#it’s been a year I can be bitter now right

[incognit0slut]

Nervous

Softcore in which you’re overwhelmed by how far he would go to protect your safety.

Category: Angst Word count: 2.3k Content: minor injury, overprotective spencer, avoidant attachment reader if you squint a/n: i've always wanted to do the "man goes crazy after you're hurt" trope and this seems like the right opportunity. and just so you know i’m actually hyperventilating while typing this bc apparently the neighborhood is coming back!! with new music!! after 4 years!! can you tell i'm excited!!!!

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“Where is she?”

Spencer demands. Something he’s been doing a lot lately — speaking with a tone that expects answers to materialize out of thin air. The authority that drips from his voice would normally send a pleasant shiver down your spine, you can even admit there’s a time and place where it would be more than welcome when far less clothing is involved. But right now? In the back of an ambulance with your head splitting in two and his words scraping against what’s left of your nerves?

Not so much.

Your skull is throbbing. The cold metal bench is digging into you uncomfortably, and the sterile scent of disinfectant claws at your throat with a vicious persistence of acid. Your stomach twists at the bitter, chemical burn. His voice only makes it worse.

“Stop shouting,” you groan, squeezing your eyes shut against the stabbing pain.

He swivels on his heel as soon as your mouth parts to speak. “What were you thinking?”

You peel your eyes open just enough to glare at him, wincing as your head throbs in protest. “What does it look like I was thinking? I was doing my job.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “You could’ve been killed.”

“I’m fine.”

“Fine?” He practically chokes on the word. “You call this fine?”

“I’m not dead, am I?”

“You almost were. Do you even realize how reckless that was?”

“Of course I realized the risk. I assessed it.”

“No, you didn’t. You slipped an entire perimeter detail and dove head-first into a hostage situation.”

“Again, I was doing my job.”

“Without notifying any of us.”

You fight the reflex to roll your eyes.

“If it matters to you that much, next time it happens I’ll check with you before I try not to die. Happy?”

Sarcasm seems like the last thing you should’ve resorted to. His posture is stiff and straight, shoulders locked in a rare display of tension. Something you haven’t seen in months when he’s kept his emotions buried under layers of forced composure. But you are your own worst enemy when it comes to self-preservation, and that applies just as much to arguments as it does to danger.

His scowl deepens, and for a second you think he’s going to let you have it. You're already bracing yourself for an onslaught of logic and statistics — the odds of survival, the risks of your actions, the percentage of people who don’t make it out alive when they do exactly what you did.

That’s when he stops. Dead in his tracks.

A sudden breeze ghosts across your lower stomach, and it takes you a second to realize that your shirt must have inched up with all the shifting you can’t seem to stop doing. You barely have time to process it before you see the change in him. His face drains of color. Paler than usual. Paler than he already is.

“What did he do?”

You follow his gaze, and there it is. A galaxy of green and purple in the shape of five fingers and a large palm across your ribs like some twisted badge of honor. You hadn’t even felt it until now, but the second your eyes land on it, a dull, aching throb pulses beneath your skin.

You quickly tug your shirt over the angry bruise. “Nothing."

But he’s already moving. His knees drag against the rough asphalt as he pushes your shirt back up, fingers brushing over your skin with a touch that feels too soft for the situation.

Your bloodshot eyes waver frantically.

“Spencer,” you hiss, glancing around. “Spencer, stop, you’re making a scene.”

A quick scan of the cramped space tells you the only audience is the medics, and while they’re pretending to mind their own business, the raised eyebrows aren’t exactly subtle. One of them coughs — whether it’s to cover a laugh or clear his throat, you can’t tell. Though your face still heats at the scrutiny.

"Spencer."

"This could’ve been worse."

You shove his hand away and yank your shirt down. “But it's not. I’m fine.”

“Stop saying that,” he presses. “You’re clearly not fine.”

Irritation pulses behind your temples. "Then stop acting like I’m weak, I did what I had to do.”

“What you did was reckless,” he reminds you again. “You should have waited. You had backup for a reason.”

“Someone could've died if I waited.”

"You almost died."

You exhale sharply. “Well he didn’t get the chance, did he? JJ found me and shot the guy in the leg before it could get that far.”

Which, honestly, was pretty damn impressive, considering you were fighting for your life. One second you were pinned beneath a man twice your size, adrenaline roaring in your ears so loud you could barely think, and the next — bang. Clean shot to the leg.

“If it were me,” he grumbles, “I would’ve shot him in the head.”

You scoff. “No, you wouldn’t.”

“I would,” he insists.

Your gaze shifts from the ground to his eyes, and that’s when you see it. The dark flecks in his brown irises seem to glow with an edge you’ve never quite caught before. Or maybe you have, but only in flashes. A flicker of something sharp in the set of his jaw when someone underestimates him. A muted warning when a suspect creeps too close. An imperceptible moment of tension when his fingers clench around your waist amidst the heat you both refuse to define.

It dawns on you that those hard lines around his eyes were always there, smoldering beneath his careful veneer of logic and reason. You just never knew you had the power to coax them onto the surface.

Spencer is protective — that much you knew. But not in a way that feels directed solely at you. Not when your relationship with him is already tangled in the space between labels that neither of you dares to clarify. He nitpicks your choices more than any friend should, yet he’s pinned you to the mattress far more often than you care to admit. Now hearing him say he’d actually break the very foundation of who he is sends your pulse into a clumsy rhythm.

His features are blurred by the disbelief flooding behind your eyes.

“You don’t mean that,” you say, hollow words sinking on your tongue.

He doesn’t even blink.

“If I ever found someone hurting you, I would put a bullet between their eyes and sleep just fine."

Your heart suddenly feels too big for the tight space in your chest. Too many emotions hit you all at once.

A little bit of fear.

A little bit of awe.

A lot of something else you don’t want to name.

You swallow against the dryness in your throat.

“Don’t worry, you’ll never have to. I can handle myself.”

The lines on his forehead deepens. “Just promise me you won’t do something like this again.”

You pull away and blink against the wind seeping through the open doors. It stings, his lack of faith in your judgment. The sharp bite of the cold air mirrors that prick as it slips under your collar, brushing over your blemished skin with a chill that's almost as piercing as the siren wailing incessantly in your ears.

But even that shrill cry can’t drown out the pounding in your head.

“You, of all people, know I can’t promise you that," you mutter, voice scraping the back of your throat.

His breath curls into the air as he replies, “At least tell me you’ll be more careful.”

“I was careful.”

“No, you were lucky. There’s a difference.”

Goosebumps rise on your arms that have nothing to do with the cold. He's right. Maybe it was luck. A fraction of a second, a shift in timing. A cosmic accident that decided you’d walk away instead of being zipped into a body bag. It wasn’t skill, nor caution. It was pure, dumb luck that you weren’t lying somewhere colder and permanent with the earth pressing down on you instead of the weight of his stare.

But you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right.

"You're being dramatic,” you try to deadpan, shooting him a weary look.

He narrows his eyes at you into tiny slits, and you resist the urge to bristle under the scrutiny. He’s studying you too hard. He’s looking at you like you’re some kind of equation he can’t solve, as if he stares long enough he’ll find the variable that explains why you don’t seem to value your own life the way he does.

You feel the need to defend yourself.

“I jabbed him in the throat,” you try again, gesturing loosely, “caught him off guard, and then went for his weapon. The whole thing took maybe five seconds—less, if you count how quickly he hit the ground after that first shot.”

“Five seconds could have cost you your life.”

“It didn't,” you counter quickly. Shift your eyes to your hands. Tongue your cheek. Try to justify your action. “And let’s not pretend you wouldn’t have done the same. You've jumped into danger more times than I can count.”

His entire body goes still.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you don’t exactly have a great track record for your own safety.” Your voice isn’t sharp, but there’s an edge to it. A tired sort of bite. “Are we conveniently forgetting all the times you’ve ignored protocol?”

The silence that follows is almost unsettling. He doesn’t react at first, doesn’t even breathe as far as you can tell. You wonder if you’ve managed to break him, if the sheer hypocrisy of his argument has finally caught up to him, if the logic has knocked him right through the bulletproof vest he always insists offers enough protection when you both know better.

Maybe he’s running through every instance you could be referring to. Is he tallying up his own recklessness? Those dangerous leaps of faith he’s taken without hesitation?

The wheels in his head are turning so fast you can almost hear them grinding.

“That’s different," he finally says.

You snort softly. Double standard.

“How is it different?”

His eyes are jaded as they swivel over your face.

“Because it’s you.”

He says it so quietly you almost didn't hear him. But you did, too loud and clear with your heart in your throat, then falter.

You're the one robbed of words now, a knot of half-formed syllables stuck to your tongue. You’re so caught off guard that you barely even register the overhead sirens blaring somewhere above you. Or the distant chatter of medics. The hum of radio static, a faint, crackling drone that seems to come from miles away. Everything is drowned out by the way your pulse hammers against your skin.

You can only focus on the flashes of color streaking across his face. Red, then blue, then red again. It catches the flecks of gold and green in his hazel eyes. Traces the sharp line of his nose, slides over his parted lips. Lingers on the pale scar under his chin that you’ve seen a hundred times but never really noticed until now.

You also notice how small the space between you feels. How the air surrounding you crackles. How the oxygen is lacking, and your lungs are suffering from it. How the distance between you seems to fold inward with each heartbeat.

A thump of his knees against the coarse dirt.

A pulse in the brief pause that follows.

A tick of gravity pulls you toward the shadow of a man you rarely encounter.

You're not sure how to handle this version of him, stripped of his layers of detachment. The version that exists in the slithers of time before his features school into that practiced neutrality he wears so well. A rare side of him that flickers into view — ephemeral as a stray synapse sparking in that immense brainpower he usually shields. Delicate in its existence.

And what do you do with a Spencer who isn’t just the mind, but also the heart? The heart that he guards so fiercely it sometimes seems like he forgets he has one. Until he doesn’t. Until it’s right there, beating openly in front of you. Perhaps oblivious to his own knowledge.

So you do what you always do when it gets too much. You exhale, slow and shallow.

Then you look away.

“You worrying about me this much is new," you mutter, eyes glued to his crooked tie. “I’m not sure I like it.”

“Then promise me you won’t make a habit of this.”

“This is not the debrief I was expecting.”

One thing that hasn’t changed is his stubbornness. “Promise me.”

You hesitate, knowing a promise like that isn’t yours to give. But he opens his mouth again, and a slow breath in the shape of your name falls from his lips. A pleading sort of whisper that travels every curve of your body, and by the time it lingers at the base of your spine, your nerves flutter.

The thrum in your veins surpasses even the rush of adrenaline you felt moments ago. This isn’t survival. Survival is instinct and reaction, it’s raw nerves driving you forward without conscious thought. This is recognition, awareness, because the way your name rolls off his tongue isn’t a simple request — it’s an opening. A sliver of space carved into the dense tangle of his armor, an admission slipping through the cracks before he can smooth them over.

And if you’re seeing a fracture in that carefully guarded part of him, maybe it’s only fair to meet him halfway.

Let whatever light he’s offering in.

Let it reach the places you pretend don’t need warmth.

You finally release a slow breath through your nose as he continues to look up at you. “I’ll try,” you comply.

His shoulders slump. Your answer isn’t enough.

But for now, it’s all you have.

"I got goosebumps all over me, when you're around it's hard for me to breathe." Nervous—The Neighbourhood

[fatalitysficbakery]

༒☙༒ A Glimpse Of Her —

Elias “Stack” Moore x Black Fem!Y/n

genre: angst???/fluff/SMUT.

warnings: SMUT. MY GOSH WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME!?

synopsis: you’re back in town, he ain’t missin his chance this time.

↳ ༒ Fatalitysficbakery navigation menu ༒.

↳ ༒ Fatalitysficbakery Sinners menu ༒.

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❝So, you rob trains and banks but you can’t come steal this pussy for a night?❞⁣

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"I lied to you. Yes, I lied to you...I love the blues."

You stepped onto the front lawn of the old sawmill, your eyes held a storm in them, the kind ya wish you could ignore. It couldn't have been seven years since you returned to the delta. It felt like you was just a little girl, running behind them twins like a lovesick puppy. See, Stack had sold you a dream. A dream he wasn't man enough to deliver on.

When you stepped in front of that door, you held your breath and prayed to the Gods you still knew Elias well enough to know his bluffs; Cornbread sho looked at you like ya did. Not a shred of recognition on the man's face, but earlier that day Elias had promised you wouldn't be getting that door; that you should've walked right on back where ya came from, far as he was concerned.

'Look real pretty tonight, miss. Gon make these fellas weak in the knees."

Uh-huh. Jackpot. You couldn't help but giggle at Cornbread's attempt at a gentlemanly greeting; he still looked the same as when you'd left. couldn't quite say the same about yourself. "Oh, drop allat, Cornbread. We ain't never talked to each other like that."

His eyes go all wide, and he takes his hat off, a half smile printed on his lips, hat on his chest as it all came to him. "Know that ain't Genevieve's gal, nie? Girl, I sho ain't recognize ya. Come on in!" He opens his arms, allowing you in for a hug and squeezing tight fore patting ya back and chuckling, "Ain't seen ya since ya last sang for us. Hope them pipes get used tonight."

"We'll see now, Corn. Ima go get me a drink now if that's okay with you." Still looking at you in pure surprise and wonder, he nods quickly and lets you pass, still smiling all big and proud.

"Gon on, girl, it's good to see ya."

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You knew it wouldn't take long, his eyes had tracked ya since ya entered the room, his hands twitching around the glass of whiskey in his hand. He lets you settle for a moment at least before he makes his way over to you in short, swift strides.

Your finger taps against the side of your glass, looking at him from your peripheral vision. He looked sharper than a knife, good as the night, and clean as hell. You breathe in the scent of musk, smoke, and whiskey when he's next to ya, but you ain't falling for it; he looks irritated as all hell too.

"Y'know, songbird; ya always had a habit of showing up places ya ain't belong. Finish your drink up. Follow me." His body language is tense; you can see the veins in his neck straining, his hand on the glass clenching, and his body stays tense, but he don't look at you; nah, he avoids your gaze like the 14th century plague. Like he can't bear it. Looking your way.

"Following you would lead me to hell, boy. Sides, I gots me a meeting."

Your body steps one inch away from his before he's gripping your wrist firmly, pulling you right up against him, teeth gritted and grills gleaming, his chuckle is as bitter as the beer the patrons are drinking and it sends an absolute shiver through you. "You was going to hell fore ya stepped in this building, woman."

"You left too, Elias. You planned to leave first. Remember that, and get your damn hands off me, dog."

His hold grows tighter, and he has the nerve to shake his head; he stares you down with the heat of a thousand furnaces, his eyes burning through you, and if you didn't know better, you would've thought looks could kill. "Your dog. Seven damn years, seven damn years I ain't seen no sign of you."

"Like. wise." You get out stiffly, but there's that storm again, and this time you ain't got the guts to ignore it.

"You need to dance. Don't ya?" He says after a while and grabs your hand within his, raising it to his lips, and taking a deep breath of your scent. Shit, still smell like jasmine. He ain't never smelt nothing sweeter. "May I?"

You don't know if ya wanna scoff or take him up on that offer, maybe both. You contemplate your options for a moment before remembering what'd ya come here for. Kissing your teeth, your hand settles in his. "I know you'd better still know how to move your feet, Elias Moore."

When your hold releases from his, your figure saunters away to the dancefloor, and he fixes his tie, admiring the view as he follows right on behind ya. Whispering to himself, his eyes roam over you with a heated glaze; the sway in your hips something to stop traffic, "Sho do love to watch you walk away."

"I heard that."

He licks his lips with a smirk on em, "Shyat, I hope ya did."

[༒]

It wasn't long, not long at all, till you pressed against Elias just right whilst you danced; he's only a man, a weaker one when it came to you. He stilled you in your place, grunting, "I'm weak, darlin'. Ain't never been nothing but weak around ya."

"I know. Cornbread sho let me in easy enough when I walked up to that door. Thought you was keeping me out?"

"Cornbread ain't got half the brain to listen to me." He lies, knowing darn well he ain't tell the man not to let you in, hell, he barely even mentioned you coming back to the Delta to his own brother. He wanted this all for him. At least for the night, letting out a hiss of air, he drags you away from the floor and into an unused storage room.

He's smooth when he moves, hoisting you up and onto the counter before grabbing your face into his hands, looking you dead in the eyes like he needed you to know every word was real, and they were. He could lie to most, but not to you.

"Ya got that leash pulled too damn tight for me to breathe, darlin. Ain't no way I could've denied you. No matter how long we've been apart."

"Well, I'm still angry with you. I'm furious." His hand is inching up your dress, the roughness of his palm against the soft skin of your thighs, he's smooth as butter; a charming killer. He knows how to use that grin, especially with you.

"But?" He tilts his chin up, adams apple bobbing and that damn smirk still on his face, smug as he'd always been. The Moore way: confident and cunning. Ya ain't never hated and loved anything more.

When your eyes avert from his, it's like he's hit the jackpot. He knows he's got you now. Can feel it in the way ya can't meet his gaze. Always been a cute lil habit of yours he absolutely adored. — His thumb and index finger come up to tilt your chin, get those big brown eyes looking back at him; Lord, he couldn't get enough. "Aht, aht...Ain't nunnadet now, woman. Tell me what you was gon say."

You could punch him, hell, you oughta for all the promises he broke, the nights he had ya wondering if he ever even loved ya in the first place. A hiss of air is let out between your gritted teeth, and y'know he ain't letting you dodge this. "Making me say it?"

"Goddamned right." His hand doesn't remove itself from your chin, head tilted and brow raised; he's waiting patiently, and if he couldn't be patient with anything else, he could when it came to you. You knew he was prepared to do this all night. His eyes light up like a kids on Christmas when you let that resigned sigh out.

And Bingo was his name-o.

"But...Loving somebody else was never an option for me, Elias." Your whisper is like a butterfly kiss, the words a wisp upon his ears when you say them and press your head against his. His hand stops at the edge of your underwear, and the breath that escapes him almost sounds like a plea to God. A plea to keep the man grounded, because you damn sho wasn't. Not when you sounded so sweet admitting you still loved him.

"Them some pretty words ya speaking, sweetheart." His voice comes out rough, and strained with the restraint he was holding onto so damn tightly. His hands grip your hips, and suddenly you're being taken off the counter, the man sighing like he just realized he'd been starving all night. Famished.

"Turn round for me, girl. Finna see what I been missing out on being boneheaded."

"Ask nicely." You tease.

A hiss of air can be heard when you're turned around and bent over the table. Stack's fingers grip the edge like his life depended on it, trying to restrain himself from busting just at the sight of your soft, welcoming thighs. He slots himself between them before he loses the little mind he has left, unzipping his own slacks. His hands spread you open, yanking your panties down a little less gently than he'd intended.

"I been waitin too damn long to ask anything kindly, darlin'. You're lucky I ain't take ya right at that damn train station. Hold onto me."

His hand envelops yours, allowing you to brace yourself in his grasp, the other moving to line himself with your entrance, the feeling so familiar and yet so distantly felt until he's finally sank himself into ya, your walls soft and warm and so damn tight around that it pulls the most desperate grunt from his lips, and a whispered gasp from you.

Lord, he doesn't know just who to thank yet for bringing you on home. His hand slides around the back of your neck, his head finding its way next to your ear, nipping the tip of it; the gold of his grills like heat against your skin, your hand reaches up to bring his face even closer: your breaths mingle, and that first thrust feels like pure freedom.

"Feel just like home in here, girl. Gon get me hooked like a bad habit again, ain'tcha?" Pace slow yet deliberate, he guides your head down, getting you in a position where your head rests on the table, and he could get even deeper inside you. As deep as he possibly could. "Betcha still taste like honey, too. Ain't nowhere near done with rediscovering every part of you."

His words bit at her in the most embarrassing way, lips dripping with slightly whispered moans, keeping mind the party just outside the door; It ain't quite right how smooth he could be, a shuddered whine escaping her like summin she ain't never heard from herself before. It shows in the way her bite becomes reactive. "You sho talk a lot, don't ya?"

"Want me to shut up, huh?" He chuckles, angling his hips just so and rocking into you with a particular roughness that was so simply Elias, it'd almost be funny if it weren't for the way your mouth had fallen open into a moan too loud for your liking, given the location they were in. "Maybe you just need to be a lil louder, princess."

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Smoke ain't one bit surprised when he sees the two of you running out of the backroom, you giggling whilst Elias leads you out to his truck, the afterglow clear in the way both your clothes were a little wrinkled and tussled up.

"Aye, where you think you're goin'?" He yells out for his brother, but Elias simply waves him before yelling back.

"Gon go home and show my woman some real lovin'. We a be back."

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A/N: which sinner is next? i cannot let you know, there is evil watching and they will try to sabotage my plans </33.

[fantasticfourthwingimagines]

Exactly What I Want Pairing - Bodhi Durran x Scribe!Reader Summary - When you hear about the Section Leader of Fourth Wing getting attacked, you have to sneak into the Rider's Quadrant to see if he's okay. Word Count - 3.4k Warning - SMUT, language, really fluffy. If you want a song to listen to while reading this, I recommend Shelter by Sleep Token!

In your almost three years at Basgaith, this might be one of the most reckless things you have ever done. Every step echoed with the risk of getting caught, your eyes flickered over your shoulder, waiting for someone to realize that you shouldn’t be here. Scribes weren’t allowed in the Riders’ Quadrant without express permission, much less their sleeping quarters, but you couldn’t wait. You pulled Bodhi’s flight jacket tighter around your frame as a group of Riders passed. They didn’t even spare you a glance. Was wearing a flight jacket all the camouflage you needed? 

Apparently so, because a minute later you were standing at Bodhi’s door, knocking softly, still checking the hallway like someone might sound an alarm. 

Then the door opened, and there he was. 

A breath slipped out, and the tightness in your chest eased. He was okay. 

Bodhi blinked, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing, and then he was beaming. That smile made your heart stutter. You still couldn’t believe that someone like him looked at you like that. There was so much warmth in his eyes, so much affection there that you felt unworthy. “Well,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, “look who’s breaking the rules now.” 

You glanced over your shoulder again, nerves still coiled tight in your stomach. “I - I heard some riders talking about the section leader of the fourth wing - how he got attacked. I had to make sure you were okay.” 

Bodhi’s face softened, and without another word, he pulled you inside. 

As soon as the door clicked shut, he wrapped you in his arms, and you melted. This was what you needed. The steady weight of his chest pressed against yours. The warmth of his skin under your fingertips. You were startled to realize something you hadn’t admitted before: your safe place wasn’t the Archives anymore. It was him. 

“You’re okay?” You mumbled into his chest, your arms wrapping tight around him. 

“Other guy is much worse off, I promise.” He kissed the top of your head. 

You stayed quiet for a moment, letting his touch reassure you. He didn’t seem to mind, his hand moving up and down your back, grounding you. Finally, you managed to speak the words that you had been thinking about for weeks. “I feel helpless Bodhi.” 

He pulled back, and caught your gaze. “What do you mean?” 

You bit your lip. “You’re constantly putting your life at risk, trying your best to help the helpless, and I love that about you so much.” Your hand slid up over his chest, over the steady beat of his heart. “Meanwhile I’m stuck in the Archives helping cover up lies that are undermining everything you’re trying to do. I hate it.” Your fingers curled in his shirt, holding on like it was the only way to keep from breaking. 

Bodhi’s hand slid lower along your back, pulling you more firmly against him. “You’re doing everything you can.” He tried to reassure you. 

“I’m doing nothing! You could get yourself killed at any moment, and I can’t stop it. I’m not even helping.” Your fingers brushed over the purple bruise on his jaw, frowning at the sight. 

Bodhi caught your hand and held it to his cheek, leaning into the touch. “I swear to you, the moment there’s something you can do I’ll bring you into it, but right now-”

“There’s nothing,” you finished for him, the bitterness slipping through before you could stop it. 

Bodhi turned into your palm, his eyes slipping closed as he pressed a kiss there. “No, there’s something you can do, but you’re already doing it.” 

What? Your brow furrowed as you tried to figure out what he was talking about, but your mind kept coming up blank. You weren’t doing anything to help the rebellion, or revolution as they preferred to call it. “I’m not doing anything, Bodhi, that’s the problem.” You reminded him. 

He shook his head, giving you another one of those smiles that made your knees go weak every time. “You’re giving me something to fight for. A reason to try and make this place better instead of burning it to the ground for what they’ve done. For what they’re still doing.” He brushed his thumb across your hand.

If you didn’t already love this man with every piece of yourself, this might’ve sealed it. You couldn’t think of a single thing you had done to deserve him, or the devotion in his voice. But you had him, and if you had anything to say about it, you were never letting him go. “How do you always know what to say?” You asked, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips. 

“Unlike my cousin,” he said, pulling your arm around his shoulders so he could nuzzle into your neck, “I find being honest is what helps you get and keep the girl.” Then he pressed a soft kiss to your skin. 

Your eyes fluttered shut, a soft sound escaping your lips. “It’s definitely one of the reasons I love you so much.” You whispered. 

His arms tightened around you, a pleased hum rising from his chest. “I love when you say that.” He murmured against your skin, his lips trailing to a sensitive spot on your neck that had your fingers digging into his skin. 

It took you a moment to respond, your thoughts hazy beneath the warmth of his mouth. “That I love you?” 

“Mhmm.” Bodhi’s lips wandered lower, brushing the edge of his flight jacket. “Love being reminded that the person I love . . . loves me back.” 

The realization hit you all at once. You were wasting time. You’d spent so long being nervous that you weren’t going to be good at it, or that you’d do something wrong, and it would ruin what the two of you had, but . . . you loved him, and Bodhi loved you. That wasn’t going to change.

There was only one more thing left to trust him with. 

Your fingers slipped into his curls as you drew in a breath. “Bodhi?”

“Mhmm?” He said, still far too focused on the excellent work he was doing with his lips. 

“I’m ready.” You said before you could overthink it. 

He stilled, and you knew he understood what you meant. Bodhi pulled back enough to meet your eyes, searching for even a flicker of doubt. “Are you sure? You know I’ll wait as long as you need to.” 

You smiled, soft and certain. “I know. That’s why I’m ready.” 

Bodhi’s eyes warmed with affection - and mischief. “Then I guess this is the part where I start taking off your clothes,” he said, voice low, “but I’ve got a bit of a problem.” 

A flicker of uncertainty tightened in your chest. Did he . . . not want to take off your clothes? “What?” 

Bodhi’s arms slid down from your waist, and you bit your lip as they landed on your ass. “I really fucking love how you look in my flight jacket.” 

Whatever flicker of insecurity you felt vanished. You shook your head at him with a smile, and pushed him backwards until he was sitting on his bed. His hands stayed on your ass, but you slipped the jacket off, your shirt following moments later. 

He swallowed hard, his eyes tracing every inch of exposed skin as if to memorize it. Shivers danced down your spine as he pulled you between his thighs. “Okay I changed my mind.” He breathed. “You’re fucking gorgeous without my flight jacket.” 

A little laugh left your lips that turned to a gasp as Bodhi grabbed you and pulled you onto his bed, rolling so he was on top of you. He braced himself on his elbows, and reached out to brush some hair from your face. “Are you sure about this?” He asked again, quieter this time. 

“I’m sure.” You said without a second of doubt. “I want you, Bodhi. All of you.” You meant it. Every piece of him that he was willing to give, you wanted it. In return, you’d give him everything you had. He’d earned that. He had earned your heart, your trust, and your love.

Something in your eyes made him smile, and he leaned down to kiss your cheek, lowering his body to press against yours. “You’re going to tell me if I need to stop, right?” 

You nodded, but based on previous experience, you didn’t think you were going to have to do that. 

His lips left a trail from your cheek across your jaw, then down the length of your throat. 

You closed your eyes, surrendering to the heat blooming beneath every place he touched until he stopped at the band around your breasts. “Can I?” You heard him ask. 

“Yes,” you breathed, wanting nothing more in that moment than for him to remove the band, and put those soft, full lips on you. 

Bodhi didn’t hesitate, sliding it up and off of you, then immediately bringing his mouth around your nipple.

Pleasure sparked down your spine, and you arched into him, your fingers sliding up to tangle in his thick, dark hair, attempting to hold him there. You let out a whimper as his other hand reached up to play with your neglected breast. Gods it felt so good. Bodhi knew exactly what to do to set your whole body on fire, and instead of the anxiety you were afraid you were going to feel, all you wanted was more. “Please take your shirt off.” You murmured, surprising yourself. 

Bodhi sat up, seemingly surprised as well, but grinned down at you as he slipped his shirt off over his head, tossing it in the room somewhere behind him. 

You’d seen him shirtless, but somehow your brain forgot how stunning he was each time. Your hands roamed over the hard lines of his chest, down the ridges of his abs, marveling at how his muscles tensed beneath your touch. His skin was smooth, sun-warmed, but here and there, your fingers brushed over scars. 

You wanted to kiss every single one. 

His hand found yours right at the edge of his pants. He held it, and laced his fingers through yours. “You’ve got to stop looking at me like that.” 

“Why?” You asked, bringing your gaze back up to him. 

He lifted your joined hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles before pinning your hand beside you. “Because I want to take my time with you.” He said, voice husky as he pressed a kiss low on your stomach. “And that look . . . it’s about three seconds from making me lose every shred of self-control I’ve got.” 

You slipped your hands back in his hair, giving him a soft smile. “I can’t help the way I look at you.” 

Bodhi’s lips trailed further down your stomach, stopping above your waistband where his hands took over, sliding your pants and underwear right down your hips and to the floor somewhere behind you. “Guess I’ll just have to make it where you can’t keep your eyes open.” He said, slipping your legs over his shoulders. 

“What do you mean - oh. Oh!” Your hips arched off the bed as his tongue slid up your slit and his lips wrapped around your clit. 

Bodhi had gone down on you, several times in fact, but there was something different this time. Maybe it was that you both knew what this was leading to, or maybe he’d been holding back on you. Either way, the man’s tongue moved with no hesitations and an expert technique that had you making noises that you were only slightly embarrassed by. By the time he slid two fingers inside of you, he was having to hold you down with an arm to your hips. Then he curled his fingers and you practically yanked his hair out. “Bodhi!” 

You could feel him chuckle against you for a moment, pressing a quick kiss to your inner thigh before his lips and tongue went back to work. 

Gods you’d never felt an orgasm build up so fast, but the tension in your lower stomach was undeniable. You were dangling over the precipice, seconds from exploding. “Bodhi, I’m about to-” Your words cut off with a loud moan as he curled his fingers once again, but you held on, right at the edge of intense pleasure. 

Bodhi pulled his mouth off you, but kept his fingers thrusting in and out of you at a lazy pace. “Let go baby.” He said, and you whined as he pressed a few soft kisses to your thighs. “I’ve got you.” He promised, and without another word, brought his mouth back around you, pressing his tongue right against your clit with the perfect amount of pressure. 

You went stumbling straight over the cliff, your eyes closed as warmth flooded your whole body. You couldn’t think; you barely remembered to breathe as white hot pleasure exploded in a wave that took you under. 

Bodhi worked you through it, only pulling off of you when your breathing had returned to normal. “I’m never going to get sick of this view.” He murmured as he kissed his way back up your body. 

“And I’m never going to get sick of you doing that.” You murmured, slipping your hands around his neck and into his hair. He pressed a brief, sweet kiss against your lips. “Mhmm, now take off the rest of your clothes.” 

He chuckled, but reached down to unbutton and slide off his pants and underwear. “You’re being demanding tonight. I think I like it.” 

You usually weren’t, due to your lack of experience, but being with Bodhi put you at such an ease that you felt safe to ask for what you wanted. At the realization, a soft smile formed on your face. “I guess I’m just tired of waiting to find out what it feels like to have you inside of me.” 

His smile was affectionate as he settled back between your thighs. He rested on his palms, keeping his weight off of you, biting his lip as he looked down at you. “This is your last chance to back out if you don’t want this, because once I’m inside you, I don’t think I’m going to be able to stop.” He admitted. 

You knew he would though, if you asked him too, but you couldn’t imagine a single situation where you would want him too. “I want you. All of you.” You slid your hand down his chest and gripped him, brushing your thumb across the head of his cock and spreading the wetness you found there. 

His whole body tensed at your touch, and he leaned down to meet your lips in a sweet kiss as he lowered his hips against yours. 

You guided him right where you wanted him, then let go, letting him be in charge of the pace as he slid inside of you. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, digging into the skin as he continued to push. Gods he felt incredible. It was like he was made to fit perfectly inside your body. Every new inch he pressed in had your heart rate skyrocketing until he bottomed out. You’d never felt so full, and a moan left your lips as Bodhi began pressing kisses against your neck. 

“You okay, baby?” He asked between kisses, his hand rubbing soothing circles into your hip. 

“Mhmm, you feel so good.” You told him, arching your hips up into him and letting out another moan at the friction it created. 

“You feel even better than I imagined.” Bodhi murmured against your skin, and let out a groan as you rolled your hips against him. “Gods.” He slid partially out of you, then back in, this time meeting your lips with a kiss when he did. 

It was slow and sexy, and when you parted your lips, his tongue moved in time with his hips, heightening the pleasure coursing through your body. The sensations were overwhelming and beautiful. You’d never experienced anything so intense. You’d also never had sex with someone you loved before either though. You felt like it made this moment a million times better. 

He slid his hand down from your hip to your thigh, hiking it up around his hip. As soon as he did, he was hitting a new angle, deeper, and you cried out his name in surprise. It didn’t make him pause, in fact he sped up his pace, rocking into you even faster as you lifted your other leg to join the first around his hips. 

The way he moved inside you built pleasure faster than you would have ever thought possible. Everything about this moment seemed to amplify it; the way Bodhi had looked into your eyes with nothing but love and desire, the sounds your bodies made every time they met, the dark, smoky scent that clung to his skin, the taste of yourself on his tongue, the way every drag of his cock gave the perfect friction for you. 

When he pulled away, your lips followed him, wanting more, but he trailed his lips across your skin. “You’re so fucking perfect. I’m not going to last as long as I want to.” Bodhi admitted. 

Thank Dunne, because you knew you weren’t going to be able to last much longer either. He felt too damn good. “It’s okay,” you panted, still breathless from his kiss. “We’ve got time.” You told him, brushing one of your hands through his hair so you could see his beautiful face better. 

At least you prayed that you did. 

The words made Bodhi lean down and kiss you again, capturing your gasp as he thrust into you hard, sending a stab of pleasure through you so intense that you clenched around him. “Fuck, love you so much.” He groaned against your lips, his hand tightening around you hard enough you were sure it was going to leave a bruise. 

“I love you too, Bod-Bodhi!” If anyone was outside his door, they definitely heard you yell his name, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care as his lips traveled to your breast and he sucked your nipple into his mouth. Oh gods it was too much. It felt so good it overwhelmed all your senses, and all you could focus on was the heat rising in your stomach. You could feel yourself teetering right over the edge of an abyss of pleasure, and desperate for it, you started moving your hips in time with his as best you could, clenching down on him every time he thrust inside you. 

He made the sexiest groan you’d ever heard in your life, and let his teeth scrape across your nipple with a hard thrust that hit a spot inside of you that sent you over the edge. 

You called out his name as it consumed you, your hands tightening into fists into his hair, and you felt yourself pulse around him. You had no thoughts, no feelings except how damn good this felt. 

When the feeling finally started to dim, you heard Bodhi cursing, still thrusting into you, once, twice, and then letting out a grunt as he released inside of you, the tension in his body slowly leaving as he eased himself down on top of you. 

Gods, why had you waited so long to do this with him? One of the dumbest decisions of your life. You let your fists unclench, your fingers sliding into his soft hair as your breathing evened out. A satisfied smile curved your lips as Bodhi began pressing featherlight kisses along your neck. 

“You know,” Bodhi murmured against your skin, “I think we have a problem.” 

You frowned, confused. A problem? After that? You’d never felt more amazing in your life. “What?” You asked cautiously. 

He looked up, catching your expression, and gave you a smile so adorable it nearly knocked the breath out of you. “I don’t think I can go a full day without this now.” You giggled as he gripped your hips and rolled you on top of him, his grin full of playful mischief. “I think my limit’s more like twelve hours. Maybe less.” 

“You’re ridiculous, Bodhi Durran.” You said, grinning as you leaned down to nip at his bottom lip. 

“For you?” He said, voice low and smug. “Absolutely.”

[jasontoddscigarette]

drunk jason x reader

| mentions of break-up, slightly suggestive speech in some points, drunk ex-partner, unstable situation

he misses you…

Jason often got drunk on his way home after performing his duty as Red Hood. You broke up a few months ago, and when sober, you rarely heard from him. However, when alcohol got into his blood, you haunted him.

So he decided to call you, ignoring the fact that it was already late. After waiting for a few beeps, Jason took a sip of alcohol from his flask and then spoke. “I miss you." Jason's voice was stoically cold, as if he was afraid of showing weakness.

You felt a heavy pang in your heart as he said that, pressing your head into your hand silently. Eyebrows furrowed in aching. “Jacey— You are only saying that because you’re drunk.” Sigh. “When you’re sober in the morning you’ll forget all of me, all over again, we know this.”

Jason laughed softly—a quiet, bitter sound—as if the words stung more than he let on. Another sip from his flask warmed his chest, his walls lowering slightly under its weight. Maybe it was the liquor, or maybe it was you, but his expression eased. “Yeah right. You think I would forget about you? How could I forget the only good thing that’s ever happened to me?” He leaned back against the cold brick of an alleyway, letting his head fall back, eyes slipping shut as your image formed in his mind with sharp clarity. “You’re the only one who saw me for who I really was, and you liked me anyway. Don’t think I’ll forget that.”

A soft sigh trembled from your lips, another hot tear slipping down your cheek before you could stop it.“You’re so drunk—“ A sniffle. “Where are you? Are you somewhere safe?”

Jason’s chuckle echoed off the narrow walls around him. Even drunk, he could take care of himself—he was the Red Hood, after all. “Safe? Don’t worry about me, princess. I’m fine.” He smirked faintly, the teasing in his voice familiar, like a knife with a dulled edge. “And what about you, are you in bed already? In your pajamas… all cozy and warm.”

“I was planning on going to bed…” Your voice came out hoarse, cracked. The silk of your black nightgown clung gently to your body, rising and falling with your breath. You had been heading for sleep—until you saw his name light up your screen. Until something in you couldn’t let it go.

He took another lazy sip of alcohol. “You were in bed, huh? But… you still picked up the phone for me.”

“I was worried— you called very late.” You wiped your cheek with the back of your hand, fighting off the tears. “Are you near your home? You should head in for the night, Jacey… it’s so late and you’re drunk. You could get hurt.”

Jason let out another soft laugh, amused and a little touched. “You still worry about me, huh? That’s sweet, baby. But you don’t need to worry, I can handle myself. I’m the Redhood, remember, hm? I’m the one who does the hurting, not the other way around.” A sigh escaped him then—something quieter, heavier. “Besides I don’t feel like going home right now… I don’t wanna go back to my empty apartment.”

“You need to be inside somewhere— if you’re closer to my place than yours… you can crash on the couch.”Jason paused at that, your offer catching him off guard. He hadn’t expected that softness—not tonight.

“You’d let me stay at your place, huh? On the couch?” He considered it through the haze. It sounded better than the silence of his apartment. Better than being alone. A small, tired smile tugged at the edge of his lips. “Yeah, actually. I’m closer to your place.”

“Okay— I’ll put fresh sheets and pillows on the couch for you…” you murmured, voice hushed. You hung up before your heart could betray you further, already regretting the doors you might’ve just reopened. Jason pocketed his flask and began walking with the purposeful stride only years of patrol could build. Despite the buzz in his veins, he navigated Gotham’s streets like second nature. Seven minutes. That’s all it took.

Seven minutes.

He stood at your door, heart pounding louder than his steps had been. When you opened it, you didn’t say anything at first. You just stared—he looked almost ghostly under the hallway light. Like a memory brought to life. You stepped aside silently, letting him in. The door clicked shut behind him, locks sliding into place.Jason’s gaze fell to you almost immediately, and lingered. The nightgown did little to hide your form—if anything, it illuminated every curve he remembered too well.

He moved toward you, his steps a bit off-kilter, but filled with intent. “Hey, princess.” He said your name softly—your name, not just your nickname—and it carried the weight of months of silence.

“God—“ You winced and waved your hand, recoiling slightly from the thick scent of alcohol surrounding him like a fog. “Jesus, Jacey… how much did you have? WHAT did you have?”

Jason wavered in front of you, barely standing straight, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “A little bit of everything. Whiskey, beer, a couple of shots… I lost count.” His eyes roamed—lingered—on the curve of your hips, the slope of your chest. Then slowly, deliberately, they climbed back up to your face.

“You look good, princess. Good enough to eat.” A jolt of heat flushed up your spine, your cheeks warming before you could fight it. You hated how much power he still held over you.

“Jason… don’t start.” Your voice was soft, but the warning in it was clear.

Jason smirked, the reaction he coaxed from you giving him a spark of smug satisfaction. He stepped closer. “Why not? I can’t compliment you now, hm?” He let his knuckles graze your jaw, just light enough to burn. “You know you like it when I do. You’re just stubborn is all.”

“You cannot just come here— drunk and bury your face between my thighs for hours. That’s not even CLOSE to how it works.” You shook your head, tired, exasperated… wanting. But you didn’t pull away from his hand. Your arms crossed over your stomach instead, like you could hold yourself together. Jason’s eyes flickered, the lust there undeniable. Your words twisted around in his mind like an invitation. His body responded before he could stop it—desire tightening his muscles.

He leaned in, voice husky against your ear. “Oh yeah? And why not?”

“Because we’re broken up— and you are so drunk.” You kept your voice steady as you took his arm, leading him to the couch. “I’d never do anything with you when you’re like this… that’s horrid.” He slumped into the cushions with a sigh, his limbs heavy and graceless. Still, his eyes trailed after you, hunger flickering in their depths even as exhaustion overtook him.

“I don’t care if we’re broken up. I still want you. More than anything, princess.”

“Don’t…” Your voice broke on the edge of the word. “You’re just saying that because you’re drunk. You’re so drunk— and you’re just saying things.”

His lashes fluttered, eyelids growing heavier by the second. The alcohol was dragging him down like a tide, pulling him toward unconsciousness. But still—he reached for you. His hand found yours and held it clumsily, fingers barely closing around your own.

“No, no, no, no. I’m not just saying it cause I’m drunk. I want you, princess. I need you.”

You reached out without thinking, your hand slipping through his tangled black and white hair, fingers stroking gently, comfortingly. “Jacey— please. Just close your eyes.” Your voice trembled as you tried to swallow the ache swelling in your throat, the tears already glistening in your eyes. “Close your eyes and sleep…”

Jason leaned into your touch like it was the only real thing anchoring him to the world. His voice, low and slurred, cracked as he mumbled: “Only if you promise to be here when I wake up, princess.”

Your heart shattered softly in your chest, your hand trembling as you brushed it across his cheek. “You will see me in the morning— now please…”

And with that promise, Jason drifted into a deep, heavy sleep. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm you hadn’t seen from him in so long—slow, steady, peaceful. The tension in his brow had vanished. For once, there were no nightmares chasing him. But your mind was anything but quiet.

You slowly lowered yourself beside him, curling up close, your face burying into the broad span of his chest. His warmth wrapped around you like a memory.

Soft cries slipped from your lips.

And you let them.

[dameronspector]

Philophobia (Part 8)

Pairings: Joaquin Torres x Stark!Reader, Sam Wilson x Platonic!Reader, Bucky Barnes x Platonic!Reader

Chapter Summary: The four of you follow Sharon to her place and you have a conversation with Joaquin, Nagel meets his end and you are rocked by an explosion.

Warnings: Cursing, Angst, Slight Fluff, Revisiting Past, Mentions of Depression and Phobias, Isolation, Loneliness, Funeral, Guns/Bullets, Alcohol, Injuries, Concussion, Bruises, Explosion, Joaquin loves Reader so much, Steve Rogers Hate- click off if you’re not interested in that, that’s all I think!

AN: had to change the chronology of the episode to fit the story better, hope you all understand!

Ps: I am NOT a medical expert or a medical student. Apologies for any medical inaccuracies.

Turns out, you had underestimated Sharon’s ‘place’.

She was an exhibitor now and her flat was right above the exhibition hall. Your eyes widened as you took in all the expensive paintings. They were all real.

“Holy shit”, you whispered and Bucky’s mouth fell open slightly.

Sam scoffed and addressed Sharon, “Looks like breaking all those laws is treating you well.”

Sharon smirked, “I thought if I had to hustle, might as well enjoy the life of a real hustler. You know how much I’ll get for a real Monet?”

“Deactivate your hustle mode. You sell fake Monets”, Sam quipped and you whipped your head to look at him in shock.

“No. She means real. This gallery is specialized in stolen artwork. Monet, Van Gogh. Classics”, Bucky informed Sam and he looked surprised, you nodded your head and confirmed that whatever Bucky was saying, is the truth.

“It’s true. You know, half the artwork in museums like the Louvre is fake. Real stuff sits in places like this”, you added and Sharon threw a smug smile over her shoulder at you, “Can definitely trust a Stark on that.”

Sam scoffed lightly, “Okay, guys, I see what you’re doing. You’re more worldly than good old Sam”, while searching it up on his phone.

Bucky stood next to him, peering over his shoulder in his phone, “Yeah. What’s Google say?”

You folded your lips to stop the smile from taking over your face.

Sam looked at his screen and his mouth fell open in disbelief, “No shit”, he murmured. You giggled lowly and nudged Sam.

“You guys need to change. I’m hosting clients in an hour”, Sharon instructed and went upstairs, Zemo following her after finishing his little tour around the exhibit.

“You okay, kid? Didn’t get hurt or anythin’?”, Sam asked you in concern, keeping a close eye on you, understanding that a mission must’ve been daunting for you after a year of not doing any of them. Bucky gave you the same concerned father look.

You pursed your lips and nodded, “Yeah. I’m good. Don’t worry.”

You’re not about to trauma dump on them about how nervous you were, how much you hated that you didn’t have your suit or the necklace that your dad made for you in case of emergency right now.

Sam gave you a one-over before nodding at you, trusting your words and the three of you quietly made your way upstairs.

-

Sharon had given all of you clothes to wear, and you were shocked at her collection. She had all the luxury brands and latest fashion for everyone. She’d picked out a beautiful, classy outfit for you—it was similar to what Zemo had given you but with a maroon turtle neck, black wide-legged pants, black heeled shoes and a deep-maroon leather trench coat, in case you had to step out. You felt sharp and comfortable, exactly how you liked your outfits to feel.

After cleaning up and setting your hair, you just stared at your reflection in the mirror. The last time you had dressed up so well, was for your father’s funeral—the thought leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. It was so fucked up that you had to be presentable during a fucking funeral. All you wanted to do, was wrap yourself in your dad’s jacket and t shirts and sleep the entire day away. The jackets and t shirts that lingered with the smell of his clean cologne and aftershave.

“Honey, please. We have to-”

“I’m not wearing that. Please, leave me alone”, you snapped at Pepper and she sighed, a helpless tear slipping from her eye before Rhodey gently asked her to step away, assuring her that he’d handle this.

You were lying on your bed with your back to the door. The surface of the pillow underneath your cheek was damp and hot from the constant stream of tears falling down your face, arms tightly wrapped around your body and your nose buried in the sweater that he had worn while making the gauntlet. The very gauntlet that cost him his life. There was a wet patch on it, from the tears falling off the bridge of your nose, but all that mattered was that it still smelled like him.

Like Tony Stark. Like your dad.

You felt the bed dip next to you and a heavy, yet caring, hand landed on your shoulder. You recognised it right away. It was your Uncle Rhodey.

“Sweetheart…c’mon. We’re all waiting for you. He’s waiting for you”, his solemn voice rang out in your still room. You looked so small, curled up into a ball and sobbing like a child, that he felt like you were 10 years old again, his heart clenching in pain at the thought.

Your body shuddered as you took in a breath, shaking your head in denial and cuddled deeper into the soft fabric of the sweater, eyes brimming with a fresh wave of tears.

“Kid, c’mon. You can carry the sweater with you, I promise. You- we gotta do this, alright? And we can’t do this without you. He’d curse us if we did that”, Rhodey joked lightly with a wobbly voice, feeling his own eyes burn with tears.

You let out a soft cry, “I-I want him back, Rhodey. I-I’m..I can’t do this.. I can’t… I can’t-”

“(Name)?”

A voiced snapped you out of the memory and you jumped, looking at your damp face in the mirror.

“(Name)?”, Sharon’s voice called out again.

“Uh-”, you attempted to clear your throat and took a deep breath in to calm down, “Y-Yeah?”

“Are you done? We’re leaving in five.”

You shut your eyes tightly and leaned against the sink, your arms supporting your weight, taking a deep breath in to calm your shaky voice, “Uh- Yeah. I’ll be there. Give me a moment.”

You heard her faint ‘alright’ and you looked up, your face a damp and wet mess with all the crying. Letting out a tired sigh, you grab some tissues from underneath the sink and dab your face, getting rid of any evidence that you had cried and shoved back the painful memory into the deep recesses of your mind.

Now, you just prayed that Bucky or Sam’s sneaky and hyper vigilant asses didn’t catch the changes in you.

-

You stepped out of the bathroom and joined the rest in the seating area. Bucky was wearing an all black outfit as usual— black pants, black t shirt and a black blazer, Sam in an olive green turtleneck, brown leather jacket and black pants and Zemo in a black turtleneck and pants with his ridiculous furred-hoodie-coat on top.

This was your first time seeing Bucky in something so fancy and Sam in something so stylish, you threw an appreciative look at them. They looked really good and sharp.

“Look at you guys! Ready to party, huh?”, teasing them lightly, you flashed them a sincere smile.

Bucky lifted the corner of his mouth in a half hearted smile and Sam smugly crossed his arms, flexing his arms in exaggeration.

“You don’t look too bad yourself, Stark”, Sam complimented you and you did a little pose to humour him. Sam let out a chuckle and clapped his hand on your shoulder. Bucky, on the other hand, stared at you intensely.

“What took you so long?”, he asked.

You paused and your smile slowly faltered.

“Yeah actually, I was wonderin’ the same”, Sam asked in a curious tone.

You swallowed and let out a nervous chuckle, “Uh-I-I couldn’t find my hairbrush”, and cursed inwardly for stammering through the sentence.

The two of them stared you down suspiciously and exchanged a look with each other. You shuffled on your feet under their scrutiny when Sharon announced that you had to go downstairs now. Letting out a sigh of relief, you gave them a tight lipped smile and told them you’d wait by the bar counter and swiftly exited the room.

“So…it wasn’t just a hairbrush, right?”, Sam asked Bucky and he nodded in agreement.

“Definitely not. Their face was damp and eyes were red.”

Sam hummed thoughtfully, “Just be…gentle and careful if you end up asking them about it, yeah?”

Bucky nodded once again and the two of them headed out.

-

Nursing a glass of coca-cola in your hand, you leaned your weight against the counter and lazily observed the club around you. The loud music was kind of overstimulating but you had managed to zone out, your mind wandering in places it shouldn’t have when you felt your phone buzz in your pocket.

Joaquin was calling you. You nearly choked on your drink before calming down and tucking yourself against a quiet corner. Taking a few breaths in, you finally received the call.

“‘Sup, Midnight”, Joaquin answered coolly.

You straightened up. He had called you by your…superhero name. You cringed at that because you were no superhero or whatever. But you didn’t correct him because…it sounded really good coming from him.

“Hey, Flyboy”, you sighed into the speaker.

“So…I heard you guys are partying right now?”

You scoffed, “Less partying, more keeping an eye out for a certain doctor who remade the serum.”

Joaquin whistled lowly, “Damn. How’s Madripoor treating you?”

“It’s trashy, smelly, shady and boring”, you deadpanned.

Joaquin let out a chuckle. You smiled at that.

“Atleast you don’t have to wear a green, thick, army uniform and go on recon in the heat”, he groaned.

You chuckled and it was quiet for a moment before he spoke up again, “Um..”, he hesitated, letting out a breath, “A-Are you okay?”

Your heart soared. Was that the reason why he called you? He wanted to check in on you?

Your voice softened, “Yeah. I’m okay, Quino. Not even a scratch.”

You heard the way he inhaled deeply, “That’s good. That’s really good. So…are we still on for that date?”, he asked shyly, his voice toned down.

You bit the inside of your cheek in nervousness. The fact that you had agreed to a date was still scary and you could practically feel your brain screaming at you to cancel it right away. But your poor heart was already in Joaquin’s gentle hands.

You cleared your throat before quietly replying, “..Yes. It’s still on, flyboy.”

You heard a small ‘yes!’ on the phone and smiled in disbelief. He was such a silly man.

“Okay! Okay, great, great, great. Uh- just- come back safely, okay? I’ll be waiting for you”, he replied, excitement and fondness bleeding into his voice.

You bit your lower lip to suppress the wide smile threatening to take over your face and that’s when your eyes fell on Sam and Bucky standing by the counter.

“Joaquin, I really have to go. Work calls. I’ll talk to you later?”

“Yeah, of course. Bye, (Nickname).”

You smiled bashfully, “Bye, Quino.”

After ending your call you made your way back to the counter and on your way you saw Zemo dancing in the crowd. You made a face and shivered before approaching the two men.

“Did you guys see Zemo dancing?”, you grimaced.

“Unfortunately”, Bucky quipped and you and Sam let out a snort.

“Hey guys, I found him”, Sharon informed you in the ear piece and the three of you exchanged a look before stepping outside.

“Where were you?”, Sam asked you.

You lied through your teeth, “The music was too loud. Needed some air”, and shrugged casually.

Bucky side eyed you, nudging Sam with his arm.

“Okay…you sure you’re alright?”, Sam asked you with a concerned look on his face.

You gave him a tentative smile. The two of them were worried for you and you understood that. You just didn’t know if you could handle another breakdown without sabotaging the whole mission and that would send you into an even bigger spiral of endless guilt.

“Yeah, I’m okay, guys. I-I promise I’ll tell you if I need some time out”, you reassured them and Sam looped an arm around you in comfort.

You caught Bucky’s eye and he flashed you a small smile, letting you know that both of them had your back and you felt your throat close up again.

Suddenly, a thought crossed your mind—you regarded Sam and Bucky as your family now. You felt taken care of, protected and wanted by them. This is what you’d been missing for the past one year. And you got it back. You got your family back.

You just gave Bucky a wet smile before sniffling and grabbed Sam’s hand that was around your shoulder.

-

“Madripoor could give New York a run for its money. They know how to party”, Sam quipped and you scoffed.

The five of you were in a dockyard, and apparently, Nagel’s lab was inside one of those containers. This whole situation was sketchy and you, for some reason, couldn’t help but feel a sense of impending doom in the bottom of your stomach. And because of that, you had forgone your trench coat, feeling like it was going to suffocate you and hinder your movement.

Sharon separated from the five of you, keeping a watch on any intruders, while the four of you looked out for the container Nagel was in, based on Sharon’s instructions.

“With that bounty on your head, the longer you’re in Madripoor, the less likely you’re ever leaving. All right. He’s in there. Container four-two-six-one. I’ll watch while you guys talk to Nagel. But hurry. We’re on borrowed time”, she instructed in your ear pieces.

Eventually you did end up finding the container. It was empty and after trying to locate any kind of opening to a room that resembles a lab in it, all of you were almost sure, that this was a trap.

“Hey, Sharon. You sure this is the right one? It’s completely empty.”

“Positive. It has be”, Sharon’s voice came in the comm.

You furrowed your eyebrows and leaned closer to a gap in the walls of the container.

“Guys”, you called out for them to observe it.

Bucky pried open the crack with ease and the four of you stepped inside a room that was definitely a lab. Bathed in blue light, several lab apparatus and work tables lined up, high tech machinery, test tubes—it was a proper lab with Mel Tormé’s Comin’ Home Baby bursting through the speakers.

There, in the middle of the room, was a work station with a man sitting by it, his back to the door. He didn’t sense any of you come in so you tip toed your way across the room, Bucky leaning against one of the shelves, you next to him, Zemo, was eerily quiet and chose to lurk behind while Sam was approaching the man.

“Dr. Nagel?”

The man turned around and gasped loudly. He was very shabby-looking. Messy curls, dark eye bags, lanky, his eyes blown wide and a tremor to his hands.

“Who are you? What do you want?”, Nagel asked in alarm.

“We know you created the super-soldier serum”, Bucky stated lazily, his whole stance unbothered, as if he couldn’t believe that all of you were wasting time on this meek, distracted man.

“Get out of my lab”, Nagel spit out and tried to leave when Sam stopped him.

“Hey!”, then he pointed at Zemo, “You know who he is, right? This is Baron Zemo. I know you’ve heard of him, too, right? You seem like a pretty smart guy. So you better become conversational real quick”, Sam tried to reason, in an attempt to get Nagel to confess.

Nagel sweeped his eyes across your group and you could see the gears turning around in his head.

“How about a counter proposal? Make me a better offer and I’ll talk”, he bargained, a weird look on his face.

You exchanged glances with Bucky when Sharon chimed in through the ear piece.

“Guys, we have company.”

And you heard some grunts before she continued, “Every bounty hunter in the city is here. We gotta go!”, her voice rushed and breathless.

Bucky clenched his jaw and cocked his gun. Nagel took notice of it and his eyes widened.

“Okay! Okay..”, he placated and Bucky pulled his gun back. Nagel sat down on his chair and addressed you all.

“I was brought into HYDRA’s Winter Soldier program to pick up their work after the five failed test subjects in Siberia. When HYDRA fell, I was recruited by the CIA. They had blood samples from an American test subject with semi-stable traces of serum in his system. After much labor, I was able to isolate the necessary compounds in his blood. I was a god. I did what no other scientist since Erskine was able to do. But mine was going to be different. No clunky machines or jacked up bodies. Mine was going to be subtle, optimized, perfect.”

You furrowed your brows. All this and nobody knew what happened?

“How have we never heard about this?”

Nagel looked at you, a thin smile pulling at his lips, “Because… Before I was able to complete my work, I turned to dust. Then when I returned, it was five years later, program had been abandoned, so I came here. The Power Broker was more than happy to fund the recreation of my work.”

“How many vials did you make?”, Sam asked.

“Twenty. Karli Morgenthau stole those, so… I can only imagine what the Power Broker has planned for that poor girl”, he admitted in his breathy, nonchalant voice.

“Well, what happened to her?”, Sam asked hurriedly.

Nagel shrugged and replied coolly, “Not my pig. Not my farm.”

You rolled your eyes and put your hands on your hips in irritation, “Well, is there any serum in this lab?”

“No.”

You groaned, “Now what?”

Sharon’s breathless voice chimed in again, multiple grunts and gunshots going off around her. “Guys we’re seriously out of time here!”

Before any of you could react, a gunshot went off and you saw Nagel crash to the floor, a bullet lodged straight into the middle of his forehead.

Your eyes widened and Sam and Bucky whipped around to see Zemo standing there with his gun raised.

“No! What did you do?”, Sam asked Zemo in distress and shock.

You snapped out of your shocked trance when you heard a faint ‘tick tick’.

“Guys. Do you hear that?”, you asked them in alarm, the sound eerily similar to a ticking bomb.

And before any of you had a chance to move, there was a huge blast in the lab, followed by a fire that licked your skin in hot tendrils, and the blast broke down the wall, throwing the four of you outside.

You landed on your back, hitting your head against the concrete harshly and your lungs closing up in suffocation from the smoke and pain from the bruises. There were several cuts on your arms, likely from the glasses that were broken due to the blast.

You gasped, hands supporting your head and breath hitching from the effort to avoid hurting your ribs anymore. Your body curled around yourself in pain, tiny whimpers leaving your mouth and eyes brimming with tears. Somebody was saying something, the sound muffled in your ears because of the ringing in them.

“(Name)! Look at me, hey. Kid, c’mon-”, gentle yet strong hands carefully removed yours from your head and lifted you slightly to rest it on a balled up fabric.

You tried to open your bleary eyes, face scrunched in pain and discomfort. All you saw were stars behind your closed eyelids.

“Anybody see Zemo?”

“Nah. (Name), look at me”, hands patted your cheeks and tried to wake you up.

“Are they okay?”, another concerned voice asked, their hands pushing the hair back from your sweaty forehead.

You whimpered and managed to open your eyes, Sam and Bucky’s blurry figures looming over you.

“I-it hurts”, you whispered and blinked your eyes rapidly to get rid of the fog. Sam placed his fingers below your eyes, trying to peer into your unfocused eyes.

“Shit. I think they’re concussed”, Sam declared in concern, his eyes darting between your face and Bucky.

“Try to keep ‘em awake. I’ll handle the situation outside, yeah?”, Bucky instructed Sam and patted his back, before leaving you and Sam in the container.

“Kid? Hey, open your eyes for me. C’mon…”, Sam kept patting your cheeks lightly and you finally opened them, wincing before squinting them to look at Sam’s distressed face.

“Hey, hey.. you’re okay. Move your eyes along my finger, alright?”, he gently instructed and you let out a low hum.

Sam moved his pointer finger from side to side and your tired eyes followed it, although you kept wincing in pain every now and then.

Satisfied with his examination, Sam lowered his finger, “Alright, it’s not that bad of an injury. Just got your bell rung a lil’ too hard. What else hurts, sweetheart?”, he asked softly, trying not to trigger a headache by talking too loudly.

You groaned, “M-my..my ribs…I think…they’re bruised..”

“Is it okay if I check?”, Sam asked your permission and you nodded. He gently lifted your turtleneck and exposed your torso. Sam let out a sigh and furrowed his brows. Your torso was decorated with black and blue splotches, your stomach heaving harshly because of the pain around the area. He then lightly picked up your arms to take in the various cuts on them, all of them irritated and red.

“Yep, ribs are bruised. I’ll carry you, okay? Just sit up for sometime to get rid of the disorientation, Hm?”

You swallowed thickly and nodded. Sam carefully helped you sit up halfway through, supporting your head in his hands to avoid jostling you around too much. You let out pained whimpers and Sam kept apologising, your eyes squinting in discomfort.

“How’s it goin’?”, Bucky’s voice rang out in the empty container and he crouched next to you, taking in your exhausted body.

“The concussion is mild but…their torso…most likely the ribs are bruised. And the cuts on the arms…”, Sam mumbled.

Bucky let out a breath and ducked his head, face shifting in guilt.

“Let’s go. We’ll treat ‘em in the plane”, he murmured and Sam nodded before moving to pick you up in his arms.

After many cries of pain and Sam struggling to find a proper way to pick you up without hurting you any further, he finally managed to find a way and carried you out of the container, Bucky leading the way. You leaned your head against his shoulder, his jacket thrown around your head to avoid the light agitating you further.

You could faintly hear Sharon asking if you’re okay, but after that everything was a blur.

-

Sam laid you down on the pull-out bed in the plane and put five ice packs on your body— one below your head and four on your torso. He had bandaged your cuts tentatively, promising you that he’ll find some meds once you land. You kept drowsing in and out of an exhausted and restless nap, your body finally relaxing from the cool effect of the ice packs. Everything else around you was a blur, sounds were muffled as you were trapped in a limbo of passing out and stay awake.

Sam and Bucky sat opposite to you, Bucky meticulously cleaning his vibranium arm, a permanent frown etched on his face while Sam was taking to Joaquin on the phone.

“—Donya Madani. She’s a refugee, yeah.”

“Okay, I’m on it”, came Joaquin’s instant reply.

“Okay, call me if you get a hit.”

“Will do”, he reassured Sam.

“Thanks, Torres”, Sam sighed in exhausted and something else that was inching closer to guilt and regret for bringing you along.

“Um-Sam?”, Joaquin asked hesitantly.

Sam closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat, “Yeah?”

“Is everything okay?”, he asked in concern.

Sam froze. He just hoped Joaquin wouldn’t ask him about you.

“Yeah, why?”

“Well—I was just..I dunno…I was feelin’ restless ever since you told me that you’re leaving for the dockyard…and-”, Joaquin paused, caught between telling Sam about the growing closeness between you and him and hiding it instead.

Sam’s eyebrow quirked, “And what?”

Joaquin sighed, he couldn’t hide anything from Sam. Especially after he knew everything and guided him in every way.

“….and, I was tryin’ to contact (Name). They’re not picking up my calls or answering my texts…I was just worried”, he admitted sheepishly.

Sam pinched his nose between his fingers and Bucky looked at him in question.

“Uh- well. They’re okay. But—”

Joaquin’s POV

Joaquin froze at Sam’s hesitation. He was already on edge ever since you didn’t pick up his call after the ninth text. He was this close to boarding the next flight to flying down to Madripoor himself.

“Sam, is everything okay?”, he asked quietly, his heart beating out of his chest.

“There was an explosion in the lab. We got thrown out of it and uh- they landed too hard on their head. Mild concussion, some cuts on the arms and bruised ribs, that’s all. Nothin’ serious.”

Joaquin didn’t move or speak for a moment, taking in the information one breath at a time.

“W-what? Are you sure they’re okay? Are they awake? Can I talk to them-”

“Hey, hey, man. ‘s alright, take a deep breath for me. They’re a lil’ out of it right now but they’re okay, I promise. I’ll facetime you once they wake up, okay? Don’t worry.”

Joaquin pressed a hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat faster, his quickened breaths making him a little dizzy. He closed his eyes in resignation. This was new to him. He knew you from afar, he was more of a fan before, but now? Now he had only spent a week or so with you, you were just becoming friends and yet…yet, he was feeling restless ever since you had left. The constant worry about you and your safety making him sick.

He swallowed thickly before softly replying, “Y-yeah. Okay, that works. Please call me, Sam. T-take care.”

-

Sam let out a deep breath, “Yeah, I will, Joaquin. You take care as well, yeah?”

“Yeah”, he replied shortly before ending the call.

Sam closed his eyes and leaned his head against the head rest again, Bucky finally looked up and asked, “You okay?”

Sam pursed his lips, debating on what topic to start with first.

“Yeah. Just thinking about all the shit Sharon had to go through. And Nagel referring to the American test subject like Isaiah wasn’t even a real person. Just makes me wonder how many people have to get steamrolled to make way for this hunk of metal. And now? The kid I promised to look after is lying unconscious next to us”, Sam conceded with an arm extended in your direction, glancing at you for a moment.

Bucky kept cleaning his vibranium fingers, “Well, it depends on who you ask. That hunk of metal saved a lot of lives. And, you’re not the only one with the guilt of dragging them in this. Stop being a martyr.”

Sam scoffed, “Yeah, I get that. All right. Maybe I made a mistake.”

“You did.”

“Yeah. Maybe I shouldn’t have put it in a museum. I should have destroyed it.”

“Look, that shield represents a lotta things to a lotta people, including me. The world is upside down, and we need a new Cap, and it ain’t gonna be Walker. So before you destroy it, I’ll take it from him myself”, Bucky hit back.

Sam opened his mouth before his phone rang, Joaquin informing him about Donya Madani’s death. “Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Thanks. Good work.”

Sam ended the call and sighed, “They found Madani… Dead. She died in Riga, a city near the Baltic Sea.”

Bucky pursed his lips and opened his mouth to respond before Zemo interrupted their conversation.

“I have a place we can go. I, for one, am looking forward to coming face to face with Karli. Little Stark can rest there and get some more treatment. Oeznik, we’re changing the course.”

Part 9

-

AN: Ooooo😛 SamBucky giving each other a lil tough love and Joaquin worried out of his mind oooh yes. Please like and reblog!

taglist: @og-baby-ob14 @littlemsramirez @thejadevvitch @giona45-5

Sorry if someone didn’t get tagged!

[auroralwriting]

illicit affairs chapter five

pairing: biker!bucky barnes x stark!reader

summary: retail therapy with the girls is always the way to solve family drama, especially after you might've just cut ties with tony once and for all

warnings: violence, language, small age gap (6~ years), angst, arguing, drinking, overall crime and gang stuff, sort of enemies to lovers

: ̗̀➛ series masterlist | masterlist

Dread. That was the one thing you felt deep in your soul the next morning. Of course Tony had found out what you had done. Why wouldn't he? It was a stupid decision on your part. Even if you paid The Guardians to be quiet, Tony would've doubled it to find out who paid them off.

Against your better judgement and Clint's warning, you found yourself walking into Tony's penthouse, fist clenched and jaw set. You knew what you were walking into. Tony had a nasty temper--just look at your healing hand.

Tony's voice bounced off the walls. He sounded angry, rightfully so. The moment you stepped into the room, Clint sent you a weary look. Vision looked almost nauseous, Bruce's eyes grew wide, and Rhodey and Tony looked as if they could have killed you right then and there. It was actually surprising you didn't already have a bullet hole straight through your skull.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me!"

Clint shook his head. You could practically hear his thoughts: you shouldn't have come. Clint was usually right. No doubts he was about to be right again.

"Tony--" you tried, your voice calm, a hand out trying to coax him to be easy. Almost like you were walking up to an aggressive dog.

Tony’s glare cut through you like a blade, his dark eyes narrowing as he took a step forward, his fists clenching at his sides. He was still in his suit from the night before, his tie pulled loose and his shirt rumpled, as if he hadn’t slept. His hair stuck up in a way that might have been comical if his face wasn’t twisted in such raw, seething anger.

“Don’t ‘Tony’ me,” he snarled, his voice crackling with fury. “You went behind my back. My back. Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs. You could feel the weight of the others’ eyes on you – Clint’s silent, pleading stare, Bruce’s worried frown, Rhodey’s tight-lipped grimace. Vision looked like he was trying to calculate the best way to break up a potential fistfight without anyone getting seriously hurt.

“I did what I thought was best,” you replied, forcing your voice to stay steady even as your hands trembled. “I paid them off to avoid a bloodbath, to keep you from walking into a trap. I was trying to protect you.”

“Protect me?” Tony barked out a bitter, humorless laugh, his chest heaving. “You think you know better than me? You think you’re some kind of mastermind now, pulling strings behind my back like I’m some idiot who can’t handle his own business?”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Tony cut you off, his voice rising with each word. “You just put a target on your back, do you understand that? You’ve shown your hand. You’ve proven to every goddamn person out there that they can manipulate you – that you’re the weak link. You’ve made us look like fools.”

He took another step toward you, his face mere inches from yours now, his breath coming out in short, angry bursts. You could see the wild, furious gleam in his eyes, the barely contained rage that had always lurked beneath his polished exterior.

“You don’t get to make these kinds of calls,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “You don’t get to play hero. That’s my job. That’s my fight.”

For a split second, you saw it – the fear behind his anger, the raw, unfiltered terror that had always driven Tony Stark. The fear of losing, of being outmaneuvered, of watching the people he cared about get hurt because he wasn’t good enough, smart enough, fast enough to save them.

“You're not a hero,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “None of us are heros.”

Tony’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking over your face like he was trying to find a crack, a sign of weakness, a reason to keep tearing into you. But then he just let out a shaky breath, turning on his heel and raking a hand through his hair, his shoulders trembling with the effort of holding himself together.

“Get out,” he said, his voice rough, broken. “Just… get out. I can’t look at you right now.”

You felt a sharp, painful twist in your chest, the cold, cutting edge of rejection slicing through you. You glanced at Clint, who gave you a tiny, sympathetic nod, his eyes soft with unspoken understanding.

Without another word, you turned on your heel, your footsteps echoing off the cold marble floors as you made your way back to the elevator. You didn’t look back, even as the doors slid shut, cutting you off from the chaos and anger and hurt you’d left behind.

The ride down felt like an eternity, each second stretching into a painful, suffocating silence. As the elevator doors opened onto the lobby, you took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing yourself to stand a little straighter, to hold your head a little higher, even as the tears burned at the corners of your eyes.

You’d made your choice, and now you’d have to live with the consequences. But a part of you, the part that still remembered the sound of Tony’s laughter, the warmth of his arm around your shoulders, wondered if you’d just lost your brother for good.

Retail therapy – that’s what Clint had called it the last time you got into it with Tony, when you spent an absurd amount on a leather jacket you never ended up wearing. This time, you were determined to actually pick out something useful, something that felt like you, rather than a desperate attempt to fill the growing gap between you and your brother.

The mall was busy, even for a weekday. The steady hum of conversation, the clinking of dishes from the food court, and the distant, repetitive thrum of pop music over the speakers did little to distract you from the gnawing ache in your chest. You’d barely managed to make it out of the Tower without breaking down, and now, surrounded by strangers and the bright, bustling chaos of consumerism, you felt like you could finally breathe again.

You wandered into a high-end boutique, your fingers brushing over the racks of carefully arranged designer clothes, the soft, cool fabric a small, tactile comfort. You were lost in thought, your mind replaying Tony’s harsh words on a loop, when a familiar, sharp voice cut through your haze.

“Stark? That you?”

You whipped your head around to find Natasha and Wanda, both dressed casually but still somehow managing to look effortlessly badass. Natasha had her hair up in a messy bun, her sharp green eyes narrowing slightly as she took you in, while Wanda’s soft, curious smile was framed by loose waves of dark hair that cascaded over her shoulders.

“Oh,” you stammered, trying to force a smile. “Hey, guys.”

Wanda’s eyes flicked over you, her brow furrowing just slightly as she caught the tight, tense set of your shoulders, the way your hands were clenching and unclenching at your sides. “You okay?” she asked, her voice tinged with genuine concern.

Natasha’s gaze was a little harder to read, but you caught the way her head tilted slightly, her eyes sharp, like she was already piecing together the situation. She crossed her arms over her chest, one perfectly shaped brow arching. “You look like you’ve just gone ten rounds with Tony,” she remarked dryly, a hint of dark humor in her tone.

You let out a small, bitter laugh, running a shaky hand through your hair. “Close enough.”

Wanda stepped closer, her eyes still searching your face for cracks in the armor you were trying so hard to hold together. “What happened?”

For a split second, you considered brushing it off, making some lame excuse and slipping out the door before they could push you further. But then you remembered that these two women had probably seen more broken bones, bruised egos, and shattered friendships than anyone else you knew. If anyone could handle your mess, it was them.

"Tony found out," you sighed, rubbing a hand over your forehead. "About The Guardians. How I paid them off."

Wanda reached out, her fingers wrapping gently around your wrist, her eyes filled with a quiet, empathetic understanding. “Come on,” she said softly, tugging you toward the back of the store. “We’re getting you something nice. Consider it a distraction.”

Natasha smirked, already scanning the racks for something in your size. “Yeah, something sharp, something that says ‘I’m not taking anyone’s shit today.’”

For the first time in hours, you felt a small, genuine smile pull at the corners of your mouth. Maybe retail therapy wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

As the three of you shopped, you truly took in the presence of two women. It wasn't often you were surrounded by people other than the men in Tony's gang. Wanda and Natasha were lovely, truly. Even if they were Southside Avengers. They were funny, nice, and they truly seemed to give a shit about you--something you couldn't really say for your gang.

“Okay,” Wanda said, leaning against the full-length mirror in the fitting room with a mischievous grin. “You can’t just brush this off. What’s the deal with you and Bucky?”

You groaned, running your hands down the fabric of the jumpsuit, still processing the sudden rush of old memories. “There is no deal, Wanda. He barely looks at me, let alone talks to me. I’m pretty sure he hates me.”

Natasha’s sharp laugh cut through the air as she leaned on the other side of the mirror, arms crossed, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh, please. I’ve seen the way he stares at you when you’re not looking. It’s not hate, Stark. Trust me, I know the difference.”

You felt your cheeks warm, and you turned back to the mirror, pretending to fix the strap of the jumpsuit. “He’s just… intense. It’s not the same.”

Wanda stepped closer, her gaze soft but curious, head tilted like she was trying to solve a particularly tricky puzzle. “So, what happened? Why are you two so… weird around each other?”

You hesitated, your fingers stilling against the silky fabric. You hadn’t talked to anyone about this, not even Clint, who knew almost every dark corner of your life. But something about the way Wanda’s eyes searched yours, gentle but unrelenting, made you feel like maybe you could trust her. And Natasha, despite her razor-sharp edges, had a loyalty that ran deeper than most people realized.

With a shaky sigh, you leaned back against the wall, the coolness of the mirror pressing against your bare shoulder. “It’s… complicated. He was there. The night my parents died.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed, her fingers tightening around the edge of the rack she leaned against. “You mean he was involved?”

“Not exactly,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “Not like that. I think he was just… caught up in it. Wrong place, wrong time. But knowing he was there, that he saw it, maybe even could’ve stopped it… it’s hard to look at him and not think about that night because I honestly don't know. I don't know how involved he was or if he even...”

Wanda’s face softened, her hand reaching out to squeeze yours gently. “I had no idea. That must be so hard, to be around him.”

You gave a weak, bitter smile, your eyes drifting back to the mirror, catching the haunted look in your own reflection. “Yeah. And I think he knows it, too. It’s like we’re both just waiting for the other shoe to drop. For one of us to finally snap and say what’s really on our minds.”

Natasha leaned closer, her sharp eyes never leaving your face. “Maybe that’s what you need. Rip the band-aid off. Get it out in the open, and maybe you’ll both feel better.”

You huffed a dry, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah, and maybe I’ll just make things even worse. I don’t exactly have a great track record with this stuff, you know?”

Wanda gave you a small, encouraging smile, her fingers still warm against yours. “You’re stronger than you think. And if Bucky can’t see that, then he’s the one missing out.”

Natasha straightened, a wicked grin spreading across her lips. “Or we just get him drunk enough that he can’t keep his mouth shut. I’ve got some very effective vodka stashed away for just this kind of situation.”

You couldn’t help the small, genuine laugh that escaped your lips, the tension in your chest easing just a little. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to finally confront Bucky – to stop letting the past keep its icy grip on you.

“Alright,” you said, pushing yourself off the wall and forcing a more confident smile. “Let’s get me out of this jumpsuit before I overthink this whole thing and run for the hills.”

Wanda and Natasha shared a quick, conspiratorial glance as you turned back to the fitting room, the echoes of their quiet giggles following you inside.

The three of you had just finished at the checkout, your arms weighed down with glossy shopping bags when Natasha suddenly slowed her pace, her sharp eyes locking onto a group lingering near the mall entrance. You followed her gaze, your heart skipping a beat as you recognized the familiar, towering figure of Steve Rogers. He was standing beside Sam, who had his phone out, and Bucky, whose face was partially hidden by the brim of his baseball cap, the dark fabric shadowing his sharp jawline and piercing blue eyes.

Wanda let out a small, delighted gasp, her arm brushing against yours. “Oh, look who it is,” she whispered, her voice dripping with playful mischief. “Talk about perfect timing.”

Natasha shot you a knowing smirk, adjusting the bags on her arm as she straightened up, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Don’t say I never do anything for you, Stark,” she murmured, her tone sly as a fox’s.

Before you could protest, Natasha raised her voice, calling out to the trio with a casual wave. “Hey, boys! Fancy running into you here.”

Steve’s head snapped up, his face breaking into a broad, welcoming grin as he spotted Natasha. Sam’s eyes lit up, and he quickly pocketed his phone, elbowing Bucky in the ribs as he straightened. Bucky’s jaw tightened for a fraction of a second before he forced a small, polite nod in your direction, his eyes flicking over you briefly before returning to some distant, imaginary point on the polished mall floor.

“Hey, ladies,” Sam called, a wide, easy grin spreading across his face. “What’s with all the bags? You robbing this place or just single-handedly boosting the economy?”

Natasha smirked, shifting the bags on her arm. “A little of both. You know us.”

Steve stepped forward, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled at you. “Didn’t expect to see you here, Stark. Nice to see you out and about.”

You forced a small, tight smile, suddenly very aware of the way your heart was racing, the slight, annoying tremble in your hands. “Yeah, figured a little retail therapy couldn’t hurt.”

Wanda, still practically glowing with excitement, leaned in closer to you, her eyes sparkling as she glanced between you and Bucky. “We found some really cute stuff. You should see what she picked out.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked up for a split second, a muscle in his jaw jumping as his gaze darted to the bags in your hands before quickly dropping back to the floor. You felt your cheeks heat, and you silently cursed Wanda for putting you on the spot.

Sam, ever the instigator, waggled his eyebrows, clearly picking up on the strange, tense undercurrent passing between you and Bucky. “What, you didn’t pick anything up for the rest of us? I’m hurt, Stark.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, leaning in closer to whisper in your ear, her breath warm against your skin. “Maybe you should buy Barnes something. Might get him to actually speak to you for once.”

You shot her a sharp look, your heart now thudding wildly in your chest, but before you could respond, Steve clapped his hands together, his bright, blue eyes sparkling with that boyish charm that always seemed to disarm everyone around him.

“You ladies heading out for drinks again tonight?” Steve asked, his gaze shifting briefly to you, a small, encouraging smile on his lips. “You should come by The Grove again. It’s on me this time.”

Wanda shot you a quick, excited glance, her arm tightening around yours. “Oh, we’re definitely in. Right, Stark?”

You opened your mouth to protest, to come up with some excuse, any excuse, but Natasha was already nodding, her eyes locked on Bucky with a wicked, satisfied grin. “Of course. We’ll see you there, boys.”

Steve’s smile widened, and he gave a small, approving nod. “Perfect. We’ll save you a seat.”

As the three of them turned to leave, Sam shot you a playful wink over his shoulder, while Bucky remained silent, his head dipped low as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans. You caught the briefest flicker of his eyes in your direction, a ghost of something unreadable passing over his face before he turned away.

The moment they were out of earshot, you turned on Natasha, your heart still thundering in your chest. “What the hell was that?”

Natasha just smirked, tossing her hair back as she started walking again, her steps quick and confident. “That, Stark, was me doing you a favor. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

Wanda giggled, her arm still looped through yours. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

You groaned, glancing down at the bags in your hands and already regretting everything. “This is a terrible idea.”

Natasha glanced back over her shoulder, her eyes glinting with the sharp, dangerous glee of a woman who lived for this kind of chaos. “No, sweetheart. This is a game-changer.”

[nohoperadio]

In the early days, or really the first couple years, of my current job, I was kind of in awe of the fact that I was actively pleased to be there--zero clock-watching instincts, the days passed quickly, the work engaged my attention and felt worth doing even when it was stressful, I didn't even really look forward to my days off. I didn't have any sense that I was being forced to burn hours from my "real life" as a necessary evil to make a living. Work was a part of my real life and I was happy with that, I was even happy with it being a large part of my real life, I was happy with it being the largest part. (For those of you who aren't caught up on my lore, I'm describing a high street retail job that pays very slightly more than minimum wage.) I was in awe because nothing in my personal experience up to that point had made this kind of emotional relationship to a day job feel plausible or even really thinkable. It gave me a feeling that I imagine to be the feeling of cheating death. Everyone else is forced to give up those dozens of hours a week, it's a hole in their life; when I give those same hours they are simply given right back to me. I'd found some strange loophole where I can pay the full price while somehow losing nothing.

It doesn't feel like that anymore. It's still the best job I've had (not an impressive statement in context but a true one), it's still relatively enjoyable and pleasant and I'm still grateful to have it, but it now has much more the character of an obstacle that stands in the way of what I actually want to do with my time, the loophole has been closed, working is something separate from living again, everything is back to how it should be. I could list things that have changed for the worse in my workplace over the years that go a long way to explaining why my feelings changed, though I won't do that because it would be boring.

There's another thing though, which I should probably think of as the most obvious contributing factor although I never really do, and I started writing this post to try to lodge it in my mind a little better. Which is that for the first year and a half of this job I was coming home to a relationship that was really really bad. We spent our entire home lives trying to ignore the fact that we didn't like each other and couldn't ever possibly fail to make each other miserable and every couple weeks breaking out into quite pathetic melodramatic arguments wherein we'd pretend that there might be anything worth doing about this situation besides the obvious. Then that relationship ended and now here we are. It's not actually remotely surprising that the half of my life that involved doing structured achievable tasks in the company of people who were mostly pleasant and kind felt solid and fulfilling when the other half was suffused with anxiety and conflict and bitterness and frankly a profound and bleak and horrifying boredom. No particular explanation is needed for why I didn't spend my work days counting down the hours until I get to go home, and no particular explanation is needed for why I kind of do do that now. I genuinely thought at the time that I'd lucked into some magical thing where the work itself was innately life-giving, when any idiot could have looked at the situation and told me...

Anyway, the practical takeaway from all this is: if you wish you had a more fulfilling job but don't know how to get one, consider simply making the rest of your life horrible.

[theealbatross]

Plot | They're no longer friends but unfortunately they're still soulmates.

or, Sebastian stands at a crossroads -- to get everything he wants or to get the one he loves. One choice is a mistake.

Read Part I: a habit to kick, an age old curse

Tags | angst, heartbreak, (i swear to god there will be a happy ending), when you get everything you want at a cost, emotional cheating (boy is indecisive), traumatized teenagers being stupid, low self esteem, self-sacrificing idiots in love, underaged drinking, everybody is depressed and angry and hates proper communication

[A/N: I PROMISE THERE WILL BE A HAPPY ENDING! I JSUT NEEDED TO GET THIS ANGST TRAIN GOING!!! Also I stole from a trend on tiktok so don't sue me. Stream 'we hug now' by sydney rose for full immersion. None of the photos are mine! Except the last one that's my screenshot lol]

If there is one thing that can unite the entirety of the Hogwarts student body full of such brilliantly clashing natures, it would be the Triwizard Championship. A sense of only-we-can-call-our-siblings-dickwads protectiveness sprouting on each student, even if they may deny it with a wand aimed at their jugulars.

But if there was something that can squash all that school pride and camaraderie to pieces it would be the tacit competition of finding a partner for the Yule Ball.

To be frank, there are only so much eligible bachelors or bachelorettes before you start settling.

Sebastian was going to skip that part of the ball all-together if it wasn’t for the fact that he was (a) the Hogwarts Champion (no thanks to Garreth ‘cmon-don’t-be-a-wuss-it’s-not-like-you’re-gonna-get-picked’ Weasley) and (b) his girlfriend would be properly pissed if he didn’t ask. 

It wasn’t too bad, really. Even if he didn’t win, it would still be a leg up against his numerous competitors for a space in the Auror Programme to be able to represent his school in such a distinguished competition.

He just hates the frivolity of it all – that all eyes will be on him. Prodding, uncomfortable, and unwelcomed.

A noise from behind him breaks his bitter thoughts.

Ah, but such a delightful disruption.

“Aren’t you lovely,” he muttered as Krista descended the Grand staircase, offering his outstretched hand with a smile.

“And you look dashing, Sebastian,” she giggled, standing on the tip of her toes to place a kiss on his jaw, quickly wiping the transferred stain away with her thumb.

“Shall we?” he lets her wrap her hands on his arms before leading her to the direction of the Grand Hall.

Krista Vale was a welcome surprise at the beginner of the term, a shy Gryffindor (an oxymoron he was endlessly confused by) that sent him a charmed letter to meet him after class only to boldly ask him out in the crowded hallway outside of Charms Class (there’s that Gryffindor Gall he was expecting).

In his utter astonishment (is one of the most popular girls in Year 6 asking him out?), confusion (Why!? Imelda graciously asked for him), and embarrassment (Great Merlin, everyone is staring!) he had nodded and it was a done deal.

She was a genuine breath of fresh air – beautiful, smart, and charming enough to be appealing but not aggravating. A clean slate to stack his prospects with. And if he was being truly honest, enchanting Krista Vane was just the right kind of beautiful and perfect to entice him to finally take the next step out of his social slump.

Ideally.

“Who are you looking for?”

“Huh?” he turned to be greeted by her sweet, confused face.

She smiled, cocking her head in inquiry, “Your heads been turning like Wicker for the past five minutes. Are you waiting for someone?”

No, he wasn’t. He wasn’t looking or waiting for anyone. And he definitely wasn’t cranking his head to an unholy degree like her owl likes to do just to freak him out when sending him her messages.

“I … I’m sorry I’m a bit distracted,” he lies, she doesn’t see through it. (She never does, it might just be a blessing.) “Just nervous, I’m not too good with crowds. Not usually the center of attention.”

“I find that hard to believe,” she playfully nudges his side. “It isn’t like you to be overshadowed at all.”

It was moments like these – passing words and mindless innocent quips – that Sebastian remembers how separated she was of his past life. A life where he basked in the shadow, in her magnanimous, all-powerful, kindly shadow – plenty happy to cheer on as she uncomfortably fidgets in the light, reveling in the moments that she looks back at him. (Always at him, only at him.)

He gives his girlfriend a small smile, gripping the hand on his arm tighter as if it were an anchor that prevents him from being swept away by his rushing thoughts, he hoped to bury. “You’d be surprised.”

A perfect, pretty, polished slate. He tries not to let the bitter bile in his throat rise.

The two of them fall in line, the gates open.

Sebastian turns one last time.

“I’m gonna get us a drink,” he whispers to her, letting her group of friends drown her in girlish whispers and giggles as he left. Clearly, desperate to talk about him and her relationship with a Senior. He uses it to his advantage to get away.

He tries to complete his role as the perfect boyfriend, even turning at the ideal moment to wave one last time at her before he sought out Garreth, clocking the ginger on the other edge of the room.

“Give that to me or I’m telling Imelda.”

“A please would’ve sufficed, mate,” Garreth snarled, passing on his punch to Sebastian. The taste of the strong whiskey burning his throat as he threw it down his throat in a gulp. “You alright?”

Sebastian shook his head, blinking slow and hard.

It wouldn’t be right to dump on him on this festive night that Sebastian thinks he’s losing his bloody mind. “I’m bored.”

It wasn’t anything serious.

He’s just so fucking bored. Bored and tired and bitter.

The conversations are boring, he’s grown tired of feeling like he’s playing a character he doesn’t even fucking recognize, and the horrible recognition of the growing bitter resentment he has of the one girl who saw the good in him just because she couldn’t see the bad that he was hiding (like she could, like she always would) was unfair to her and suffocating for him.

And he couldn’t fucking find you.

“Hey, Sebastian, if you’re not – I’ll call Ominis –”

Sebastian grabs Garreth arms harshly, effortlessly stopping his tracks. “Don’t – I’m fine – just … needed a break. Don’t tell Ominis.”

“Don’t tell Ominis what?” Ominis asks.

Fuck.

“Fuck! You scared me, Gaunt.”

Thank you, Garreth.

Ominis raised a brow, cocking his head as a silent command to follow. Garreth raised his hands in surrender, taking a step back before quickly bolting away (traitor) from the two as Sebastian followed his old … friend? Acquaintance? He’s still not sure. He wasn’t forgiven yet, but Ominis had implied his willingness to work on the shredded pieces of their friendship in his letter last summer on some conditions.

One of those is that there shall be no more secrets between the two of them upon further notice.

When they were in a nook outside the large enchanted ballroom, Ominis planted his cane to the ground resolutely. Sebastian took a deep breath before standing a safe distance from him, the beautiful sparkling reflection of the black lake giving no comfort to the tense situation.

Please don’t ask. Please don’t ask. Please don’t ask.

“Don’t make me ask.”

Fuuuu –

“Thank you for escorting me here, Sebastian. I had fun.”

Sebastian smiles, bending down to accept the grateful kiss but turning his head sideways so it lands on his cheeks. He knows that she’s noticing his uncharacteristically detached behavior but it just didn’t feel right.

Not tonight.

Not when his mind is running a hundred miles per second after such a productive conversation with Ominis.

“I … It’s getting to me.”

“What is? The competition?” Ominis side-eyed him in disbelief. Both of them knew Sebastian wasn’t the type to get overwhelmed by a mere contest. He never backs down from a fight. Unfortunately, Ominis would’ve added but in the middle of his friend’s meltdown didn’t seem the best time to say it.

“The competition, the – the sudden spin on my reputation that I didn’t fucking ask for, all this peacocking – it isn’t … me.”

“A good repute isn’t exactly the end of the world, Sebastian,” Ominis goaded, clearly poking on the holes of his reasoning to figure out the truth.

“It’s not that,” Sebastian snaps, nearly hissing, as he paces in short strides to try to translate his jumbled frustrations into words.

“Do you have any idea how bloody eerie it is that all these people look at me with such … awe and pride.” Even the thought of it makes him sick.

Ominis huffs at an impatient breath.

“Don’t you dare,” he points a finger. “You don’t get to act like I’m being unreasonable when I can barely recognize myself anymore! When it feels like I may have accidentally sealed myself in a role of some hero when I’m not. We both know I’m not.”

He wasn’t the hero. That was your job.

But you weren’t here – barely anywhere anymore. You aren’t here in the ballroom, or in the Great Hall, or even in the classes you both share.

It makes his skin itch, the back of his neck tingling – screaming at him that’s something is wrong but he no longer has the right nor the resources to find out what.

“You’re letting your guilt eat you up now? Why? Because the old you were so much better?” It stung, hearing how his old friend much preferred this charade over who he truly was. But Sebastian couldn’t blame him too much – he did earn every ounce of his resentment.

In Ominis' eyes, everything was going according to plan. And he cares not if Sebastian buckles under its weight, just like Sebastian didn't care when he trampled all over his oldest friend's trust.

“A false hero is so much better than the truth. And we both know that.”

“My pleasure,” he forced a smile to ease her, waving goodbye as she hesitantly looks back at him until he gently shooed her into her waiting friends. “Have a good night.”

The thud echoes off the empty wooden landing, the giant eagle glaring at him. It makes him edgy.

Though his uneasiness had less to do with how quiet the Ravenclaw Tower was and more to do with the fact that he rarely ventures to this part of the castle. The unfamiliarity, coupled with the less-than-pleasing thoughts from newfound information in his mind, wasn’t exactly a combination for comfort.

“I asked to be her partner, she didn’t want to come.”

He frowns. “Oh yeah? How’d that work out with William Frey?”

Ominis head snapped to his friend. “You’re kidding,” Sebastian blinks in attention. “They broke up over Christmas break. It’s why Frey is so persistent in crushing the Slytherins before we graduate. Sebastian, did you seriously – where has your mind been for the past months?”

… what?

What?!

Sebastian scours his mind if he has seen the two of them together at all this month. He had been so persistent in not crossing her path, turning his head the moment her name was uttered, that it must have escaped him completely.

“And here I thought you’ve truly turned a new leaf completely.”

Sebastian frowns, offended. “What the hell does that mean?”

Ominis purses his lips, hesitant and an uncharacteristically pitiful expression on his face. “Sebastian, there’s something you must know. I heard –”

“Sebastian!”

Both boys jumped in surprise, the instinct of a gentleman to always greet a lady properly standing up and the guilt of their topic had both of them comically frazzled. “I was looking everywhere for you!”

If Ominis could see he would definitely be staring daggers at his friend.

“Oh my, did they already run out of drinks?”

Oh. Right. The drinks. Ominis cleared his throat to snap him out of it. Krista seemed to have caught on to the tension between the two Slytherins and smiled the same sweet smile that was the usual balm to his gashing wounds – temporary but welcome.

“It’s okay, I was getting tired anyway. My friend invited me for a sleepover in Ravenclaw Tower,” she smiled sweetly. “Escort me?”

Ominis and Sebastian share a look. This conversation wasn’t over.

Sebastian offered his arm. He tries not to flinch.

The Blank Wall mocks him as he rounds the corner, a sliver of light from the nearest lantern slicing through it.

Maybe, there was another reason why he hadn’t returned here in a while bitter one-sided rivalry with a certain Quidditch Captain aside.

His eyes flicks on one end of the dim hallway to the other, sure that in any moment she would round the corner too, waving at him in glee, soft apologies spilling in her mouth for being late (Again, he’d fondly chastise). A smile slips out of his face at the fond memory.

Perhaps, it was in one of your treks here that you’d crossed paths with Frey. Sebastian chases the thought away.

He steps closer to the walls, phantom threads pulling him in.

Are you in here? Are you well? Is your heart broken? (Should he hex William after all?)

His fingers touch the stone, his ears press into the ridig wall. It feels alive, somehow, beating a familiar rhythm.

Would you let me in?

A door opens, he falls in.

“Se …”

The familiar voice falters, the two of you staring at each other like preys falling straight into a lion’s den – though this time Sebastian’s unsure if he was the lion or the deer.

You were clearly as bewildered as him. You face a mixture of disbelief, horror, and bafflement at the scene in front of you.

“Sebastian?”

It’s uncanny hearing his name from your mouth after so long.

“Trust me,” he groans, pushing himself up through the aches of his bruised ego. “I’m as confused as you.”

His presence here must be such a horrifying phenomenon to perplex you to such a degree because he thinks you’ve blinked once (and yes, he was counting) since this entire thing started. “What are you – where –”

The two of you turned to the suspiciously closing door. Sebastian could swear he heard the room snickering. Bastard.

“Would you believe me if I told you I was just leaning passing by and the door suddenly opened?”

“It opened?”

A half-truth but whatever saves what is left of his tattered pride. Plus, your confused face was a bit too entertaining. In the span of your doomed friendship it was usually him that had no idea what’s going on half of the time, just ready to jump when you jump and fight when you fight.

This is a welcome change.

Instead of answering, Sebastian’s attention was caught on the grand room. “You’ve been busy.”

The once rows and rows of books the two of you had devoured as you desperately searched and hoped that an answer to the source of your power could result in the cure had now turned into an actual space that could rival the Slytherin Common Room with just a hint more of you.

A flash of embarrassment trickled in Sebastian’s spine to find that you had remained in your spot when he had turned, staring at him like he was an Inferi reincarnated straight in her room. Which, to be fair, he did intrude.

Though a part of him just can’t let it go, too desperate to figure something out. After months of trying to catch a glimpse -- he finally caught you, and alone at that. Who knows when the next time will be? If there is even going to be one.

He hopes that if he somehow gets some answers, it’ll get you out of his head.

“It’s been a while, huh?” he grimaces, running his palm at the back of his head.

“It’s been,” he feels warm and cold at once when your eyes scanned his entire figure. Suddenly, feeling silly in his proper suit and tie when you are dressed so casually. He in turn took any and every detail his eyes could map. “A while.”

Then, another detail. “Your hair’s longer.”

Before his brain could stop his limbs he was reaching out, plucking out a couple of strands casually. So thirsty for information – any information – about you that the suddenly length of your hair seemed like the most interesting thing in the world.

You suck in a breath, and he curses. “My apolo –”

Suddenly, from behind him, a distant monstrous screech echoed in the room.

Instinctively, he grabs your wrist, pulling you behind him until he finally takes a moment and realizes where it had come from.

He lets out a relieved laugh and you giggle along with him.

That made him perk up.

It … really has been a while. It fills him with a deep sense of melancholy to realize how much he had miss your laugh when he used to have it in abundance.

“Do you want to visit the Vivarium?” Your eyes gleamed with humor, a stark contrast to the cold, unyielding expression you usually wore each day. “I’m sure Highwing misses you.”

Sebastian smiles, a real one. One that stretches his skin and crinkles his eyes.

As if in agreement herself, Highwing screeches again.

He unbuttons his ensemble, dragging his tie off before carefully hanging it on the arm of the nearest loveseat. He starts rolling his sleeves, a grin grows on both your faces. A juvenile type of joy that is both familiar and unfamiliar.

He wonders whether you realized that even if you had told him there was a starving, man-eating ogre inside your Vivarium, he still would have said yes.

“Lead the way.”

The brightness of the Vivarium never fails to disorient him the few times he was able to visit. The harsh difference of the moody room to the bright fields was something he won’t ever get used to.

Highwing screeched the moment she saw him, making a sharp turn and dive, landing a few feet away to jog past you as she damn near slammed into his chest. It was clear you were trying to hide your amazement when he barely flinched on impact.

He was proud of his physique which had also been the sole reason you called him into this Room in the first place.

It had been in your desperation (and inability to hide a secret from Sebastian) that you asked for his help when taking care of Highwing. She was a regal creature but she was also a wild animal that has the physical strength she sometimes forgets she owns and you’ve suffered enough bruised ribs and fractured bones to know you need someone with the physical strength to withstand hers.

But even then, it was a sharp learning curve, with Sebastian barely being able to stand his ground. Now, he plays around with her like she were some overeager childhood barn dog he used to jostle around in Feldcroft.

After giving his respects and bowing, he quickly straddled her strong back. The beast overeager at seeing her old friend and her pace too fast for any pause.

“Give me your hand!” He reached out to quickly grab and hoist you up behind him as Highwing shot up into the sky before you could settle. This forced you to hold on tightly to his waist, the two of you too busy screaming in fear and excitement to care about the sudden skinship.

He forgot he had it in him to laugh and scream so freely as Highwing chose the most precarious route, flying above the cliffs and diving down through skinny passages, clearly enjoying your torment. From the vibrations on his back, it would seem he was not alone.

Despite the stunning views in front of him he can’t help but keep looking back. Feeling like the same desperate fifth-year trying to impress his way into becoming the new kid’s favorite housemate.

And for a moment – just a moment – he sees it. The old you, one who used to brighten just at the sight of him. Ready for whatever adventure or misadventure he brings your way.

Despite the unfair odds, both of you had grown remarkably well.

He just never expected that the two of you would be apart when it happens.

He turned, managing to catch your beaming face before it fell. A haze of sadness seeming to pass over your eyes that was gone when he blinked.

“Are you alright?” he screamed to be heard despite the wind, now unable to see your face again as you looked down.

Your hold on his waist loosened. His stomach sinks.

“I’m perfect.”

“Here, watch your step.”

You’re in a sudden foul mood.

A short trip on Highwing’s back was usually just what you wanted when you needed to lift your spirits and yet he could almost see the clouds above the walls you’ve wrapped around yourself. Sebastian’s mind runs as he wonders if something happened in such a short time that has you refusing to meet his eyes again as you stare at the falling sun.

“How do you not stay here all day?” he tries to start a conversation.

He eyes you, a small weight lifting at the sight of a shy smile. “I do stay here all day.”

Sebastian realizes a second too late that he stepped on an unfortunate line.

That’s why he never sees you in the Halls of Hogwarts anymore. You were here, every day. Alone in this slice of paradise and yet somehow, something in the melancholy in your expression told him it wasn’t something you were entirely content with.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” he blinks, confused, guilty, defensive. You sit on the ledge, closing your eyes as the strong, warm breeze drifted between the two of you.

“Like I’m something to be pitied,” you chuck the word out softly yet it still felt like an accusation. “I may not be future Triwizard Champion but I haven’t fallen low enough for you to feel sorry for me.”

He flusters. “I don’t – that’s not –”

“I know.”

Sebastian blinks, heart moving twice as fast in his panic at the potential misunderstanding that could implode this small peace they’re borrowing.

“I was joking.”

A moment, a mischievous smile, and then the two of you were laughing. Sebastian slumping right next to you, laying down on the warm patch of grass, and looking up in the sky.

It was as if the two of you were making up from the years of distance as you continued laughing – the type of laughter Sebastian hasn’t had in a while. The type of joy that grows from his chest and cramps his stomach.

Of course, you know – you of all people wouldn’t purposefully misunderstand Sebastian. You of all people would know what he meant. After all, only you of all people truly know who he is. Profound flaws, jagged scars, oozing wounds and all.

He thinks it a strange thing – to only find true comfort in the one person you had left in the past.

A gentle silence follows yet Sebastian finds himself scrambling. Desperately finding the next word, another topic, something that can let him borrow more of your time.

‘How have you been?’ ‘I’m sorry about what happened with William.’ ‘Actually, I’m not sorry at all.’‘Have you grown to hate me?’

“Nothing really went to plan, didn’t it?”

Sebastian’s head snaps to you. You purse your lips, almost apologetic at the words that slipped out of your mouth.

But between the two of you, you had always been the brave one.

Sebastian shook his head, sitting back down. 

If you asked him, it had all gone to hell.

He lost Anne, lost Ominis, lost you. He lost everything and everyone that he had ever held dear, all for a cure that his dying sister refused to take out of principle. She decided death was an easier pill to swallow than to live long enough to see what her brother had become.

And if that wasn’t enough, in his haze of bitterness and anger he managed to break the final bond he had left. Lashing out on the one person who had stood by him throughout it all. Pushing and pushing even as his heart screamed at him to stop – at her to stay. Afraid that she will just be another person to walk away, jumping ahead of the pain by escaping first. By hurting her first.

“Maybe it was for the best,” he mutters, unable to look her in the eyes. Ashamed, angry – ugly monstrous emotions that reminds him why he steered clear of her.

This way, being so far away from anyone who matters, he wouldn’t be able to hurt her – the one that matters most.

Finding scraps of bravery, he turns his head, surprised to find she was already looking at him. An expression he couldn’t quite read on her face.

“I mean, look at you now,” she chuckles quietly, a hint of bitterness in her tone that triggers Sebastian’s nerves. “You’re not exactly the delinquent I meet in fifth year.”

“Delinquent is quite a stretch. “ He barks out a laugh. “You’re not doing so bad yourself. You’re giving me a run for my money in Charms and DADA.”

“ -- and Arithmancy,” She adds making Sebastian shake his head.

“And Arithmancy,” he corrects himself. “At least you still suck at Divination.”

“That doesn’t count, it’s not real.”

“I think Professor Onai and my grades would beg to disagree,” she rolls her eyes, Sebastian smirks. “Plus, I know you’re doing secret research for Hecate. So, you definitely have that Auror Programme in the bag.”

That seemed to genuinely surprise her. “When were you so nosy?”

He shrugs, “I’m a Slytherin, I like to keep an eye on my competition.”

“I’m a Slytherin.”

“That no longer counts. You’re dating a Raven –"

Another landmine. He winces before he catches himself and she falters for a second. “I’m sorry about – I heard –”

Great work, Sebastian, you bloody idiot.

“You know I could still …” he waves his wand awkwardly in the air, half-hoping she’d accept his threat. Unfortunately, she just laughed softly.

“It wasn’t his fault,” she shrugs. “It’s like you said. It was for the best.”

The gall to throw his words back at him. Sebastian would be impressed if he wasn’t a bit frustrated. “Krista is … beautiful. You’re a good pair.”

He freezes.

“T-Thanks,” The sudden reminder was like a bolt of lightning to his spine. A sinking feeling of guilt and confusion of said guilt when he technically hasn’t done anything wrong. “I’m very lucky.”

She bites the inside of her lip, nodding to herself. A habit she developed when she’s trying to find the right words to say. He would be more than happy to help but for the life of him, Sebastian was too flustered to find a way out of the awkward tension.

“I guess we got everything we ever wanted in the end, huh?” he mutters, feeling the half-lie slip out of his mouth easily despite the bile that churns in his stomach and threatens to follow.

Technically, he was right. You’re about to reach your dream. Break-up aside, he knows the most noble Wizarding family are bidding their time to throw their heirs at your feet. He knows whatever you chose to do next will be another great big adventure he will now have to read in the papers instead of your letters.

However, his heart stopped when you looked at him – almost stunned, betrayed. And he feels like he has stepped on the biggest landmine of all and it just exploded all over your faces.

Before he could backtrack, Highwing screeched from behind them. Her piercing cry was like a sharp blade to his ears as she got closer and pushier.

“I think she wants us to go back,” you murmur, quickly patting your clothes clean, turning away from him. “It’s time for her dinner. And I’m sure the rest of the students are going back to the dorms.”

Sebastian takes that as his cue, offering up his hand to help you up Highwing but you stay a distance away, arms wrapped around your body, now refusing to look at him again. And he feels like whatever improvement he felt he made on the ghost of your friendship got swept away by the strong winds.

“You go first,” you mutter. “I’ll … stay here for a while.”

“You’re not going back to the dorm?”

You look at him, and that expression he recognizes. A smile filled with deep sadness you always carried.

“I … need to write a letter,” Your smile falters. “The door should open if you ask for it.”

Even though he wants to object, an uneasy feeling building in his chest at the thought of leaving you here alone he knows when he has outstayed his welcome. And he is no longer in the position to demand that he escort you back to your room.

So instead, he just nods, jumping on Highwings back. “I … this was nice. I’ll see you around?”

Your mouth parts. As if finding the right words to say, or stopping the words from getting out. Then, you nod and it feels like a healing elixir in his veins.

“Goodbye, Sebastian.”

Highwing screeches at him, patience already thin and already preparing to fly.

Sebastian turns back when you suddenly call out his name.

So quiet, he wasn’t sure if he had hallucinated it – deluded himself into thinking that you were going to ask him to stay. That you were going to tell him that tonight will be the new foundation of rekindling any semblance of friendship, that you would tell him exactly what he needs to fix, what he needs to do that will allow him back into your life. That if you couldn’t love him then you would allow him to love you even in silence.

“She …” You bite your lips again. “You are … happy, right?”

Is he? He thinks of the proud faces of his professors, completely fooled by his sudden shift of demeanor. He thinks of Ominis, suspicious but amicable. He thinks of Krista: perfect, beautiful, enchanting Krista Vane. And he knows he’s built quite a life for himself – a life after you.

He should be happy.

But his mind flashes back. Back to the quiet nights in the Restricted Section with you, the less quiet ones running around dangerous caves and forbidden forests. He thinks of the time he had almost kissed you but instead stole a hairclip, something to remember you by. The only piece of you he has allowed himself to take.

He thinks of the first time he had seen you by the fire of the common room and how uninteresting the book in his hand had transformed when compared to you. He thinks of your first visit in Feldcroft, as you floated in front of the watch tower whose wooden ground he had worn down, pacing back and forth while he waited.

Is he happy? He looks at you, really looks at you.

No. “Yes,” he lies.

How beautiful you had looked in the rising sun, how it was the first time he realized he might just fall in love with you.

But once, I was very close.

Sebastian gives you the brightest smile he could muster even when he feels his soul rip in half.

This is for the best.

“I’ve never been happier.”

The statue in the courtyard breaks again.

But nobody noticed.

Nobody noticed the swirls of ancient magic as it leaked out of the rubble, nor how quickly the Durmstrang headmaster’s carriage flew into the heavy morning fog.

“How could you not tell me, Ominis?!”

“It was her decision to make! Just as you had made yours!”

Not even Sebastian.

Ever observant Sebastian Sallow as he runs past the fragments, past the murmuring crowds, and past Ominis’ protests as he desperately hoped to catch the first train out of Hogwarts.

After all, it is hard to care about a mere statue of a heartbroken woman when the news just broke:

The Hero has left Hogwarts.

[loverstrings]

Project Spindle (Chapter Four) - Established Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

She’s always known about her powers, but the truth of where they come from could shatter everything.

a.n - guys i promise im alive... finals have been kicking my ass. im truly surviving on thunderbolts tower fics and a dream LMAO. i hope you guys enjoy this chapter!

spoiler warning for thunderbolts* | masterlist

The door clicked softly behind Bucky as he stepped inside. Y/N was by the window, her arms resting on the sill, eyes locked on the city below. The sky was a muddy purple��the in-between kind of night.

“You good?” he asked.

She didn’t turn right away. “I’m scared that if we dig deep enough, we’ll find I’m not even me. Just… something Hydra made.”

Bucky walked over, brushing his fingers against hers, palm curling into her hand. “You’re more than what they tried to make you.”

Y/N gave a small, bitter laugh. “Says the guy who spent a decades as their poster child.”

He smirked. “Yeah, well… I didn’t say I believed it. Just figured I’d save you the time.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no real bite to it. A quiet beat passed.

Bucky’s voice dropped lower. “You’re not what they made. You’re you. The fact that you’re standing here, still fighting, still choosing— that’s yours. Not theirs.”

Y/N leaned into him then, her head resting against his shoulder, her fingers threading through his.

“You always know what to say,” she murmured.

He smiled against her hair. “Took me a hundred years to figure out how to talk about feelings. I’m just trying to make it count now.”

Y/N let out a quiet laugh, eyes closing.

Outside, the city moved on, unaware of the quiet war rebuilding inside its tallest tower.

The soft hum of the city buzzed outside the windows, but inside the Tower, the team sat in a rare kind of silence. The air was heavy with everything Y/N had revealed.

Yelena sat perched on the arm of the couch, arms crossed tight, eyes lingering on the hallway where Y/N and Bucky had quietly slipped away.

“She’s holding it together,” she muttered. “But only just.”

Bob sat cross legged on the floor, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, his usual energy dimmed. He was unusually quiet, gaze lowered, brows knit in thought.

Across from them, John leaned forward with a sigh. “I mean… she’s a weapon, yeah? But so were all of us in one way or another.”

Ava cut him a sharp look. “There’s a difference between being trained for war and being manufactured for it.”

Bob spoke then, his voice soft but sure. “I don’t like when she gets like this.”

Yelena turned her head slightly, eyes narrowing just a touch.

He went on, slower this time. “When she’s hurting but trying to hold it in. I don’t know how to explain it… I just know. I can feel it. Like—when she’s okay, I feel okay. And when she’s not, it’s like there’s this… pressure in my chest. Like I’m out of sync.”

“It’s not weird,” Ava said gently. “You’re close to her.”

Bob gave a small, almost absent shake of his head. “It’s more than that. It’s like some part of me just knows when something’s wrong with her. And I don’t think it’s just in my head.”

Yelena slid off the armrest and sat beside him, brushing her shoulder against his. “Then trust it. Stay close.”

He glanced at her. “Even if she says she’s fine?”

“Especially then,” Yelena said.

John raised his drink with a dry grin. “To not letting one of the strongest people in the room carry the weight alone.”

They clinked glasses—bottles, mugs quietly but with intention. A silent understanding passed between them, steady and resolute: whatever came next, they wouldn’t let her face it alone.

-----

A rusted, metallic door creaked open under Steve’s strength, its hinges screaming as if protesting the return of unwanted guests. Dust and rot clung to the air. “This was one of their earliest labs,” Steve said, flashlight beam scanning over peeling Hydra logos and cracked stone. “Before Strucker. Before Sokovia.”

They entered a main chamber—everything inside frozen in time and cold. On a table in the center, rows of sealed containers glowed faintly pink. Wanda’s breath caught in her throat.

“Is that—?” She trailed off.

Steve moved closer. Each vial was labeled in thin, jagged handwriting:

E-8A Core Sample – Essence Containment

They weren’t just filled with her energy—they pulsed. As if they were still alive. And in the corner of the room, encased in glass, was something even more horrifying.

A mannequin. Life-sized. Vaguely human-shaped. Made of a translucent, brittle material—and within it, flickering like a heartbeat, was that same glow. A twisted, artificial attempt to replicate her.

Wanda backed away. “They weren’t making more people. They were making... templates.”

Steve’s jaw tightened as his eyes swept over the wall before him. Charts, symbols, and maps covered it, each marked with Hydra insignias. Some were tagged with target coordinates; others with shipping routes. It was a sprawling network of control and manipulation.

Wanda’s voice broke the silence, barely a whisper. “They bottled her. And they spread her.”

Steve’s expression darkened as he stepped closer to the wall, eyes sweeping over the charts and faded Hydra insignias. “We need to patch them in now,” he said, voice low.

Wanda didn’t turn around. “No.”

The word cut through the air, sharp and certain. She stared at the wall, at the tangle of coordinates and scribbled codenames. “This place may be abandoned, but if we even try to holo through—if we send one signal to a tower—it could trip something. Hydra may be quiet, but they’re never gone.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “Then what? We sit on this?”

Wanda shook her head. “We call her. But not through the tower. We use the burners. Just us.”

She finally looked at him, something resolute in her expression. “If Y/N finds out through a debrief or a hologram... if she sees this from a distance, she’ll spiral. But if we bring her here—if she sees it with her own eyes—she might be able to take it. To fight it.”

There was a long pause. Then Steve gave a slow nod, the kind carved out of war and trust. “Alright. We do this face-to-face.”

Steve gave a small nod. There was no arguing with that.

He turned back toward the corridor, flashlight in hand. The beam wavered against the cracked concrete as he led the way deeper. The air turned colder, heavier, like the bunker itself was holding its breath.

Wanda stepped forward, her hands glowing faintly red. Her fingers barely grazed the vials, the soft glow illuminating her face as she whispered, “Whatever they did to her... they didn’t stop when she escaped.”

The bunker lights flickered as if in agreement. A storm was brewing again.

Steve’s flashlight flickered against the cracked concrete walls, the air colder now, heavier. Wanda followed close behind, both of them deeper into the bunker than they expected to go.

They stepped into a sealed lab room, untouched by time.

Wanda’s powers flared in her fingers as she scanned the area. "There’s something under the floor."

Steve pried up a loose panel, revealing a metal lockbox etched with faded symbols — and an old Hydra insignia twisted into a starburst pattern.

Inside: reels of film, faded black files, and a hard drive tagged "XPR-8A: Phase Continuation."

Wanda's hands trembled slightly as she picked up a document:

 Asset: 8-A (Project Spindle) – Cognition Imprint Successful

Outcome: Unstable, yet essential for replication.

Relocation to Site: VERMA-12 pending. Phase Two approval required.

“Steve,” she said, quietly, “this isn’t just a report. It’s a relocation. A continuation. They weren’t finished when she escaped. They moved her.”

Steve stared down at the uncovered files, “They need to come,” he said quietly. “This place… it’s dangerous.” Wanda nodded, already pulling out her phone. “I’ll call them.”

-----

Bucky sat beside Y/N on the edge of the bed, her file still open across her lap. Her fingers traced the edge of the tablet, but her eyes weren’t really seeing it anymore. When the call came, she didn’t say much—just listened.

Bucky turned to her gently. “You ready to go?”

She hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah. I know I need to see it.”

Yelena stepped quietly into the room, eyes soft. She crossed over without a word and wrapped Y/N in a firm, grounding hug. “You’ve got this,” she murmured. “And we’ve got you.”

Bob followed a beat later, leaning against the doorframe. His sleeves were pushed up, eyes steady as they met hers. “We’ll keep things steady here,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about anything but what’s in front of you. We’ve got the rest.”

Y/N gave a tired smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes but still meant something. “Thanks, guys.”

Bucky stood and held out his hand. She took it without hesitation. Together, they stepped out of the room, toward whatever waited in that bunker.

-----

The small sedan pulled up just past the tree line, tires crunching over gravel and broken stone. Bucky stepped out first, eyes scanning the perimeter. Y/N followed close behind, bundled against the cold, her fingers flexing as if trying to steady the energy humming beneath her skin.

Steve was waiting at the entrance, flashlight already in hand. “We cleared most of it. Just enough to walk you through.”

Y/N nodded silently, her eyes locked on the rusted metal door. Wanda stepped beside her, offering a faint smile. “You don’t have to see everything. Just what you’re ready for.”

“I’m ready,” Y/N said softly.

The door groaned open under Steve’s hand. They descended into the cold, stale corridors — the air thick with time and secrets. Wanda’s magic lit the path ahead as they entered the central chamber. The moment her eyes landed on the glowing vials and the brittle, mannequin-like form encased in glass, she stopped dead in her tracks.

“That’s… what they were trying to make.” she murmured, voice tinged with a mix of recognition and sorrow.

Bucky stepped closer, his jaw clenched. He took a long breath, staring at the figure inside the glass, then looked at Y/N. His words were quiet, but laced with a bitter truth. “Hydra never cared about what we were—they only cared about what they could make us into.”

Y/N’s gaze drifted from the glass to the vials, and a flicker of recognition passed through her, like a shadow brushing against the edges of her mind, but nothing concrete enough to hold onto.The hum of the lab seemed louder now, more oppressive. Y/N took a shaky breath, but the pieces didn’t fall into place. Not yet.

Y/N  stepped closer to the wall of maps, documents, and scattered coordinates. Her gaze lingered on one in particular — a site labeled VERMA-12.“They moved me,” Y/N whispered, her voice barely audible, thick with the weight of realization. “Before I even knew who I was.”

Steve nodded, his voice steady and resolute. “They were planning a phase two. VERMA-12 is the next place we hit. But first, we blow this place up. Every inch.”

Bucky retrieved sticky bombs from his backpack, his expression hardening. “Then we regroup. Figure out how to get to VERMA.”

There was a brief, soft nod between the two men—a silent understanding. Neither of them had to say it, but the weight of their conversation hung heavy between them. They knew how personal this was.

Wanda stood silently for a moment, her eyes shifting to Y/N. The quiet pain etched across her face spoke volumes—grief, anger, loss. The kind of weight that only years of captivity and manipulation could carve into a person. Wanda didn’t need to ask if Y/N was okay; the expression on her face said it all. She wasn’t.

Y/N’s eyes remained locked on the bottles, a ghost of her former self contained within each one. Her breath was shallow, distant. As the bottles flickered in the dim light, it was as if a part of her was still trapped in that glass, begging to be set free.

-----

series taglist:

@rafesgurl, @seventeen-x, @moompie, @starstruckfirecat, @torntaltos, @rlphunter,

[aastroopheel]

Chaos Theory

summary: you and cook bump into each other on a rainy day after being way for some years. SO YEAH TIMESKIP COOK.

It’s raining in Bristol again.

You don’t have an umbrella, of course. You never do. The weather here is more of a permanent mood than a temporary inconvenience, and today it feels like it’s matching you beat for beat.

You duck into the corner shop mostly for shelter, but also for something sweet—comfort, distraction, whatever. You're rummaging through a pack of Haribos when you hear the door chime behind you and in comes James fucking Cook, loud as ever, soaked to the bone, and grinning like he just won the lottery. He looks older, more miserable,  than the last time you saw him a few months ago. 

"Oi, look who it is," he says, eyes locking on you like he's just spotted the best kind of trouble. His eyes trailing your soaking body as if nothing had happened between you two and things were the same as in college. "Fancy seeing you here. You stalking me, yeah?"

You roll your eyes. "Obviously. Been tailing you for days. Real MI5 shit."

He laughs, that deep, reckless sound that makes people turn their heads and that, sadly, you had missed.  "Knew it. I’m irresistible."

There’s a second of silence before he closes the distance between you two. His jacket smells like wet cotton and smoke, and his energy crackles in the air around him—feral, unfiltered, alive. You look away from him, biting your inner cheek as when you feel something forming in your stomach as memories of you two from a few years ago come to your mind. 

"You alright?" he asks, serious now, which is somehow more disarming than all the bravado. "You look a bit... I dunno. Like the world kicked you in the teeth."

You shrug, trying not to flinch at how accurate that feels. "Guess I'm just tired." Tired of being so fucking alone, you think looking at the new wound on his left eyebrow. 

Cook nods, then grabs a bottle of orange Lucozade and tosses it to you. "Energy boost. On me. Doctor Cook's orders."

You catch it without thinking. He always does that—makes you forget the weight you're carrying for a second.

"What are you even doing here?" you ask, watching him dig through his pockets for loose change. "Shouldn’t you be off causing chaos somewhere?"

He grins again, wolfish this time. "What makes you think I'm not?" And then he adds, lower, almost as an afterthought  "Maybe I’m here ‘cause I knew you would be."

Your chest does something stupid at that. You look away again before he can see it on your face.

But he already knows. Of course he does. He knew you too well. Your words, your expressions, your tears, your moans. Everything. 

You laugh, sharp and short, almost bitter. “Right. You just knew I’d be in this random corner shop at the exact moment you felt like popping in.”

Cook raises an eyebrow. “What, you think I’m lying?”

You shrug, twisting the cap off the Lucozade. “I think you lie for fun. Or maybe just out of habit.” You glared at him.

He doesn’t respond right away. That grin of his falters, just slightly. Enough to make you realize you’ve hit a nerve—which is rare. Cook wears his chaos like armor, but you know the weak points.

“You’ve got that look,” he says quietly.

“What look?”

“That one where you’re building walls in your head. Like you’re pushing me out before I’ve even had the chance to say anything real.”

You meet his gaze. “Maybe I just don’t buy the whole ‘suddenly interested’ act. Not from you. Not after everything with Effy.”

There it is. You said it. Effy and him were something you simply couldn’t ignore. They were one for so long even if they pretended not to, even if Freddie was between them you could see in their eyes everytime the other was in the same room. Even if you were the one holding his hand. His eyes were always on her and her messy blue eyes. 

His eyes flicker—regret, maybe, or just annoyance that the past always finds its way into the present. He exhales, dragging a hand through his wet hair. “That’s what this is about? Effy?”

“No, it’s about me randomly having trust issues with blokes who flirt with everyone and mean it with no one,” you snap. “Of course it’s about her, James. You were obsessed with her. You’d have burned down the world if she asked you to.”

“I wouldn’t’ve needed asking,” he mutters, more to himself than you. Then louder: “But that was different.”

“Was it?” You don’t mean to sound so small when you say it. You hate that you do.

Cook steps closer, voice low. Not cocky this time—raw. “She never looked at me the way you do.”

You look away, not because you don’t believe him, but because part of you does and that’s worse. You remember perfectly her eyes looking at him. The pain and the lust and how she would unconsciously lick her lips. And how then regret would appear as she looked at you, because she was your friend and it hurted her to be such a bad friend to someone so nice and kind as you who had helped her so much. She apologised so many times and you would forgive her every time. You couldn’t stand seeing her sad, you just couldn’t.  But Cook was something different. He could have stopped it. He could have talked to her and told her that he loved you as much as he told you every time he kissed you before falling asleep between your arms. But he never did. 

He leans against the snack rack beside you, his shoulder just brushing yours. “You think I’m still that version of me,” he says. “Maybe I am. Maybe I always will be. But you make me want to be someone else. Someone better.”

You sip the Lucozade to avoid answering. The sugar hits your tongue, but it doesn’t wash anything down.“Don’t say things like that unless you mean them,” you murmur.

“Why wouldn’t I mean it?,” he replies. And for once, there’s no smirk. No bravado. Just Cook—messy, complicated, and maybe… just maybe, telling the truth.

But trust isn’t something you give for free. 

“There’s a party tonight? Will I see you there?” he asks you, his fingers grabbing one lock of your hair. 

You move away. His touch burns and you already spent too much money on ice to calm your burns. “Maybe” He smiles at you before you leave with nothing left to say. 

—----- —

The music is too loud, the lights too dim, and everything smells like cheap vodka and damp clothes. Someone’s already passed out on the stairs, and some couple is snogging hard enough in the kitchen to make you consider sobriety as a permanent lifestyle.

You didn’t come here for fun. You came because it was better than staying in. And maybe of him. 

You're halfway through your drink when you see him. Cook. He’s standing near the back doors, smoke curling from the cigarette tucked between his fingers. His eyes scan the room like he’s not really seeing anyone—until they land on you.

And just like that, you want to run.

You slip into the hallway instead, where the music thumps through the walls like a second heartbeat. A breath. Then another.

And then he’s there, behind you. Like always.

"You’re avoiding me." his accent it’s a little bit raspier because of the alcohol on his throat. 

You don’t turn around. "I didn’t realize I owed you my time."

"Don’t owe me anything," he says, voice low. "But you left without saying anything the other day. Thought we were past that."

You scoff, finally facing him. "Past what, Cook? Past the part where you mess people up and pretend it’s love? Or past the part where I pretend I’m not one of them?" Maybe you shouldn’t have accepted that spliff from a random pretty girl that had her shirt too low for your brain to actually connect two and two. But you did accept it and now your tongue was a little bit too loose. 

His face hardens. "You think I’m pretending?"

“I think you don’t know what you want.”

He takes a step forward, his hands balled into fists at his sides. “I do. I know exactly what I want.”

“No,” you say, heart pounding. “You just don’t like being alone.”

That lands like a punch. 

He looks away for a second, jaw clenched. And then, softer, he says, “You think Effy was love?” Silence stretches between you. He steps closer. “That wasn’t love,” he says. “That was me trying to feel something. Anything. And her letting me because she needed someone to break.”

His voice cracks—not much, just a fracture—but it’s enough.

You want to say something. Maybe to soften the blow. Maybe to dig it in deeper. Maybe to just make him stop talking and kiss you hard against the wall like he used to. 

But he keeps going.

“I wake up some mornings and I feel like I’m drowning. Not ‘cause of her. Not anymore. But because I keep thinking about you. And how I’ll fuck it up. Like I fuck up everything.”

You shake your head, eyes stinging.You always cried easily. You were always so fucking sensitive and you fucking hated it.  “You don’t get to dump all this on me like it’s some twisted love letter.”

“I’m not trying to win you,” he says. “I’m just trying to tell you.” And then, quieter: “I don’t want to be that kid anymore. I want to be someone you can trust to not disappear, or lie, or break you down to build myself up.”

You swallow, hard. “And what if I don’t believe you?”

Cook looks at you like you’re the last thing keeping him standing. “Then I’ll keep showing up until you do.”

It’s not romantic. It’s not some sweeping confession that fixes everything. It’s two broken kids in a stranger’s house, trying to find a reason to be better.

And maybe, just maybe, that's enough.

You don’t say anything. For a while, neither of you does.

The silence hangs heavy, the kind that doesn't ask to be filled. Just lived through.

Cook leans back against the wall, sliding down to the floor like the weight of his own words finally hit him. He runs his hands through his hair, tugging at the roots like he’s trying to hold himself together. If you ignore his short beard, he would look just like in college. Broken, mad. 

You stay standing. Because if you sit, you might not be able to get back up.

“I scare myself, you know,” he says eventually, voice barely above the hum of the music, but loud enough for you to hear him.  “I don’t say that out loud. Not to anyone.’’ He laughs, hollow. “I thought if I was loud enough, mad enough, if I did enough stupid shit, then the pain wouldn’t catch me. But it always does. Always bloody does.”

You look down at him. His head is tilted back against the wall, eyes closed, like he’s waiting to be hit.

“I’m not your salvation,” you say quietly. His eyes open. “I’m not here to fix you, James.”

“I know,” he says, and his voice breaks for real this time. “That’s why it hurts more.”

Your throat tightens.

“I wanted to be good for you,” he says. “Still do. But every time I get close to something real, I fuck it. Like I’m hardwired for destruction.”

He looks at you, and there’s no mask left. No bravado. No ‘Oi, babe’ smile. Just James Cook. A boy trying not to drown in himself.

“You make me feel like there’s a version of me I haven’t met yet,” he whispers. “One that’s worth something. One that could actually love someone right.”

You sit. Slowly. Carefully. The floor is cold against your thighs. You sit close, but not touching. He notices. The space between you is bigger than the closeness, abstractly because you can actually feel his baggy trousers against your naked leg. But not his skin, you can’t feel his skin and maybe it's better that way. 

“You know I wanted her,” you say, voice steady. “Not just Effy. Everyone liked her. All the broken girls that boys like you chased ‘cause they were beautiful in a way that didn’t last.”

You look at him now, and he doesn’t look away.

“But I’m not Effy. I won’t burn myself to keep someone warm. And if you come near me, bleeding, expecting me to patch you up, you better know I’ll bleed too. And I don’t know if I have anything left to give.”

He swallows hard. “Then don’t give. Just… stay. Let me do something right for once.”

It’s not a promise. It’s not a vow. It’s a plea.

You’re both just trying not to fall apart, lit by the flicker of bad decisions and better intentions. You want to tell him you believe him.

But instead, you reach out and take his hand.

Not tightly. Just enough.

His fingers twitch like he’s afraid even this will slip through.

But it doesn’t. Not yet.

You don’t know how long you sit there—your hand in his, the music echoing like a heartbeat that belongs to someone else. The hallway smells like damp coats and something spilled long ago. The longer you stay, the more the walls press in.

You stand first.

He follows without a word.

The back garden’s half-dead, rain-soaked and ugly under the yellow glow of a porch light. Someone’s dropped a bottle in the grass. There’s a discarded shoe by the bins. This place was never meant to be pretty. But it’s quieter. Honest.

Cook lights a cigarette with shaking hands. Offers you one. You shake your head. You’ve been trying to quit, you tell him. He laughs. 

You lean against the brick wall, arms crossed, watching your breath fog in the air.

“You’re freezing,” he says, shrugging off his jacket before you can protest.

You let him drape it over your shoulders. It smells like him—smoke, sweat, something wild you can’t name. You hate how much comfort you take from it.

“I keep thinking,” he says between drags, “about how many people I’ve hurt just by being near them.”

You look at him. “And you think being near me is gonna be different?”

He exhales smoke through his nose. “I want it to be.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

He nods. Doesn’t argue. That’s how you know he means it. When he is silent, when he isn’t loud and when he just breathes in and keeps his words inside his mouth. 

You both stand there, the sky spitting rain again, soaking into your hair. And maybe that’s what does it—something in the cold, or the silence, or the fact that you’re both just tired of pretending.

“I’m scared,” you say. The words fall out like teeth.

He turns to you, eyebrows knit. “Of me?”

You laugh, bitter. “Of myself. Of believing you. Of what happens if I do.”

Cook doesn’t answer. He just moves closer, slow and cautious like he’s afraid of breaking the moment.

His hand brushes yours again. Not a grab. A question.

You answer it.

You look at him with your head slightly tilted. He rests his forehead on your shoulder first, and then he kisses it and his kisses climb to your neck and you jaw making you sigh before he kisses your soft wet lips. 

The kiss isn’t soft. It’s hesitant and clumsy, all teeth and tension and the taste of smoke. It’s not romantic, not really. But it’s real. It’s two people trying to meet in the middle of the wreckage.

You pull away first, forehead pressed against his.

“I don’t want to be someone’s second choice,” you whisper. “Not again, Cookie.” He smiles at the nickname.

“You’re not,” he says. “You never were.”

You close your eyes.

You want to believe him. God, you do.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re starting to.

[perthshirecottage]

I’m not saying that what Wally did was right back then. All I’m saying is he’s obviously not the same person. And just because Wally was bad about his actions in this area doesn’t mean he is a completely terrible person in general. Everyone acts terrible at times. We can all be rude or disrespectful because of a million different reasons. Doesn’t mean that we can’t all also have good aspects. My point was that even in the 80s this one part of Wally wasn’t all he is. Whereas I’ve seen some posts that act like Wally was terrible back then and nothing else. Or that it defines who he is now. Just trying to point out there’s more nuance and that no person is only one thing. Wally was a bully but he was also good things too. I get it was a point for this scene. And this was a bad moment for Wally. It shows a not so great side to him. It’s just not his only defining characteristic in the 80s or now.

I said that he didn’t act right, just trying to make a point that he was more going along with peer pressure than actively being malicious himself. He very obviously has a problem with being a people pleaser to the people he cares about. That is not a good thing. It should never be framed as a good thing. In fact he died trying to please his mom instead of standing up for himself. It is a massive flaw that he has.

I literally said that what happened to the guy at the reunion was not right at all. Just that he is acting very disrespectful. I get that he sees Wally as a bad person. I get that he doesn’t personally have fond memories of Wally. But a 17 year old died in a tragic way and other people there did lose someone they love. And I get what happened to the guy wasn’t good, I was just saying it’s been 40 years and he’s still very bitter to the point that he thinks everyone should forget and not mourn Wally because he doesn’t. He has feelings and I’m not saying he doesn’t have a valid reason to be upset. But he does wish that people would stop having a moment of remembrance because of his feelings alone. Again to my point of people being more than one thing. He was a victim of the football team. But he is angry and can’t look past that to see a tragedy. Wally was a bully. But he was also the victim of a tragedy. We should all have compassion for others. Both went through something terrible. And this guy is so focused on his own bad moment from 40 years ago that he isn’t having compassion towards Wally or those who miss him. To find our own peace , we do have to let go of the way we wish others had acted differently. Both Wally and this guy being victims and being mean spirited can be true at the same time.

My real point is that I’ve seen people act like this is who Wally is with no consideration for any other aspect of his character.

I know that Wally was a bully in high school. But the thing that bothers me about that scene is when people take that to mean Wally is a bad person. First off, the guy at the reunion said the football players shoved him in a trash can and Wally didn’t say anything. That suggests that Wally wasn’t actively putting the guy in there, he just went along with his friends. Not good, but sounds like he wasn’t the instigator.

And even if Wally was shoving people into lockers and being an overall jerk, it’s been 40 years! Charley saying that Wally is better person in death than life bothers me. Because it suggests that dying is literally the only reason that Wally is better. Even if Wally had lived, it’s completely reasonable that he could have grown and changed. That he could have met people who influenced him to act better. Just like he met the other ghosts. Just different circumstances obviously.

Yeah the football team was sitting at the same tables together but that’s because that’s who they were friends with in high school. Any of them could also be a better person. They have lived more life, probably have families and kids. Some could still be jerks but I’m sure none of them are exactly who they were in high school.

The guy who was complaining about Wally isn’t a nice person himself. Whatever happened with the football team, this guy is basically saying that a 17 year old kid deserved having such a horrible thing happen to him. This guy is almost 60 years old and hanging onto such a grudge that he is practically admitting he’s glad it happened. He probably also assumes the rest of the football players are the same bullies he dealt with back then.

What they did to him as a kid was not right in any way shape or form. But he’s hanging onto to something like it defines him. And like it defines who those kids were in high school. Like it defines who Wally is as a person even now.

[eddiesmunsuns]

.

[batsplat]

just read ur take on the big three rivalries/relationships and i wanted to know how much u know about djokovics and nadals history with the whole being friendly/sharing an manager/practising together until novak started dominating (the way rafa literally switched from calling him to nole to novak in 2011 specifically after the madrid incident lmao and novak deflecting when asked how their friendship was going at wimbledon that same year) i feel like those two have a lot of history and most people ignore it or just arent aware of it ig

they do have a lot of history! idt they were necessarily THAT friendly with each other pre 2011. nadal was always the wunderkind who djokovic (and murray) were chasing. you had classic young djokovic moments like saying that he was in control of his rg 2006 match with nadal until djokovic's back problems, that he realised he didn't have to do anything special to defeat nadal, that nadal's beatable (nadal won the first two sets 6-4 6-4 before djokovic retired). still one of the funniest things he's said fairs

but their relationship did clearly get worse in 2011, when djokovic had that phenomenal season and beat nadal all six times they faced each other (still a shame he lost his first match that year at the roland garros semis against federer, denying us the final with nadal everyone wanted to see). there's also obviously stuff like handshake compilations over the years lol

anyway, their relationship also seemingly took a turn for the worse in 2022 over the whole australia deportation drama. I should say that in their early years, big three rivalries were a little more exciting (well, maybe not federer/nadal, but the other two) - it's just that all three of them were increasingly committed to just being ultra respectful *cough* pr merchants *cough* and it limited how much they would even let themselves do anything interesting. nadal can be a bit of a prick who's a lot more amiable when he's winning and is generally more of a sore loser than djokovic, but what's the point if you've collectively taken a vow to not rock the boat? and djokovic, who became massively unpopular for absolutely no good reason, eventually responded to all the criticism and booing with this slightly desperate attempt to make himself loved - the boob throw celebration is obviously the most infamous example and thank god he dropped that a few years ago. which is compelling in itself, but unfortunately it's all considerably less compelling these days... whenever he's being a pantomime villain, it's now about The Establishment.... stuff like this wimbledon where he was being kinda delusional about what the fans were yelling, saying they were booing him when they were calling his opponent's name, which? I like that, I liked the interview, it was silly camp fun. and then it became discourse bloody piers morgan was speaking out on as some kind of grand statement about how djokovic wouldn't let himself be silenced any more. that's not fun!!

anyway, djokovic/nadal is still an all time great tennis rivalry, and I've enjoyed plenty of their matches over the years. just don't think they offered quite enough narrative tension to live up to *59 matches* and monopolising the sport + all the attention within it for like. a lot of years. idk they could've move more imo

[cumironi]

BOTTOMS OUT, BRAT TAX jjk men

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

summary. what’s the price that comes from being a brat? stay on the corner? orrrrrrr... getting fuc$ by your boyfriend hard, mean? probably the second that’s why being a brat is your that time of the year.

warning. non-sorcerer! jjk men, 23 you & 31 them, age-gap, brat tamer, mean, overstimulated, cock-drūnk, dirty talk, hair pulling, titie$/pu$$y slap(s), $pitting / $pit(s) in mouth, chocking, degrading, daddy-kink, very rough, mean praise, matīng presses, MARATHONS, brēeding mention, dūmbifícation, fíngering, cūmplay, swēaring. it might be too rough or disturbing for some people, read on your own awareness.

GOJO SATORU

the first thing he did when he walked in the door wasn’t kiss you. wasn’t hug you. wasn’t talk.

he unbuttoned his sleeves, rolled them up past his forearms, hung his jacket on the rack, and stared at you.

you on the bed. knees tucked under you, hair a mess, some dumb little tank that didn’t even cover your tits right, nipples hard and begging. phone still in hand. watching him like you didn’t already know what you’d done.

“how was work, baby?” you chirped. smug. god, smug.

his jaw ticked. he didn’t answer. just walked forward, slowly, fingers unbuttoning the rest of his shirt. all that pale, lean muscle. eyes like glass, but fire underneath.

you bit your lip. he noticed. always noticed.

“you think you’re cute,” he muttered, pulling the phone from your hand and tossing it somewhere. “think you can spend the whole goddamn week being a brat and i’ll just kiss your forehead and call you princess?”

you tilted your head. innocent. false.

“aren’t i your princess?”

he laughed. once. bitter and dark and mean.

“no, sweetheart. tonight, you’re my fucking problem.”

he grabbed you by the back of the neck and shoved you down on the bed, chest to mattress, ass up. panties soaked. you hadn’t even pretended not to touch yourself waiting for him. he could see it. smell it. the heat pulsing from your cunt was obscene.

“been teasing me for days,” he murmured. voice low. affectionate. like it was all just a joke between lovers. but his hands said otherwise. they yanked your panties down, spread your legs, palmed your ass like he owned it. “flaunting this little hole, moaning when i’m on the phone, fuckin’ grinding on me during movie night—”

a pause. breath tickled your ear.

“you been begging for this, baby.”

you shivered. “i missed you…”

his hand cracked against your ass. smack. you jolted.

“no, you didn’t. you missed my cock.”

he bent down, kissed the welt he left.

“but i missed you, too. fuckin’ brat and all.”

he reached between your legs, dragged two fingers through your folds. wet. soaked, needy, messy. you cried out, hips jerking, but he pinned you down easily.

“so pretty like this,” he whispered, voice soft like silk wrapped around steel. “so dumb for me. already wet and you haven’t even felt the stretch.”

you moaned when he shoved both fingers in. schlick. curling them up, slow, slow, mean.

“you know how many times i thought about this pussy this week? sittin’ in my office, watching your texts pop up—‘miss you daddy,’ ‘thinking about your dick,’—you really thought i wasn’t gonna make you pay?”

you whimpered into the sheets. “i wanna pay… please make me.”

his voice broke, almost tender. “fucking hell, baby. you were made to be ruined.”

he took his cock out, dragged it up your slit, wetting the head with your slick. you gasped when he pushed in—not fast. no mercy, but no rush either. like he wanted you to feel it.

“so tight. always so fucking tight. greedy little hole doesn’t wanna let me go.”

you moaned loud, hands fisting the sheets, body arching, already clenching.

“shh, baby,” he cooed, fucking you slow, mean, deep. every stroke brushing your walls perfectly. “let daddy do the talking now.”

you nodded, face buried in the blankets. eyes wide, leaking. he leaned down, pressed his chest to your back, mouth by your ear.

“gonna fill you up,” he whispered. “make you forget your own name. you’ll be just my sweet little fuckdoll, stuffed full of cum, dripping all over the sheets like a good girl.”

you sobbed. “please… harder…”

he obliged. slap of hips to ass. pace brutal now. no buildup. just hard, filthy fucking, his hand curled around your throat from behind, keeping your head tilted just so he could speak into your ear.

“look at you,” he breathed. “so easy for me. so soft. bet you’d let me do anything. bet i could turn you over, fuck your throat till you choke, and you’d still thank me.”

you nodded, gasping, tears leaking freely now. you loved this. loved it.

“you’re mine,” he said, filthy and reverent. “mine to fuck. mine to break. mine to put back together.”

his hand slipped to your clit, rubbed fast and hard and perfect.

“cum for me, baby,” he whispered. “show me how much this little cunt needs me.”

you screamed.

orgasm ripped through you like lightning, thighs shaking, body convulsing, drool on the pillow, eyes rolled back. you clenched around him so hard he groaned, hands gripping your hips like he’d die if he let go.

“fuck—fuck, gonna fill you—gonna make you my little cumdump—take it—”

and he did. thick ropes of hot cum spilling deep inside you, cock throbbing, buried to the hilt. he stayed there. didn’t move. just pressed his body to yours, forehead on your shoulder, heart racing.

he kissed your neck.

“you’re such a little problem,” he whispered.

then softer

“but you’re my favorite problem in the whole fucking world.”

GETO SUGURU

you were on your knees when he came in.

good girl posture. hands resting on your thighs. no panties. tank top soaked from your own nipples. mouth open, eyes wide, trying your best to look obedient.

geto saw right through it.

he didn’t speak at first. just stared. heavy boots thunking across the floor with slow purpose, like every step was judgment. thirty-one years old, still in black slacks from his shift, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back neat—clean.

too clean for the way he looked at you. like he was about to do something filthy. sacred.

“how many days you think you’ve gotten away with this?”

his voice dropped like honey into a coffin.

“with what?” your lips curled. “being good?”

he knelt, big hands sliding into your hair, curling tight.

“no. playing sweet, sitting here like you’re waiting for a blessing when all week you’ve been acting like the devil’s little cumslut.”

your mouth dropped. thighs clenched.

“don’t play innocent,” he hissed, breath hot against your cheek. “skipping class, mouthing off, posting thirst traps while i’m at work—you wanna humiliate me, baby? want everyone seeing what’s mine?”

“i wanted your attention,” you whispered.

“you got it now.”

he dragged you by the hair, tossed you on the bed like a ragdoll.

“face down.”

you didn’t even blink. flipped, legs trembling, soaked already, thighs sticking together.

he tore the shirt. clean. one motion. your tits bounced out and he didn’t waste time. slapped one, hard, made you yelp.

“no bra? of course not. why would a whore need one?”

you whined. “suguru…”

“don’t say my name like that unless you want me to spit in your fucking mouth.”

you turned your head, open. waiting.

he grinned. “good little slut.”

ptui— his spit landed on your tongue. you swallowed without blinking.

he shoved your legs open. two fingers slid between your folds. he paused.

“…this wet already?”

your moan was so soft it barely counted. “for you. only ever for you.”

his fingers moved slow. filthy. obscene. gathering slick just to smear it around, tease your clit, then slap it. smack. your hips jumped.

“you’re not sorry.”

“no.”

“you want me to hurt you.”

“…yes.”

he bent down, kissed your spine. so gentle it made you ache.

“then i’ll make you scream, pretty girl. and you’re gonna thank me.”

he undid his belt. the sound alone made your breath hitch.

when he dragged his cock through your folds, you shook.

“look at you,” he murmured. “so needy. creaming on my cock before i even fuck you.”

you turned your face, whimpering, “please, i need it—”

he pushed in. all the way.

no warm-up. no slow thrust. just one thick, brutal drive of his hips that made your mouth open in a silent scream.

“fucking tight. trying to squeeze the cum out of me already? greedy fucking pussy.”

his pace was cruel. loud. thwack, thwack, thwack—his hips slamming your ass, hands gripping your waist like he was holding onto something holy.

“keep it open for me,” he growled, voice ragged. “don’t run. you begged for this, now you take it.”

your moans went high-pitched. broken. drool soaked the sheets.

he leaned over your back, one hand slipping under to grope your tits, the other gripping your jaw, turning your head to him.

“you know what you are?”

“what?”

“my sweet little altar. made to kneel. to take my cock like worship.”

you clenched. hard. he groaned.

“oh, fuck—yeah. you love that, don’t you? being used. being my soft, pretty thing to ruin.”

you cried out, “yes! fuck, i love it—please, harder—”

he grabbed your throat from behind, pulled you up, your back against his chest, still fucking deep, brutal, fast. your body jolted with every stroke.

“then take every inch. show me you mean it.”

he grabbed your jaw, forced your mouth open, spit into it again. “swallow.”

you obeyed. always.

“that’s it. my dirty girl. my pretty.”

his pace faltered—then slammed in harder. faster. pounding. like he wanted to break something.

“gonna fill you,” he gasped. “fuck you till it leaks down your thighs. i’ll knot you if i have to. keep you plugged all fucking week.”

your second orgasm hit so hard your legs collapsed. you shrieked—“SUGURU—”—body shaking, pussy clenching, squirting mess over his cock and thighs.

“fuckfuck— ohhh my girl—take it—take it all—”

he shoved in, one final time, and came. deep. thick. endless. flooding your cunt until it was dripping, running down your thighs.

he stayed buried. chest to your back. lips to your ear.

“my perfect little thing,” he whispered. “my brat. my problem. my heaven.”

you sobbed. smiling.

he kissed your temple.

“…round two’s in the shower. don’t you dare rinse me out.”

NANAMI KENTO

you knew what time he got off work.

you knew he’d take the train.

you knew how long the walk from the station to your shared apartment took.

and still, you were spread on the couch with your ass in the air and your vibrator buzzing so loud it was practically greeting him when the door opened.

“welcome home, daddy,” you purred, glancing over your shoulder, thighs slick and shining. “miss me?”

he didn’t speak. didn’t breathe.

nanami kento closed the door with the click of finality, set his briefcase down gently, and rolled his sleeves with the precision of a man preparing to kill. slow. methodical. focused.

you didn’t even blink. just arched your back more.

“you couldn’t wait,” he said, voice like death in a silk tie. “again.”

“i needed to come.”

“and not a single fucking thought for who you belong to.”

you moaned at the tone. his belt was already off, folded in his hand.

you whimpered, “make me remember.”

he did.

three cracks across your ass with the leather before you even finished exhaling. you yelped, jerked forward, vibrator falling out of your cunt—he kicked it across the room like trash.

“don’t you ever take what’s mine without asking.”

you turned your head, breathing fast, face flushed. “i’m yours.”

his voice dropped lower. colder.

“then act like it.”

he yanked you off the couch by your hair, not cruel, just firm, dominating, until you were on your knees before him.

“open your mouth.”

you obeyed.

his cock was hard already, heavy and thick, flushed red at the tip. he didn’t stroke it. didn’t tease. just shoved it past your lips and down your throat in one smooth, brutal thrust.

glrk—glgk—mmph!

“quiet,” he muttered. “you gag, you make a mess, i’ll make you clean the floor with your tongue.”

his hand in your hair. his cock down your throat. his voice in your head.

“disobedient little holes like yours need reminders. rough ones. you think acting like a filthy little brat will earn you soft touches?”

your throat fluttered around him. tears spilled from your eyes.

he pulled out. you gasped—air, finally—only to be slapped across the face with his cock. once. twice. precum smeared your cheek.

“no. you get discipline. and when you take it well, then—maybe—you get to hear me say how much i love you.”

you whimpered. “please, daddy—i love you—”

he bent down, grabbed your jaw, squeezed until your lips parted wide.

“and i love you,” he whispered, cruel and tender. “which is why i won’t stop until this body forgets how to lie.”

he flipped you over the couch, pushed your head down into the cushions, shoved two fingers into your dripping cunt, slow and punishing.

“look at this mess,” he hissed. “you soaked my furniture. like some heat-addled bitch waiting to be bred.”

you keened, trying to fuck back on his hand. he pulled away.

“don’t move.”

he lined up behind you. one hand on your hip, the other fisting your hair. then he fucked into you.

slap—slap—slap—

no warning. no easing. just cock, thick and deep, pounding your pussy open like it owed him something. your cries echoed in the room, each one sharper than the last.

“say it,” he snarled, fucking into you harder. “say what you are.”

“your slut—daddy—i’m your hole—fuck—i’m yours—”

“louder.”

“I’M YOURS—”

he yanked your hair, bit your shoulder, hand sliding around to rub your clit in tight cruel circles.

“you come without permission, i start over.”

you sobbed, trembling, pussy spasming around him.

“please—please please let me—”

he licked your ear. breath hot.

“beg prettier.”

your voice cracked. “daddy, please let me cum—i need it—been so bad, need your punishment—need your cum in me—please mark me—please—”

he groaned, deep and low. “fuck.”

his pace stuttered. faster now. rougher.

“cum for me, baby,” he hissed. “make a mess. cry for me. scream.”

you shattered.

your orgasm slammed through you like a train, thighs trembling, gush of slick coating his cock, your whole body collapsing forward into the couch cushions. sobbing. raw. ruined.

but he wasn’t done.

“stay there.”

he pulled out. flipped you over. shoved his cock between your tits and started fucking them while you whimpered, barely conscious, still twitching.

“look at me while i do it,” he ordered. “eyes on mine.”

you blinked, tears spilling, lips parted. he jerked himself with one hand, using your tits for friction with the other, voice shaking.

“i love you so fucking much,” he muttered. “you drive me insane. make me mean. make me need to ruin you.”

he came all over your chest and neck, thick spurts painting your skin like ownership.

he collapsed forward, kissed your mouth so softly it made you ache.

“you’re my everything,” he whispered. “my brat. my problem. my love.”

you nodded, dizzy. “i know.”

he cupped your cheek.

“and next time,” he said, already smiling, “if i catch you touching yourself again…”

he kissed your temple.

“…i’ll tie you up for three days and make you watch me cum on other things.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

you slammed the door.

he kicked it open.

you were already halfway to your bedroom, huffing, rolling your eyes, making that smug little face that said “what are you gonna do about it?”

toji didn’t say a word.

he didn’t have to.

his heavy boots hit the floor like thunder. you didn’t even get a chance to shut your bedroom door before he was there—six foot something, broad, scarred, tired of your mouth and twice as tired of not fucking it shut.

he caught your wrist, yanked you back, threw you face-first onto the mattress.

“oh, we’re doin’ this again?” he muttered, pulling your shorts down without an ounce of gentleness, thong snapping against your thigh as he ripped it clean off. “you really don’t know when to quit, huh?”

you were soaking. dripping down your thighs. and he hadn’t even touched your cunt yet.

“fuck you,” you spat.

he laughed. loud. mean. dragged a hand through your hair, grabbed a fistful and yanked your head back.

“no, sweetheart. not tonight. i fuck you.”

he shoved two fingers into your mouth, watched your eyes widen as he fucked them in deep, slow, choking you just enough to blur your vision.

“this is what you’re good for. being used. being bent over and stuffed full ‘til you’re cryin’ and leaking. that what you wanted, princess?”

you moaned around his fingers, drooling down your chin.

he spat on your ass. spanked it with his free hand, making you jerk.

“talk back to me again this week and i’m fucking your ass next.”

you whimpered. clenched. because yeah, you wanted that too.

he yanked his belt off, undid his pants with one hand, shoved them down, cock already rock-fucking-hard, vein thick down the shaft, leaking.

“been walkin’ around like a tease all week. no bra, no manners, no fuckin’ sense,” he grunted, dragging his tip down your slit. “you want me to be mean to you.”

you nodded, barely able to breathe.

“yeah? you like when i fuck the brat outta you?”

you didn’t even answer. your eyes were already fluttering.

he shoved in with a grunt. balls-deep.

no warning. no mercy.

“FUCK—!”

your scream echoed off the walls as he filled you to the goddamn brim, hips flush, his palm between your shoulder blades pinning you down like he was staking a claim.

“tight little cunt,” he growled. “so fucking wet for me. already stretchin’ like a good girl.”

he pulled back and slammed in. again. again. faster now, fucking you like it was his full-time job.

you sobbed, hands clawing at the sheets, body jolting with each brutal thrust.

“what happened to all that attitude?” he taunted, leaning over you, chest to your back, lips on your ear. “gone all quiet now that you’ve got cock where your mouth used to be?”

you cried out, “toji—ohmygod—!”

he bit your neck. hard. left a mark.

“you’re mine. say it.”

“yours—fuck—i’m yours—!”

he laughed again, rough and satisfied.

“yeah, that’s what i thought. all that mouth and now you can’t even breathe without my dick stuffed inside you.”

his hand reached under, fingers to your clit—he didn’t stroke. he rubbed. hard, cruel circles, timed to each thrust. you were soaking him, wet squelches with every pump, your whole body on fire.

“cum like my fucktoy, baby,” he hissed. “i wanna feel you milkin’ my cock. wanna see you ruin these fuckin’ sheets.”

you screamed when it hit—legs shaking, vision blurring, whole cunt clenching tight around him in messy, gushing waves. you collapsed. sobbing. drooling. wrecked.

but he wasn’t done.

“nah, sweetheart. you don’t get to finish before i do.”

he grabbed your hips, pulled you back onto his cock, used your spent, twitching body like a toy. loud, brutal slaps of skin. balls slamming into your soaked cunt. groaning like he was at war with himself.

“fuck—gonna fill you—make you walk around leaking all night—fuckin’ dripping down your thighs like a good little cumdump—ugh—take it—take it, take it—”

he came inside you so hard you felt it. thick spurts, hot as sin, flooding your walls until it dripped down your ass.

he pulled out slow. stared at the mess. smirked.

“that’s what you get for runnin’ your mouth.”

you turned your head, dazed, voice hoarse.

“i hate you.”

he leaned down, kissed your forehead soft as anything, voice like syrup over gravel:

“love you too, babydoll.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

he didn’t knock.

he didn’t text.

he kicked the fucking door in like he owned the place—and you.

and he did.

you didn’t even flinch from the bed, lounging like you hadn’t been a little menace all week. phone in hand. pussy bare. your cunt glistened under the city lights pouring through the window. thighs spread. one finger buried inside you.

he saw red.

“you’ve got a lot of nerve,” he growled, voice thick with something ancient, brutal, blood-soaked. “you touch what belongs to me and don’t even ask?”

you slid your finger out, sucked it slow, gaze steady.

“you weren’t here.”

he crossed the room in two strides, hand around your throat before the second breath left your lungs. pinned you to the mattress, his claws—yes, claws—digging just enough to make your pulse stutter.

“and that gave you the right?”

you gasped, breath caught between fear and heat.

“no,” you whispered. “i needed you.”

“that’s better.” he released your throat only to slap your cheek with the same hand. not hard. just sharp. humiliating.

“you need me. like a filthy mortal needs breath. like a cunt needs cock. like a god needs worship.”

his other hand dragged down your stomach, slow, possessive. past your navel, between your thighs. he spit on your pussy. watched it drip down.

“look at that. already wet. already messy. pathetic little shrine all ready for my cock.”

you whimpered. hips lifted. he slapped your pussy. smack.

“not yet.”

he stood at the edge of the bed, peeled off that black robe he always wore like he was royalty—chest marked in thick black lines, tattoos like scripture, four arms rippling with power. his cock hung heavy, long, thick enough to hurt. twitching already.

“on your knees.”

you scrambled. didn’t dare disobey.

he gripped your hair with one hand, used the other to stroke his cock, and before moving to hold your chin still.

“mouth open. tongue out. beg for it.”

you moaned. “please, daddy. i need it. need to choke on you.”

“then take it.”

he shoved into your throat, all at once. no easing. no mercy. just a brutal, choking thrust that had your lips spread wide, nose buried in his pelvis, drool leaking instantly.

glk—glrk—hhhk—!

“such a tight little throat,” he snarled, hips rolling into your face. “feels like you were made just for me. every hole on you’s mine.”

he fucked your mouth like it was a hole in the wall. used. owned. you gagged. he laughed. sweet, cruel, delighted.

“look at you. tears running, drool soaking your tits. and you’re moaning around it. you like being treated like a toy.”

you nodded, eyes glassy.

he pulled out with a pop. your spit hung in strands from his cock to your lips.

“on the bed. ass up.”

you obeyed, body shaking. he grabbed your hips, yanked you back to the edge, slapped your ass until it was glowing.

“i should tear this pussy open,” he hissed. “should split you on my cock ‘til you scream. but you’d like that too much, wouldn’t you?”

“please,” you whimpered. “please hurt me. i want it.”

he growled. bent down. bit your shoulder—hard.

“you’re fucking sick.”

he lined up. shoved in.

balls-deep. in one thrust.

your scream split the air. your hands clawed at the sheets. he was so fucking big. so full. you could feel him in your guts.

“there it is,” he moaned, hips jerking. “tight little cunt squeezing me like it’s trying to keep me.”

his pace was savage. slap, slap, slap—his hips brutal, body hard against yours, hands gripping your arms, claws biting into your skin.

“you thought you were in charge,” he snarled. “thought you could make me come crawling back by acting like a brat.”

“yes—yes—fuck—”

he leaned over, mouth at your ear.

“you belong to me, whore.”

you sobbed, clenching around him.

“my hole. my cumdump. my little fuckthing. say it.”

“yours—! please, kuna—i’m yours—i’m your little toy—”

he grabbed your throat from behind, dragged your back against his chest, never breaking rhythm, fucking you upright while you trembled and cried.

“gonna fill you up. fuckin’ ruin this cunt. make you drip my seed down your legs all week.”

“yes! please! i want it—want your cum—”

“good fucking girl.”

he slammed in deep. held. came. groaning. loud. thick. endless. his cock pulsed and pumped you full, hot liquid spilling out around the base.

he bit your neck again. sucked a mark. kissed the bruise he left.

“…you ever touch yourself again without permission,” he growled, low and sweet, “i’ll tie you up and make you watch me fuck someone else.” he would never, but still.

you whimpered, ruined.

he laughed.

“but don’t worry. you’re still my favorite. always have been.”

his hand cupped your cunt. felt the cum leaking out.

“let’s do it again.”

SHIU KONG

you’d done it again.

talked back. wore that skirt with no panties. flirted with some other guy at the bar just to see if he’d look.

you didn’t make it past the hallway.

shiu slammed you up against the wall so hard the picture frame fell off its hook. his breath hit your neck like smoke before fire, hands already pulling your shirt over your head, teeth scraping your jaw.

“think i didn’t see you?” he growled, mouth against your ear, voice dark and deadly. “batting your lashes, giggling like some fuckin’ club bunny? touching his chest?”

you gasped, but you were smiling.

“you jealous?”

his hand wrapped around your throat. tight.

“no. i’m furious.”

he grabbed your wrist and dragged you through the apartment like a criminal to sentence. your knees smacked the floor when he shoved you down in front of the couch. you didn't even protest. you wanted it. you lived for it.

his belt hit the ground. next were his pants. his cock was already hard, thick, twitching.

“open.”

you licked your lips. “yes, sir.”

“say it louder.”

“yes, sir.”

he slapped your cheek. not with his hand—with the head of his cock. smack smack smack. precum smeared your lips. your thighs clenched.

“good little bitch. show me who owns this pretty fuckin’ mouth.”

you opened wide. tongue out. obedient.

he shoved in deep. you gagged. glk—glrk—guhk— he didn’t stop. one hand held your hair, the other cupped your jaw, forcing you to take every inch until tears blurred your vision and spit dripped down your chin.

“that’s it. choke on it, princess. this what you wanted, right? some attention from your daddy?”

you whimpered around his cock. he laughed.

“you don’t even need to answer. your cunt’s been dripping since the bar.”

he pulled out with a wet pop, gripped your hair, yanked you to your feet and threw you on the couch. not placed. not guided. threw. you bounced on impact, legs splayed, skirt riding up to show everything.

“no panties,” he muttered, kneeling between your legs. “you wanted me to snap.”

you nodded, panting.

“say it.”

“i wanted you to lose it. i wanted to be punished.”

he grabbed your thighs and spread them wide. stared at your soaked cunt like it insulted him.

“fucking slut. god, you’re perfect. look at this pussy—so soft, so wet, and all of it mine.”

he didn’t even finger you. just leaned in and bit your inner thigh. hard.

“you wanna play games, sweetheart? fine. but i don’t play fair.”

he stood. lined up.

you whispered, “please be rough.”

his voice dropped to something cruel and sweet.

“oh baby. you don’t have to ask.”

and he slammed into you.

your scream lit up the room. no warning. no prep. just raw stretch and heat and cock, thick and punishing, shoved into your tight little hole like he was trying to fuck his name into your guts.

“there you go,” he hissed, holding your hips down when you tried to run. “now you’re quiet. now you’re mine again.”

his pace was vicious. brutal. thwack—thwack—thwack. the couch shook. your body rocked. tears streamed. and he didn’t stop. his hands roamed your body like they were memorizing every bruise he left.

“so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he growled. “cryin’, wrecked, full of cock. you make me crazy, you know that? i see you flirtin’, smilin’, and all i can think about is how you beg for my cum when you’re stuffed full.”

“shiu—shiu—please—”

“please what?” he slapped your clit. you squealed. “please more? please harder? please daddy use me like the cumdump i am?”

“yes—” you sobbed. “please ruin me—!”

he fucked harder. faster. one hand grabbed your throat again, squeezing. the other rubbing your clit mean and fast.

“then take it. take every fucking inch. milk me for it, baby.”

your orgasm ripped through you. back arched, vision gone white, mouth open in a silent scream, cunt clenching tight.

“that’s it,” he panted. “cum like a good little bitch.”

he didn’t pull out. couldn’t. he was already snarling, pounding into your spasming pussy like he was trying to breed you.

“gonna fill you up,” he moaned, voice ragged. “gonna leave you dripping for days—fuck—gonna make your body remember who owns it—”

and he came. hard. deep. thick.

cum painted your walls, leaking instantly around his cock. he held you there, pulsing inside, trembling.

and then—he kissed you.

soft. messy. possessive.

“you fuckin’ drive me insane,” he whispered. “but i love you so much i’ll keep breaking you every time you forget.”

you smiled through the tears, body ruined.

“…then i guess i’ll keep forgetting.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

he didn’t even loosen his tie.

you watched him walk in—black coat soaked from the rain, briefcase in one hand, that cold stillness around his shoulders like he just left the courtroom but brought the executioner’s gavel home.

you were already waiting on the couch. bare. innocent. dangerous.

legs crossed. vibrator buzzing in one hand. nothing else on but gloss and guilt.

he saw the shine on your thighs. the fake innocence in your eyes.

and he smiled.

a soft thing. terrifying. like a man about to pass sentence.

“you’ve been playing again,” he said, setting the briefcase down.

“mm,” you hummed, slowly parting your legs, giving him the full view. “not guilty.”

his eyes dragged over your cunt, soaked and glistening.

“you sure?”

“you want to cross-examine?”

his coat dropped to the floor. no hanger. no pause. just unbuckled belt, tie yanked loose with one motion, shirt still tucked as he stalked toward you.

“stand up.”

you did.

“hands behind your back.”

you obeyed.

he circled you once like a predator and pressed his palm to your ass, dragging it down between your cheeks, feeling your heat. your slick.

he leaned in.

“verdict’s in,” he murmured, voice warm like whiskey and holy sin. “guilty. of seduction, disobedience, and fucking filth.”

your moan was a whisper.

he turned you, bent you over the couch, and cuffed your wrists behind your back with actual cuffs—black steel, no fluff, no play. courtroom restraints.

you gasped. breath hitched. he kissed the back of your neck.

“you don’t get to come tonight unless you confess.”

you turned your head, panting, “confess to what?”

he slapped your cunt. hard. you cried out.

“don’t play dumb. you get off on this. teasing me. touching yourself when i’m gone. soaking the sheets in that sweet little pussy like a bitch in heat.”

his cock was out now—long, flushed, angry. the head leaking precum, thick vein down the side pulsing. you whimpered at the sight.

“you been thinking about this cock all day?” he asked, dragging the tip through your folds.

“yes—yes, your honor—”

he slapped your ass.

“try again.”

“…yes, daddy.”

his laugh was low, dangerous.

“better.”

he shoved in with a groan.

deep. slow. endless.

“fuck—tight. still fits like it was made for me.”

he didn’t move yet. just stayed there, cock buried in your soaked heat, stretching you open while his hands gripped your waist like a ruling passed down from the gods.

you moaned, trembling.

“what’s the sentence, daddy?”

“remand.” he pulled out, slammed back in. thwack. “no parole. full use. no safeword.”

you cried out, back arching, eyes rolling back.

his pace was slow and mean.

every thrust perfect. deep. angled to punish.

“look at you. taking it. soaking me. drooling. just a needy little slut waiting for her judge to ruin her in the courtroom and the bedroom.”

you whined, broken, body jolting with every thrust.

“beg me,” he ordered, voice warm and calm and cruel.

“please—please don’t stop—please keep fucking me—”

he leaned down, mouth to your ear, voice pure velvet:

“you want the whole courtroom to hear how loud this sloppy cunt gets? want the bailiff, the stenographer, every poor bastard sitting in the gallery hearing you scream daddy while i fill you up?”

you moaned so loud you swore it echoed.

his hand wrapped around your throat. the other on your hip, holding you still while he started to destroy you.

“i love you, you know,” he whispered, fucking faster now. “but you’re such a goddamn problem. smart mouth. bratty ass. needy little whore. you need this. you need to be put in your place.”

your climax hit without warning—violent, soaking, screaming.

he didn’t stop. not for a second.

“that’s one,” he muttered. “we’re not done. you don’t get a reduced sentence for good behavior. you think i give out mercy? i’m the fucking law, baby.”

you sobbed, body twitching, begging.

he flipped you over, still cuffed, shoved your legs open and fucked into you again—face to face now. slower. deeper. crueler.

his eyes locked on yours. serious. sweet.

“you’re mine,” he whispered, stroking your cheek. “no jury. no appeal.”

you nodded, tears slipping.

“yours. forever.”

he kissed you. sweet. filthy.

and came inside you with a groan like confession. thick, hot, endless.

still buried, still pulsing. still in control.

“court adjourned,” he said.

but his eyes?

still hungry.

[gaywineauntsstuff]

Dick ‘has been a barista like 90 times over 50 years of comics Grayson’ can absolutely prepare whatever drink you want him too. He can also guess/ judge what your go to order is.

With the bats

He can guess what WILL be there favorite even if they’ve never tried it before

——————

Bruce on 13 mins of sleep fucking exhausted but even Alfred isn’t giving him shit bc they HAVE TO crack this case: hrn

Dick plopping a take away coffee cup in front of him: DRINK

Bruce goes through a quick is this my son or a shapeshifter, mind control, demon situation before deciding fuck it we ball and taking a sip: this… tastes different

Dick: yeah

Bruce ‘actual freak who grumbles when coffee isn’t bitter enough’ Wayne: this is good

Dick: yeah it’s a red eye

Bruce: hrn

Dick: yeah no problem B

——————

Jay (just got done fighting aliens and needs to get back to whatever he was doing before) : get me a Drink as black as my soul

Dick: sure

Dick brings back the drink from the kitchen

Dick: strawberry iced matcha with oat milk right here for you

Jay: what the fuck Goldie

Dick: I saw you sobbing at the notebook a week ago don’t play tough with me and don’t fucking lie we both know you like tea more.

Jay sputtering: Don’t PLAY TOUGH? BROTHER I PUT A BUNCH OF HEADS A BAG AND MADE THE UNDERWORLD INTO MY BITCH

Dick: yes yes Jay now go drink your tea and run along

(It is the best fucking thing he’s ever tried, bought a matcha making kit as soon as he got him, has denied it ever since but Dick doesn’t buy it and keeps making him the drink)

—————-

Tim:

Dick:

Tim:

Dick:

Tim:

Dick: you’re a heathen

Tim: proudly

Dick: fine take the monster and go OH MY GOD

————————

Steph wincing at the taste of a latte: there’s something seriously wrong with this place, no matter how much sugar I add it’s just bitter

Dick: yeah Steph it’s bc they burn the beans to get more use of em

Dick: you could add all the cream and milk you want it’s not gonna do shit

Steph: ugh this is the only coffee spot on my campus in so screwed

Dick pulling out a takeaway coffee cup: don’t worry I brought you some from home

Steph: Jesus fuck this is delicious

Dick: upside down sweet almond latte with caramel and double espresso

Steph: should’ve married into the family with Tim god damn

Dick: Cass is still an option

Steph: what

Dick: what

——————————-

Dick:

Duke:

Dick:

Duke:

Dick: you’re one of Tim’s heathens aren’t you

Duke: just because I like energy drinks more doesn’t mean I don’t LIKE coffee

Dick grumbling: should’ve left you with the cops

Duke: what was that? I didn’t hear you

Dick thrusting the coffee cup at him: just take it, end my suffering

Duke: oh damn that’s good… what is it

Dick:…. It’s Vietnamese style coffee

Duke: fuck I might I have to switch, Jesus that’s good

Dick vaguely smug: another victory

—————

Dick: hey Cass

Cass: busy… like you should be

Dick: yeah, yeah I have like 6 mins of free time left before I have to meet up with Robin (Tim) for an op

Dick: anyway i made you strawberry hot chocolate

Cass: this isn’t coffee

Dick: it has 180 milligrams of caffeine

Cass: how?

Dick: don’t ask difficult questions

Dick: where the hell did she go?

Dick: is this how everyone else feels about us?

——————

Damian: I want coffee

Dick: you’re an infant, no

Damian: IM 15 GRAYSON

Dick: a certifiable baby

Damian: I hate you

Dick: you would hate me more if you stunted your growth and ended up Tim sized

Tim: HEY!

Damian: this is true… apologies Richard

[solxamber]

You Try to Sleep on the Couch after an Argument with: First Years (-Ortho)

Other parts: Housewardens ; Vice-Housewardens + Ruggie ; Cater, Floyd, Silver, Rollo

Ace Trappola

The argument wasn’t loud—no yelling, no dramatic walkouts—just tense words exchanged with a little too much bite. Ace had been his usual smug self, which, unsurprisingly, only made you more pissed off.

So, rather than continue arguing, you grabbed a blanket, stomped off to the couch, and flopped down with a huff. If he wanted to be insufferable, fine. He could enjoy the bed all to himself.

You had just started arranging the cushions when you heard footsteps.

Then, before you could even process what was happening, a pillow dropped onto the couch beside yours, and Ace casually sprawled out like he had been invited.

You blinked. “Ace??”

He glanced at you, completely at ease. “What? We’re sleeping here tonight, right?”

You stared at him, then at the couch, then back at him. “We?”

Ace, the menace that he was, patted the tiny sliver of space beside him like he hadn’t just hijacked your whole plan.

You gawked at him. “You have an entire bed.”

“Yeah, but you’re here.”

“That’s the point, Ace!”

He had the audacity to grin. “Exactly. So, obviously, I’m here too.”

You gaped at him, absolutely stunned at the sheer level of his nonsense. Meanwhile, he just folded his arms behind his head, getting even more comfortable.

You glared. He grinned wider.

Then, after a long moment, he scratched his cheek, his bravado slipping just a little. “...Okay, maybe I should’ve asked first.” He glanced at you, a little sheepish. “But, uh. I don’t like going to bed when you’re mad at me. So… can I stay?”

The worst part? He actually looked kind of earnest. Like he meant it. Like this wasn’t just another one of his schemes to get his way, but something real.

Your irritation wavered. Damn it.

With a dramatic sigh, you gave in, flopping down beside him.

Ace, the absolute menace, beamed like he had just won the lottery. Then, without missing a beat, he threw an arm around you and pulled you right into his chest.

“You’re insufferable,” you grumbled against his hoodie.

“Mm. But cuddly, right?”

“…Shut up.”

He snickered, pressing a quick, lazy kiss to your forehead. “Love you too.”

And, annoyingly enough, you found yourself smiling as you drifted off—because, as much as he drove you insane, Ace Trappola was impossible to stay mad at.

Deuce Spade

The argument wasn’t a loud one—no shouting, no dramatic exits—just an exchange of clipped words that left a bitter taste in your mouth.

Deuce had been tense, his frustration clear in the way he crossed his arms, in the tightness of his jaw. You weren’t much better, snapping back at him until the conversation hit a dead end, leaving you both too stubborn to fix it in the moment.

So, rather than risk making it worse, you grabbed a blanket and went to the couch, throwing yourself onto it with the kind of determination that came from being just annoyed enough to stick to your decision. You adjusted the pillows, tucked the blanket around yourself, and ignored the way the room felt too quiet now.

Behind you, there was a pause. A shuffle of feet. Deuce lingered, but he didn’t stop you.

You shifted, trying to get comfortable. It didn’t work. The couch was fine, but it wasn’t your bed. And the silence—the weight of the unspoken apology hanging between you—only made it worse.

You half-expected Deuce to just go to bed, to let you sleep off your irritation. But then—soft footsteps. Hesitant, careful. He stopped just behind the couch, lingering for a moment before speaking.

“…Can you come back?”

His voice was quieter now, no longer laced with frustration, just uncertainty.

You didn’t move.

A longer pause. Then, softer, “I’m sorry.”

You sighed, already halfway to turning around, ready to tell him that you were sorry too, that this was stupid, that you just wanted to sleep—

Then you heard it. A quiet sniffle.

Your heart lurched.

You shot up, turning so fast the blanket nearly slipped off. Deuce was standing there, head slightly bowed, arms tense at his sides. He wasn’t crying, not really, but his eyes were red-rimmed, his breathing unsteady, his lips pressed together like he was trying to keep everything in.

Oh.

Your frustration vanished instantly.

“Deuce,” you breathed, already reaching for him.

He stiffened for a moment when your fingers brushed his wrist, but then, slowly, he let you pull him toward the bed. He didn’t argue. Didn’t hesitate. The second you both reached the mattress, you wrapped your arms around him, tugging him close, feeling the way his shoulders finally relaxed under your touch.

His breath shuddered against your skin. He held onto you tightly, fingers gripping the fabric of your shirt like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. You squeezed him in return, as he pressed his face into your neck, letting the warmth between you say what words couldn’t.

“…I’m sorry,” he murmured after a long moment, his voice quieter, steadier.

You ran your hand down his back, a slow, soothing motion. “Me too.”

His breathing evened out, his grip loosening just slightly. Neither of you spoke after that. There wasn’t a need to. You just held him, letting the warmth settle, letting the tension fade.

Jack Howl

The argument had been sharper than usual—words exchanged with too much heat, frustration lacing every syllable. Jack’s ears had flattened, his tail flicking sharply behind him, while your own patience had worn thin.

Neither of you had raised your voice, but the weight of it had been enough. Enough that when silence finally fell between you, it felt like standing on the edge of something unsteady.

So, in an act of pure pettiness, you had grabbed a blanket and stormed off to the couch, settling in with all the stubborn determination of someone who refused to be the first to cave. You curled up, pulling the blanket tight around yourself, pointedly ignoring the way the room still felt charged with unresolved tension.

For a while, there was nothing. No footsteps following, no hushed words attempting to fix things. Just silence. You shifted, adjusting the pillow beneath your head, exhaling sharply. Fine. If Jack wanted to sleep alone tonight, so be it.

Then—the faintest creak of the floorboards.

You blinked, turning over just enough to peer into the dim light of the living room. Jack was there, sitting stiffly on the couch opposite you, his arms crossed, tail curled loosely around the edge of the cushion. He didn’t look at you directly, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead, expression unreadable.

You furrowed your brows. “…What are you doing?”

His ears twitched. A beat of hesitation. Then, a quiet, gruff reply.

“Go to sleep. I’m just keeping watch.”

Something in your chest ached at that. Even after the argument, after the sharp words exchanged, he was still looking out for you. He always did.

You sighed, sitting up, the tension in your body already loosening. “Jack.”

He glanced at you then, ears flicking back slightly, wary.

Without another word, you stood, dragging the blanket with you as you crossed the room. Jack stiffened slightly when you reached for his wrist, but he didn’t pull away. You tugged, gentle but firm.

“Come back to bed.”

He hesitated. Then, slowly, he let himself be pulled up, following you without resistance.

The moment you both settled back onto the mattress, his tail curled around you instinctively, pulling you just that much closer. The warmth of it, of him, seeped into your skin, comforting in a way words couldn’t quite capture.

A quiet exhale. Then, low, barely above a whisper—

“…I’m sorry.”

You pressed closer, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt. “I'm sorry too.”

Neither of you said anything after that. There was no need to. The steady rise and fall of his breath, the solid weight of his arm draped over you, the way his tail tightened slightly before finally relaxing—everything else could wait.

For now, this was enough.

Epel Felmier

The argument had spiraled out of control so fast that you barely remembered how it even started. One second, it was just a disagreement—sharp words exchanged, but nothing too serious. And then, all at once, it was a mess, voices raised, frustration bleeding into every syllable.

You had hit your limit first. Not because you didn’t have more to say, but because you were just too tired. Too tired to keep fighting, too tired to keep letting the hurt simmer in your chest. So, without another word, you had grabbed a blanket and settled on the couch, turning your back to the bedroom.

The anger still sat heavy in your stomach, but beneath it, sadness gnawed at the edges. You hated arguing with him. Hated the way silence felt like a wall between you now. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to just sleep through it, to let the exhaustion pull you under.

It worked—for a while.

Then, the sharp clatter of pans yanked you back into consciousness.

You blinked blearily, registering the soft muttering, the sound of something nearly toppling over, the distinct smell of something cooking. Still wrapped in your blanket, you dragged yourself off the couch, stumbling toward the kitchen.

Epel was standing at the stove, back turned to you, gripping a pan with slightly unsteady hands. His hair was still messy from sleep, and even though his voice was quiet, you could hear the edge of frustration in the low curses under his breath.

You hesitated in the doorway, taking in the scene. The counter was a mess, a dish towel discarded haphazardly, the remnants of a nearly-spilled carton of eggs sitting precariously close to the edge.

At the sound of your footsteps, he stiffened slightly. Then, without turning, he muttered, “Go back to bed. I’ll bring it to you.”

His voice was rough, but not unkind. Just strained.

You stepped closer, noticing the way his shoulders were set too tight, the way his fingers clenched the pan handle like he was trying to steady himself. And when he finally turned just enough that you could see his face—he still wouldn’t meet your eyes.

Your heart clenched.

Without thinking, you reached forward, gently prying his fingers from the pan. His breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. The moment his hands were free, they hovered awkwardly at his sides—until, in one swift motion, he grabbed you and held on tight.

His arms wrapped around you, his grip desperate, like he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go. His forehead pressed into your shoulder, breath warm against your skin as he exhaled shakily.

“…I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice thick with something heavy. “I shouldn’t’ve pushed you that hard. Shouldn’t’ve let it get that bad.”

You softened instantly, guilt pressing at the edges of your own frustration. You wrapped your arms around him just as tightly, hands smoothing over his back. “I’m sorry too.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved, just holding onto each other, letting the warmth settle between you.

Then, after a pause, you murmured, “C’mon. You’re gonna burn the eggs.”

Epel let out a small laugh against your shoulder before finally pulling back, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, alright.”

You nudged him toward the stove, settling beside him. Together, you finished making breakfast, the quiet weight between you easing with every passing second.

Sebek Zigvolt

The argument had been bad. Worse than usual. Sebek had always been intense, but tonight had been different—his voice sharper, his stance rigid with frustration, his words carrying the weight of something neither of you had been willing to back down from.

So you had done the only thing you could think of before either of you said something you’d truly regret. You left.

Grabbing a blanket, you stormed off to the couch, body still buzzing with leftover adrenaline. You barely managed to settle in before you heard heavy footsteps marching straight toward you.

Then, a firm voice cut through the quiet.

“Take the bed.”

You cracked an eye open, already exhausted. Sebek stood at the edge of the couch, arms crossed, expression unyielding. His stance was as rigid as ever, but there was something beneath the surface—something uncertain, something hesitant.

You exhaled through your nose and turned over, pulling the blanket higher. “Go to sleep, Sebek.”

“I will. Once you’re in the bed where you belong.”

You groaned, but before you could snap at him, he was suddenly kneeling beside the couch, eyes burning with unshaken resolve. His voice dropped lower, quieter, the sharpness softened at the edges.

“A knight cannot allow their beloved to sleep on the couch. It is unbecoming. Please.” His jaw tightened for a moment before he exhaled and added, “I… I should not have let it get this far. I should not have raised my voice at you.” His head bowed slightly, shoulders stiff. “I am sorry.”

You blinked, caught off guard. Sebek was loud. He was brash. He was stubborn beyond reason. But kneeling there, humbled in the quiet glow of the moonlight, his apology raw and unguarded—you felt your own frustration ebb.

Slowly, you sat up, watching the way his hands clenched against his knees. And then, instead of answering, you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his.

Sebek froze.

Then, before he could react, you grabbed the front of his shirt and tugged.

He let out a startled noise as you dragged him onto the couch, his balance thrown as he landed beside you. The couch was too small—he was too tall, too broad, and neither of you fit properly. But you didn’t care.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, pressing against his chest, letting his warmth ease the last remnants of your anger.

Sebek let out a strangled sound, arms hovering as if unsure whether to hold you or allow you to push him away. When you didn’t, when you simply curled closer, his hesitation melted.

With a deep exhale, he shifted, adjusting his position so he could wrap his arms around you. His hold was steady, protective, his warmth seeping into your bones.

“…This couch is entirely unsuitable for sleeping,” he grumbled, but his voice had lost its earlier edge.

You huffed a quiet laugh, pressing your face into his shoulder. “Then go to bed.”

A pause.

“…No.”

You smiled against the fabric of his shirt, and he squeezed you a little tighter. The couch was too small, the position awkward, but as long as he was holding you, it was enough.

Masterlist