one out for the discord mods holy fuck. I joined that server when it was at 17k people and THAT was already too many people for me...)

So uh. I know my * post * talking about us seeing Vessel prepare for war didn't blow up quite as much as my tritanopia post (still fucking stoked about that actually sosjehshjwh), BUT I am happily back again with the military jargon breakdown!

I'm going to say now, everything I mention here is declassified, you can find it with a Google search. Please don't freak out on me lmao

The Morse code from the Pan and Echo audio files was summed up into eight lines of dialogue (for lack of a better word).

At first I thought it was a 9 Line, which is a call for medevac report, due to the SOS. But it is missing a ninth line, so I asked a friend of mine what they thought. And they said it looks like a weird mix of two report formats: BLUE 2 and GREEN 6.

BLUE 2 is SITREP, or situation report - rather self explanatory. Brief summary of threat activity, then you list off how ready your men and your vehicles/equipment are, and then you give a summary of The Gameplan.

GREEN 6 is EPW (enemy prisoner of war)/Captured Material Report. You've executed The Gameplan, and you've captured people and stuff. This one is a two-parter technically, because you list off who you've captured first and then what you've captured (this can include land and buildings, so like if you captured a hilltop or castle or smth), you state the unit that did the capturing, when the capture happened, and a brief summary of how you did it.

So now, we break the message down. The first two lines don't really align with any report, so we'll focus on 3 onward.

Line 1: "I've been waiting long for you"

Line 2: "Behold"

Line 3 (friendly locations as from a BLUE 2): WA and RL, which ended up being WRAL, which is the news channel for Raleigh, NC (NORTH CAROLINA BABY, LET'S GOOO). Their meteorologist made a * post * about 3/29 on Instagram.

Line 4 (DTG [Date Time Group] of capture, as from the second half of a GREEN 6): "Two days in the morning", two days from now it'll be 3/29, AND there's a partial solar eclipse that day (though it's very close to full), and where the eclipse will be most prominent over the Atlantic, it'll be at maximum around 10:47 AM UTC. So the DTG would be written as 291047MAR2025.

Line 5 (place of capture, as from a GREEN 6): "In Arcadia"

Line 6 (circumstances of capture, as from a GREEN 6): "Carpe" (Latin for "seize")

Line 7: "Broadcast interruption, nothing"

Line 8: SOS SOS SOS KN AS

Everyone knows the mayday call. But KN and AS are CW radio signs (telegraphing, Morse code, all that shit they used in both world wars). KN means "only the station named should respond", and AS means "wait". The broadcast was interrupted, but the broadcaster didn't hear anything from the interruption. They're still calling for help because the interruption means someone is listening in when they shouldn't be, so the broadcaster may be compromised, and they're asking for an answer from whoever they were broadcasting to before saying "wait" (maybe as in "don't send rescue immediately").

Now, let's look at something else rq. The metadata of the audio files.

Uploaded by: The Observer

Another report to mention: BLUE 1, SPOTREP. These are written up when scouts observe any known or suspected threat activity in the AO (area of operation).

And I want to amend rq, the emails from a few weeks ago with the respective wording: House Veridian "observe", and Feathered Host "seize".

This is a House Veridian SPOTREP of a Feathered Host SITREP/capture broadcast, probably done by our Observer doing what the green bois call channel hopping, and the Broadcaster not securing their comms line.

I really want to know who Vessel knows. Cuz while ts is available to the public, you gotta know someone who can tell you that these report documents even exist. The US Army has like a thousand reporting documents, something for everything. Every country does a lot of this stuff differently and has differing names for it, but I just find it really neat that it seems to be US-based (unless the UK military also operates this way 👀👀👀)