#i will answer the rest of the asks eventually

[brucedefender4eva]

“So… Dick…”

Dick raised an eyebrow, stuffing the rest of Bruce’s homemade brownie into his mouth and looking over at his best friend. “Yes… Wally…?” Dick mocked, chuckling to himself.

“Bruce… is, like, in a relationship? Right?” Wally asked slowly, very pointedly, not looking at Dick, no matter how much the acrobat tried to grab his attention.

Dick’s was already twitching. Wally knows how unhappy he is about Bruce being in a relationship. “Yeah…? Walls, where is this going?”

“Is your mom happily in a relationship, or just in a relationship?” Wally wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"...What the actual fuck did you just say to me?" Dick asked quietly, slowly standing up from his position on the floor and towering over Wally, who was still sprawled out on their couch.

“Nothing!” Wally exclaimed nervously, holding out his hands in front of him. “Just a joke! Poor taste… please don’t hurt me.”

"You better watch yourself, Wallace." Dick hissed lowly, grabbing Wally by his collar and holding him very close. "Kori and I would still be very happy in a relationship with just two people."

Wally squeaked, caught between feeling terrified and slightly turned on. "... Kori agrees with me. He's a certified MILF," he whispered, which was obviously the wrong thing to say at the moment.

Dick's scream of rage was heard throughout his entire apartment complex, and Wally was very glad he was gifted with the power of superspeed. It was inevitable that Dick would find him eventually, but running to Antarctica would surely slow him down.

Right?

——

“Hey, Cass!” Cass set down her gym bag and turned to face the other dancers in the ballet classes she was taking for fun at a local center that was up-and-coming.

“Morning. Did you all get the routines down? I had a little trouble on the jumps.” Cass made herself giggle softly, and by the sounds of the other girls talking and giggling as well, she was nailing this small talk thing.

It had taken some trial and error to realize that a lot of people don’t like ‘bragging’ even if she wasn’t bragging. She had no trouble with the jumps. In fact, she had memorized the entire routine the first time the instructor went over it, but societal norms prevented her from stating that.

“Anyways… Cass. Are you, like, being picked up by your Dad again today?” Michelle, a woman Cass thinks uses the word ‘like’ a little too much, twirled her hair around her finger. The rest of the girls and guys giggled as they stared at Cass, awaiting her answer.

Cass cocked her head to the side, not understanding why they were all suddenly interested in who she was being picked up by.

“I don’t think so. He’s busy.”

A mix of groans and complaints filled the hall as all her classmates turned to each other in disappointment, which was confusing for Cass. Why would they care who was picking her up in an hour and thirty minutes?

“Damn, I was really hoping to get the chance to talk to your hot Dad.” Kyle, another classmate, groaned and clicked his tongue in disappointment. There were loud murmurs of agreement.

Cass blinked. "What?" She asked.

Maybe it was the tone of her voice, the expression on her face, or the way she tilted her ear closer as if to hear her classmates better.

"Uh... I think class is starting."

Cass stared at the backs of her retreating classmates, making a conscious effort to restrain her bloodlust.

This wouldn’t do. This wouldn’t do at all.

——

"Oh, Bruce was over at Ollie's mansion yesterday," Roy mentioned, tossing a handful of caramel popcorn into his mouth as he eyed Jason moving around his kitchen like he owned the place.

Jason hummed absentmindedly, completely focused on the new smoked salmon recipe he was trying out. "Yeah... I think he mentioned business or something. I wasn't really paying attention to what the old man was saying." A loud sizzle and the opening of cabinets. "Did you move the paprika?

Roy shrugged. "Hey, it's basically your kitchen. I don't touch anything in there." Jason muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like 'Damn fucking right it's my kitchen' as he continued opening and closing drawers and whatever else.

"So anyways..." Roy continued slowly. "I saw your Dad swimming around in the indoor pool and stuff." Roy could feel his cheeks heating up, going back and picturing Bruce slowly rising out of the pool wearing only one of Oliver's Speedos (disgusting on Oliver, not so much on sexy Bruce Wayne), water cascading down his muscular bare chest.

Jeez, did he forget to turn on his air conditioner?

"Has he always been so... ya know?” Roy probably should have stopped when he no longer heard any sound from the kitchen.

“Like…?”

“Well… DILFy…” Roy continued, like the idiot that he is. “I mean, everyone’s seen what he looked like when he was younger, which was hot as hell, don’t get me wrong, but I feel like he’s only getting better with age,” Roy said, looking up only to see Jason staring at him with barely contained rage.

"Get out," Jason ordered icily, brandishing his spatula like a weapon. Considering who trained him since childhood, Roy wouldn't be surprised if Jason did know how to use it like an actual weapon.

"Uh, Jay, I don't know if you remember, but this is my apartment-" Roy was cut off by his own butcher's knife being embedded in the wall right beside his ear.

Jason had thrown the knife so close that loose strands of hair drifted down onto the couch from where he had been unwillingly given an impromptu haircut just off the side.

"Or I could leave."

——

“… so fucking hot…”

“… I know right…”

“… have more…?”

“… fucking duh…”

Tim pulled down his headphones and looked over Kon and Bernard, who were staring intently at Kon’s phone.

“Hello? Are you guys on Insta looking at hot guys or something? What’s going on?” Tim chuckled and immediately stopped when he noticed the guilty expressions on their faces. “Now way… seriously?”

"Well... It's not Insta..." Kon coughed and handed his phone over to Bernard, who was decidedly not looking Tim in the eyes. “Tim… you know how your Dad came over to the farm to ‘destress’ from Gotham life for a bit?”

Tim raised an eyebrow and slowly shut his computer, giving his boyfriends his full attention. “I wouldn’t say he was de-stressing from Gotham necessarily, but yes, go on.”

Kon played with the spiked cuff on his wrist and pursed his lips. “Bruce insisted on helping around the farm even though Clark and Pa said he didn’t have to…”

Tim waited. “And?”

“And he was super fucking hot!” Bernard blurted out, his cheeks flushing a bright red as Tim’s head whipped around to look at him.

“What?!”

“Look! Kon took a bunch of pictures!” Bernard shoved Kon’s phone into his hands, batting away Kon, who was trying to snatch it away.

Tim was in complete disbelief as he scrolled through pictures and short videos of his father walking around shirtless, sweating, and hauling heavy things.

“You-! You-!” Tim sputtered, holding Kon’s phone above his head before hurling it down to the ground and watching it shatter. “Perverts.” Tim hissed, grinding his heel.

“Babe.” Bernard tried, moving closer then holding his hands up as Tim hissed louder.

“Get away from me!” Tim gathered the broken pieces of the phone, intent on throwing them into a blazing fire and destroying all those… pictures of Bruce. “And stay away from my mom!”

Kon winced as Tim ran out of the room, wishing he didn’t have super hearing. “Oh wow… those are a lot of… descriptive torture methods. And curses…” Kon took in a shaky breath and turned to Bernard with a crooked smile. “I think we fucked up.”

“Oh, do you? Do you think we fucked up by thirsting over Tim’s admittedly stupidly sexy Dad/Mom? Just start ordering Tim’s favorite chocolates.”

——

“Your Dad’s so cool, Damian…”

“I will stab you right now. Don’t fucking test me, Kent.”

Jon got over his kiddie crush very quickly…

——

Alfred gracefully sipped on his tea, watching as the other ‘grandparents’ milled around and conversed with each other.

It was a meeting of ‘the help’ from wealthy families that somehow, over time, became family and unofficial parents and grandparents. Good ones and otherwise.

“Oh, and how’s little Brucie?”

Alfred looked up from his tea (subpar at best) and smiled politely at the nanny from the influential Korden family. “Master Bruce is as well as ever. Implementing new technologies to help Gotham has him at the business for longer, but it’s nothing he can’t handle.”

“Poor pitiful child.” Another man cooed. Alfred didn’t know him; his family simply wasn’t important enough.

“Yes, yes. What he needs is a partner to set him straight.” Another portly woman butted in, her small purse stuffed to the brim with scones and biscuits. “When is he going to settle down, Pennyworth? He's getting up there in age, soon he won't be as attractive to potential suitors.”

Alfred felt his eyebrow twitch, but he was a man of grace, no matter what Bruce said or had witnessed in the past. “Master Bruce is currently in a relationship-“

“Oh, come off it!” A man laughed, slapping Alfred on the shoulder, causing Alfred to have to fight to control his facial expression of disgust. “You know what we mean! Proper folk. One of ours.”

“Oh! If I were a few years younger! I wouldn’t let him say no!” An old man wiggled his eyebrows lewdly, causing the women around him to titter and giggle in agreement.

“Alright.” Alfred set down his cup and smiled thinly. “Even if you were the same age as Young Master Bruce, I doubt he’d want anyone with such a disgusting personality,” Alfred said, ignoring the shocked and offended gasps.

“Like I’ve said, he’s in a relationship. Your opinion on this relationship means absolutely nothing. You need the Wayne family, not the other way around.” Alfred sneered, happily turning his nose up at the other attendees.

“You in particular, watch your fucking back.” Alfred snarled at the older man who had spoken about dating Bruce himself. “I will take care of you personally. There is nowhere you can fucking hide where I won’t find you and beat you till an inch of your life.”

“Well- well, I’d never-!”

“That’s right! You’d never! The lot of you are just a bunch of-!”

Alfred walked out of that sad little meeting hall with his dignity intact and his knuckles bruised, which he hid expertly underneath his crisp white hand gloves.

“How distasteful.” Alfred sniffed, dabbing at a splotch of blood that landed on his lapel.

——

“Huh…”

All the Batkids looked up at the same time while Alfred continued to pour Bruce’s tea.

“It’s just… none of your friends have been over for quite a while,” Bruce said thoughtfully, staring at his children’s faces. “And you haven’t been going to your tea meetings, Alfred. Don’t tell me… You had a falling out?” Bruce asked, frowning in concern.

“Uh… Roy is busy with Lian.” Jason shrugged, glad he had an easy excuse.

Dick chewed on his waffle with a stiff expression before relaxing into an easy-going smile. “Kori’s off world for a bit and Wally is… dead.”

“What?”

“Dead asleep from how much crime is going on in Central City! Haha…” Dick forced out a laugh and stabbed his next waffle with more force than necessary, making all his siblings flinch and Bruce look more concerned. “He’s just busy heroing Dad.”

“…okay…” Bruce said slowly, reaching over and patting Dick’s hand before looking over at Damian and Tim. “So?”

“Kon and Bernard are… having their own dates together. Ya know, having time for each other or something.” Tim shrugged, shrinking down in his seat with a scowl on his face.

“Jonathan knows what he did,” Damian said simply, leaving it at that.

“Right… and you, Alfie?”

“No comment.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow and dropped a few sugar cubes into his tea. “No comment?”

Alfred stayed silent for a second longer before letting out a rough sigh. “I simply realized the company that I keep can be… a little too rowdy.”

“Yeah sure.” Bruce rolled his eyes, already knowing all of Alfred’s tells for his lies. “Well, you should invite them over. Oh, we can have a pool party sometime this week. It’ll be fun!” Bruce clapped his hands and smiled at his kids.

“Oh, Bruce-“

“I dunno if-“

“Well-“

“Master Bruce-“

“Let me rephrase,” Bruce said, holding up a hand and stopping everyone from speaking. “You will invite your friends whom you spent so many years complaining, griping, and whining that I wouldn’t let you reveal your identities to over. And you will have fun at this pool party next week.” Bruce said softly, causing a chill to run down everyone’s spine. “Understood?”

“Yes…”

“Alfred, I can’t force you to bring those snobs that you hang around with for some reason, and if you’ve somehow discarded them, you will be getting new friends.” Bruce narrowed his eyes as Alfred opened his mouth to speak. “Yeah, you don’t get a say in this. You’ve forced me through the years to put myself out there and make friends because socialization is a need. I’m simply returning the favor.”

Alfred closed his eyes for a second before opening them and looking down at Bruce with a slightly annoyed yet resigned expression. “Of course, Master Bruce.”

“Great!” Bruce smiled brightly. “Now, I’ve got a date in an hour, so I have to get ready!” Bruce grabbed his cup of tea and walked upstairs happily.

The dining room was silent until they heard Bruce’s door close.

“I will not let those… perverts, around Baba.” Damian hissed, clenching the butter fork in his hand dangerously.

Dick stood up slowly from his seat, making his siblings and Alfred look at him. “No… we invite them. But-“ Dick’s eyes gleamed evilly, “we make it very clear what will happen if any, and I mean any, certain comments are spoken.”

There was a nod of agreement. “Alright, let’s do this,” Jason said, also standing up, a determined look in his eyes.

“Good luck,” Cass said grimly, pulling out her phone and scrolling through her contacts. She didn’t expect anyone from her ballet class to come, especially after she made it very clear she wouldn’t accept any comments about her Dad, but she would see about the Birds of Prey. That was tough in itself.

“Don’t look at us like that, Alfred,” Tim said. “This is some serious shit.”

“Just… don’t kill anyone. Your father will be very disappointed.”

“No promises.” They chorused, leaving the dining room to make their calls.

[mandoalorian]

lessons in love

──── ୨୧ ────

lesson five: loving

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x f!reader

synopsis: it was never supposed to go this far. these lessons were meant to teach you how to love someone else. but somewhere between soft touches and whispered praise, you started falling—for the only man who’s ever made you feel safe. lesson five is the final one, and it’s supposed to be everything: slow, intimate, full of trust. one bed, two best friends, and a night that changes everything. this time, you’re not sure either of you will be able to walk away.

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content ahead, minors do not interact! ⚠️ protected p in v, handjobs, f recieving oral, m recieving oral, praise kink, overstimulation, biting, pain during sex, feral!bucky needs a warning, trust me, bucky talks you through it, making out, cum eating, betrayal, miscommunication leads to angst, mentions of sexual harassment, implied sexual assault (nothing explicit), canon typical violence.

word count: 10.5k

ෆ series masterlist | previous part

Bucky woke slowly, not because of the sun filtering in through the window or the quiet hum of the refrigerator across the room, but because of the weight pressed against him — warm and soft, breathing slow and steady. Your leg was slung over his hip, your cheek resting on his chest, one arm tucked between your bodies like you were trying to anchor yourself there forever. His vibranium hand lay gently against your back, splayed protectively. Even asleep, he held you like something precious.

He hadn’t slept much, too aware of your warmth, of the way your fingers had curled into his skin like you didn’t want to let go. Too caught up in the memory of your mouth, your moans, the way you had looked up at him with wet lashes and swollen lips. He had memorised the moment you fell asleep in his arms, and still, it didn’t feel like enough.

The vibration of his phone on the coffee table startled him slightly. He shifted just enough to reach for it, careful not to wake you. You stirred anyway, humming softly in protest as his chest moved beneath you. The screen flashed: Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Of course.

Bucky sighed quietly, answering in a low rasp. “Yeah?”

Valentina didn’t waste time. “You’re needed at the office by eleven.”

He blinked at the ceiling. “It’s Saturday.”

“It’s important. Serious business. Don’t be late.”

She hung up before he could reply.

You mumbled something against his chest, then slowly lifted your head. Your face was warm with sleep, your hair tousled, your lips parted as you tried to focus your eyes. You looked up at him like this was the most natural place in the world to wake up. Like he was home.

“Why’re you on the phone?” you asked, your voice thick and groggy.

Bucky brushed his thumb along your spine. “Valentina. Wants me at the office.”

You blinked. “Now?”

“In an hour.”

You groaned dramatically, burying your face back against him. “Tell her no. It’s Saturday.”

“I did. Didn’t work.”

You stayed curled against him for a moment longer before slowly sitting up, wincing at the stiffness in your limbs. You were still wearing his sweatshirt, something he’d tossed you in the middle of the night when you said you were cold, sleeves pushed up over your forearms, exposing the faint red marks he’d left on your skin the night before. He was already pulling over his shirt, rumpled and half-open, and his dark hair was a mess from the way you were carding your fingers through it the night before. Everything about this morning felt soft and sleepy and too delicate to break.

“Do you think it’s about Blake?” you asked, rubbing your eyes. It was an instinct more than anything else. Something in your gut had known he’d done something wrong. 

“Could be,” Bucky said, not meeting your gaze. “But probably not. Just more politics.”

You didn’t press, but the anxiety lingered between you like a shadow. You’d felt Bucky retract, just like he’d been doing a lot lately, when you mentioned Blake. 

Eventually, you both got up, pulling your clothes on from the crumpled pile on the floor. There was a reverence in the way Bucky helped you find your sock, in the way he tucked your hair behind your ear and smoothed the fabric of your shirt before stepping back. Like he didn’t want to stop touching you, but didn’t know if he still had the right.

Once you were dressed, you grabbed your phone and keys, glancing at him with a little smile. “You might be working, but we’re not skipping our Saturday morning tradition. Coffee and raspberry coconut loaf cake.”

His mouth tugged upward at one corner, the barest hint of a smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

──── ୨୧ ────

The walk from the coffee shop to Capitol Hill was quieter than usual. The July morning was cooler than expected, a gentle breeze brushing against your skin and sending the scent of fresh grass into the air. You held your iced latte between your hands, letting the condensation chill your fingers. Bucky walked beside you with his flat white and a small brown paper bag containing the coconut and raspberry loaf you always split, albeit 90/10. You’d decided to take the coffee to go to ensure Bucky got to his office in time for Val’s deadline.

Usually, you’d be talking non-stop. You’d complain about the noisy new neighbours, or laugh about the man on the corner who always tried to pet dogs that clearly wanted to maul, or eat him. Bucky would tell you about his week, about Valentina’s latest dramatic outbursts or the new intern who kept calling him “Mr. Barnes.”

But this morning was different.

There was a quiet between you. Not cold or distant — just heavy. Like both of you were too full of words you didn’t know how to say.

You sipped your drink and glanced at him. His shoulders were tense, eyes distant. He looked like he hadn’t slept much.

You didn’t ask why. You already knew.

Last night had changed everything. Or maybe it hadn’t — maybe it had just revealed everything you’d been ignoring. You’d spent so long pretending the lessons were just about sex, but now... you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he touched you. The way he looked at you. How his voice got low when he called you “sweetheart.” How safe he made you feel.

And then there was Blake.

You thought about the night at his place. The way he ordered your food for you without asking. The way he had touched you like it was his right. How it had felt clinical, selfish, and over too quickly. How he hadn’t even noticed that you hadn’t finished. You thought about the shame, the emptiness. The ache that had followed you home.

You glanced at Bucky again. His jaw was clenched, fingers wrapped tight around his cup.

He was thinking, too. You could tell.

You didn’t know he was thinking about the sound you made when you moaned his name. The way you said please with tears in your eyes and silk on your tongue. He was thinking about how he’d give anything to be enough for you — not just for the lessons, but for real.

But neither of you said any of it.

You just walked, side by side, with sugar on your tongues and love buried under your skin, heading toward a day that would change everything.

──── ୨୧ ────

You didn’t expect it to be so loud.

The usual hush of the congressional offices on a weekend was replaced with the slam of a door, raised voices, and the heavy thud of footsteps down marble floors. You turned the corner behind Bucky, confused, heart climbing into your throat—then you saw it.

Blake.

Box in his arms. Jacket half on. Face red with fury and humiliation. Two security officers flanking him like bookends.

“What the hell?” you breathed, stopping in your tracks.

Bucky stopped too, shoulders tense beside you.

“Get your hands off me,” Blake barked, jerking away from one of the officers. “I can walk myself, thanks.”

He looked disheveled. Less polished than usual. His tie was gone, shirt wrinkled, hair out of place. A storm of papers teetered in the cardboard box he held like he’d thrown it all together in a blind rage.

You stepped forward. “Blake?”

His head snapped toward you—and whatever veneer he was wearing cracked right down the centre.

“Oh, great,” he sneered. “Perfect. You just had to be here to see this, huh?”

You blinked, stunned. “What’s going on?”

Bucky moved closer behind you, subtly shielding your side with his body, but you didn’t even register it.

“I got set up,” Blake hissed. “That’s what’s going on. One stupid little intern decides she’s uncomfortable and suddenly I’m a goddamn monster?”

Your stomach dropped.

“I didn’t even touch her,” he added quickly, like that made it okay. “I flirted, big deal. You think I’m the only one in that office who does it?”

Your heart sank in your chest. 

“Blake—” you started, but your voice was barely a whisper.

“Oh, don’t act surprised,” he snapped. “What? You didn’t think I noticed the way people looked at you? Like they were wondering what I was doing with the virgin?” He laughed. Loud and cruel. “Guess they know now.”

It hit you like a slap. Your chest caved inward. Everyone in the hallway turned. You wanted to shrink, to disappear into the floor.

Bucky moved in a second.

“Watch your mouth,” he growled, stepping directly between you and Blake. “You say one more word, I dare you.”

Blake scoffed. “What are you gonna do, Barnes? Beat me into chivalry? Oh wait—that’s right. You’d love that, wouldn’t you? All the blood on your hands… Getting to play white knight for your sweet little neighbour across the hall.”

He leaned in, eyes wild. “You always wanted her, didn’t you? That why you kept your mouth shut while she came crawling to me?”

That was it.

Bucky’s fist connected with Blake’s face — a sickening crunch of cartilage and bone as the congressman’s head snapped to the side. Blood spattered against the stone wall. Blake slumped, dazed, but Bucky didn’t let go.

“You used her,” Bucky spat, voice darker now, unrecognisable even to himself. “You humiliated her. You knew what you were doing. And I fucking warned you.”

Another fist. Metal, this time. It didn’t hit — not fully — but Bucky’s vibranium arm pressed hard against Blake’s chest, pinning him like a rag doll, the threat of crushing force barely contained. Blake choked, panic setting into his bloodied face.

Security came charging in. It took two agents to pull Bucky back — one tugging his right arm, the other wedging between him and Blake. Bucky didn’t fight them, not really. He just stared at the man still slumped against the wall, eyes swollen and blood leaking from his split lip.

“You don’t deserve to say her name,” Bucky said again, quieter this time, breathless. “She’s ten times the person you’ll ever be.”

As they dragged him back a few steps, Valentina appeared at the end of the corridor, heels clicking, jaw set. But she didn’t interrupt. She just watched, silent and unreadable.

Blake groaned, clutching his nose. “Fucking psycho…”

Bucky didn’t even look back. He adjusted his tie, straightened his shoulders, and said calmly to security, “I’m done now.”

“Let’s go,” one of the officers muttered, tugging Blake’s elbow.

Blake weakly shoved him off and glared at you. “You’re pathetic, you know that? Letting your best friend pull the strings. Pretending like you’re pure when you’re just a goddamn tease.”

“Get him out of here!” Bucky snapped, and the officers didn’t hesitate this time.

They dragged Blake down the corridor, his voice echoing behind them until he was gone.

Gone.

You stood frozen, heart pounding in your ears, vision blurred with the sting of hot tears. People were still staring. Whispering. Your limbs felt heavy. Numb.

You turned to Bucky. “Did you know?”

He opened his mouth—but before he could speak, Valentina’s voice rang out sharply from the hallway:

“Barnes. My office. Now.”

He hesitated. Looked at you—guilt swimming behind his eyes—then turned and followed her without a word.

You were left standing in the hallway.

Alone.

Your hands were shaking.

You didn’t realise how tightly your hands had curled into fists until your nails bit into your palms.

The hallway had emptied in the chaos’s wake, only the distant echo of voices lingering behind Bucky’s retreat. The air felt too still now, like time was giving you a moment to absorb the blow—but you couldn’t. Not fully. Not when your head was spinning and your chest was burning and your vision swam.

Your stomach twisted. Blake humiliated you. In front of everyone. And worst of all, he knew.

He knew you were a virgin. That was private. That was something sacred you’d shared with Bucky—not Blake. Not the rest of the goddamn office. How did he know? Did you just make it that fucking obvious?

You were still standing there, blinking at the carpet, your thoughts snarling into knots, when someone cleared their throat gently behind you.

“Hey… are you okay?”

You turned, startled.

Marianne. You’d met her a few times when you’d come to office with Bucky, the new intern who worked at the reception. She looked different outside of her workwear—softer, gentler, like she’d exhaled. Her cardigan sleeves were pushed to her elbows, clipboard clutched in her arms like armour, but her voice was kind. No judgment, just quiet concern.

You tried to answer. Couldn’t.

Marianne took a cautious step closer. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

You swallowed thickly. “What happened?”

She hesitated. “Do you want to sit down?”

You didn’t. You couldn’t. If you sat down, you’d break open.

So you shook your head.

Marianne nodded slowly, glancing toward the office door where Bucky had disappeared minutes before. “We filed the formal report last night. I wasn’t the only one. Five other women came forward.” Her voice lowered. “The story was the same for all of us. Unwanted comments. Touching. Leering. Texts late at night.”

You blinked.

She continued. “We weren’t sure if anything would come of it… but then one of the newer interns said something happened at the holiday party. She didn’t feel safe being in the same room as him anymore. That was the tipping point.”

A cold wave rolled through your gut. “I didn’t know.”

“You weren’t supposed to,” Marianne said gently. “No one wanted to drag you into it. Especially not Bucky.”

Your chest tightened. “He knew?”

Marianne paused. “He didn’t just know.”

You looked up sharply, heart suddenly thudding.

“He stood up for us when no one else would,” she said. “He backed the report. Made sure the complaint reached Valentina directly. Went out of his way to make sure every woman who came forward felt heard.” Her voice softened. “He was the one who made this happen today.”

You felt the blood drain from your face.

“He said he couldn’t stand by and let Blake get away with it. That he didn’t care if it made things complicated between you two—he just wanted to protect us, and protect you too.”

Your mouth parted, but nothing came out.

Marianne stepped forward, lowering her clipboard. “I know it probably feels like a betrayal… finding out this way. But he never stopped looking out for you. Not for a second.”

You felt something sharp twist behind your ribs. You thought of the missed calls. The unread texts. The way Bucky kept trying to tell you something all week but held his tongue every time.

You thought of how he looked at you—really looked at you—and how you hadn’t understood it until now.

He’d been protecting you… from the truth. From this.

But it didn’t make it hurt any less.

You drew in a shaky breath, blinking fast. “I need to go.”

Marianne didn’t try to stop you. She just offered a soft, understanding smile. “He’s a good man,” she said gently. “Even when it’s hard to see it.”

You nodded once, stiffly, and turned on your heel.

The marble underfoot felt cold and too loud as you stormed down the hallway.

You didn’t look back.

──── ୨୧ ────

You’d never known silence could feel so loud.

The moment you stepped inside your apartment, it hit you like a punch to the chest—the hush of your home pressing in around you, wrapping around your shoulders like a too-tight, suffocating blanket. You shut the door behind you with shaking fingers, the quiet click of the latch sealing in the ache building behind your ribs. You leaned back against it, blinking hard, your breath shallow as the weight of it all sank in. Your stomach twisted. Your throat burned. And somewhere, far below all of that, was the unmistakable, rising pulse of rage.

Bucky knew. All this time—he knew what kind of man Blake was. He knew what people were whispering about him, the complaints, the reports, the warnings. And still, he stood there, beside you, week after week, watching you get dressed for dates, teasing you when Blake sent you messages, holding your hand while you gushed about how special he made you feel. He looked you in the eye, told you he had your back—and never once told you the truth.

The betrayal sat like a stone in your chest, heavy and hard-edged, cutting deeper the longer you stared at the messages he’d sent.

Missed call from Bucky.

Missed call.

bucky: Are you okay? bucky: Can you call me?

Now he cared?

You didn’t even realise you were pacing until your bare feet started to sting from the hardwood. You’d circled your living room three, four, five times, fists clenched and breathing shallow, the afternoon sun slipping lower and lower through the windows. Your thoughts were a blur, looping through images of the office, Blake’s smug face twisting with cruel satisfaction, the way everyone had looked at you when he spat that word—virgin—like it was something to mock. Your skin crawled.

And beneath it all, every memory of Bucky rushed to the surface like a tide—his voice, his touch, the way he held you when you were cold, how gentle he was when you were nervous, the way he kissed your forehead when you couldn’t sleep. You let him in, completely, and trusted him with every part of yourself. And he didn’t even trust you with the truth.

The soft creak of the hallway floor outside your apartment jolted you from your spiral. You froze. A key turned in the lock across the hall. His door swung open.

Bucky was home.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

You stormed across the hallway barefoot, ignoring the thud of your heart, and knocked—hard—three times, sharp and fast like gunfire. Before you could even prepare yourself, the door opened, and there he was.

Hair tousled, jacket still on, his blue eyes widening when he saw you standing there. “Hey—”

You didn’t let him finish. You pushed past him, stepping into his apartment like it belonged to you, fury burning through you like wildfire.

“How long, Bucky?” The words came out tight and shaking.

He closed the door gently behind you, brows drawn. “What—?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.” You spun to face him, voice cracking. “How long have you known what Blake was? What he did to those women? How long were you planning to let me date him while you stood there saying nothing?”

His expression shifted, mouth parting. “I wasn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me.” You stepped closer, voice rising. “Please, for once, don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” he said quietly. “Look, I knew he was a nepotist jackass from the day I first started in Congress. But Marianne and the other women… I only found out yesterday, I swear.”

Your lungs seized.

He swallowed. “He was off. I noticed right away. The way he talked, the way he looked at women in the office. At you. I started asking questions, and the answers were worse than I expected.”

You stared at him, the sting behind your eyes too sharp to fight. “And you just… let me fall for him?”

“I didn’t let you—I tried, okay?” Bucky’s voice cracked. “I tried to warn you without telling you everything, but every time I brought it up, the words tasted wrong on my lips and I thought I was just being overprotective or jealous or—”

“Because you were!” Your voice broke, shaking with heat. “But you never told me the truth, and now everyone knows that I’m—” Your throat closed. “He said it in front of everyone.”

“I didn’t want that to happen.” Bucky stepped forward, his voice raw. “I was going to tell you everything, but last night was a fluster. I swear. I thought if I just got him fired, it would be over and you wouldn’t have to—”

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” you spat. “You don’t get to pick and choose which parts of the truth I get to know, Bucky. Not when I trusted you. Not when I—” You stopped short, breath catching painfully.

He looked at you like you’d just punched him.

“I thought I was protecting you,” he whispered. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“But you weren’t,” you said, quieter now, voice trembling. “You were protecting yourself. From what, Bucky? From the truth? From how I’d react? Or from the fact that you knew you were crossing a line the second you let me crawl into your apartment and teach me how to touch you?”

His face twisted. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” You exhaled, shaky and raw. “You were supposed to be the one person I could trust.”

“I am,” he said, stepping forward again. “I’ve always been that for you.”

You shook your head. “No. Not today.”

You turned, storming for the door, blood hot and fingers trembling—but before you could open it, his voice cut through the silence like a whip.

“Wait.”

You paused. Barely. Just for a second. But it was enough for your heart to split.

Your hand was still curled around the doorknob, heart pounding in your ears like a war drum. The weight of him behind you—his presence, his voice, his regret—hung heavy in the air. It would’ve been easier to keep walking. Slam the door behind you, bury your heartbreak under a blanket and forget he ever touched you. But the second he said that word, your resolve cracked.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Bucky said softly. “You have to believe that.”

You turned, slowly.

His blue eyes were raw, pleading. His whole face looked tired—no, devastated. Like he’d been holding his breath all day and finally exhaled only to realise it wasn’t enough.

“You did hurt me,” you said. “You watched me fall for someone who didn’t care about me. And you knew.”

“I know,” he said, nodding. “And I was wrong. I should’ve told you. But I didn’t want to come between you and something that made you happy. And at the very start, you seemed happy. So I stayed silent. Even if it killed me to watch it happen.”

Your breath hitched.

His words echoed — even if it killed me.

Bucky’s voice lowered, thick with emotion. “You think it was easy for me? Watching him touch you in the office? Show you off like you were his property? Knowing he didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you?”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling, the anger inside you beginning to twist into something hotter. Something heavier.

“You think it was easy for me,” he continued, “to keep my mouth shut when all I wanted to do was rip his fucking hands off every time he looked at you like you were something to own?”

Your fingers trembled.

“Bucky…”

“I didn’t want to ruin it,” he said, stepping closer. “But every time I looked at you, I wished it was me. Not him.”

You didn’t think. Couldn’t.

You reached for him like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth.

Your hands tangled in the lapels of his jacket and you surged forward, slamming your mouth to his like it was the only thing that could make the pain stop. Bucky gasped, the shock of it jolting through him, but then he grabbed you—grabbed you—and pinned you to the nearest wall like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it.

You moaned into his mouth, fingers clawing into his shoulders, his hair, his neck. He kissed you like he was starved—like he’d been holding himself back for weeks, and now that the leash had snapped, he didn’t care who saw.

Your back hit the wall with a dull thud, and Bucky pressed into you, his hips slotting against yours, one hand cradling the back of your neck, the other sliding down your side like he needed to touch every inch of you to believe you were real.

“I’ve wanted this,” he rasped against your lips, “so fucking bad.”

You whined, tilting your head back as his mouth dropped to your throat, teeth grazing your pulse. “Then take it,” you breathed.

He growled—growled—and kissed you again, deeper this time, hungrier, tongue sliding against yours like he wanted to taste your every thought.

But it wasn’t just lust. Not even close.

There was too much in the way he held you, too much pain in the way his fingers trembled against your waist, too much feeling behind every kiss like he was trying to apologise, confess, and worship you all at once.

Your hands moved without thinking—down his chest, yanking his shirt loose from his waistband. He hissed when your fingers brushed bare skin, and you felt him hard against your thigh, unmistakable and urgent. It only made you kiss him harder.

But then—suddenly—he pulled away.

You blinked, breathless, lips kiss-swollen and dazed. “What—?”

Bucky’s chest was heaving, pupils blown wide, jaw clenched like he was trying to hold something back.

“You were going to leave,” he muttered.

Your breath caught in your throat. You’d never seen him like this before; his eyes practically black with lust, expression outright feral. 

“You storm in here, screaming at me, prodding your finger into my chest and then walk out?” His voice dropped, gravelly rough. “Like this doesn’t mean something.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “I wasn’t going to—”

“Where were you going?” he asked, stepping forward again, backing you against the wall. “To cry? To fall asleep still hurting, still confused, still wondering if I care about you?”

You swallowed hard.

He reached for your waist again, gentler now, grounding you. “You don’t get to leave until I remind you how someone should treat you.”

Your hands shook.

“Bucky…”

His mouth ghosted against yours. “We still have one more lesson, sweetheart.”

Your heart nearly stopped.

“No need for lessons anymore,” you whispered, but you were already pressing into him again, drunk on the heat of his body, the rasp of his voice, the look in his eyes that told you he meant it.

It was true, things were over with you and Blake now, so really, there was no need for the final lesson. But that didn’t mean you didn’t want it. And Bucky had been programmed to finish the job. You curled your fingers into the column of his neck, causing him to hiss as your nails bit into the skin there. 

“But if we’re going to do this, tell me, Bucky,” you continued. “what is lesson five?”

His hands slid to your hips, voice low and sure.

“Lesson five?” Bucky chuckled darkly. It made you nervous. His teeth nibbled at your jaw and he ran his tongue along your skin before whispering, “I’m going to fuck you until you don’t even remember Blake’s name.”

Your gasp barely made it past your lips before Bucky crashed into you again, kissing you with a brutal kind of hunger — all teeth and tongue and desperate heat. There was nothing patient about him now. This wasn’t the gentle encouragement of previous lessons. This was something else entirely. Something territorial.

His hands gripped your hips so tight, you felt the press of his fingertips even through the fabric of your leggings. He spun you around, walking you backward until your spine met the wall. His vibranium arm slammed beside your head, making you jump — not from fear, but the shock of raw desire it sparked down your spine.

“I should’ve done this the night you came to me,” Bucky growled, voice a low rasp against your throat. “The second you said his name, I should’ve claimed you right there.”

Your stomach twisted, arousal blooming, breath caught in your chest. “Bucky…”

He kissed the underside of your jaw, then bit down — not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you whimper, enough to mark. His flesh hand dragged down your body, possessive and rough, squeezing your ass, then sliding between your thighs like he owned you.

“You’ve been his in name only,” Bucky muttered darkly, fingers teasing the hem of your panties. “But every moan, every lesson… that was mine. You were mine the whole damn time.”

You whimpered when his fingers pressed against you through the thin lace, already soaked. His smirk was vicious. “Dripping for me, huh? Not for him. Never for him.”

“Bucky,” you gasped, hips rolling toward his hand. “Please.”

“Oh, now you beg?” he teased, kissing the corner of your mouth, dragging his lips across your cheek. “You don’t even know what begging is yet.”

With one quick motion, his vibranium hand gripped the back of your thigh and hoisted it up onto his hip, opening you up for him. You clung to his shoulders, thighs trembling. He ground against you — slow, hard, and deliberate — letting you feel the thick press of him through his slacks, letting you know exactly what you’d invited in.

“You’re mine tonight,” he murmured hotly, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “You want lesson five? It’s not sweet. It’s not slow. It’s me showing you how it feels to be ruined.”

His words punched the air from your lungs. Your body arched toward him, mind fogged with the sheer weight of him — his mouth, his voice, his presence. He wasn’t just touching you. He was devouring you. Worshipping and punishing you all at once for giving yourself to someone who never deserved it.

He kissed you again — harder, deeper, dragging your bottom lip between his teeth and tugging until you whimpered. His hand slipped under your panties, finally sliding against your slick folds, and he groaned deep in his throat.

“Fuck,” he whispered, like he was reverent, like he was angry at how good you felt. “So wet for me already. You were made for this.”

His fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance, brushing up again to circle your clit with slow, devastating precision. You jerked in his grip, crying out softly, but Bucky didn’t stop. He watched your face as he worked you, eyes blown wide with desire and something darker — something protective and furious and worshipful.

“I’m going to make you forget every time he touched you,” Bucky promised, breathless now. “I’m going to fuck you so good, I’ll ruin you for anyone else.”

“Was that your goal this entire time?” You retorted teasingly, but the words died on your tongue the second Bucky removed his fingers from your dripping core. A punishment for being snarky.

You should have known better.

“What do you think?” Bucky smiled, a wicked glint in his eye.

Bucky walked you back toward the bedroom, his hands everywhere—palming your waist, gripping your ass, tugging your shirt up over your head. You stripped him in return, your fingers trembling as you shoved his slacks down his hips. He stepped out of them without breaking the kiss, and you gasped into his mouth when his cock brushed your stomach—hot, thick, already leaking.

Your knees buckled.

You sank to the floor.

He let out a ragged breath above you, bracing himself on the wall, his hand tangled in your hair like he’d fall apart without the anchor.

You mouthed over his hip bone first, then down his thigh. His cock bobbed in the space between you, flushed red at the tip, already glistening with precum. You wrapped your hand around the base and gave one slow stroke, licking your lips as his abs clenched.

“You’re fucking perfect,” you whispered.

“Shit—” he breathed. “Gonna make me come just looking at you.”

You smirked, then leaned in and licked a long, deliberate stripe from base to tip. His cock twitched in your hand. He cursed again—louder this time—his hips bucking forward.

Your lips wrapped around the head, tongue flicking beneath the ridge. He groaned, head falling back, mouth open and desperate.

“God, your fucking mouth—”

You hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper, your throat stretching, spit sliding messily down your chin. Your hand stroked the base as you bobbed your head, faster now, wetter. His thighs flexed beneath your palms, and you moaned around him—loudly—just to feel the way he twitched.

“Fucking hell, baby—don't stop—don't fucking stop—”

You pushed lower, pushing until he hit the back of your throat. You gagged and pulled back, then did it again. Determined. Tears burned the corners of your eyes but you didn’t care. Not when he sounded like that. Not when you could feel him unraveling with every stroke of your tongue.

You swallowed him down, again and again, your hand stroking in tandem, twisting at the head just how he liked it. He was panting now, bucking into your mouth, losing control.

“Shit—I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come—”

You didn’t slow down. You wanted it—wanted to see him break.

And then he did.

With a choked cry and a full-body tremor, Bucky spilled into your mouth, thick and hot and endless. It painted your tongue, dripped from the corner of your lips onto your hand, and you sucked him through it until he was twitching.

When you pulled back, a string of spit and come connected your lips to the tip of his cock.

He looked down at you, dazed, chest heaving.

“You okay?” he rasped.

You didn’t answer. You just looked at the mess across your hand—his mess—and brought it to your mouth. You sucked his come off your fingers like it was something sweet, something sacred.

His jaw dropped.

“I—Jesus fucking Christ—”

You smiled, lips slick, then stood, dragging him down with you onto the bed. You pushed him back against the mattress, straddling his thigh, already yanking your underwear down your legs.

“You wanna taste me now?” you asked, breathless.

Bucky groaned like it hurt. “Get over here.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

He flipped you easily, dragging you down the bed and settling between your legs, mouth already kissing your inner thigh. You were soaked, slick running down your folds, and when he dragged his tongue through it, his moan rumbled deep in his chest.

You gasped, grabbing the sheets, your hips arching up into his mouth.

He groaned against your clit, tongue flicking fast and wet. Obscene sounds echoed throughout the walls of his bedroom. His arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you open, locked in place. He sucked hard—just once—and you nearly came undone right there.

“Bucky—fuck, please—”

He gave you everything.

His mouth never left your clit, but his fingers slipped inside you—one, then two, pumping slow, curling just right. He knew your body now. He knew where to touch, how to make you fall apart.

“You taste like heaven,” he muttered against you. “Could live between your legs.”

You cried out, heels digging into the mattress. His fingers were relentless, working that sweet spot inside you, and your stomach was already tightening.

“C’mon,” he whispered, licking circles around your clit. “Come on, sweetheart. I want it. Let me feel you.”

You broke apart with a sob—your whole body shuddering, clenching around his fingers, your thighs squeezing his head. He didn’t stop until your cries turned to whimpers and your legs gave out.

He crawled up and kissed you hard, messy and hot and open-mouthed, and you moaned into it, tasting yourself on his tongue. 

Bucky was trembling above you.

Not because he didn’t want this—God, no—but because it felt too much. Like the moment he let himself sink inside you, everything would change. He was on the edge of something he didn’t know how to return from.

And you? You looked wrecked in the most beautiful way. Kiss-swollen lips, hot cheeks, soft whimpers still falling from you. Your thighs were still trembling from the orgasm he’d coaxed from you moments ago, his fingers glistening with the proof of how badly you needed him.

His cock throbbed between your bodies—already hard again—resting against your belly, heavy and flushed and aching. His eyes fluttered shut when your fingers wrapped around it again, curious and reverent.

“I want to do it,” you whispered. “Can I…?”

He didn’t even need to ask what you meant. He just nodded, breath stuttering in his throat. “Yeah. Christ, yeah.”

He reached to the nightstand with a shaky hand, pulling open the drawer where he’d already stashed the condom he’d bought for this night, just in case—because some foolish, aching part of him had dared to hope. He ripped the packet open with his teeth, then handed it to you with trembling fingers.

You sat up a little, swallowing hard as you looked at him—naked and gorgeous in the low lamp light, chest dusted with hair, abs tight with restraint. He was solid under your hands, thighs flexed, arms braced beside your head. And his cock was massive. Thick and veiny and heavy in your palm, curved slightly upward, with a bead of precum already welling at the tip.

You looked up at him shyly, condom still in your hand. “How do I…”

“I’ll show you,” Bucky said, his voice raw with need. He leaned in, guiding your hand gently. “Hold it like this… yeah, perfect. Pinch the tip. Now roll it down slowly.”

You followed his instruction with delicate care, watching as the latex slid over his length—inch after inch until he was fully covered, twitching in your grip.

He let out a shuddering breath, eyes locked on your face like he was memorising you.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispered. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You blushed under his gaze, chest fluttering with nerves and warmth. “I just want to make it good.”

He pressed his forehead to yours again, exhaling slow. “It already is.”

He shifted, lining himself up with your entrance. The head of his cock slid through your soaked folds and you both gasped. It was hot, thick, and pulsing—and you could feel the stretch already, even before he’d entered you.

Bucky paused.

His eyes met yours, pupils blown wide, voice low and reverent.

“Are you ready for the final lesson?”

There was no hesitation. “Yes.”

He kissed you like a promise, and then he started to push inside.

The pressure was overwhelming. Even with all the careful prep, your body tensed around the intrusion, instinctive and tight. He was so big—your walls struggling to accommodate him, your nails digging into his biceps.

He stilled the moment he felt your breath hitch.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, kissing your cheek, your temple, the corner of your eye. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. So fucking good for me.”

You whimpered, legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. He didn’t move. Not yet. He held you, grounded you, let your body adjust.

The first few moments were sharp — a tight, unfamiliar stretch that made your breath hitch and your muscles instinctively clamp down. It wasn’t just physical; it was the weight of vulnerability, the fear of the unknown, the electric tremor of trusting him so completely.

Bucky stayed still, completely still, giving your body all the time it needed. His eyes locked on yours, full of nothing but unwavering support and gentle encouragement.

“You’re okay,” he murmured softly, his voice like a warm blanket wrapping around you. “I’m right here. You’re doing so fucking good.”

His hand slid from your hip to cup your cheek, thumb brushing away a stray tear you hadn’t even realised had fallen. You wanted to pull away, embarrassed by the ache — but his touch grounded you, reminding you that this was safe, this was love, not pain.

Slowly, the sting began to dissolve, melting into something altogether different — a fierce, white-hot pleasure that bloomed and radiated through every fibre of your body. The tightness shifted into a delicious fullness, like the most perfect kind of ache.

Bucky’s fingers found your clit again, tracing slow, loving circles, coaxing waves of heat and light through you. Your walls fluttered around him, trembling, loosening just enough for him to sink a little deeper, inch by inch, each movement more natural than the last.

His breath hitched as he felt your body begin to open to him. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned, voice thick with awe and need. “You’re so perfect like this.”

He kissed your jawline, down to your neck, nipping gently as if to say I’m yours, completely.

“You’re so strong,” he whispered against your skin, fingers never faltering in their tender rhythm. “You’ve got this.”

His words were like a lifeline, pulling you higher, giving you the courage to let go of the last bit of fear. Your muscles clenched again, this time not from pain but from the flood of pleasure rolling through you.

“Let it go,” he urged softly, voice low and coaxing. “I’m right here. You’re safe with me.”

Your breath hitched as the tension in your body shattered, replaced by a shattering, beautiful release that left you shaking in his arms. Your legs trembled as the wave crashed through you, your walls pulsing around him in response.

Bucky groaned deeply, his chest rising and falling fast, his own need flaring in tandem with yours. He shifted, sinking further inside you with reverence, as if trying to become one with every part of you.

“You’re incredible,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “So fucking incredible.”

His hands held you steady, his metal arm warm and sure around your waist. His lips brushed your temple. “I’ve never felt this before. With anyone.”

You clung to him, heart pounding wildly, overwhelmed by the raw intimacy, the blend of pleasure and love.

As the waves of your release slowly faded, Bucky’s hips pressed gently into yours, rocking slow and steady — careful, patient, filled with a reverence that made you feel like the most precious thing in the world.

“You’re perfect,” he repeated, voice soft but certain, “and I’m not going anywhere.”

You whimpered at the praise, arching up into him, helpless under the weight of his body and the feelings rising between you. This wasn’t just sex anymore. This was something that had always lived between you two, growing quietly in the dark.

And Bucky felt it too.

His rhythm faltered — just for a second — and he pulled back to look at you. His eyes searched yours, wide and vulnerable, and for a moment, it was like the rest of the world fell away. His thrusts slowed as his expression shifted into something almost pained, like he’d been holding something back for too long.

“I love you,” he breathed, voice cracking. “Fuck—baby, I love you.”

It hit you like a bolt of lightning — the desperation in his voice, the way his forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut like saying it hurt and healed him all at once. There was no hesitation, no fear—only a deep, aching need to finally say it aloud.

And then he came.

His hips stuttered and his breath broke as he spilled into the condom, his face contorting in a mix of bliss and emotion. His hands tightened on your waist, anchoring himself to you like he needed to feel every inch of you while he came apart.

He collapsed against you with a low, wrecked moan, panting hard into your shoulder, his body trembling faintly from the force of it. For a while, neither of you spoke. You just held him as his weight settled over you, your fingers stroking through the damp hair at the back of his neck, your heart beating too fast and too loud.

Bucky lifted his head slowly, still catching his breath, his cheeks flushed and eyes glassy.

Your body trembled beneath him, warm and open, every nerve ending humming with the newness of this—his presence, his touch, the way he filled you completely. The soft weight of his metal arm wrapped around your waist grounded you, a steady anchor amid the storm of sensation curling through your limbs.

For a long, perfect moment, you stayed locked together like that—two hearts beating in sync, two souls finally home.

You lay curled against Bucky, the heat of his body warm and steady beneath your cheek. The city noises outside faded into a distant hum, muffled by the thick curtains and the soft rhythm of your shared breathing.

Tears blurred your vision, but they weren’t just sadness — they were relief, love, and something fragile yet fierce blossoming in your chest. You reached up, fingers trembling slightly, and brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. His skin was warm under your touch, and you could feel the gentle pulse of his heart just beneath the surface.

“I love you,” you whispered, voice barely louder than a breath. The words spilled free, raw and honest, carrying the weight of everything you’d held back.

For a moment, Bucky was still, his gaze locked on yours with something so deep and tender it made your heart skip. Then, slowly, he smiled — that rare, genuine smile that always melted you — and cupped your cheek in his large hand. His thumb stroked your skin softly, grounding you.

“You do?” He asked, and you nodded wordlessly, unable to hide the smile on your face.

“I love you too,” he said, voice husky with emotion. “God, I’ve loved you for so long. Every lesson, every moment we shared… it all led here.” He swallowed hard, vulnerability shining in his eyes. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

You smiled even harder through your tears, feeling warmth bloom through your chest. You’d never imagined love could feel this safe, this real.

Bucky shifted gently so he could look at you better, the moonlight catching the scars on his skin and the steel of his arm — marks of his past, of battles fought, but to you, they were beautiful, a part of him you adored.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” he asked quietly, nerves flickering beneath his calm exterior. “Not just my best friend, or the girl I teach lessons to… but really, truly mine?”

Your heart surged, pounding loud in your ears. You laughed softly, a sound full of joy and disbelief. “Yes,” you breathed, “I want that more than anything.”

His smile widened, and he closed the distance between your lips again — this kiss deeper, more sure, full of promises yet to be kept. Your hands found his shirt, pulling him closer, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. He tasted like home, like safety, like everything you’d been searching for.

When you finally parted, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling. His voice was soft but certain. “We’ve waited long enough. From now on, it’s just us.”

You nodded, feeling a blissful certainty settle inside you. “Just us.”

Wrapped in each other’s arms, you let the world fall away. For the first time, you were exactly where you belonged.

──── ୨୧ ──── 3 months later...

Three months.

That’s how long it had been since everything changed.

Since late nights turned into mornings in his bed. Since soft touches no longer came with apologies. Since Bucky stopped pretending you were just friends and finally allowed himself to hold you the way he’d always dreamed.

Three months of secret smiles across meeting rooms. Of sneaking kisses in elevator corners. Of long nights curled up on his couch, learning each other’s bodies and boundaries. Of building something real.

And now… tonight was the first time you’d show up together—really together.

In public.

Hand in hand.

The inside of the SUV was quiet, save for the faint hum of the engine and the muted city noise outside the tinted windows. You sat side by side in the backseat, the air between you buzzing with restrained touches. Dressed in a silky black gown that hugged your curves and left just enough to the imagination, you were a vision—and Bucky looked the part of your counterpart, suited in sharp navy with a black shirt open just enough to show the glint of a dog tag he never took off.

He couldn’t stop staring at you.

You glanced at him from under your lashes, catching his gaze for what must’ve been the tenth time since pulling away from the curb. “You’re staring.”

“Can’t help it,” Bucky murmured, voice low and rough. 

"You okay?" you asked softly, brushing your knee against his.

He blinked, like you pulled him out of his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

“You sure?” you pressed, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Because you’ve checked your tie three times and I think you just wiped your palms on your pants.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You know me too well.”

You leaned in slightly, your perfume drifting into his senses like a trap. “So what’s got you so tense? It’s just a party.”

“It’s not just a party,” he muttered. “It’s the first time they see us together. Publicly. Officially. The whole damn Capitol will be there.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What, you think they’re gonna boo when we walk in?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he turned to you, finally meeting your eyes. His fingers reached for yours, brushing your knuckles, then sliding in between them slowly. His palm was warm. His grip was tight.

“I just… I don’t want anyone talking shit about you.”

Your expression softened instantly. “Bucky.”

“I know how they are,” he said, eyes drifting back to the dark window. “Politics is a viper pit. Half those assholes would chew you up and spit you out if they thought it would hurt me. And if anyone starts saying you’re with me for the wrong reasons, or that I’m—”

“Hey,” you cut in gently, lifting his hand to your lips and kissing the scarred ridge across his knuckles. “Look at me.”

He did.

“I'm not scared of them,” you whispered. “And I don’t care what they say. We know the truth.”

Bucky stared at you like he was trying to memorise you. Like you were something he'd waited his whole life to have, and still couldn’t believe was real.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said finally, voice low.

You smiled. “You’re not so bad yourself, Barnes.”

His hand slipped from yours, fingers grazing your thigh instead, the slide of his metal knuckles teasing your slit-high dress. He didn’t go higher—just left it there. Possessive. Protective.

You shifted closer, unable to help yourself. “We’ve got ten more minutes in this car,” you murmured. “Want to make out like teenagers?”

That earned a laugh. “You trying to get us kicked out before we even arrive?”

You shrugged. “Could be worth it.”

Bucky’s smile softened, his eyes dipping to your lips like he was considering it.

And then the car slowed.

You both turned toward the window as the Capitol came into view, lights flashing, cameras already gathering outside the entrance.

Showtime.

Your pulse kicked up. Not from nerves, but because Bucky squeezed your thigh gently—just once—and leaned in to murmur something against your cheek:

“Whatever happens tonight… you’re mine.”

Your breath caught.

And you nodded. “I always was.”

The black car rolled to a stop outside the grand entrance of the event venue, its marble steps glowing under the soft gold of the Capitol’s evening lights. The flash of cameras was instant—blinding and relentless. You could hear the muffled shouts through the closed doors.

"Here we go," Bucky murmured, sitting upright. He ran his thumb once more over the back of your hand before letting go.

A beat passed.

Then he reached for the door handle, looked at you one last time, and said, “You sure you’re ready?”

You nodded, pulse fluttering. “Only if you are.”

He gave you that boyish, quiet smile—the one that said he wasn’t quite sure how the hell he got so lucky—and then he climbed out.

The moment he stepped into view, the crowd erupted.

Click. Flash. Click.

Dozens of photographers shouted his name, crowding the velvet rope. He ignored them all as he turned back to offer his hand to you.

You placed your fingers in his palm and stepped out, heels clicking on the pavement.

The crowd paused.

The flashbulbs came twice as fast.

There was a murmur—an audible shift in energy—as you came into full view beside him, your hand snug in the crook of his elbow.

Congressman James Buchanan Barnes was not alone.

You gave the cameras a small, polite smile.

Bucky didn’t.

He looked straight ahead, shielding you slightly with his body as the two of you ascended the steps. He didn’t let go of you—not even as one of the party coordinators approached to escort you in, stammering through a greeting as if unsure what to make of the scene.

The grand ballroom inside was filled with Washington’s most influential—politicians, donors, journalists, and aides. People who had seen Bucky a hundred times in tailored suits and tight-lipped photo ops. But not like this.

Not with you.

The whispers followed.

You held his arm tighter.

“Let ‘em talk,” Bucky muttered close to your ear.

The first friendly face you spotted was Marianne—wearing a glittering midnight-blue gown and smiling like she’d just seen two celebrities. She practically ran across the room in heels.

“Oh my god,” she squealed, hugging you. “You two are finally public?”

Your laugh was small, but genuine. “Is it that obvious?”

“Honey, he looks at you like you hung the moon.”

Bucky chuckled, and Marianne turned to him, giving him a firm hug too. “I mean it, Barnes. Proud of you. About everything.”

He nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was holding back emotion. “Thanks, Marianne.”

Before she could say anything more, a familiar voice cut through the crowd behind you.

“Well, would you look at that?”

You turned to find Sam Wilson, all charm and sharp suit, grinning ear to ear. He gave you a wink before pulling Bucky into a one-armed hug.

“Took you long enough, Barnes.”

Bucky huffed. “Don’t start.”

“You’re lucky she didn’t fall for someone smarter,” Sam teased, then turned to you and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “But seriously, if he ever messes this up, just say the word. I’ll set you up with someone from Wakanda. You deserve royalty.”

You laughed, and Bucky rolled his eyes. “Sam.”

Sam held up his hands in surrender. “What? I’m happy for you. Both of you. It’s good to see him happy. Took years off his face.”

You looked over at Bucky then—at the way the tightness around his eyes had softened, at how his hand kept drifting toward your waist like he needed to touch you just to believe this was real.

You knew exactly what Sam meant.

As the evening wore on, you mingled and danced and accepted congratulations from those who mattered. You smiled through the stares and questions. You held your own in conversation. And every time Bucky reached for you—your waist, your hand, the back of your chair—you leaned into his touch without hesitation.

It wasn’t just lessons anymore.

It was real.

──── ୨୧ ────

Bucky leaned against the ornate marble railing of the terrace, the night cool against his flushed skin. The party hummed behind him—music, champagne flutes clinking, polite laughter—but out here, it was quiet.

He needed the break.

Too much attention. Too many eyes. Too many people whispering about the woman on his arm like she hadn’t already owned his heart for years.

“She’s got you whipped, man.”

Bucky startled slightly and turned—Sam stood behind him, two glasses in hand. He offered one out with a smirk.

“Didn’t peg you for the kind of guy to sneak out during your own big debut.”

Bucky accepted the drink with a grumble. “I’m not hiding.”

“You’re hiding.”

He sighed and took a sip. “Maybe a little.”

Sam stepped up beside him, gazing out over the Capitol lawn. “You nervous?”

“I feel like everyone’s staring at her.”

“They are.”

Bucky scowled.

“Because she’s gorgeous. And because she’s with you,” Sam added, bumping his shoulder. “They’re just surprised it took this long.”

There was a pause.

Then Bucky muttered, “I still don’t know what she sees in me.”

“Oh god,” Sam groaned. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you’re serious, that’s why it’s annoying,” Sam said. “You’re not some lost cause, Buck. You’re a good man. A damn good one. She knows it. And everyone who matters knows it too.”

Bucky stared down into his glass, jaw tight.

Sam softened. “You think I’d let her get with you if I didn’t believe in you?”

That made Bucky laugh under his breath. “You’d stop her?”

“I’d try. I mean, she’s terrifying. But I’d give it a shot.”

A smile tugged at Bucky’s mouth.

They stood in silence for a while—just two men in suits under the stars, watching Washington buzz beneath them.

Then Sam snorted suddenly into his drink.

“What?”

“Just remembered—Blake got arrested yesterday.”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

“Tax evasion,” Sam said, smug. “Turns out Mr. ‘I’m Untouchable’ was touching a few too many offshore accounts. IRS caught wind, and he folded like a wet napkin.”

Bucky barked out a laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Dude tried to write off strip club visits as ‘client dinners.’ Can’t make this shit up.”

Bucky shook his head. “That guy…”

“Hey,” Sam said, nudging him. “You did good. Got her away from that asshole. She’s better off. And so are you.”

There was a beat.

Then Bucky murmured, “I love her, man.”

Sam didn’t flinch. Didn’t tease.

Just nodded. “I know.”

The door creaked open behind them, and Bucky turned instinctively—there you were, scanning the terrace until your eyes landed on him.

Sam followed his gaze and grinned. “Looks like you’re being summoned.”

Bucky hesitated for half a second—then set down his glass.

“You coming back in?” he asked.

“Nah,” Sam said. “I’ve seen enough PDA for one night.”

Bucky clapped him on the shoulder once, warm and grateful, before making his way across the terrace and straight into your orbit.

You looked up at him, glowing under the string lights. “There you are.”

He leaned in, voice low and full of promise.

“Come with me,” he said. “We’ve got one more thing to finish tonight.”

──── ୨୧ ────

You hadn’t meant to sneak away.

Not really.

But when Bucky brushed his fingers across the small of your back while you both stood politely nodding through yet another conversation about bipartisan infrastructure, you leaned in. Just a little. Just enough.

And he murmured against your ear, “Upstairs. Now.”

So you followed.

The White House guest wing was quiet, deserted, dimly lit. Ornate carpet, gilt-trimmed wallpaper, portraits that seemed to watch you pass—but you were barely aware of any of it. All you could hear was the pounding of your pulse. All you could feel was Bucky’s hand wrapped around yours, dragging you behind him like something stolen.

The second he found an empty room and shut the door, his hands were on you.

You crashed into each other in the dark, mouths meeting like magnets. His tie was already loosened, his jacket discarded on the floor. Your dress was hiked up, his hands greedy at your waist, lifting you effortlessly and placing you on the edge of an antique desk.

He stepped between your thighs, pulling your lower half flush against his. His lips found your neck, your jaw, the soft part behind your ear that made you shiver.

“You looked like a dream tonight,” he murmured, voice deep and rough. “All fucking mine.”

Your breath caught. “You’re being possessive.”

“You love it when I’m possessive.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Your fingers moved quickly, popping the buttons of his shirt open one by one, pushing it back to reveal his undershirt. Your palm pressed against his chest. His heart was hammering.

“I thought you hated these kinds of parties,” you whispered.

“I do,” he muttered, lifting your dress higher, exposing the tops of your thighs, his vibranium hand gripping your flesh with reverent urgency. “But I’ll go to every single one if it means I get to leave with you.”

You cupped his face, made him look at you. His eyes were blown wide, pupils dark and full of heat—but underneath it, that boyish vulnerability still lingered.

“You okay?” you whispered.

He nodded slowly, brushing his nose against yours. “Better than okay.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, letting it simmer—tongue sweeping his bottom lip, his hand curving around the back of your neck like he needed the anchor.

Then you broke apart, breathless. He stared at you, chest heaving. And then he smirked.

“What?” you asked.

He didn’t answer at first—just stepped back slightly, hands skimming over your thighs, thumbs pressing little circles just above your knees.

Then, in that low voice that never failed to wreck you, he said:

“So… ready for your final exam?”

Your mouth fell open. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” His hands slid higher. “I’ve taught you everything I know. Now I wanna see what you’ve learned.”

You huffed out a laugh, biting your bottom lip. “I don’t think we’re allowed to defile White House property.”

Bucky leaned in again, nipped at your jaw, and whispered, “Then you better be quiet.”

The tension snapped taut between you—sharp and electric, but layered with something deeper. He stared down at you like you were sacred. Like this meant everything. Like you were the reason he’d made it out the other side of all that pain.

You hooked your arms around his neck, your lips brushing his.

“Come on, Barnes,” you whispered. “I’m ready for anything.”

He lifted you off the desk in one swift motion, your legs wrapped around his waist, your giggle swallowed by another kiss. He made it to the couch at the far end of the room and laid you down gently, reverently, his body sliding over yours like he was built to fit there.

You touched every inch of him. He touched every part of you.

And then he made good on his promise.

You never did tell anyone the truth about the lessons. Because somewhere along the way, between shy kisses and whispered instructions, between laughter over cheap wine and gasps beneath soft sheets, it stopped being a curriculum and started becoming a love story. One written in stolen glances, accidental touches, and every time Bucky Barnes looked at you like you were his entire future. And maybe that was the final lesson after all—not how to kiss, or touch, or please—but how to fall in love with your best friend… and have him love you right back.

The End.

──── ୨୧ ────

author's note: if you read this far, to the very end of lessons in love, i just want to say thank you so much. thank you for being patient with me, and enabling me to write something i was so passionate about. my heart is full and i appreciate each and every one of you who reblogged, left a comment, sent me a message or showed their support in one way or another. certain elements of this story were challenging for me to write but it really was your support that helped me keep going. i love you lots and if you like my writing, please check out my masterlist in my pinned or feel free to submit a request :)

all my love,

rach

x

──── ୨୧ ────

Sebastian Stan taglist: in comments due to taglist limit

Lessons In Love taglist: (let me know if you want to be added!):

@sebastians-love @sweetserendipity65 @sangsterizada @mrsalexstan @alpinescoowner @buckyslqve @morganfullaaa @moonlight-sonata99 @sflame15-blog @rapturousfrog @parkerslivia @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @wickedfun9 @daisynotquake @arosewithpower @buckysgirl27 @loki-licious-945ad @dearluuna @riot-sounds @ang0320 @solarperpetua @julesandgems @yes-ilovetowrite @redh00dsbf @alicetesser @loyaltyistoxic @sailorsenshiuranep @yessebastianstanus @poshpinklace @joaquinsgirl @thornsofvelvet @miss-chuchu @xamapolax @avivarougestan @justalittle47 @nutella-hitler @ifilwtmfc @loverofdrewstarkey @cxiiv0 @pivictorious @gummy-dummy @avatarobsessedgirly @buckybarneswife125 @snake-in-a-flower-crown @jadevoir @thisismy-usernamee @loganficsonly @justalittle47 @xamapolax @vroomvroommbtch @peanutbutt3rcup — taglist continued in comments due to limit reach<3

[lumenhuman]

They called me insane. I expected as much.

Anyone would if a random soldier suddenly marched out to their city's gates, stood outside, spun his back to them, then planted his sword in the earth, hands resting on the pommel. Any sane being would think he was losing his mind to his hearth-like plate mail after he refused to move for an entire day in the volcanic heat of the Cinder Trail.

And yet my head had never been clearer. And neither had my conscience.

Of course, it didn't go well the first day. The first few hours were met with reasonable suspicion and mistrust, which instantly turned into apparent hilarity when I introduced myself as the gate guardian to the small delegation sent to greet me. Deep, bellowing laughter echoed across the mountains, shook the ground, and rang my head like a cathedral bell.

The head of the delegation even said that he felt so amused, he didn't feel like eating me anymore. He craned his long neck down, until his carriage-sized head was level with me and, through a chuckle that sounded like gravel caught in a millstone, said, "You're dismissed, human." All of them flew back behind the walls.

I refused that order.

After standing guard through the night, not once moving from my position, the second day was worse. From dawn to dusk I was circled by a particularly vitriolic citizen who made crystal clear everything he planned to do to me if I did not leave my post. How he would boil me alive in my armor and peel the slag off like the skin of an apple, before sliding me down his gullet. How he would pluck my limbs off like brittle tree branches, or "accidentally" misstep and crush me into a puddle. Every now and again he would huff a small plume of flame at my heels or toes.

I was trained well enough that I did not break against his intimidation. It also helped that I knew he wouldn't follow through. The more boastful one is, the less weight their threats have. Eventually, once the sun began to set, and a ring 2 feet deep had been worn into the earth around me, he grew bored. There were no other visitors that night, and nobody trying to pass the gate.

Army training had prepared me for the worst, but the heat, hunger, and dehydration were taking their toll. But, if I were to die outside the gate I protected, then it would merely be my fate. Gate guardians are to be entirely dependent on the city they protect, as Old Law dictates. A shame then, that I was not visited once on day three.

As the fourth day arrived, I was growing faint. The sun climbed into the sky, yet my eyelids felt tied to lead weights. It was all I could do to keep my head up, scanning the horizon for travelers. That was when I noticed a figure in the sky, approaching my position. I passed it off as another citizen, about to fly over the fifty-foot walls behind me, until they dived, and landed directly in front of me, nearly knocking me backward with the force.

The dragon's scales gleamed a verdant green, the color of summer leaves. Golden eyes that sparkled like gems looked down upon me, not with scorn or amusement but...curiosity. I finally noticed small drops of crimson falling to the ground beneath her maw.

I bowed my head. "Are you injured, my lady?"

As large as she was, I could feel through the ground the sensation of her lowering her forelegs in order to lean down to me. Placing her head mere inches from me, she opened her mouth, and set down a fresh kill. A mountain goat, with a single bloody bite-mark across its entire body. "For you, human." A gout of fire rushed over the goat, burning off the fur and charring the meat. "Breakfast."

I remained still. She kept watch of me.

After a minute or so of leaving my head bowed, she asked, "Why do you not eat?"

Doing everything I could to hide my salivation I answered, "My lady, I have not been blessed."

There was a moment of silence, before she made a soft, rhythmic noise, high in her throat, accompanied by small puffs of smoke from her nostrils. Was that...giggling? "You are a very strange one." She raised one of her massive forelimbs, stretched it toward me, and rested the tip of a razor-sharp claw on the back of my head. "By the grace of the gods, I grant upon you the alms of Draknir."

"I graciously accept." Instantly, I dropped to my knees, removed my gauntlets, and tore into the goat meat like a ravenous animal. So busy was I wrenching a leg from the carcass that I somehow didn't notice the dragon in front of me shrinking down into her human form, watching as I took bite after bite of freshly cooked chevon for myself.

In the middle of stuffing my stomach with its first meal in days, I remembered myself. I sat up, swiped my hand across my mouth, and addressed my lady, who now took the form of a young maiden wearing a long sundress the same color as her scales. "Apologies, my lady. Hunger temporarily dampened my manners. It won't happen again."

Her brow furrowed. "You're really serious about this, aren't you?" Her voice lost all gravitas and rumble, replaced with uncertainty and, if I were to be so presumptuous, a note of concern.

"Yes my lady. I've sworn myself as the gate guardian of Draknir." I placed both fists on opposite shoulders, forming an "x" with my arms; the traditional gate guardian salute. "My life is the vanguard against all who would do the people of this city harm."

I had to admit, it was much easier reading her human face than her dragon one. Her head tilted in confusion as she squinted at me, like the angle she was looking at me from made her hear me wrong. "You're oddly dedicated to the Old Law," she looked back towards the road, "Especially for a gate guardian from this day and age."

I set my hands on my lap. "They were made for a reason." I tore another chunk of meat off the bone. "May I, my lady?"

She waved her hand twice, clearly exasperated by the formality. Unfortunately no exceptions could be made of what is required of me. Still, I took her gesture as an affirmative and resumed my meal. As I swallowed my next bite she asked, "What reason do you believe that is?"

"May I-?"

Palm to her face she sighed, "By the gods, please be a person for five minutes!"

I cleared my throat. "Very well." I shifted positions, sitting crisscross in front of her offering. "They were made to keep exactly what is happening today from occurring. Gate guardians growing lazy, complacent, some only standing watch one day of the year on a festival!"

"Well what's so wrong with that?" She plucked some meat from the carcass, and blew a small stream of fire over it to cook it more thoroughly. "If I remember correctly, the Old Law also states that gate guardians can't own businesses or property either, which all of them have now. I don't think the strongest warrior of a nation would deserve to be reduced to a pauper."

"It's what is right!" I yelled. Her eyes widened. "Protectors should always rely on those they protect. Elsewise their power can grow twisted and cruel. They can forget their position as a servant and leave their city starved for protection."

She smirked at me as she flicked her piece of chevon into her mouth and chewed. "And you believe that we, the dragons, need protection?" She chuckled to herself again. It sounded much different in her human voice. Brighter. "It's all so absurd. There's no race alive that rivals us! The last war waged against us was 400 years ago, and it was a civil war!"

"What I believe," I stated, "Is that you have a gate." I stood and turned to face the massive, thirty foot tall stone gates, reinforced around the edges with studded iron. "And that no amount of strength makes you unworthy of protection."

"I mean," green, membranous wings unfurled from her back in an instant, "We hardly ever use it."

"And yet here it is. So if it's not for your kind," I turned back toward her, "Then who is it for?"

Her wings folded back into her form as she opened her mouth, didn't speak, then placed a hand over her face in ponderance. It took about a minute for her to admit, "I really hadn't thought of that before."

A small bit of self-satisfaction crossed my face before I could stop it. It annoyed her. "A gate is an invitation, my lady. No matter how heavy, or imposing, an opening lets those who would make their way past the walls know that, under the right conditions, they would be welcome. But what could serve as a vital artery for the city's life can become an infected wound if the wrong people slip through. That's why they need guarding."

I looked back, and her face had grown stern. She stood, and walked up beside me. "Fine then. What makes you think you could provide that guarding?" She crossed her arms. "Who are you, among the humans? Some grand champion? A king's personal guard?"

I sighed and shook my head. "In truth, I'm nobody of great import. Just another disposable foot soldier in an army like any other."

"Then what could a nobody like you," she poked me in the shoulder, "Possibly hope to protect us against?"

"Humanity," I said, "But, more specifically, myself."

Her face was incredulous. She laughed once, like she couldn't decide whether to be offended or impressed with the audacity. "You think that you could do us any harm?"

"I know that those like me can. I've served long enough to see it happen." I walked back to my sword, still lodged in the ground, and placed my hands back atop the pommel. "Whenever a lair was discovered, detachments would always be sent to raid it, kill the dragon, and take the riches for themselves." I turned back to my lady. "They would fail sometimes of course, but they were successful more often than not. Your kind are nigh-immortal, surely you've noticed this trend?"

"Well," there was hesitation in her voice, "It has been noticed that a dragon is increasingly likely to die the longer they're on their own-"

I interrupted, "Not 'die,' my lady. Be killed." My grip on my pommel tightened as a flash of anger bubbled through me. I looked to the road and mentally dared anything with two legs to cross my path. "And for no other reason than that they've already done the hard work of gathering the precious metals and gems that greedy monarchs covet oh so hungrily, and then have the audacity to nest on them.

"I never witnessed it firsthand, but from the stories I've heard, most of their last words are ones of profound confusion, bafflement." A single breath. Don't lose your composure. "They all believed themselves untouchable as well. All of you have that flaw, and humanity has learned to exploit it."

My lady's anger was becoming apparent as she marched over to me. Practically in my ear she yelled, "Well what about you then?! Have you ever-"

I faced her, "Yes."

She lurched back. Her eyes, once an emerald green, transfigured back to their draconic gold with black, cat-like pupils. A growl escaped her lips, along with a heavy amount of smoke. She looked truly ready to kill me.

I almost let her. But that would be the coward's way out.

I saluted once more, and knelt before her. "If you believe me worthy of this verdict, then I accept. But I beseech my lady to hear the rest of my story."

Five endless, uncertain minutes passed, before she sighed and commanded, "Fine." She walked over and kicked me in the shin. It still hurt through my armor. "Get up and explain yourself, knave."

Back on my feet, I clarified, "I've never finished off a dragon myself, but my platoon was assigned to raid the lair of one three months ago. I'd rather not go into great detail, but if my lady prefers-"

"Please don't." She looked less angry, and more dejected. Could she have known the dragon I helped...

I locked that thought up tight. "Needless to say we suffered heavy losses, but eventually she was slain. I was taking apart the nest when I saw," that same horrific image, burned into the back of my mind, invaded my head. I felt bile in my throat. "Hatchlings." That was all I could squeak out.

Her hands flew to her mouth and I could see the seeds of tears in the corners of her eyes. She caught on.

"That was the last straw for me. The guilt had such a hold on me that I felt my only option was to either kill my lieutenant or pluck out an eye and be discharged." I exhaled all of the blood, shouting, and tragedy I just relived. "But then I remembered that Draknir was the only city in the world without a gate guardian." I took position again at my sword. It felt right, now.

My lady looked at her feet as she placed her hand atop mine. "I apologize, truly. I shouldn't have pried."

"You had every right to ask, my lady." I gave a mirthless smirk. "I am your servant, after all."

A small, rueful laugh escaped her lips as she took her hand back. "Well then," she saluted me, and bowed her head. I rushed to do the same. "Noble gate guardian of Draknir. I ask that you continue to deliver us from all harm, stand vigil over our humble city, and remain a beacon of hope and bastion of safety until your days are up."

"This I shall." I raised my head with her. "And you say I'm obsessed with the Old Law?"

Her sparkling giggle broke the tension like a hammer. "Give me a break, I was there when they were written."

Before I could have my mind blown by that fact, she walked up to me, took my face in one hand and pecked me on the cheek. "I'll bring you something for dinner later." She unfurled her wings and took off, transforming back into her true form mid-air.

I merely sighed, and resumed my post.

At the mouth of each city wall, stands a gate guardian - a strong warrior, tasked to protect the people. A city of dragons is thus very perplexed as to why a human has become the city’s guardian.

[bitchinbarzal]

Together — J Burrow

Summary: every night, once Sloane’s finally down, you and Joe have a ritual: just 30 minutes, just the two of you. Together.

⸻

The house is finally still.

You swear it always takes at least three attempts. Sloane will ask for one more book, one more sip of water, one more kiss, one more “Daddy, I forgot to tell you that I love you but also I wanted to say that tigers are fast and I’m a tiger so I should stay up.”

But eventually she’s asleep. Arms flung across her pillow, nightlight casting soft purple across the room.

You and Joe tiptoe out like fugitives.

You don’t even talk right away. Just meet in the kitchen.

Tonight, it’s herbal tea.

Lemon chamomile in his “worlds best dad” mug and your chipped LSU one, the one he gave you on your second anniversary with “still my favorite college girl” written on a sticky note inside.

Joe leans back against the counter while the kettle boils.

“She fell asleep in under ten minutes,” he whispers. “That’s gotta be a personal best.”

You love him like this at the end of the day, the noise peeled away, softness in his shoulders again.

You sit across from each other at the table, elbows near-touching, mugs warm between your palms.

Joe nudges his knee against yours. “Tell me something you didn’t get to say today.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What?”

“Something from you. Not Mom-you. Just you.”

It takes you a second.

“I miss the way you kissed me before work. With your whole body. Like you didn’t care if we were late.”

Joe’s eyes soften. He reaches across the table, cups the side of your face.

“I’ll be late tomorrow,” he promises. “On purpose.”

You smile.

Some nights it’s this.

Talking.

Other nights it’s a back rub on the couch while reruns play and Sloane’s monitor hums quietly from the coffee table.

Some nights, it’s even quieter than this with hands under the covers, slow kisses in the dark, like the walls are listening.

But always, it’s together.

Joe sets his mug down and walks around behind you. Wraps his arms around your waist.

You lean back into him, let him sway you gently like there’s music only he hears.

“She’s getting big,” he says into your shoulder.

You hum. “Don’t remind me.”

“Three going on fourteen.”

“She told me I ‘hurt her heart’ earlier when I said no to sprinkles before dinner.”

Joe laughs softly. “That’s my girl.”

You glance over your shoulder. “She’s ours.”

He kisses your cheek. “Best thing we ever made.”

You twist a little to face him. “Second best.”

He grins. “What’s the first?”

You lift your pinky, hook it round his. “This.”

Sloane’s snoring softly in her room. The hallway light is dim. Your legs are tangled. Joe’s hand rests on your hip like it belongs there, like it never left.

“You ever scared we’ll forget how to do this?” you ask suddenly.

“Do what?”

“This. Be us. With everything else.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

“No.”

You glance at him.

“I think we find new versions of ‘us’ every time she changes. But the part where I love you? That hasn’t changed, you’re still the girl i fell in love with at college.”

Your throat tightens.

He pulls you in. Kisses your forehead. Then your temple. Then your mouth.

“You and me,” he whispers.

“Always.”

[buckysdingus]

empty cups

todd stevens x reader

smut MDNI 18+

word count: 2.7k

summary: basically empty cups by charlie puth :)

warnings: oral f!receiving, p in v, spit play, talking ya through it, pet names (baby, sweetness)

a/n: first of many todd stevens fics. more to come! stay tuned! lmk what else you’d like to see- if smut isn’t your thing i’ve got some other stuff planned so pls stay tuned! lmk if you wanna be tagged when i post!

lewis masterlist!

the music was loud enough to make you think your hear was matching the beat of it. you felt it deep in your chest. the empty cups in your hand and scatters around only grew the atmosphere.

you also felt the rough hands of todd stevens on you. every time you lifted your arms, your t shirt would lift just high enough to expose your midriff and todd took advantage of that small window of opportunity.

his rough, calloused hands lightly touching the softness of your hips, waist and moving in front to your belly. his fingertips pushing the boundary between your lower stomach and the waist line of your low rise jeans.

your ass grinding against his front to the music, he felt like he was in heaven. he wasn’t prepared for what was coming.

you turn, his fingertips still stuck between your skin and jeans, now his fingers rest on your lower back just above your ass.

you go on your toes, mouth next to his ear, “wanna go upstairs?” you take his ear lobe between your teeth and pull it slightly before letting it go and go back to your feet to look at him.

his eyes lighting up with amusement and a smirk you wanted to kiss.

his hands raised from your lower back, up your waist and eventually one takes your hand. he nods to the stairs.

he stops to whisper something to a fellow frat, something about making sure no one goes to his room. the frat boy tells another that todd and his girl are going up stairs and not to disturb them.

you smile at the mention of you being todd’s girl.

you and todd started out as friend with benefits and if anyone asks now you’d probably both still say that but you both know it’s something more. i love yous have been thrown around a lot when having sex and the both you have stayed the night wrapped in the others arms and staying for breakfast during the morning. if todd sees you on campus he can’t help but ask to carry your books or walk you to your next class.

neither of you talk to anyone else outside of the other. no other sex, nothing. it’s just him. it’s just you.

reaching todd’s room, he unlocks it only to lock it back when you’re both inside. you both kick off your shoes, then connect quickly. your lips on his and his tongue immediately asking for entrance.

“do you want to turn up some music or the tv so no one will hear,” you ask between feverish kisses.

“nah,” he says, “everyone already knows, so let’s just makes sure they know more,”

it was a good enough answer for you.

his hands go under your tshirt and he grabs the hem of it and lifts it up and over your head, hating that he has to pull back for a moment to take it fully off.

you reach up and take off his backwards cap, tossing it to the side. then reach down at the hem of his shirt and pulls his up and over, tossing it to the corner with your own shirt.

your hands runs down the front of his body, slipping in his jeans and cupping him.

“already hard for me huh?”

“i was hard the moment you started dancing on me,” he tells you, his hands choosing your face holding you close to him.

you pull your hand out, unbuttoning his jeans and pulling them down, missing his boxers.

“woah woah,” he stops you

you frown with a confused look, “what?”

“tonight it’s you. all about you,” he tells you, slowly unbuttoning your jeans and sliding them down, him following suit.

before he’s fully down he’s back up, taking a step back to fully take you in.

“matching set?”

his eyes dart from your bra to your underwear, a deep blue matching set you had gotten just for him, though he didn’t need to know that.

the bra unbuckled in the front and the panties you had on was a thong. easy access at both places.

“do you like it?” you ask him faking shyness.

“you’re fucking beautiful,” his voice is low almost a growl.

his hand places itself on your lower back easing you down onto the bed. little groans coming from his mouth and he kisses you all the way down.

his lips move from yours to your cheek, jaw, sucking the pressure point at your neck, earning a moan and a back arch from you.

“you sound pretty,” he whispers into your neck.

“stop- stop teasing,”

“it’s gonna be a long night pretty,” he tells you, kissing down your neck, to your chest. he reaches a hand between your breasts, unhooking the strap with his one hand. the wet spot on your underwear growing as his breath sends shivers down your body.

his tongue sticking out, going up your right breast and circling your already hard, sensitive nipple. his mouth envelopes it, sucking lightly while his other hand cups your left breast. he pinches your left nipple in his fingers, earning him another roman from your pretty mouth.

his left thigh lightly moving along your core. the lightest touch to your clit , making you arch again.

he groans against your breast, rutting against your thigh. he moves his mouth over giving your other nipple the same attention as the right.

his right hand under your right breast, his touch ghosting the underneath of your breast. goosebumps flood your skin and you hiss as his teeth bare down on your nipple.

“t-todd please,”

his left hand slips down your body, into your panties, past your mound to your folds. you’re already slick, the cloth of your underwear wet.

he drags a finger slowly from your entrance up to your clit and lightly circling it. no pressure just soft, agonizingly slow circles.

“toddy…” you whimper.

“alright, alright,” he murmurs with a satisfied smile, kissing your lips one more time before moving down. he hooks his fingers on the sides of your underwear and he slides them down slowly, savoring all of you. soaking in your body with his eyes.

he puts his hands under your knees and drags you to the end of the bed, he kneels before you, starring at your core like he’s never seen it before. like he’s been starved for years and this is the first time he gets to taste you.

he never gets tired of it. of you.

he gently tosses your legs over his shoulders, one lick from your entrance to your clit. his tongue then focusing on your clit. circling, swirling and soon sucking.

you hand falls to his hair, gripping it as his hands gripped your thighs.

“oh my god,” you gasp, his tongue flicks at your clit, a surge of electricity shooting through you. your back arches again, trying to push him deeper into you.

he laps at your entrance beginning to fuck you with his tongue. that fucking tongue. it was long and thick and you didn’t know you could feel this way by a tongue until you met todd.

he knew what to do from the beginning. there were one or two things you talked him through but he understood quick. he loved giving you pleasure.

he hums against you, a deep groan from his throat, more electricity vibrates through you.

as his tongue goes in and out his nose nudges your clit at just the right pace and pressure. your hips buck up but one of his arms reaches across you, pushing your hips down.

“i don’t need help,” he tells you.

that sends you over the edge. your bones vibrate, your muscles spaz, your whole body shakes as he shows more attention to your clit, sucking hard.

“come on baby,” he murmurs against you.

your thighs lock around his head as you cum. your slick wetting his face and you can feel the smile on his face.

you grip his hair a little harder as a white hot feeling covers you. he laps you over and over again through it. he drinks you up.

your thighs grow tired and loosen, he pulls back for a breath, “you taste so sweet baby,” he tells you going back in for a few more licks.

his hands move back to your thighs, rubbing them and kneading them with his fingers as he trails kisses along your inner thighs.

he stands and moves towards you, one hand placing itself on the mattress beside your head the other grabbing your waist.

“toddy… inside,” you’re breathless as you plead.

“i’m sorry what was that?” his southern accent could make you come again without home even touching you.

“toddy,” you whine.

“use your words sweetness,” he tells you, lifting a hand to your face to move hair from your face, then tracing your lips with his fingers, “open,” he instructs.

you open your mouth, he stick his index and middle finger into your mouth and spits in your mouth and you close your mouth around them quickly, sucking at the digits, you linger on them.

“see how good you taste? let me do it some more. what do you want?” he takes his fingers out of your mouth, licking the rest of you off his own fingers.

“in me. want you in me,” you tell him.

“good job sweetness, keep using your words like that yeah?”

you nod fervently. anything to get him to put his dick in you.

he pulls down his boxers with one hand, then feels you with the same hand. he takes some of your slick and coats himself with it. he rubs himself some before bringing his fingers back to your entrance.

he begins with two finger already.

“fuck,” you hiss.

“gotta get you ready,” he explains, coming down to kiss you as he stretches you out, getting you ready for him.

your whines are swallowed by him, kissing away the small pain you feel.

he adds a third finger just in case. pumping in and out of you slowly, he doesn’t want you on his fingers he wants you on his dick.

“you ready baby?” he asks, you nod quickly.

he lines himself up before pushing into you.

your hands go to his back, your nails scratching down his back, marking him as yours. he loves the feeling, the pain from your nails. he loves looking in the mirror after a good night with you and seeing your marks.

he smiles at your nails scratching down his back.

you try pulling him closer, trying to tell him you wanted him closer.

“words,” he reminds you.

“closer,” your eyes are squeezed shut as he pushes further

“no, no,” he says, “look at me,” he says, his hand coming your face and caressing your cheek.

you open your eyes to see his already on yours. his smile growing wider as he sees your eyes. the color popping in the low light of the room, he can’t believe he gets to look at them.

“there she is, good girl,” he praises, “wanna watch you,” he tells you, placing another kiss on your lips.

you pull him closer, digging your nails in his back, his hips jut forward as he bottoms out.

you gasp as he lifts his head. your mouth going to his shoulder, biting down on it.

he pumps fast without warning. once he bottoms out it’s only a matter of time before you’re both exhausted.

he bottoms out again and stays there.

“mmmmm,” he moans in your hair, “you feel so fuckin good sweetness,” he tells you, “could stay like this forever,”

“do it then,” you say, resting in the moment, “i’d let you stay,”

“don’t tempt me,” he says. he shifts and you whine, “i’m sorry baby, i’ll take care of you now,”

he pumps again, harder and faster. the headboard of the bed banging against the wall, an imprint surely being made.

he pumps and pumps, his hand moving to your lips, “spit,” he instructs, you don’t think you simply spit into his hand, he does the same. he moves his hand from your face to between the two of you. he begins rubbing your clit, mixing your spit with his and your slick.

he rubs softly at first but as his pumping increases so does the circling.

“faster,” you instruct him.

one thing about todd is that he’s going to listen to you. faster? done. harder? already picking up the pace. he makes sure you’re happy with his work.

he goes faster, the pumping and circling over takes you. waves build and just as your about to- he stops.

“todd!” you shouts as his hand is pulled back.

“hold it until i say,” he says, you look into his eyes, they’re dark but not in a bad way. in a good way. you like when he’s like this, you like following his instructs.

you nod back at him, never looking away from him.

he goes back to rubbing you and pumping into you.

your brows pinch together, you bite your lip and the whole time he watches you with a smile. praising you as you go along.

“t-todd i will b-burst if you keep talkin,” you tell him.

“you like the sound of my voice sweetness,” he asks, his head lowering so his mouth is close to your ear.

you gasp and whine as you close in on your orgasm.

“not yet pretty,” he tells you.

“oh fuck todd, please,”

“beg some more. you’re so pretty when you beg,” he tells you, you can feel him righting up too.

“please, please let me cum,” you plead, “please todd, come for me too,”

he’s gone.

“come on baby,” he tells you as he reaches his release too.

you both come at the same time, he tired moving through it, he tries fucking you through it but this might have been the hardest he’s come with you. his thighs shake as his knees begin to buckle. he does keep rubbing you though, massaging your clit and overstimulating you.

“s’too much,” you tell him.

he nods, slowing his pace, then stopping.

“you’re so good,” you tell him, “my pretty boy is so so good,” you reach up tucking hair behind his ear.

you put a hand on his neck, right below his jaw, your thumb ghosting over his cheek. you pull him down to you kissing him again and again and again.

his hand reaches back down between your thigh. you’re still so wet and how could todd stop now?

he rubs at your clit again, softly this time. slower than any other time.

you moan with closed eyes, “s’ too much toddy,”

“come on baby, one more.”

he rubs more, more delicately. he’s taking his time with this one.

he inserts a finger, pumping slowly, then another. his pumps are graceful and purposeful. he curls his fingers inside you.

“god todd,” you whine pulling his head down to you, but instead of your face is your chest. which todd was not going to complain about.

as his fingers pump and his palm hits your clit your head rolls back along with your eyes. his mouth goes to your beast again, teasing your nipple with his teeth then fully giving it a soft bite.

his fingers curl again and with his palm against your clit you can’t stop the overwhelming sensation now coursing through your veins.

“fuck todd! yes!” your hips buck up at their own volition, bucking and jerking for moments on end.

“that’s it, good girl,” he talks you through it as he fingers you through it.

you whine as he slows, but love it all the same.

he falls to his elbow and soon to his side beside you. he tucks loose strands behind your ear and kisses your cheek.

“we’re not just a friends with benefits,” he tells you.

you turn your head, smiling wide at him, “was hoping you’d say that,”

he matches your smile, twisting over so his chest lays on yours as he kisses you for a moment.

“you should spit in my mouth more often,” you tell him with a blissful attitude.

“i want yours next,” he tells you.

“don’t worry, baby, you got all of me now,”

taglist:

@bluegardenn

[kdh-tally]

Mystery x Reader Headcannons

Prompt : Headcannons of Mystery and his partner.

Author's Note : 4/5 complete. The only one left is Jinu!! Should i start tagging my master list in these so you can read the rest?

You met Mystery by accident. 

You were at a gaming café late at night, your favorite time to play.

It wasn’t crowded, there were just a few regulars playing quietly in their own corners.

You were halfway through a ranked Valorant match, trash-talking your opponents in a low voice and carrying your teammates like always.

You played with your camera on, only for your teammates to see however.

That’s when he sat next to you.

You didn’t notice at first. Not until someone on your team started whispering through your headphones. “Yo… is that Mystery from Saja Boys next to you??”

You glanced to your left to see some dude setting up a game next to you.

Tall guy, hood up, mask on, purple nail polish, and the infamous hair.

 You only saw a glimpse of his screen, he was queueing into your game.

Fortunately you and your friends were in the lobby. 

So you paused your game and looked over.

“You new?”

He paused, then slowly pulled down his mask just low enough to answer clearly.

“Nah. Just haven’t played in a while.”

He had spent quite a lot of his time as a human playing games and watching anime.

You smirked at this, not really caring for his idol status. 

“Good. I need more teammates who don’t panic when I push solo.”

He stared at you through his hair before speaking again “You’re that top Radiant Jett player, aren’t you?”

“Guilty.” You grinned, kinda shocked he knew who you were. “You’re one of the Saja Boys right?” 

Mystery was hooked from that second. Not just cause you were an absolute pro at one of his favourite games, but because you made him slightly nervous in a way few people did.

You didn’t seem to care that he was an idol. 

You were just a chill gamer with good reflexes and a sharp tongue.

He started matching his log-in times with yours. Sitting next to you and watching your play through. You didn’t speak much but you always played together. 

Eventually, you added each other on social media.

He used a private account of course.

He started bringing you drinks and snacks.

He’d leave em on your desk cause you sit in the same place everytime.

One night, after a long match, he took off his headset and asked, quietly, "Would you ever wanna hang out later?"

“Depends on who I'd be hanging out with.”

“…Me.”

“Then yeah. I would.”

Many of your hang outs did end up being at the cafe, except you two wouldn’t be playing games.

You’d order food, talk, get to know each other, etc.

One day a group of fans surrounded your table when the two of you were discussing who was the best agent to main.

“H-hi,” one of them stuttered as they stood by your table. “Could we have an autograph?”

Mystery looked stunned and was ready to respond, but then they pulled out a poster of you?????

You were shocked too

“Are you talking to me?”

They nodded enthusiastically.

You were stunned but signed it. They took photos with you before leaving.

Damn

Unfortunately, they captured Mystery’s hair in the image.

Now fans know that both you and Mystery hang out at the cafe.

The cafe gets stalked and so you’re forced to hang out somewhere else.

He eventually invites you to the dorms cause your privacy at the cafe just gets breached too many times.

This is perfect cause guy has a mega awesome setup.

He rooms with Baby and they’re both gaming nerds so they have everything

You love his room.

You see Baby alot cause its his room too but he’s super chill and usually out at some convenience store?

Mystery confesses to you after you clutch a 1v3.

You were so hyped cause it was like some pro match with the best players in the world and you won.

He was watching you, hair up, eyes bright and smirking.

“I like you” he muttered.

You turned to him, eyes wide. “Whaaaaaaaaat?”

“I like you.”

You’rse still so shocked.

“I’m not great at this stuff,” he said, voice low. “But I like being around you. You’re smart, annoying, kind of terrifying. It’s good.”

You stared, brain lagging.

“You gonna say something?” he asked, amused.

You let out an amused laugh, tossing a pillow at his head “I like you too, idiot.”

He smiled. 

Now that you're dating he gets hella clingy.

He always brings you snacks before a gaming session.

You got matching everything

Matching usernames

Matching pfp’s 

Matching outfits on your characters

He sits closer to you. 

He doesn’t sit at all, he lounges on your lap.

One day someone was flirting with you online and he reported the account but he didn’t feel like it was enough.

He goes to Baby, learns what doxxing is and threatens to release the guys information.

The poor person might lose his job just because he flirted with Mystery’s partner 😐

Loves listening to your voice.

Whenever he has to go on tour without you he listens to your past lives or calls you just to hear you speak.

Since you spend most of your day gaming (its basically your job) late night ramen dates in the dorm kitchen become your thing. 

You sit on the counter while he cooks. He lets you taste test everything, feeding you with his own chopsticks, pretending not to blush.

He let you borrow his hoodie once. Now it’s yours. 

He never takes it back. Instead, he buys a second one and pretends that was his plan all along.

The most encouraging boyfriend.

When you go live Mystery watches from a burner account and sends messages like

“who’s that pro? i think i love them”

“your boyfriend is so lucky”

“marry me”

He holds your hand under the desk while gaming, thumb running circles into your palm whenever you die in-game or get frustrated.

You both door-dash takeout at 1 a.m. and eat on the floor of his room, surrounded by energy drink cans, empty snack bags, and your gaming gear.

Extra food gets sent to Baby

If you ever get into an argument he gets super soft after. 

Doesn’t apologize with words, he just shows up with your favorite snack, lies down next to you, and nudges your shoulder until you give in and cuddle.

The other Boys only found out through Baby

Jinu notices Baby keeps bringing more food into his room and corners him. 

“Are you guys hiding someone in there?” he interrogates the blue haired guy in the living room.

Romance and Abby are watching curiously.

“I’m not hiding anything”

“So why do you always take enough food to feed four people?” Jinu scoffs

“It’s for me, Mystery and…”

“And?..” Jinu, Romance and Abby ask at the same time.

“And Mystery’s partner.”

“What the hell?”

You can hear them crashing out from the room but you don’t plan to leave.

Mystery is all comfortable on your chest, your playing with his hair as he sleeps. 

Life could never be better.

He would call you things like:

Pro : When you beat everyone in your game.

My Hero : Teasingly

Your Username : He loses you in a store and just goes Has anyone seen ‘Your Username’!”

Out of embarrassment you run back to him.

Mine : Possessive. 

자기 (jagi) : “Baby” but in korean. He doesn’t want to call you his bandmates name but still wants it to be cute. Hence the reason it’s in korean.

You would call him things like:

Pretty Boy : Affectionately. Picture you two cuddling at night. He’s just such a pretty boy.

Sweetheart : In voice chat when you play with others. He mutes his mic reaaaal quick when you say this.

Furry : I think this one is self explanatory…

Cutie : You just get so much cute aggression around him.

Lovey : Almost all the time.

[link-the-feral-anon]

That Cloying Feeling Part Four

(There will be a POV switch after the read more)

Janus paused mid-sip of his coffee.

"What?" He asked.

"How did you know how we all like our hot drinks?" Morality asked again, just as curiously as the first.

"Anxiety, obviously." He said, eyes flicking back to his cup. "He found out and told us."

"He usually makes the coffee in our kitchen." Remus said, stirring its tea. "Well. For me, he makes tea." It looked down the hall. "Is- Is Roman going to be okay?"

Ah. Janus sighed quietly. No. He wasn't surprised, but he had hoped they could have... a little bit of time before...

"Well..." Morality said before sighing. He gave a little shrug. "I'm not sure, kiddo. Anxiety got us all to our own room so fast after Lo broke down, and with Roman collapsing under his insecurities..." He put his mug down, keeping his hands wrapped around it. "Can I ask... Something he said is bothering me."

Janus gestured with his mug. He was feeling curious- and sentimental- enough to indulge in the other Side's questions.

Morality frowned.

"He said 'this time.' Thomas won't be effected 'this time.'" He spun his mug around. "Has he tried to... dip... before?"

Remus tensed. Its bottom lip trembled.

"Once." Janus said. "When Thomas was in high school."

Morality closed his eyes, almost as if-

"You already guessed that, huh?"

They all jumped as Virgil spoke, leaning against the doorway. He wouldn't look at any of them.

"Yeah. Once I was back in my room." He said, watching Virgil carefully. "I didn't realize until then that... telling you how much we needed you wasn't helping. You need to be wanted."

Virgil didn't reply. Remus covered its mouth, trying not to cry.

"That's why neither of these two showed up, right?" He asked. His eyes slid over to Janus. "You were locked out."

Janus huffed. Morality was more perceptive than he'd like him to be. He liked to pride himself on being unreadable. But there Morality was, seeing right through him.

Patton lifted his mug to his lips, taking a long sip. He gave them all a few minutes to either answer- Janus- or think of a way to avoid answering- Virgil and Remus- then he looked back at Virgil.

"Why don't you sit with us?" He asked, gesturing to the table with his head.

Virgil bit his lip. Janus and Remus shared a look.

Remus spoke quietly. If there had been any noise, any noise at all, Patton would have missed it. He hadn't realized it ever spoke quietly. After all, Roman so rarely did.

"Please, Gil?"

Janus gave Remus a rather fast, but rather weak kick under the table. Remus just kept its eyes on Virgil. He sighed, but eventually, he pulled out a chair and sat with them. He'd spun the chair around and straddled it, resting his chin on the back.

"Yeah. They were locked out." He said after another few moments of silence. "I wouldn't have been able to go if they'd gotten in."

Patton looked at his tea. "I guess you should have locked Lo out too, huh?"

Remus made a wounded noise, and he could feel Janus glaring at him. Virgil, however, let out a huff of laughter.

"Guess I should have."

"Do say that." Janus said. Then he winced, eyes flickering to Patton.

"Why not, J? It's true."

Huh.

"He is the exception, isn't he?" Patton said, partially into his tea.

Virgil looked away again.

"We all know now, by the way," Patton said as he put his mug down, "how to get you back. Or, rather, keep you. Lo is right. We don't just need anxiety. We want Anxiety."

"Virgil."

How did the others speak so softly? If he hadn't been watching Virgil, he wouldn't have caught the other Side's name at all. Of course, whether any of them knew it or not, he never did forget any of their names.

"We don't just need anxiety. We want Virgil around." He amended.

Virgil didn't reply. He just trailed the grains of the wooden table with his fingernails. Patton was about to prod when Janus changed the subject slightly.

"How are the other two doing?"

Patton wanted to keep talking about Virgil, but a single glance at Remus stilled his tongue.

"They'll be alright." He said, clearly glad for the change in topic as well. "A bit of rest in their own elements and they should be right as rain."

"Should... I be here when Ro comes back out?"

Virgil nodded. "One of the insecurities was about how you two left things. And if he has anything rude to say, J and I will be right here."

Patton smiled softly. Good. He was staying then.

"I'll be here too, if it helps any!" He said cheerfully. He stood, clapping his hands together. "Now, is anyone hungry? Virgil, would you like an apple cider?"

He watched Patton carefully for a moment. Patton gave him a tired smile. Virgil sighed, cracking one of his own.

"With whip cream and cinnamon."

The relief from the other two at the table was palpable for Patton. He hoped Virgil could feel it too.

(Okay, I promise Logan will be back soon, okay? Swearsies @logan-bear-bear )

(Also, I'm having fun picking what hot drinks they all like :3)

Pre-AA Virgil: I bet you're one of those fools who hates bats for no reason.

Logan, slamming his note cards down on the table: How dare you! I love bats! They play a vital role in our ecosystem, and have been villainized for years by the media because of the existence of the vampire bat! WHO!! Is still valid and necessary, despite it's scary name and appearance! Bats are beautiful and they deserve to be loved!

Virgil: ...

Roman, leaning over to whisper to Patton: Are we sure that this is even about bats anymore??

Patton, whispering back: I don't know...

Virgil, softly but with feeling: You.

Logan, quieting down a little: Huh?

Virgil, feeling too many pleasant emotions: You're the exception.

[i-suggest-scumplane]

Scumplane +truth serum

Shen Qingqiu had been suspicious on Shang Qinghua for a long time. He had a strange variety of knowledge that he couldn’t have possibly learned on his own given his upbringing on An Ding and grueling work schedule, he seemed perfectly equipped to deal with all of the current peak lords the moment they met as head disciples, sometimes he’d just disappear for a while with no warning or explanation, and he’d often show up to meetings with injuries he tried and failed to hide. Overall Shang Qinghua was not exactly a trustworthy guy

Shen Qingqiu took his job as sect strategist seriously and he preferred not to deal with surprises. even people who couldn’t fight physically could still topple a sect through trickery and deciet.

So he set a trap. He used a non harmful truth serum that lasted the duration of an hour and invited Shang Qinghua for tea. Except Shang Qinghua barely touched his tea when anxious so the serum went in small cakes he prepared as a snack. Shang Qinghua was an avid snacker after all

The initial small talk was mind numbing as Shen Qingqiu decided to ask about the strategies he uses for the budgeting and got him to rant about it for a while, every once and a while asking questions to keep it going until eventually

“And then I have the emergency budget for when demons attack and destroy the rainbow bridge,” Shang Qinghua’s eyes widened in horror as he covered his mouth. Shen Qingqiu felt a smile curl onto his face, this was gonna be easier than he thought. He opened his mouth to ask another question but Shang Qinghua cut him off

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” he said, the look of fear in his eyes wasn’t an uncommon sight but this fear was different. Normally Shang Qinghua’s reaction to fear was to panic or run, and right now Shang Qinghua had frozen in place “you’ve doomed us all,”

“What do you-“

“Listen Shen Qingqiu there are things in this world no one is supposed to know, information that won’t only kill me the moment I spread it but kill whoever I talk to as well,” Shen Qingqiu wanted to argue but… the truth serum meant Shang Qinghua couldn’t lie, at least not knowingly. He had to choose his next words carefully.

“Can we get rid of-“

“Stop asking questions or I swear to all that is holy I will bite my tongue off to stop myself from replying! Now tell me what truth serum or potion or plant or whatever the fuck you used on me,” Shang Qinghua physically couldn’t make an empty threat at the moment so Shen Qingqiu nodded slowly before answering

“I baked the dew of a purity Lilly into the cakes, it should wear off within the hour ”

“We can’t wait an hour. The purity Lillies dew… that one is countered him demonic qi or plants” He reached into his sleeve and grabbed out a pouch. “It’s gonna hurt but I should have something in here that will counteract the serum without crippling or killing me,” Shen Qingqiu’s eyebrows furrowed

“Taking in demonic energy in anyway would affect your cultivation greatly,”

“So would dying. Although I guess I could also make myself mute or deaf. Or both?”

“Or we could lock you in a room for an hour,”

“ I don’t trust you enough for that. You literally drugged me just because you were suspicious,” he finally pulled out a small vial of what looked to be blood and downed it like a shot.

Shen Jiu grabbed the vial from his eyes and looked for a label. There was a paper tied to it by a string that red “rattle tailed naga blood”

“Is this even safe for humans to enjest?” He asked with concern he told himself was mild. He didn’t want to be framed for a peak lord’s suicide.

“Should be safe enough. Now would you please bring me somewhere I can rest until this wears of, alone?” Shang Qinghua looked exhausted. “The only thing stopping me from having a panic attack is adrenaline”

“What’s adrenaline?”

“The chemical released when you’re in a stressful or dangerous situation. Now stop asking questions before I pass out from the blood pressure drop. Don’t ask what that is either, you won’t understand it and if we get into why I know any of this we will both die,”

Shen Qingqiu nodded wordlessly despite roughly understanding half of what he said and led him into a guest room that hadn’t been used since the last peak lord ascended. Shang Qinghua collapsed onto the bed with a groan and Shen Jiu let him be for now.

He had more questions than he did when he started but they could talk when the stakes weren’t so high. He didn’t know who or what was threatening Shang Qinghua but he knew Shang Qinghua was terrified of it and that was enough.

And if an hour later Shen Jiu went to talk to Shang Qinghua, found him asleep on the bed above the covers, and decided to let him stay the night, well there was no one to see that but him.

[sixpennydame]

Say My Name

Levi Ackerman x fem!Reader

It’s common knowledge throughout the Survey Corps that Captain Levi rarely calls people by their actual names.

The nicknames come hard and fast: shit-for-brains, shit stain, shitty glasses…

(Levi apparently loves the word shit.)

But his nickname for you deviated from his norm.

“Hey, dumbass,” he shout at you, “you need to watch your flank when you go in for a kill. Never let your guard down.”

“Dumbass!” he’d yell as you both flew through the trees, “stay in formation! Being the hero will get you killed!”

He called you this so often that you once asked him if he even knew your actual name.

“‘Course I do,” he answered, “but you haven’t earned it yet.”

With that, you made it your goal to have Levi call you by your name. You spent your weekends and free time training and improving your ODM gear use, you volunteered for extra missions. Little by little, you became stronger and more confident, and a comrade the other corps members knew they could rely on.

On missions, you were fast and efficient, and your kill count rivaled older, more experienced veterans. Your skill eventually earned you a place on Levi’s squad; yet through it all, the nickname he gave you remained. It seemed no matter how much you improved, Levi was still on top of you, pushing you to be better, stronger. And you’d be damned if you didn’t meet his expectations.

“Dumbass, you’re on patrol duty with me,” he commands during a mission beyond the walls.

“Captain,” you reply with a sigh, “are you ever gonna call me by my name? You know I’ve earned it. Hell, you even call Oluo by his name, and I’d wager he’s the biggest dumbass of all.”

Levi let out a small chuckle — a rarity that made you feel special.

“I dunno…I’m so used to it now, I don’t think I could call you anything else.”

You let out another quiet sigh. You knew you had Levi’s trust and respect, but maybe this was as good as it was gonna get between the two of you.

Another month passes and another mission is scheduled. This time, Levi’s squad encounters a herd of abnormals making their way directly to the rest of the squad. Before Levi can even blink, you’re off your horse and flying on your ODM gear. You hear him yelling at you to wait, but it’s too late for that; with a flash of your blade, you take down one of the titans, but fail to see a smaller one leaping at you from the trees.

Levi yells your name and it echoes through the forest. The titan narrowly misses you but it takes out one of your cables. You fall through the trees, your shoulder hitting a branch hard before you feel someone catch you, brining both your bodies to the ground with a thud.

You come to with the sound of your name being said again and again.

“Oi, are you with me?”

Your eyes open to see Levi’s face. For a moment, he looks relieved, but that quickly changes to his usual scowl.

“How many times have I told you not to play the hero? You could have been killed.”

Your shoulder vibrates with pain and your head is spinning, but when the adrenaline dies down and you're all back at camp, you recall Levi's voice calling your name in the trees.

Had you merely imagined that?

Weeks later, once again on late-night patrol duty with Captain Levi, you decide to ask him about that day, when you could have swore he said your name—your actual name.

He turns to look at you, the light of the full moon resting on his features.

"Maybe I did," he answers.

"So you do know my name after all!" you tease, but the way he looks away, how his body shifts...

...is he blushing?

"'Course I do. I was...worried...about you." His confession is barely audible, so you move closer.

He doesn't move away. Instead, he turns to face you.

Something's different in his gaze. A fire, red hot, searing into you. Then he says your name in that baritone voice that sends electricity through your bones.

"Y/N..."

He's so close, you can feel the heat radiating off his body and it pulls you in. You want to hear your name from his mouth again and again, not as your Captain, but as a man speaks to a woman.

An eternity seems to pass between you, then his lips part.

"...don't worry me like that again."

It comes out less as a command and more like a plea, a tone you never expected from him -- a crack in his armor.

And you know now more than ever, that you’d do anything for your Captain, just to hear him say your name.

—//—

[authorhjk1]

My ask has been answered ty!! Ive seen u have hundredsss more but sorry ill add another one🙏

How does bp members react to squirting

Jisoo with glasses, jennie in jacquemus, 230810 lisa ig update 😍😍😍 and rosé in paradise city hotel.

Jisoo

If you would've asked for permission, Jisoo would've said no. That's why you didn't ask. Now she's letting out a weak, desperate whine as you continue to eat her out. She has to keep her composure. The other people around the table make this a very dangerous thing to do. As they all continue their meeting on Jisoo's next possible comeback, you make your girlfriend orgasm right in front of them.

To your surprise you get with a stream of her juices as Jisoo squirts into your mouth. Her thighs shake around you. You hear someone asking if she's okay, her heavy breathing seems to fill the room. You smile as you gulp down what she threw at you. She whimpers again when she feels your tongue cleaning the skin right next to her pussy.

Jennie

"Oh, god. Harder!"

Jennie moans as she feels herself getting closer to her climax. She's kneeling on her deck chair, bent over, while you fuck her from behind. Her skirt is lying next to you and her poor excuse of a top is bunched up around her tits.

"Gonna cum!"

She cries out, probably loud enough to wake up the rest of the hotel's guests.

Jennie squirts as she cums, her juices spilling onto the cushions beneath her.

"Oh, my god!"

She moans, visibly surprised, but also turned on. Her gushing pussy sucks you back in, while her juices threaten to push you out of her. Her entire body trembles as you continue to push into her.

Rosé

"Oh my god! Oh my god!"

Rosé's beautiful accent shines through as she cries out. You make her climax around your fingers and you feel her tight pussy squeezing them together. As her whole body shakes, Rosé starts squirting. Her eyes widen in fear and embarrassment. You chuckle at her expression as she watches herself drenching the cushion underneath her and your arm in her juices.

"I-I'm so sorry."

She she gasps in regret but also lust. You can tell she's still hungry for more, but her surprise is taking over.

"Are you okay?"

Concern is now washing over her face. You laugh and give her a kiss on the lips.

Lisa

"Oh my god!"

Lisa moans when you reach down to play with her clit. You continue to fuck her tight pussy, which makes her hips rise off the mattress.

"Yes, please!"

She watches you as you continue to push her towards her orgasm. Soon, Lisa is falling off the edge. Your hand on her clit makes her squirt all over your cock.

"So good!"

She cries out, her eyes now closed tightly. You feel her pussy contracting around your cock. Eventually Lisa starts to calm down, only her thighs occasionally twitching.

"L-Let me taste it."

She whispers weakly. You scoop up some of her juices and reach forward. Lisa moans as she licks her own squirt off your fingers. A satisfied hum leaves her body.

[pinkinkpetals]

Nothing's Gonna Hurt You Baby

Loki x Reader one shot

ˋ°•*⁀➷ In an alternate universe where you and Loki are on the run from the TVA, the two of you find refuge and comfort in the quiet of a safe house—and each other’s arms. Inspiration from CAS’s Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby and my love for gentle men :)

Disclaimers: 18+ mdni, tasteful smut, NOTHING EXPLICIT, mutual pining, implied slow morning sex, forced proximity?, established sexual relationship, consent kink if you squint, soft love, Loki yearning :) idk i was going for a Song of Achilles smut vibe iykwim

Word count: 1.8k

It's early when you wake up. The kind of early where everything is still a hazy blue—the sky, the sheets, the light spilling through the bedroom windows. Still, quiet, and untouched by the harsh reality daylight brings.

It's been six weeks since you last saw a minuteman's baton—eight since you escaped the TVA and their unjust claims. You found this safe house two days ago, somewhere in between 1952 and a time neglected from their supervision. Every passing minute presses down on your chest with a sense of impending doom—a death sentence.

You push these spiraling thoughts into the back of your mind and exhale through your nose, shifting under the protection of the sheets. You're warm. Not from the covers, but from him.

Loki's arm is draped around your waist, his chest pressed to your back, the steady rise and fall of his breath moving through you like the ocean tide. His palm rests just beneath your ribs, long fingers relaxed but steady. You don't open your eyes, you don't need to yet.

All of the feelings from last night surface to the forefront of your mind, dusting your cheeks in a warm pink, a smile spreading across your face. The velvet slide of Loki's voice, the ghost of his mouth at your jaw, the space between you gone. It still doesn't feel real.

Loki's hand shifts—slow and absentmindedly—grazing the bare skin of your stomach. You hum softly, just loud enough for him to hear. He stirs behind you, but doesn't speak right away. His nose brushes the curve of your shoulder, and his breath is warm against your skin.

"Still here?" He murmurs, voice slightly rough with sleep. You respond with a soft mhm, and he holds you a little tighter. "Good."

Eventually, you shift beneath the sheets to turn around and face him. You're met with a sight that makes your heart nearly swell out of your chest.

Loki's hair is a mess, his eyes soft. His left cheek presses gently against the pillow, but he doesn't seem to mind. It's the most human you've ever seen him—no walls, no tricks. Just Loki.

You smile. "You're staring."

"You're breathtaking," he says softly. You blink, taken aback by his unexpected reply.

He lifts a hand and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, the backs of his fingers brushing your cheek like you're something fragile.

"You say that like you mean it," you whisper. He leans in, forehead resting against yours. "I've never meant anything more."

You let your fingers rest on his chest, right over where his heart beats. It's quiet under your hand, but there. Steady. Real.

"Last night didn't feel real," you murmur. His lips quirk. "That's because you kissed me first."

You scoff, laughing into his throat. "You kissed me."

"I distinctly recall restraint," he teases. "You, however, were quite—"

You pinch his side gently and he gasps. "Alright—I yeild."

"God of Mischief, brought low by domesticity," you say mockingly.

"Mmm." His voice turns soft again. "Don't tempt me to keep you in this bed all day."

It's said like a joke, but his fingers find your hip beneath the blankets, his thumb lazily brushing the soft skin below your waist. The touch is slow. Intentional. Not exactly pushing. Just... asking.

Your body answers before your mouth does, curling a little closer. He exhales through his nose, pleased. And then he kisses your temple—slow and reverent. The kind of kiss that doesn't ask for anything back. You close your eyes in admiration.

His hand doesn't move right away. Just rests there, palm warm on skin. You feel him breathing against your collarbone now, the slope of his body fitting to yours like it was made for this—made for you.

His voice, low and brushed with sleep:

"May I...?"

You nod before he finishes. And maybe that's the dangerous thing, you suppose, because he second you say yes, he buries his face in your neck. You feel his mouth there—soft, open, barely grazing your skin, like he's studying the shape of you by touch alone. Like he wants to memorize you.

You tilt your chin instinctively, giving him more access. And gods, does he take it—not with a greedy heart. A sinner worshipping his divine creator.

He kisses the spot just beneath your jawline. Then lower. A trail so faint you'd think you imagined it if not for the way your breath falters. You feel his lips curve up against your skin.

"So sensitive," he murmurs. "You talk too much,” you quip. His laugh settles somewhere deep in your chest.

He shifts, then—presses you onto your back with care, like the weight of him might break you. But his body hovers instead, propped on an elbow, the blanket slipping lower. You feel his gaze sweep over you.

Loki looks down at you like you're some relic he was never meant to find, let alone hold. His hand grazes your ribcage, eyes searching your face. "Is this alright?"

You nod again, slower this time. "Yeah."

He kisses you—this time deeper. But not rushed. His mouth moves with purpose, like he's trying to tell you something through it—something language can't carry. You feel it in the way his hand curls at your waist, in the way his body tilts toward yours like he can't stand the distance. Your fingers knot into his hair. His breath catches when your knee brushes his hip, your legs no longer careful.

Nothing about this is frantic, it's deliberate. Laced with something slow burning, something whole. It's about wanting. Wanting to be close enough to feel each other, enough to stop pretending this connection is fragile.

You kiss him like you're allowed to. He kisses you like he never expected this to be real.

Your legs tangle.

His fingers tangle in your hair.

The world disappears a little. And maybe that's why it feels so good—because in this stolen stretch of the morning, nothing exists but him.

And you.

And the quiet between.

But then—his hand stills. His breath catches. You open your eyes.

Loki's just staring at you. Not lust drunk. Not quite overwhelmed.

You blink. "Is everything okay?"

His voice comes soft. Barely audible. "I think this is the first time I've touched someone... without wearing a mask."

That settles between you like something holy. You reach up, fingertips skimming his cheek, as if checking for some imaginary mask settled over his face. "You're not wearing one now?"

He shakes his head, a single chuckle escaping his lips in a huff of air. You kiss the corner of his mouth, so gently it's almost a promise.

"I like you like this," you whisper. A small sound leaves him—something like relief and disbelief wrapped into one. His forehead lowers to yours, his breath shaky.

"If we stay like this," he says, "I won't ever want to leave."

"We don't have to yet."

"But we will."

You nod. "I know."

Another kiss—this one slower, longer, full of everything you can't say yet.

He lifts his head, just enough to see your face. And you see him too—really see him. There's heat in his eyes, but there's also awe. There's something almost... sacred in how carefully he holds you. Like he doesn't know how the universe has allowed this. Allowed you.

His hand moves—gliding up your side with reverence. He learns your shape by touch, not out of lust, but devotion. Like a scholar memorizing scripture. Like you're sacred.

Your breath hitches when his palm finds the curve of your breast. You arch slightly into him, wordless encouragement. And that's all it takes—he exhales through his nose again, tension slipping from his shoulders as though you just gave him permission to exist.

You pull him closer. Not for heat, but for nearness. For communion.

When his hand skims higher, it's with infinite patience. Testing, retreating, returning. He explores like someone who's never been allowed to before—never wanted to so much. The hunger is there, but it's tempered by something older. Something deeper. Respect. Devotion.

Your lips meet again. Slower. Messier, this time, but still soft. You feel the way his body begins to shift over yours, but still he waits, hovers, one arm braced above you, one hand steady on your ribs, grounding himself in your breath.

Then, when your hand finds the back of his neck and your legs pull him in—then he moves.

His hips meet yours in a hush of heat. The intimacy is staggering and you both go still. Just for a moment, to just feel it.

Your heart. His breath.

The sheer weight of being known.

You tilt your chin, mouth brushing the line of his jaw. He groans—quietly—and buries his face in your neck, his lips finding your pulse point like he needs to feel that you're real.

"Okay?" he breathes.

You nod. "Yes. Yes."

So he begins to move. Barely. Just enough for steady paced friction, for rhythm, for the slow ache of closeness to bloom into something fuller. It's sacred and quiet and breathtaking all at once. His breath fans hot across your throat. Your hands press gently into the muscle of his back, skin to skin.

You rock together, wrapped up in nothing but body and soul and shared breath and something you don't dare name. And even as your bodies climb, chasing the hush of pleasure through the press of hip and thigh and reverent touch—still, Loki watches your face. Still, he slows when your eyes flutter. Still, he kisses you like a vow.

When you reach your release, it's not thunder. It's sunlight. It's everything that's been buried between you finally allowed to breathe. You unravel completely beneath him, and he joins you.

After, he lowers himself beside you slowly, as if the earth might drop out from beneath him if he moved too fast. When he pulls you into his arms again, you let yourself be held. His hand rests flat on your back, the other pressing against the warmth of your flushed cheeks. You can feel his heart, still racing.

You don't say anything for a long time. You just breathe—you just are. When he finally speaks, its out of reverence.

"I never thought it could be like this," he whispers, mouth against your temple.

You turn your head, eyes meeting his. Your lips brush his with a touch as soft as heaven.

"Me either."

Notes: hey guys I really hope you enjoyed this was my first time ever writing something “freaky” I won’t do this often but when I started writing this I was ovulating and I just find something so spiritual and artistic in sensuality and hopefully you guys will see this more as art than smut 🥲 anyways ily so big (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

[jamestrmtx]

Static Light

(Tenna x GN! Reader One Shot)

[Fluff and Humor, Rated Teen]

Summary

When Kris asks for a favour, it seems simple enough: take their old television and keep it at your place, since it means a lot to them and they don't want Toriel to throw it out. You accept, but then they explain the television is actually a man named Tenna, and — socially awkward as you are — you plug him in and try to strike up a conversation. Surprisingly, it works out, and you gain a new friend (and maybe a lover eventually, if you keep up your smooth moves).

You've never actually been to the Dark World, but Kris has told you enough stories that you have a vague idea of what it's about.

          “Take care of him,” they said this morning, handing you an old-fashioned, bunny-eared television as heavy as you remember the type used to be.

          They informed you this was ‘Mister Tenna’, and that he was a friend they couldn't keep at home anymore, since he was a little busted, and Toriel planned to buy a new television today.

          “Um…”

          So now, you've brought the television into your own living room, kneeling in front of it to — somehow — try to start a conversation with... Tenna.

          “Hello?”

          Stars, you're thankful you live alone.

          Otherwise, you don't know how you'd explain to a partner or a roommate why you're trying to chat with an inanimate object instead of them.

          “Maybe I need to… turn you on first?” You consider your choice of words and immediately regret them. “Okay. Not like that, so don't get scared. Just… In a literal, electrical sort of sense. You get me?”

          No response.

          You figured as much.

          Still, you stand up, fetch the plug behind the television, and connect it to the socket on the wall next to it.

          Finally, you kneel once more, scoot closer, and press on the power button.

          “Um…”

          Again, this seems ridiculous as hell.

          “Hello.”

          The channel it's currently on is simply loud static, and — for a moment — it feels like it will stay that way, until…

          “Good morning, everybody,” a weather reporter says, his smile big and bright. “Better get your umbrellas ready! Today's—”

          The channel changes on its own.

          “Gusto en conocerte,” a Hispanic woman from a random soap opera greets, offering her hand out to a man — shirtless for whatever reason — showing up at her door with a six-pack of abs and a six-pack of beer.

          The rest of the audio dissolves into background noise as you process what's just happened, and you even look down at your hands to make sure they haven't acted on their own to drive you insane.

          “Uh…” You blink away the confusion for a few seconds — eyes still fixed on your palms — and then reply with, “Nice to meet you, too?”

          The channel changes to a kid's show, where a group of children are smiling and giggling, bouncing around with a happy clown lady.

          “You're… Mister Tenna, aren't you?”

          The channel changes once more.

          “Correct!” a game show announcer screams, pointing a finger at a goat woman lost in excitement, having won the jackpot prize.

          Now, it's sort of a horror movie scenario more than a happy-go-lucky one, as the channels start to change one after the other, allowing only letters to slip by until… 

          Mister Tenna spells out your name, letter by letter.

          “Y— Yes,” you reply, and you gulp down the sudden fear that's climbed its way to your throat. “That's my name! Kris told you, didn't they?”

          Static, then a change of channel.

          “Incorrect!” the same game show announcer screams, now pointing a finger at a goat man drowning in sorrow, having lost all his bets.

          “Uh…”

          That answer doesn't exactly help with how creepy it feels to be communicating with an entity that's spelled out your name perfectly through quick channel changes.

          “Then… How?”

          He switches to a laugh track that follows while two black men — assumedly brothers or in some way related, if you remember the sitcom correctly — are having a discussion.

          Channel switch.

          “Name?” a different show announcer asks.

          And yet another.

          “Tag!” a red monster named Elmo exclaims, while… tagging himself.

          Your eyes widen at the realization, and you stare down at yourself to see you're already wearing your work uniform.

          At the reminder you have somewhere else to be soon, you aim to look for your phone and check the time, but…

          “Good morning, Hometown! It's currently six thirty-three, and—”

          The channel changes to static, and — for a moment — you swear you see the freaking television blush on screen.

          “Um…”

          You seriously need to expand your vocabulary if you want to impress Kris's astonishingly vocal friend, and yet…

          You know it will be difficult to get used to the oddity of this situation.

          “Wait,” you blurt, and then you realize this practically means you have a roommate now. “Does that mean you'll be able to see me whenever you're turned—” You cough, clearing your throat. “I mean… Whenever you're switched on?”

          Several changes of channel ensue, like he's having a hard time finding the right answer.

          “Yes,” an ecstatic, pale, chubby, and blonde woman exclaims, jumping into the arms of an equally ecstatic, red-haired, muscular, tanned woman as she accepts her proposal.

          “Okay, so…”

          Goodbye to the days you watched television in nothing but your underwear.

          “Good to know.”

          A frown twists your mouth as you consider his situation here in the… Light World?

          “So, that means I should keep you plugged into electricity whenever I can, if that means you'll still be conscious, but you won't see me?”

          Tenna replies by changing to a channel with a teenage cat girl shrugging, rolling her eyes, and saying, “Ugh, whatever. You decide.”

          And then, he clarifies he means that in an excited manner rather than broody, since he follows it up with the same kids’ channel, showing the group of children cheering at the same clown while she crafts different shapes with a bunch of balloons.

          “Uh…” You smile. “Cool! Then, I will. I guess a blackout is kind of like a… Bad day? A coma? A small shock? A… heart attack?” You hum in thought and rub your chin, trying to search for the best way to describe it. “Something like that? You don’t have to answer right now. I'm just… wondering how this works.”

          You figure this is a terrible first impression with how many ‘buts’, ‘ums’, and ‘uhs’, and even a forsaken ‘something like that’ you're replying with, but — again — this will take some time getting used to.

          “Mister Tenna,” you call out, noticing you've kept yourself silent for a bit too long, based on the fact he's changed the channel to one on a commercial break. “Could I ask you one last thing, before I leave for work?”

          He immediately responds by changing the channel to a blue bird monster trying to act cool by asking “what's up?” and leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

          “I know we've only just met, but…” You swallow hard and close your eyes tightly, letting out breath. “Does this mean we can be friends?”

          Oh, no.

          Oh, crap.

          You've done something wrong, because Tenna literally starts shaking — as in — the television goes silent, and into a bright white screen, tumbling left and right like there's an earthquake and it's only affecting him.

          Fight or flight immediately kicks in, obliging you to stand up and step back, fists held up in front of you and legs trembling like you're ready to do both things at once.

          “ABSOLUTELY,” a hyped man's voice shouts, and a — listen to this — a giant red flower blooms from the center of the screen like something from a lucid dream. 

          “Uhhh…” you drone, falling back to your knees like you're witnessing an epiphany.

          This is probably the equivalent of Tenna going into full static, so you hope he doesn't judge you too much for your reaction.

          “C— Cool.”

          Smooth.

[yumeren]

the grains in the hourglass grotesquely swollen. ── .✦ phainon. In Okhema, you never did learn how to track time beneath the eternal sunlight. cw: cisfem reader, descriptions of animal death/mild gore, arguably dubcon sexual content due to having sex with another version of someone unknowingly and they do not volunteer this information knowing you think they are someone else but also Themself, and heavyhanded metaphors. 3.4 spoilers. the beginning and end are written in screenplay format sorry and my bad. this is arguably only angst but i think it should be taken more as the intermission before suffering ends.

ao3 link | wc: 6k

In there, hard work has no reward.

—Drowning in Wheat, John Kinsella

EXT. VORTEX OF GENESIS — SPACE

PAN to reveal LYCURGUS. He stands beside the TIDAL BASIN and surveys the starry projection of the twelve COREFLAMES. Lying in the tidal basin is a STRING OF CODE, taking the form of a human and bleeding out. The tidal basin is stained with black, turning its water murky. Visual glitches, framed in red, appear to be spreading from this black stain.

LYCURGUS: Does this endless cycle not tire you so? The primum mobile HATE always chooses this path. It ever weaves an ever-growing net. The more variables struggle, the more entangled in the experiment they become.

STRING OF CODE: I want to go home. I just want to go home. Please, let me go home.

LYCURGUS: You are home. You are nothing more than redundant lines of code in the computation of δ-me13. Your code has not been cannibalized only because you have become too tangled in the twelve factors. Even you are searching for the answer, crude and primitive your methods may be. But it will tire of this farce eventually. Hate is unending, but soon the hate of the Electrical Signal Sequence will no longer be enough. It will ascend and devour the cosmos.

STRING OF CODE: You’re lying.

LYCURGUS: You will be subsumed in the enormity of its hate.

PAN to constellation drawing the shape of of WORLDBEARING among swirling nebula. The twelve points circling a four-pointed star were once beautiful. Now it is the horrible knot of twelve winding number series.

LYCURGUS: It should rejoice. You and all else of this experiment will be solidified into the Bane of Erudition.

STRING OF CODE: He won’t.

LYCURGUS: We had this conversation many times before. Your logical reasoning for such a conclusion has never been shared. This, I suppose, is inevitable of a faulty line of code.

Entry-hour: you woke to the rays of sunlight. Parting hour: you drew the curtains over your window, watching as the sun lit the fabric from the inside and illuminated its flaws. Sometimes, you slept with a pillow over your head, as if that could ward off the unending dawn. 

You ached to see a sunset, just once more; to see the moon arc across the sky overhead. This was not how Aquila painted the sky; you’d wracked your memories for Aquila, the Sky Titan, and found only stories the rest of Okhema thought you mad for. The sun, fastened to the chariot pulled by lions, racing across the sky. The departure of the evening star, born from a seashore meeting where the Most High briefly fell in love with a mortal woman. There were no Titans, even as Aquila’s thousand mad eyes gazed down upon the insignificant creatures marring the landscape.

Once, you’d drawn a crude map in the dirt with a twig that’d fallen from a tree before it could grow into anything meaningful. Phainon dropped down beside you, curious and a steady weight just behind you, leaning forward enough you could almost see the glimpse of his white hair in the periphery. “What does Amphoreus look like?” you’d asked him, makeshift brush halted by sudden paralysis at the enormity of the task.

“Castrum Kremnos is to the southwest,” Phainon said, “but more west than south.” He reached past you to imprint his finger into the dirt. Aedes Elysiae, the elusive home of his you would never see, was so far south it bordered the edge of the world. The Grove of Epiphany was northeast.

You mapped as Phainon instructed. The world was too small. You set aside the twig and stared at the messy approximation of what might be Amphoreus. You had not come from this stretch of the world. This was the entirety of the world. “What’s beyond the sea?” you asked at last, while Phainon etched figures made of lines at random cities. Professor Anaxa at the Grove, his ruthless teacher; Lady Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinnon, three identical demigods holding hands around Okhema.

“More of the sea?”

“Yes, but—” You traced the edges of your map. “Surely it’s more than just that.”

Phainon looked at you, puzzled. “What else would it be?”

“A wall,” you said without thinking.

Phainon fixed you with a look of utmost confusion. “A wall.” 

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” you said, shying away with your flimsy excuse. “Don’t you get tired of the sun never setting?”

“You get used to it,” he told you, reaching out sympathetically to trace an apologetic shape on your shoulder. “The children never learn to be scared of the dark.”

“But when the dark comes, it’ll be worse,” you said. “Scarier, I mean.”

The sun always set eventually. The darkness always came. The empire, limping towards its inevitable sunset. All the salt of the sea, originating from one awful misstep—don’t look back. Don’t look back. The wife who looked back. The wife who ate the apple. The wife who died repeating the lie of her husband’s ledger, named for sapphires and buried in sand so shallow the maggots ate the skin from her bones. The wife was made to give an excuse to punish the men they married; the wife as a death sentence, luring man to mortality. Death because of the wife, salt because of the wife, the wife, the wife— 

Phainon took your hand, his hand curling around your fingers. His thumb pressed into the bones of your hand. Calling your name he asked, “Are you alright?”

You blinked away the darkness narrowing your field of view. It was sunny—it always was—and Phainon was giving you a look of concern, sky-blue eyes soft with barely-sprouted distress.

“Yes,” you said. “Sorry,” you said. “I just—” You shrugged, giving up. “I think I need a nap.”

If the furiae warrior had its way, you would be crushed into unrecognizable smears of gore, your bones rummaged from the mess and ground into a fine white powder. The furiae warrior did not have its way. Instead, you were nursing a horrible ache in your back. Hyacine insisted upon seeing to you herself, though you knew her insistence was not really hers but a product of Phainon’s worrying. 

“I’ll need you to take this off,” Hyacine said gently, sweetly, voice like soft bells in the wind. She touched a soft, open palm to your lower back and a pitiful noise wrenched out of you. “Off you go,” Hyacine said to Phainon, allowing you the dignity of pretending she’d not heard your helpless prey-animal noise.

“But—” 

“Lord Phainon,” Hyacine said with a surprising sternness, “you’re bothering my patient!”

You spoke up, “I don’t mind if he stays.” 

The truth was you did mind. You were horrified at the idea—but worse was the risk of being left alone. Once, in your childhood, the memory now softened around the edges by time, you’d gotten a horrible piece of wood stuck in your foot. You’d not looked where you were running along the beach, and you had limped back to your father crying as if you’d been run through with a spear. He’d coaxed you inside and then held you still as your mother pried out the splinter. You’d kicked and screamed and sobbed, furious at your parents for bringing you into a world where you could experience such awful pain. When it was over, you felt as if you’d cried your body dry; your mother made you drink and your father brought you figs and insisted you eat. You’d wanted to starve and wither away into nothing, spiteful in the way only a child could be.

“Alright,” Hyacine said, gentle again. “Help her with that,” she instructed Phainon.

Phainon unfastened the golden clasps at your shoulders, keeping much of your chiton’s shape and structure. He was courteous not to point out that he was undressing you, or that you could not quite move your arms to do so without horrible pain. He helped you gather the linen into a clump so you could hold it tight against your chest. It did not wholly preserve your modesty—the cold air against your sides and now naked back made sure of that—but you did not want to be so exposed to your closest friend in all of Okhema. Even through your discomfort, you could not shake the terror of being displayed.

A hand, warm and enormous, came to rest against the faint protrusion of your spine. You whimpered, curling in on yourself in some animal need to flinch away from acknowledgement of your weak spot.

“Lord Phainon,” chided Hyacine.

“Sorry,” he said, skittering around to linger beside your knee hanging over the examination table. Watching your face, he dropped his hand onto your knee. You were glad you could not feel his hand through the fabric.

You schooled your expression. “Is it bad?”

“What?” Phainon blinked hard. “Oh, no, no, it’s not bad, it just—” 

“Bruised soft tissue,” Hyacine filled in. She set up something behind you and you resisted the urge to turn around and look, certain it would only hurt your back. “The cartilage,” she went on, tracing one finger up your spine, “right here. But you’re lucky; this could’ve been a broken bone!”

The color drained from Phainon’s face. You nodded, looking elsewhere.

You were not to massage or apply heat to your back—neither of which you were capable of doing anyway—and Hyacine gently ordered you avoid any honey brew until she said otherwise. With rest and icing the bruise, you would be back to normal within a month. The invisible, tiny links in your tissue had to rebuild itself gradually, so Hyacine could do little for you beyond numb the worst of the inflammation of your nerves. While Hyacine refastened the clasps of your chiton, she merrily decided, “Lord Phainon will help you while you recover!”

“What?”

“Right,” Phainon said immediately, perking up like a called hound.

“No,” you said, turning to look over your shoulder at Hyacine. “No, I’ll be fine, really.” 

Hyacine’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, a sly smile on her face. Your skin erupted into gooseflesh. “It’s for Lord Phainon,” she said in a theatrical whisper, “this way he won’t be such a nuisance to the other Heirs.” 

“Hyacine!” said Phainon, sounding scandalized.

“What?” She batted her lashes innocently. “Lady Aglaea said you needed a break. What did you think I said?”

So Phainon escorted you home, fussing the whole way as if you’d had both legs broken; he did not appreciate your snide comment about this. You let him ferry you over the threshold balanced upon his forearm, lest you fall and shatter your spine on the life-threatening two steps.

“You’re a worrywart,” you accused Phainon once he’d finally set you down; gingerly, as if you were a glass sculpture.

“I didn’t know you’d run out and face Titankin,” he said, frowning. He fixed the hair around your face, taking several tries to decide he wanted it tucked behind your ear. “I just don’t see why you’d…”

You sighed. “Are you a strong swimmer?”

“I suppose.” Phainon sat on the floor beside the klinai, resting his cheek against the cushion as he looked up at you. “Why?”

“How far can you swim?” you pressed, reaching out to card your fingers through his hair. 

“How should I know?”

“Well,” you said, “I think I swam across the sea to get here. In Amphoreus, I mean.” 

Phainon hummed thoughtfully. “From where?”

“I don’t know. Just—across the sea.” He closed his eyes as you changed the angle of your fingers, brushing against his scalp. “The easiest thing to do is drown,” you went on, “you can drown in the bath, in a puddle. So there’s never sure safety. Sometimes…” You cast about for the words. “When you stand at the edge of high places, that feeling you get? It’s like that. I don’t mean to, I just can’t help it.”

“Good thing you have me, then,” Phainon said without opening his eyes. He draped an elbow across your lap. “I’ll keep you from jumping off cliffs and diving into trenches. What’s the appeal?”

You never did say. Some part of you, still half-stupid from the memory of pain, could not stomach the idea that you might peel back yourself and show Phainon something he resonated with. He was not— Could not— What mattered was he was there, though you did not know why, and all you wanted was to somehow, someway lessen the abstract specter of suffering.

Once, you were a moth dreaming a dream.

Your dream was not very complex—dreaming as a moth was already a tall order as it was, as your tiny brain constantly had to reshape the shape of itself, stealing cells that had once made up your mouth until you had only wings, your fuzzy antennae, and your abdomen that was always hungry. It did not matter: you had no mouth and you only dreamed, and in the dream moths did not need to eat. You lived in vast golden sea and rested atop small stone walls when your wings tired, unnoticed by the birds overhead.

While you were a moth, and with your newly complex brain at the expense of your longevity, you were able to learn things you hadn’t before. Had the sky always been so blue? The breeze, what a blessing! To allow the wind beneath your wings to carry you, softly caressing the nerves within. Had anyone known moths could feel? You thought maybe even you would uncover the mysteries of love and the universe. Why had the scholars never once asked a moth their thoughts? 

But you had no mouth, so you supposed you would never be able to tell them anyway.

In your moth-spun dreams, there was a rabbit that’d swam across the sea. She had not listened when her rabbit parents and rabbit aunts warned her swimming was a death sentence for rabbits, and maybe she had not cared. Now she was across the sea, and there were no other rabbits for her. Beneath the roots of an old tree, the rabbit made a burrow and decided she would spend her life cataloguing whatever was beautiful. This was no easy task: every blade of grass, every clump of dirt, each whisper of a grain—these were all achingly beautiful. Who had made the world so beautiful? The rabbit did not invent God to explain this. The rabbit thought God would not make a land across the sea without rabbits, would not make her heart so fragile and frantic it could kill her just from one bad scare.

The rabbit had one bad scare, again and again: a wolf in the hills. It watched indifferently as the rabbit crossed through her rabbit-less village, hopping along the dirt path and kicking up a cloud of dust. It watched as she found apples and took them home for baking. It watched, unimpressed, as the rabbit baked a loaf of bread and then apple pie despite a lack of kitchen supplies. The wolf did not care the rabbit could do the impossible, beyond what logic dictated for the rabbit. 

She tried, once, to venture into the hills, curious of the only eyes she’d seen throughout the quiet, empty village. It was fine there were no rabbits across the sea—that kind of thing happened, the rabbit supposed, when none of your siblings and uncles and grandparents and ancient ancestors decided to swim—but she thought there would be someone. What if everyone had gone to some great party and only she wasn’t invited? 

So, the wolf. The rabbit did not see that its eyes were molten gold. The rabbit did not even know gold existed. Colors, your ever-shifting moth brain said, were notoriously unreliable. The rabbit hopped up the hill.

It shuffled further into the high grass. The rabbit bounded closer; the wolf burst into a quick trot. 

“Why are you afraid of me?” the rabbit did not say, because she had only learned to bake, not talk. The wolf did not reply to the rabbit’s unspoken question and disappeared from sight. Even from the logic of the dreamer, you could not see what became of the wolf.

This was always your dream. The rabbit opened her eyes. She wandered the roads. The rabbit closed her eyes. The rabbit drowned before she ever reached the shore. The rabbit, the rabbit, the rabbit. Once, the closest your dream ever came to a nightmare, a man caught the rabbit in both hands and ripped a leg right off.

“You can have it back,” he’d said, tossing the mess of torn sinew carelessly into the grass. “I only wanted a foot.” Then he was gone.

The rabbit had cried and cried, until the crying was so momentous her flighty rabbit heart stopped completely. The wolf slunk from between the high grass, fur matted. In your dream, the wolf circled the dead rabbit, sniffed her lifeless body, and curled up around the cooling corpse.

You, a voiceless moth, could neither weep nor wonder at the strange turn your dream inside a dream had taken. 

Phainon’s moods fluctuated without rhyme or reason. When Professor Anaxa dissolved to golden dust, so said the Heirs that’d watched, he came home with a closed-off expression and then put his head in your lap, arms about your waist. It had been too firm of a grip, too crushing, but you’d said nothing. You’d stroked at his hair and told him sweet nonsense he could only half-understand, dredged up from your childhood memories. At first you’d started sleeping together only because the stress was eating him, driving him mad, and everyone insisted they’d see him in two places at once, but he wasn’t, he wasn’t, why didn’t anyone listen— So you locked your heart in a box and threw it into the sea. You spread your legs and promised you expected nothing, wanted nothing, and Lady Aglaea once told you there was no need to be so selfless.

“There is no future,” you’d told her, tired. “That’s what the prophecy says, isn’t it?”

Prince Mydei had come back from Castrum Kremnos, stomping up to Phainon and fighting him in the streets until Lady Aglaea’s golden threads intervened. You learned only later, when Hyacine cleaned the wounds smeared with blood as Phainon insisted he’d no idea what he’d done to provoke the Demigod of Strife. I’ll fucking kill you, Mydei had said, which was not so strange except with the terrible calm with which he’d said it. Phainon had been in Okhema, aiding Lady Aglaea and settling petty disputes among citizens. Mydei swore on the memory of his mother the Deliverer had been in Castrum Kremnos, making an awful mess, and then tried to murder him for no conceivable reason. Sneaky and underhanded, at that. Who the fuck do you think you are? Phainon laughed when he recounted the story to you. A deep, unspeakable dread had settled in your stomach.

Professor Anaxa’s death was worse than Mydei’s sudden hatred. Mydei was at least alive.

“I’m tired of saying goodbye,” he said into the pleats of your chiton. 

“I know,” you said. You could say nothing else. “I’m sorry.”

Phainon left late in the night, though of course it was still light as ever. You waited and then decided you could not, bothering only to put on shoes and search through the streets of Okhema for him. You made the journey to the Marmoreal Palace to see the baths; you traversed every side street surrounding Marmoreal Market. You ventured to the furthest outskirts of the city, childhood fears welling up in you. You roamed Kephale Plaza, knowing you looked mad and not caring.

You found him towards the end of the Path of Parting, the snaking road of onyx marble that haunted your dreams so. Always a road, always leading somewhere new. Phainon was staring up at the sky, as if he could divine meaning from the false clouds.

“Please don’t go,” you said. The tremor of your voice shocked the pensive stillness of his stature; you felt inexplicably close to tears as his gaze ran over you. “Please, don’t, I know it’s horrible, but I—” 

“Beloved,” he said softly, something he’d never called you before, and your defenses failed; tears slipped past your lower lashes. Phainon hoisted you up off your feet, one arm balanced beneath your rear while his free hand ran soothing patterns up your spine. “There you are,” he said, guiding your face into the crook of his neck, against the sun tattoo that fascinated you so. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry.”

His tenderness only encouraged your tears. Soon, you were making horrible gasping noises, clutching his shoulders. He held you through the crying. He hummed a tune you thought you recognized. He pressed a featherlight kiss to the shell of your ear.

Finally, you calmed. The mortification of it came at once. “I’m sorry,” you started. 

“I hope you weren’t crying over me,” Phainon said.

“How can I not?” You nosed against the column of his throat. “It isn’t fair, and I know Professor Anaxa was important to you, and Mydei’s been so horrible to you ever since he became a demigod—” 

“Coreflames are a heavy burden,” Phainon shushed you. “Don’t cry over that.”

Miserably, you said, “I don’t want you to have to be a demigod.”

Phainon brought a strand of your hair to his lips. “Sometimes,” he said, “it helps to think of it as a dream. It only seems like forever when you’re in it.”

He took you home—to your tiny house, where you rarely slept in your own bed. He gently touched your back and asked, “Does this hurt?” You’d no idea why it might, but you told him it did not. Phainon pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, the bridge of your nose, your cheek, your chin.

“You won’t have to see me be a demigod,” he told you quietly.

“How do you know?”

“The Titans told me in a dream.” Phainon let his forehead rest against yours, gazing down at you with such intensity you reflexively closed your eyes. “Just once,” he said, “I’d take you to Aedes Elysiae.”

He would fuck you in the golden wheat fields, he said, speaking so frankly you were unsure if he was trying to seduce you or simply paint a more vivid picture. Your favorite place would be the dock and the tiny bay at the south of the village, and you would swim out so far the other villagers would always think you in danger of drowning. You’d push him onto his back in the wooden cart and then straddle his hips, letting the bumpy road do the work. After, he would feed you grapes and lick the sweetness from your mouth. At night, you slept with your hands intertwined, legs locked together: two puzzle pieces, once combined, impossible to separate again.

“You can fuck me in Okhema, too,” you’d finally said, wilting at the soft, sweet tone he’d spoken with.

“You’d have already blessed me with children in Aedes Elysiae,” Phainon said, and this, of all things, was what led his hands to roam beneath your chiton. You blinked, momentarily stupified, and he only leaned closer to press his next words against your lips. “You don’t want to raise children in Okhema, but you’d ask me for them if we were home.”

“Phainon,” you said when you’d finally found your voice again. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I miss you,” he said simply. Then, with a touch of wry humor: “I never have you for long enough.”

You whispered, “Why are you flirting with me?”

Phainon withdrew slightly. An unfamiliar expression settled on his features. “I can’t help it.”

Seduced you were; Phainon coaxed you out of your clothes and then crushed you flat with his weight atop you, murmuring sweet nothings you could not wholly comprehend. He had seen you naked before—you had let him, just the few times, when you were sure you had enough silphium and almond roots, finish inside you despite the terror such risks brought. You made a high-pitched noise when he lifted you long enough only to settle a pillow beneath your lower back, opening your hips at a new angle.

“Wait, wait, wait,” you said in a rush. Phainon paused in the midst of descending towards your chest, eyes flicking up to your face. “I don’t— I’m out of silphium,” you said, face warming.

He dropped a soft kiss to your mouth, chaste and without tongue or teeth. “That’s fine,” he said when he pulled away, “you don’t need any if I only make you cum.”

“Phainon—”

Your complaints, if you ever had them, never quite materialized; Phainon kissed you sweetly through his fingers in your cunt, grinding leisurely to ensure you felt the texture, his palm settled against your clit. Once, twice; by the third, you were senselessly bartering for a break, tears in your eyes for an entirely new reason. You begged him to stop, to give you a break, and then came to the conclusion he would if he fucked you, so you begged for that next. Phainon flipped you onto your stomach and softly mouthed at your spine, tongue tracing one vertebra in particular.

When you were sure he was going to fuck you through the mattress, his hand settled atop yours. He said your name in your ear and intertwined his fingers with yours, holding the soft shell of skin between his teeth. 

The grain-filled hourglass, decorated with fool’s gold. An Amphorean King once asked Cerces what the essence of the state once. Cerces folded their hands, pretended to think, and said: “Gold.”

You learned this story in the early hours before Okhema fully woke, Phainon half-asleep as he turned the hourglass over again. The King turned to gold, the worthless kind the couldn’t be spent—he was already dead, after all, and Thanatos took no coin—and instead a wheat farmer was made God. “No, just god,” Phainon corrected you through a yawn. You could not hear the difference. The gold Cerces meant was grain: empires lived only if they could be fed, and it was always the sign of looming disaster when the empire began to cannibalize itself.

“I heard a different story,” you said when he’d finished, watching the grains whisk against each other into the bottom chamber. “The hourglass was invented because of love.”

“Hmm?”

“That’s what I was told growing up,” you said. You thought of telling the story to your children, abstractions of tomorrow, and found you could not picture it. “A man made it for his wife. ‘When the chamber is full, you know soon I will be home. If I run late, forgive me and give it another turn.’ That’s what he told her. The grains were a promise their time had become a circle; they could not help but return back to each other.”

When you were still a moth, you had only one visitor to your golden fields. You fluttered from the silphium leaves to the stalks of wheat and marveled at your unending hunger. You would die starving with nothing to be done about it; your ever-shifting brain found this novel rather than terrifying.

The stranger did not mind if you settled about their shoulder. You nestled into their warm skin, missing the skin you’d never had, and they let you do as you pleased. Your antennae, fuzzy and unwieldy, did not tickle as you thought they might. They looked to the sky, searching for something your compound eyes could not see for the great distance. You were far more interested in the millions of hairs at the nape of their neck. What joy! An infinitely repeating pattern, for the sake of— What? Your moth wisdom could not solve this.

You lost count, or your memory deliberately discarded unnecessary data. For a long time, the stranger did not come at all, and you could do nothing but dream you were dreaming, bringing the rabbit back to life though she would always die and sometimes she would be eaten in great detail. Flesh shorn by teeth. The smear of blood across a mouth. The rabbit did not remember. Lucky her! Lucky her.

You dreamed so long you forgot part of you was still in the waking world, oblivious to the unending march of time. Your wings no longer worked. Your abdomen was furiously melting you from the inside out, acids building up without any other ambition now that you’d taken their one purpose. For a moth, you’d lived a good, long life, so you laid to die upon the stone wall, expecting to be blown away by a gust of breeze and lost in the gold forever.

“Don’t do this,” the stranger said to you, gently cupping you in their hands. The blood of millions, burned into the palms. You thought the blood was warm, so you snuggled closer, delighted by the new texture from the lines in their hands against your frail, dying body. Again, with greater urgency: “Don’t do this.”

Sorry, you thought, though only because it was what was polite. Feeling generous, you shared a secret: Moths can’t really sleep. It wasn’t my dream. But it was nice to be there. I’m glad you were there.

You died in the stranger’s hands, who grieved horribly for you, one simple moth that’d forever lost its kin. To your relief, someone else dreamed of the rabbit instead.

She let the man rip off her leg, no longer forgetting. She dragged herself with her front paws across the bloodied field, smearing red across her fur, and returned to the mess of her leg. The rabbit sighed, though really she wanted to cry. No more crying. Rabbits couldn’t cry anyway, and she no longer had you to bend the rules of the dream for her. The leg, then: flat teeth sank into the fur and flesh. The toughness of uncooked meat. She could not chew it but eventually, holding it in her mouth for so long blood seeped from both corners, it was finally possible for her to swallow.

Far in the hills, the wolf howled and wailed. The rabbit ignored this. How joyless, to do the same thing again and again. She knew eventually she could eat herself away until nothing was left.

No more ripped legs. No more crying wolves.

“I think I was meant to be born a nymph,” you said one day without preamble.

You were leaning against the lip of the bath, knees drawn up to your chest in the Starlight Pool. Phainon often refused to step foot in the chilled waters, but insisted he accompany you. “So I can be there when you turn into a block of ice, and be the first to say I told you so once you’ve melted,” he’d said. Phainon almost always spent his time lounging on a nearby klinai, dragged closer to whatever edge of the pool you’d settled in. He regularly helped himself to your tray of snacks while you were unable to stop him from pilfering your figs and grapes, though he at least had the manners to save some fruit for you.

“A nymph?” Phainon repeated, hand stilling midway to deposit a grape in his open mouth. His hand lowered. Beneath his messy fringe, you saw the furrow of his brows, creasing his forehead. “The golden butterflies, you mean?”

“No,” you said, then turned your head so you could make your own face of confusion at your knees. What else could you mean? As soon as you’d said it, you’d no idea why. Perhaps part of the process of the cold water purifying your mind was dredging up every stupid thought you had. “I don’t think I’d be gold,” you recovered, muscles tensing as the water rippled from another patron’s shifting.

More and more, you’d get awful headaches. The chittering of the black tide, trapped in your ears and always muttering. On the worst days, you thought you could make out the words: sky, sea, sword. Moon, corpse, cleaver. Your only hope was frequent soaks within the Starlight Pool. Phainon had suggested the Dawn Pool, so you might sleep better, but you did not want to sleep. You dropped your chin atop a knee and then turned your head, letting your cheek rest on the bone instead.

“What color, then?” Phainon asked, finally recovering and popping three grapes into his mouth.

You graciously ignored the complete depletion of your grapes. You liked figs better anyway. “I don’t know.” Closing your eyes, you asked, “What do you think?”

“Hmm. I think white,” Phainon said.

You hummed. Plain and colorless, he meant, but you supposed you had asked.

Later, when you could stand the frigid water no longer, you reluctantly split your last fig with Phainon, though he had the sense to feign guilt when you reminded him of your lost grapes. “Well,” you said, “I hope my fruits were payment enough for wasting your lucid hour.” Phainon had never ending appointments through action hour and sometimes you’d hear how he was running errands on opposite sides of Okhema simultaneously. You cast about for your leather sandals and stood up to find Phainon looking at you with a pronounced pout. “What?”

“Can’t I enjoy my time with you?” he said. “I thought we were friends.”

The persistent murmur of black tide, crowding against the back of your skull and reaching towards your ears from the inside. “I know you’re busy,” you said, bringing a hand to your temple as if that would chase away the looming headache. You would curl up at home and try to pretend the unending light could not reach you. “You must have better things to do than hear about how I was robbed of my life as a nymph.”

So earnestly you were sure he was making fun of you, Phainon said, “I’m glad you’re human instead.”

RABBIT: I still love you.

REVERSE SHOT to reveal RABBIT is staring up at Khaslana, the lone observer sat amongst the prohedria. This is not a stageplay but someone’s dream. The MOTH is no longer dreaming. No one, not even Khaslana, can remember the number of dreamers.

KHASLANA: You’re still dreaming.

RABBIT: You’re dreaming, too. Aren’t you?

The lights dim. The rabbit leaves the stage, hopping delicately, the tuft of her tail white as snow. From the stage to the prohedria, the rabbit finds a vantage point and puts one soft paw against Khaslana’s chest.

KHASLANA: You’ll burn yourself.

He gently moves the rabbit’s paw. The rabbit makes a face, one very nuanced among rabbits, but no one can parse its meaning. She stomps a foot in frustration. This is the foot once ripped from her body in a dreamer’s dream. Somewhere, there is blood staining the grass. The rabbit bleeds red. If one with golden blood were gutted in those memory-softened fields, no one would notice the blood until it touched something else.

RABBIT: Find me when I’m human. 

KHASLANA: I’ve found you through millions of Coreflames. 

RABBIT: Find me again. I miss you. I still love you.

KHASLANA: I killed you, you know.

RABBIT: I know.

The unseen orchestra begins to play a slow song on the strings.

RABBIT: You’re stuck in the worst dream of any of us. But you never hurt me.

KHASLANA: I killed you. I watched you die.

RABBIT: I was always going to die. Right?

The rabbit’s ears twitch towards the orchestra. Khaslana closes his eyes. The rabbit lifts one paw and turns towards the darkness beyond the half-circle of seats.

RABBIT: I think I remember my dream now.

KHASLANA: You’re still dreaming.

RABBIT: Then I’ll find you in the morning.

The sky splits and the lights go out, as if they were never there at all. The painting calling itself the sky peels back its outer face. No more music. No more orchestra. The divine hand of GOD carves a message in the stars: HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME.

KHASLANA: Goodnight. Goodnight. I wish you a softer dream.

RABBIT: Find me in the wheat. I love you. I love you.

end notes.

thanks for reading if anyone did! i wrote this for myself but told myself maybe someone out there might want to read it, too. there is a whole separate document keeping track of the repetition of words and phrases, symbols, and so forth. so it was a pretty normal exercise and very much not a sign of insanity. from the bottom of my heart: my bad.

[kittydruthers]

Ooh college au is so adorable! Freshman pre med and second year med considering no gaps in education I'm assuming 18 and 23 years old. Does she eventually do MS4 rotations at The Pitt where he's R4? And then the rest of Frank's colleagues see how capable she is, in addition to being endeared by both her and frank together. So many different possibilities. Please keep giving snippets these two are so cute 🥺🥰

Yup that’s exactly about what I’m thinking age wise for them.

This definitely gets into an angsty part of what I imagine for this verse. When Frank is going on his interviews and through the process of getting matched Mel will still have her senior year of undergrad to go through and then applying to medical school. They’re going to end up separated, long distance. And that impending event is causing mutual distress since they’ve been practically attached at the hip since they met. Frank matches to PTMC, his very first meeting with Robby went spectacularly and they’ve been in contact since, but this is taking him hundreds of miles and hours away. It’s what he needs though, it’s part of this process but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

That time apart is a struggle. Their schedules are so mismatched it’s hard to get each other at the same time. Though they make the most of it when they can. Mostly they keep up a very active text stream to help them get through until their, meticulously planned by Mel, weekends to visit each other.

Things take a turn for the very bad though when Mel’s mom gets sick. They know something is wrong, but it’s been a pain finding a diagnosis until in the middle of med school applications and interviews (mainly in the Pittsburgh area and nearby) they find out it’s a malignant pheochromocytoma. At which point Mel basically drops off the face of the earth. She goes to school and she goes immediately home taking the hour and a half long drive each way every single day so she can be there for her mom and sister, only uses her room in the sorority house for naps between classes. Frank is constantly asking for updates and she only answers half the time. Because ever since they found out her mom has only gotten worse despite attempted treatment. Their time is slipping away. Becca is confused by things turning so quickly, the disruptions to the normal routines. And Mel is just trying to juggle it all while facing the very real fact that her mom is dying. It’s not until Frank shows up at the King house unplanned and unannounced that Mel actually breaks down about it all because she not alone in this.

Maybe it’s because her mother gets the reminder that Mel has someone who can take care of her, that her girls won’t be alone out here in the world that makes the transition easier. She isn’t going to survive this. But she hangs on to see Mel get into UPitt for medical school, graduation on the horizon. She’s proud of her girls for all they’ve grown to be even if she won’t be there to see it.

Her mother’s death is the hardest moment of Mel’s life. It’s just her and Becca now, and Frank who can’t be there until the morning of the funeral. It’s a small service, mostly populated by their mother’s friends and work colleagues. Frank holds her and Becca’s hands, doesn’t leave their sides for a full uninterrupted 72 hours which include picking up her mother’s ashes. He cooks for them the entire time even when both Mel and Becca are entirely uninterested in eating.

It only starts to get better when they start the process of Mel and Becca moving up to Pittsburgh. They’re obviously moving in with Frank who’s upgrading from a one bedroom apartment to a three bedroom townhouse. It’s a very big adjustment process. But Frank takes them on tours around the city, getting them acclimated. Becca and Mel like to make little adventures out of exploring the neighborhood and finding their new favorite restaurants and cafes and stores. It’s a new normal but there’s a lot of good to find in it too.

Frank is doing pretty well for himself as an R2, Robby has taken him under his wing to mold into his protégée. He gets along with the rest of the ER staff, hard learned lessons from his intern year sticking.

Med school starts for Mel and she takes to it like duck to water. All her sneaking around advanced classes with Frank starts to click. She’s making exceptional grades. It helps she still has an excellent mentor.

Her insurance runs out in November. Becca is still covered by Medicaid thankfully. Naturally the easiest solution is to get married so Frank can add Mel to his insurance plan. It’s a courthouse wedding with only Becca, Frank’s parents and older sister in attendance on a bright but chilly December day. With all the streets decorated for the holidays it feels like the perfect backdrop.

Not much changes at the Pitt, but Frank does wear a perfectly fitted gold band and starts referring to Mel as his wife instead of girlfriend. Robby and Dana only know the backstory because he had to give them the insurance paperwork. But everyone at some point has heard about Mel, his slightly controversially younger partner still in med school, he talks about like she created the earth itself and well, she is his world. They wonder how she puts up with him, what kind of girl willingly attaches herself to the over energetic puppy that is Frank Langdon who’s still a hotshot in the ER, rushing for the coolest cases and into trauma bays eager to please and practice risky skills to add them to his repertoire. Still, he’s grown up a bit even gets offered an attending position by the time Mel’s an MS4.

They’re getting a new batch of med students and residents in which includes Melissa King-Langdon but she’s trying really hard to not have any favoritism shown so she makes sure to fill out the paperwork as just Melissa King. Frank, personally, hates this because he loves seeing her with his name attached, especially hanging from a lanyard for all his co-workers to see, but he’s being very brave about it! Really! She even insists on walking in alone, whosever been designated for orientation will show her.

She’s bright, if a bit nervous, and has an extremely good understanding of how the ER functions, specifically their ER. She doesn’t pass out, even though there was a bet going. Mel really is doing a good job of it. She always goes to her senior residents or an attending with questions. She trusts the nurses when they guide her and she’s always writing down information in her notebook. The only thing people tend to notice as weird is when she works with Dr. Langdon. She’s always professional, sure, but they stand so close together. She’s abnormally comfortable with him where other people startle her. They’re always looking at each other like they’re communicating without words. Everyone knows he has a wife. It’s just weird!

Her cover as just a mostly normal MS4 gets blown though when towards the end of a very, very long day at charting desks after Mel asks Dr. Langdon a question, before he sends her off her leans up almost distracted and functioning on second nature he leans up, kisses her and tells her love you, sweetheart. She scurries off face furiously red and tablet pressed to her chest because there is no way no one saw that.

The dots get connected and by next shift everyone knows that the sweet little MS4 is Dr. Langdon’s wife.

People find them cute, but mostly now that it’s known, people are just like how did we not figure it out because it’s SO obvious.

There’s tons of potential for shenanigans. Frank has absolutely threatened someone to be nice to her (she’s a sensitive girl! There’s no need to be harsh with her). Mel absolutely gets jealous about other students and interns coming in and getting crushes on her husband. There are so many bets going about when they’ll have a kid.

[h-l-v-kennedy-blog]

Unaccustomed (to someone successfully bewitching your parents)

pairing: robert kennedy x oc (ava worthing) synopsis: a sweet moment after a long night, a dinner with Bobby's parents (the future in-laws?) and holding cold hands. warnings: nothing aside from spelling errors and such, this is just pretty much pure and utter fluff with little conflict, bobby's just being a cutie for most of this word count: 2,213 (i don't know how it went over 2k words, but i just got in the mood for love) notes: thanks to the posts from @strryhaze, @melancholicstation and queen @unmarlou, and an ask from @dillusionalarteest I finally finished a new chapter for a fic of mine. like every time, I hope it's not too bad, since I haven't written for Bobby for a LONG time and had a bit of a hard time coming back to writing... but hope remains.

1960 - 9th of November, Hyannis Port, MA

The election had been a close one, but Jack had won the presidency, evident by the secret service cars and agents pouring out of them in the early hours of November 9th, after a long and grueling election night. The president-elect had gone to bed around 4 a.m, while Bobby had stayed vigilant and near the television and multiple phones, set up in a makeshift war room in his rented cottage.

Now he was free to rest. He had been peeking through the curtains to see the Secret Service cars drive up to his brother's house, letting out a sigh of relief and ran a hand through his hair before turning to look over his shoulder to see Ava settled in an armchair, feet strewn over an arm and body curled up in a way that, Bobby was sure, wasn't very comfortable. He softly strolled over to her, kneeling beside her and gazing at her, debating whether or not to wake her. Her eyes were closed and a lock of hair had fallen over her left cheek, he wearily tucked the lock behind her ear. She had stayed all this time, even with the fog of exhaustion thick in his head, one thing was clear as day. Ava. The pad of his thumb careful touched the skin of cheek, soft and smooth to the touch. She stirred slightly, muttering something incoherent, head burrowing further into the chair cushion.

"Ava?" His voice was low, whisper-like and a bit hoarse.

She only hummed in answer and he knew she wasn't about to wake up. But she also couldn't sleep in a chair, her neck crooked like that, she would be in pain when she would eventually wake up. So, he did what any honorable and good boyfriend would do. Cautiously, he put his arms around her body, picking her up, not minding her not being feather light in his arms and carrying her upstairs to his bedroom, setting her on the plush covers. He collapsed next to her after only taking off his shoes, sleep invading his senses in an instant.

---

1961 - 15th of January, Washington D.C

With the election behind them, Ava and Bobby could refocus on their relationship, when plans were changed again. Bobby would be the Attorney General, as per his father's request, which Jack reluctantly agreed with. Bobby didn't see a world where he could've said no, even if Ava saw that Bobby needed a break after putting his all into his brother's campaign. But who had ever said "no" to the patriarch of the Kennedy clan? Very few. Bobby, at one point, however, not this time.

Still, time was ripe enough for Ava to officially meet his parents (even if she had been their orbit for months during the campaign, this would be a proper meeting). Dinner in Washington, a few days before the inaguration. Bobby was more anxious about the meeting than Ava, fidgeting with his tie and cufflinks in the back of the taxi as they were driven to a fancy French restaurant.

"Bobby." Ava prompted, looking at him. She was dressed in a black shift dress and a string of pearls. Simple, stylish with a hint of glamour, matching well with Bobby's dark suit.

He eyes were unfocused as he was looking down at his cuffs.

"Bobby." She reached out to his unsteady fingers, weaving their hands together. "Hey, Robert, come back from Wonderland."

"I'm here." His voice was quiet and his eyes were still downcast.

"Good, now, look at me." She leaned her head closer. "I want to see those pretty blues."

Blue met grey, a shy smile on his lips at her compliment.

"Perfect, what's on your mind? You've said very little tonight." She nudged his shoulder, making him squirm.

"I'm terrific." He tried to keep it in. Yet her gaze had a way of delving into his soul and unlocking anything kept submerged from her. Damn her.

"Yes, but that doesn't answer by question, dear."

"I know." Once again eyes shifting away.

"I've actually met your parents before, so this is a formality, no?"

"Well…I guess…" He knew his parents weren't exactly… easy people to be around, and he'd kept Ava away from his father intentionally.

"So, they already have some idea of and, in conclusion, there's no need to put more pressure to make a great first impression, since they've met me before, during the campaign, even if in passing?"

"I…I guess so…" He squeezed her fingers, still seeking assurance. He glanced at her again, and got what he was seeking, her expression was calm, sure of herself and he was still speechless whenever she displayed so much confidence in her… and in his character. "You know… you've been so composed and calm, about all of this."

"All of…what?" He could see, surprisingly in the darkness of the car, her eyebrow perk up.

"My choosing to take on ... the attorney generalship, my family and… and my brother becoming the President. The… the fact our relationship will be under the media's scrutiny because of who I am. It's… a lot. And you're bearing it so well."

Now it was her turn to avert her eyes. "I… I suppose I have. It's all been quite whirlwind, so I don't think I've had much time to panic or overthink anything." She didn't know how to better explain it and silence fell between them until Bobby said.

"Either way you're strong... to put up with all of it." His voice came in a whisper and a squeeze of her fingers. "…to put up with me…"

On arrival at the restaurant, they gave their coats away at coat check and were escorted to their table where Father Joe and Rose were already at their assigned table, but Eva checked her small silver wrist watch and checked– they were not late, since Bobby had told her what a stickler to punctuality both his parents were.

Joe Senior rose from his chair and gave his son a quick embrace in greeting while Rose gave simple nod in greeting to her son, as she remained seated. Joe then turned to Bobby's young companion. "Ava, yes? My Bobby's girl?" Bobby tried not to flush at the way his father called Ava.

"Yes, sir, Ava Worthing. And I suppose that title does fall to me." Ava extended her hand to the older man who grinned at her confident reply and shook her hand.

"Nice firm grip, good. And wit." Joe said as Ava then shook briefly Rose's hand with a polite smile.

The young couple took their seats and Joe ordered for the table and after short silence, Bobby's father shot right to the point, but in a semi-meandering route. "I must say, Bobby has not told us much about you, Ava, aside from the fact you were a student of literature and your brother went to law school with our son. You do look like a girl my son would go out with. He does like 'pretty girls', and you are surely one. And young."

"Well, thank you, sir." Ava gave a small smile while feeling Bobby's hand reach for hers under the table, tyeing their fingers together. "And I'd say my youth doesn't make me any less capable."

"And you're a smart one too. You attended Vassar College, correct?"

"Yes, sir, it was my first choice, keeping me near my home."

"So, you value family and being close with them?" Rose opened her mouth, speaking in a regal, almost transatlantic tone of voice that was the New England accent.

"I do. I'm very close to my parents, and my brother Alec, whose groomsman Bobby was at his wedding." Ava gave quick wink to Bobby, as he seemed flush more at what topics his parents seemed to cover so easily

"Ah, yes, I read about that wedding, quite party. But not quite as glamorous as my son Jack's wedding to Jackie. You know the papers called it the wedding of the decade."

"Dad-" Bobby tried to protested, but shut his mouth at the pointed look from his father.

"Indeed, I saw the pictures in a newspaper. It seemed like a very beautiful wedding." Ava nodded, leaning forward at the table, resting her elbows on the table which seemed to irk Rose slightly. She looked to be questioning the girl's manners, but Joe continued while Bobby tried to keep an unbothered look on his face as the subject remained on weddings and… marriage. Nothing directly was asked of her, but Bobby felt a strong hint from his father after a passing glance in his direction before returning to Ava's keen grey eyes.

Talking well about his sons and praising them, seemed to come with ease to Joe Senior and Ava didn't mind looking interest (and even sincerely at times) in what he said while Rose was content in observing this girl Bobby had kept close for nearly three years and who she had seen little of to the exception of election night when she noticed Ava was always in Bobby's orbit or he was in hers, whichever way it happened.

Bobby was almost surprised at how well Ava could work his father into being the longest speaker at the table while not giving up too much of herself or talking too much about herself, but dropping in her opinion at times when their meal came and talk would cross from familiar interests to the world around them, politics and culture etc. Bobby saw how gleam of interest grew in his father's eyes as he saw how capable Ava was and how for a girl only a short while out of college kept up with a man of the world like him, doing so with a quick wit and humor. And his mother seemed to also ease up when Ava would, when she had the chance, asked about her interests and hobbies, adding how she admired Rose's devotion to the church and how well she had raised her children, that if Bobby was to be taken as an example of a well taught gentleman, she should be very proud of him. That brought something into Rose's features, like some ice melting in that posh and well-kept exterior.

The evening ended up being a success in Ava's book, as she shook the hands of Bobby's parents and walked them to their car with Bobby walking behind her, keeping a steady hand on her upper back. When the car drove off, they were alone, under the glowing streetlamps and snow covered streets edge where they stood, some neon lights of the restaurant setting rather atmosphere as Bobby turned Ava in his arm, snaking a second hand to her back. Her gloveless hands came to rest on his black coats lapels, her eyes carrying a question as they looked at into his.

"I…" Bobby wasn't sure where to begin as those piercing eyes searched his for answers to a question she hadn't asked yet but didn't need to. "Thank you."

Her eyes squint and her brows knit together. "'Thank you'? What for?"

Bobby's teeth gnawed at his bottom lip as he couldn't look away from her. "I-you… You impressed my parents, they liked you and I was so proud to be yours… and… you're just…"

A smile pulled at her lips and she nodded along as his voice trailed off, and she felt a tight squeeze on her waist through her coat where Bobby gripped her, hearing him whisper another 'thank you' before pressing his forehead against hers as his eyes fluttered shut. He was proud of being hers, there was something so satisfying in hearing him say that while becoming an adorable bumbling mess before her very eyes. Yes, satisfying was the right word.

"Bobby, I'm cold, can you take me home." She spoke in soft tones to coax him back to the present moment. The wind had picked up around them and it had been a rather cold January so far, the air especially cool in the dark evenings and nights.

Her words awoke him in an instant the second the words 'I'm cold' passed her lightly rose tinted lips. His hands moved from her waist and pulled off his coat in a swift motion, draping it over her shoulders even if she had on a coat of her own. And he hailed them a cab while taking one her gloveless hands in his, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles, skin on skin feeling her skin warm up under his.

Ava tucked her other hand in one of her pockets, but didn't hide her amusement at how quickly he had sprung into action and attentively took care of her, even if it meant making himself freeze by putting a coat on top of hers.

A cab finally swerved into a parking spot by where they were standing. Bobby opened the door for her with his free hand, and helped her in first before sliding into the seat next to hers in the back, saying her address to the driver before resuming his gentle massage on both her hands (he had taken both in his after they were seated) while Ava just looked at him with an adoring sparkle.

///

Taglist: @jackiesgirl, @theverystrangegirl27, @fortheloveofjos, @kennediva, @stargiirl27, @melancholicstation , @bleatngheart , @rocker-chick-7 , @kimcrystal123, @raspberryknees

[wheels-of-despair]

Moving While Old Pairing: Mac (Warfare) x Not-So-Single-Mom!Reader Summary: Mac gets hurt and needs you to come get him and take him home and maybe pretend to be his nurse for a little while. Contains: An injury, assistance in the shower, taking care of a not-so-little problem, the ever-present banter of two losers in love. Words: 1.5k

Buzz. Buzz.

Your eyes land on your phone, and your stomach drops. Mac never calls you in the middle of the day. Something must be wrong. You reach for it and accept the call with trembling hands, wishing your brain would stop running through every horrible possibility.

"Hey," you breathe, fearing the worst.

"Hey babe," Mac says, not sounding like he's dead or dying. "You uh… you busy?"

It's a Wednesday at 12:04 pm. You look down at the stuff cluttering your desk, suddenly having no idea what you were doing thirty seconds ago.

"Not really," you answer. "You okay?"

He sucks in air through his teeth. Oh boy.

"Well…" he chuckles awkwardly. "I kinda maybe fucked my back up a little?"

Is that all? You're fearing near-death or dismemberment, and all he did was throw his back out? A common injury amongst the elderly? You resist the urge to bang your overactive brain on your desk.

"How?"

"Moving while old?"

You snort, feeling lightheaded at the relief. He's okay.

"I've been cleared to go home for the rest of the week, but I can't exactly… y'know, drive," he explains.

"Are you asking me to come get you?"

"…please?" he asks. "If you're not busy?"

You're so happy he's alright, you'd drop everything to do anything for him. But you can't make it that easy on him.

"I'm getting a real sense of deja vu here…" you tease. "Are you really hurt, or are you just trying to get out of a math test? Should I talk to the nurse?"

Mac scoffs, and you laugh.

"If I just show up at the gate, will someone tell me how to find you?" you ask, imagining red sniper dots following you around the endless maze that is the base.

"Yep."

"Are you coming home with me?" you ask.

He quiets, like he's afraid to answer.

"Because I guarantee I'll look better in that little nurse uniform than any of your roomies would," you grin.

Mac laughs.

"You sure?" he asks.

"Yeah, babe," you smile. "I'll take care of you. Let me wrap up a few things here, and I'll be there in a little bit?"

"Okay," he breathes. "Thank you."

"Take your time," you encourage him quietly, standing a few steps below him on the stairs with his big-ass duffel bag. You picked him up. You went to the pharmacy to get his meds. You went into that frat-boy nightmare he calls home to get his essentials and enough comfortable clothes to get him through the rest of the week. And now, you're waiting on him to get his ass up your front steps and into your bed.

"I'm gettin' one of those old people stair chairs," he grunts at the halfway point, "this is bullshit."

"Almost there, Gramps," you tease, knowing he can't retaliate.

He growls and lifts a finger to flip you off.

Eventually, he gets up the steps and into the house. You dart ahead of him, clearing a path to the bed where he'll be laid up for a few days. Can't have him tripping over any errant laundry baskets or runaway Hot Wheels.

He hesitates when he gets to the doorway.

'What's wrong?" you ask, dropping his bag at the foot of the bed.

"I got sweaty as fuck today," he says apologetically.

"What else is new?" you smirk.

"You're lucky my movement is limited right now," he warns, "or you might find yourself over my knee."

"If you say so, old man," you laugh at his idle threat. "Think you can get over the side of the tub? A little hot water will probably make you feel better, anyway."

Mac chews on his lip for a second, then looks down at his boots.

"Let me," you offer, dropping to your knees on the floor in front of him to unlace his boots. He's still in his fatigues, from whatever he was doing when he fucked up his back. You get his boots unlaced, and he braces himself on the doorframe and carefully lifts each foot so you can pull the boot off and set it aside. You peel his socks off, too. And then reach for the button on his pants. He tenses, and then hisses.

"Not now, dammit," he grumbles at his crotch.

You laugh and pull his pants off as un-sexily as you can, then rise quickly to work on his jacket. His face is beet-red, eyes rolled to the ceiling in embarrassment. He's adorable.

Once he's stripped to his boxers, he shuffles into the bathroom. He stands beside the tub and looks back at you nervously.

"You need help?" you ask.

His mustache twitches while he contemplates, sizing up the tub. Finally, he sighs in defeat and looks at you with pleading eyes.

"If I strip and get in there with you to help, you promise to behave yourself?" you tease.

"That is… not a promise I can make."

"Eh," you shrug, whipping off your shirt, "at least you're honest."

You lose the rest of the clothes and get him into the shower, under a relaxing stream of hot water. Mac behaves himself, standing still while you lather him up and rinse the soap from his body, enjoying the heat and the steam and his light massage. He lets you wash his face and his hair, closing his eyes and tilting his head when instructed, moaning quietly as your fingers work his scalp. He looks almost asleep by the time you finish.

"Alright, baby," you whisper as the last of the suds circle the drain. "We're gonna have to take care of that sooner or later." You glance downward at the erection that's been silently begging for attention since you got his boxers off. "Do you want to lean back against the wall, or do you wanna go lie down?"

"Fuck," he breathes, eyes dark and chest heaving. "What did I do to deserve you?"

You smile and kiss his wet cheek in response.

"Where do you want it, baby?" you ask.

He sighs, weighing his options. "Bed's probably safer."

"Okay," you whisper, turning off the water. "Don't move."

You get out and wrap a towel around yourself. And then you help him out of the tub, dry him off, and wrap a towel around his waist too. You lead him back to the bedroom and get him settled on his back in your bed. Once he's comfortable, you tug at the towel around his waist, moving it aside and letting his cock stand at attention.

Mac breathes heavily, staring up at you. You stand beside the bed, only inches away from him, trying to figure out your next move.

"You don't have to," he whispers. "You've done enough for me today."

"And now I'm going to this," you smile, letting your towel drop. His breath hitches. You ease onto the bed slowly, carefully, not wanting to jostle his back. Your knees sink into the mattress on either side of his legs, straddling him. Leaving you spread wide open above him. You lean forward, downward, slowly approaching where he needs you, on all fours.

He whimpers when your lips meet his leaking head. His hips buck with a swirl of your tongue, and he hisses in pain. You rise in concern, and he begs you not to stop. You only have to remind him to stay still once more. You take him in your mouth, as far as he'll go, and smile around his girth at the sound of the whines and moans of pleasure you're sucking out of him. Soon, he erupts with a strangled cry, and you swallow him down.

You ease off the bed and find a t-shirt to throw on. It's one that he left behind a few weeks ago; one of your favorites. You're glad he hasn't reclaimed it yet. You slip his t-shirt on and ease back onto the bed, lying beside him with your head propped up on your hand.

"You okay?" you ask.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" he chuckles sleepily. "I gotta get hurt more often."

"No, you don't," you sigh. "You don't have to be hurt for me to take care of you."

"Stop spoiling me," he whines.

"Nope," you grin, reaching out to smooth down an eyebrow that's drying weird. "You're mine, and I'll spoil you if I damn well please."

"Yes, ma'am," he whispers, his eyes sparkling.

You glance at the clock and sigh.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"Nothing," you smile. "I've just gotta get dressed and go pick up the kid in a little bit."

"He gonna be okay with me rotting in your bed for a few days?"

"Of course." You lean over to kiss his cheek. "I'm gonna have to wrestle some clothes on you before I go, though. Can you at least try not to get all hot and bothered this time?"

"Oh, God," he groans, his face going red again.

This is going to be a fun few days for you.