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gutsby · 3 months ago

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Honor Among Thieves

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Marrying Brooklyn’s most dangerous man was easy. Divorcing him proves to be a bit harder—particularly when you’re pregnant with his child.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Oral (f!receiving). Breeding kink. Hurt/Comfort/We-Almost-Just-Died-Sex. Morning sickness. Manslaughter. Brief coerced kissing. Beefy, mob boss Bucky is a possessive expectant father who just wants to make sure he knocked you up properly

Descriptions of violence throughout

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

“You know exactly what you’re doing.”

Bucky’s words reverberated like a shotgun’s report, skimming across two dozen feet of marble, glass, and stainless steel before reaching your ears on the opposite end of the room. He was standing at the threshold of the kitchen, and your back was turned to him. Lucky thing, too, or else he would’ve seen the smile threatening to tug at both ends of your lips—effectively blowing your cover.

“Really, I don’t have the slightest idea, Barnes,” you told him, and it took everything in you not to laugh. Having just narrowly preserved your composure, you continued, “You keep me locked in this prison all day and expect me not to find ways to entertain myself? Well, this is all it is.”

Like hell it was, you could already hear in Bucky’s head. Feeling him eye you up and down from the archway, take his first steps into the room, loosen his tie, most likely.

“Prison?” You registered a low scoff, and his voice was already so much closer than it’d been five seconds ago.

Your husband was striding as quickly as his smooth, dark, tailored suit would allow, and he was undressing as he walked. You could hear the clothes coming off but pretended not to notice. Instead staring more intently at the crab bisque simmering on the stove before you, you licked the spoon you were holding and hummed a little.

“Yes,” you answered, simply, “Prison.”

Bucky was by your side in no time at all. Up close, he smelled like rosemary, oakmoss, and gunpowder.

“Well, this is news to me,” he said. He dragged out the middle syllables of his words longer than was necessary, likely to make his move sidling up closer to you. The last sound had scarcely died in his throat more than a second or two before you felt an arm loop around your back. A hand coming to rest on your hip, then his voice, again:

“See, I never knew they built ‘prisons’ up in first-class penthouse apartments in Brooklyn. Must be pretty nice.”

Bucky stepped behind you, and you were half-certain the black suit jacket he’d come home wearing was fully removed. Again, you pretended not to see, or care.

“It’s a metaphor, James.” But your voice wavered.

“A metaphor?” Bucky’s head sank into the soft groove between your neck and your shoulder, and he kissed it.

“Yes.”

Your mouth made a sound more akin to a breath than a real, enunciated word, and you knew Bucky felt it too. He sensed this headstrong, no-bullshit façade of yours was sure to come crumbling apart any second, and each new brush of his hands and lips would be making it happen. Knowing this, he wasn’t in a rush to get the rest of his clothes off. He did, however, start to toy with yours.

“Tell me more. Am I really holding you hostage, doll?”

You took a ladle and started to stir, trying to stay cool. Meanwhile, your husband tugged gently on your dress.

“Hostage, housewife, same thing,” you muttered, low.

For once, it was Bucky’s turn to break character, as he laughed. It was short-lived and sweet, and he pressed another kiss to the skin of your neck, as if in apology.

“Right, right. I forgot. You were forced to marry me.”

“Right,” you shook your head, just slightly emboldened by the way you’d made him crack, if only for a moment, “I’m forced to marry you, move into this horrific little shanty in Brooklyn”—gesturing to the multi-million dollar apartment surrounding you both—“and then you leave me here, all by myself, with nothing to do while you go play Godfather with your mobster friends. It’s not fair.”

By the tail end of that last sentence, you and Bucky both were already grinning a little, coming to terms with just how ridiculous it sounded when you phrased it like that. Still, your husband seemed game to keep the bit going.

“Now that’s just not true,” he said, tone all faux offense.

You felt the soft snap of a ribbon coming undone, and in a second realized it was the satin bow holding the back of your dress together. The fabric loosened, and Bucky’s hands slid down your sides, over your front—of course.

“I didn’t leave you ‘by yourself’ at all, doll,” he said, and suddenly, his palms were fanning out, over something, “Gave you this baby to keep you company, didn’t I?”

The ‘something’ he was touching now was your belly. All soft and smooth and protruding out in a perfect little globe beneath your dress, no bigger than when he’d left for work that morning. Bucky treated the bump like it was a novelty all the same—like he was seeing it for the first time and couldn’t believe he was actually the one responsible for making it get like that. It had gotten to be a hobby of his, nearly, just how much he loved watching it grow. He had his fingers splayed out across your tummy virtually every chance he could get, and that didn’t stop whether you were out in public or sharing a moment in the comfort of home; he couldn’t get enough.

Which was why Bucky was right when he’d said you knew exactly what you were doing when he came home that day. You knew just the kind of effect that wearing a tight, white dress while cooking dinner would have on him, and you hoped it would rile him up just like this: with his hands roaming over every inch of your body, making soft, sweet circles along the swell of your belly, and kissing your neck again and again. Biting some, too. Getting so worked up he was all but gnawing at the skin as he drank in your scent and got lost to pure instinct.

If it wasn’t clear that Bucky had had a breeding kink before, you saw it written plain as day across his face every morning and night since he’d first learned you were pregnant. Like all the life force within him was just a byproduct of the knowledge that you were his—and this baby, growing bigger each day, was a mix of you both.

You hated to say it, but fatherhood suited your assassin-trained, mob-heading, bloodlusting husband better than anyone could have predicted in a million years or more.

Presently, Bucky flipped you around and sank to his knees. He slid you over to the counterspace area, away from the stove, and made sure to flip each knob to ‘off’ to make sure there wasn’t a chance you’d get burned. You cast one last look at the crab bisque and knew at once your hard work would have to be put on the back burner for now, because Bucky wasn’t hungry for that.

Still, you kicked a foot in soft, muted protest when you felt him slide his hands up your legs, under your dress, and start to reach for your panties. You let out a breath.

“I spent two hours perfecting the seasoning on that, Barnes,” you chided him, gently and without much admonition in your voice as you pointed to the soup, “You say you want a good little housewife but won’t even leave me un-fucked long enough to try any food I make!”

“And I’m very sorry about that, Mrs. Barnes,” Bucky replied, head disappearing beneath your skirt so he could take your underwear off with his teeth instead.

But, much like your reproach, your husband’s strained apology held less than half of its professed sincerity. Your blue cotton panties were discarded in a second, your hips pushed back against the cool white marble behind it, and Bucky, almost too cheekily, brought his head back up from underneath your dress just to steal a quick look at your belly, then up at you. He was smiling.

“Anything you make tastes amazing, honey. Daddy just needs to eat a little something beforehand, that okay?”

He already knew what you’d say. The sweet, shit-eating grin hovering over your lower half knew all that and more. Bucky just loved to tease, taking the hem of your dress between his index and thumb, and rubbing all the more tenderly, murmuring again, ‘That alright with you, pretty girl?’ and ‘My wife likes getting tonguefucked in the kitchen, doesn’t she?’ while his breaths spread over you.

You nodded that you did. Momentarily forgetting the three-course meal you’d had planned for him since early that morning, you let your knees fall limply apart from one another, and Bucky’s broad form filled the space in between. The fabric of your dress was snug, especially so over your belly. Your husband pushed the material up your hips and let it rest just high enough to expose your warmth to him. Angling your hips back the slightest bit, trailing his fingers up your thighs and inside them, gently, Bucky let out a low groan against your body, and you could feel the vibrations of it travel up your spine.

“I really am mean for keeping you here all day, aren’t I?” he teased, sliding the tips of his fingers between your glistening folds and watching you jolt in response.

“So— so mean. Bucky, please.”

Your voice was far more hoarse than circumstances would seem to beget; your husband had just eaten you out that morning. Nevertheless, your hand was trembling as it reached for his head. Your pull was taut and dire. While your fingers threaded in through his hair and your body opened itself more and more for him, you could feel that kind smile, even if you couldn’t see it. Frankly, the swelling of eight-and-a-half months made it difficult to see much of anything below the waist, but Bucky made sure to let you know he was there. By holding your hand, skimming his lips against your skin, starting, just then, to sink his fingers in toward the heat of your body, and softly pulling his face away so he could look up at you.

“Baby?” he breathed.

Your eyes locked with his as he slid two fingers inside you. The stretch alone was enough to put your brain on the fritz, but, fighting the first shockwaves of pleasure:

“Y-Yeah?”

He withdrew. Pressed them back in and let out a grunt.

“I need you to do something for me.”

You couldn’t fathom what that might be, but you nodded anyway. ‘Anything’ was what you managed to choke out.

“And you might not like it, doll.”

Your eyes widened some.

“O— O-Okay, what?”

Bucky’s fingers curled inside you, and a short, sharp streak of dizzying pleasure pulsed through your body. Your knees felt weak, and your mind even worse, but with what little resolve you had left, you were able to keep your eyes entirely open and fastened to his. A look that struck you as almost bittersweet crossed your husband’s features, and you saw his gaze soften again.

“I need you to wake up,” he said, calmly.

“What?”

Your toes curled tight underneath you, and the warmth between your legs leapt up to over a thousand degrees.

“Melaya, I need you to wake up.”

At the same time, your blood ran cold in your veins. Surely, you couldn’t be hearing him right if the voice he used was so gruff and low—and laden with a Russian lilt.

“Bucky? What— What do you mean?”

But you knew. Or suspected something of it anyway.

Now the sound from your own throat was hardly one that you recognized as yours, so shrill and high and strange—what could he mean by that? Why was he watching you in that way? Your husband wasn’t smiling so brightly anymore, and the once-gratifying conflagration between your legs had grown to an almost scorching degree, no longer nice, generous, or pleasurable in the slightest.

“We need you to wake up now, honey. Right now.”

His tone, too, was distorted. Grating.

“Bucky, I-I don’t underst—”

“WAKE UP!”

Natasha shook you hard, and it hurt.

She didn’t mean for it to. She just needed you up and out of bed, and you’d been asleep for almost fourteen hours.

You started at the fifth or sixth shake, nearly punching yourself in the face when you tried yanking a set of covers up and over your head and discovered, shortly, that there was none. You were splayed out on a bed in an as-yet unfamiliar home—Steve’s new place—and, while you slept, you’d kicked all of the blankets you’d been given the night before off your body and onto the floor.

Your eyes were wide as saucers as they darted to Nat’s.

There was no need to say what had happened—she knew these dreams were getting worse by the day.

It’d been a week since you fled your Brooklyn apartment in an all-out terror. A week since a senseless, short-sighted idea on your part had led to the discovery that your husband was once part of a HYDRA sleeper cell whose activation phrase turned him into an agent of total destruction at will. A week since you’d seen a half dozen bodies litter your living room floor, more still being bludgeoned by the so-called ‘Winter Soldier,’ as Bucky had formerly been known. A week since you’d sobbed in Natasha’s arms and begged her not to let you go back. A week since you’d been obliged to hide out in Steve Rogers’ new bachelor pad upstate, because, frankly, there was nowhere else you could safely live until this whole ordeal with Bucky was settled—if it ever would be.

A full week since you’d learned you were pregnant, too.

As far as you knew, your husband was wholly unaware of this fact, and of Steve’s most recent real estate purchase up in Buffalo, and you’d been existing in a semi-serene and largely dissociated state for the past seven days.

Your gaze adjusted to the light, and you blinked up at Nat, feeling damp in just about every place on your body. You looked down and found yourself drenched in sweat.

“Hydrate. Please.”

It wasn’t so much a request as it was a standing order: Nat holding out a glass of water and instructing you to drink. Though your first instinct was to make a face and shake your head—you’d found that any new fluids in your body this early in the morning would only get thrown back up when you made your first frantic trip to the toilet—you accepted it anyway. You drank three big gulps to appease the woman standing next to the bed, then wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and smiled

“I’m gonna go puke now,” you said.

“Aim for inside the toilet bowl if you can,” Steve called out from the doorway. By the look on his face, you’d been doing a pretty shit job of aiming vomit lately.

“My bad, Rogers.”

You had a hand on your stomach, slowly easing back up into a seated position, when you heard something being flung across the room, followed by a ‘HEY!’ and a crash.

“Your aim sucks, too, Romanoff,” Steve griped, loudly, “And I was kidding. She can puke wherever she wants.”

By the door, a hefty hardcover book lay open on the floor. Apparently Nat’s options for projectiles had been limited.

“All good, Rogers,” you offered anyway. Fighting a smirk.

You were starting to stand, and your head felt as if you’d just taken your first steps off a rocking boat. Your other hand jumped to your mouth, and you muttered, ‘Fuck’ before brushing past Nat and her outstretched arms.

She held your hair while Steve retrieved the glass of water, as well as a towel. The unsightly first trimester ritual proceeded as it had for all of the last week, with Nat rubbing circles in your back and Steve making well-meaning but completely useless live commentary like, ‘Babies are a real pain in the ass, aren’t they?’ At the conclusion of each new stupid remark, Natasha would shoot a dirty look his way, but you never let her shoo him away. Through no conscious choice of your own, Steve had become something of a comfort blanket over the course of the past chaotic days. At the very least, you two were no longer at each other’s throats flinging accusations and exorbitantly-priced tumblers in the other’s direction, which was a marked improvement from where you were the day after you and Bucky’s wedding.

At length, you lifted your head from the toilet, and he daubed at your cheek with the towel—mostly just trying to wipe off spit and your own queasy-looking expression. He succeeded in clearing away just the former, but you forced a smile all the same, then shared it with Natasha.

Nat couldn’t smile back. In fact, the grimace on her face only etched even deeper, and her forehead creased.

“This is a horrible time to be asking you this, I know—”

“Nat, please.” Steve groaned.

Nat, what? There wasn’t a lot more that could catch you off guard after all the shit you’d come to see that week. Still, Nat’s breaths were both measured and slow, and you could see she was chewing on the inside of her cheek like she wasn’t quite sure how best to phrase her words. This, coming from one of the most astute legal minds this side of the Hudson River, gave you pause.

“Ask anything. I’m pretty numb, if you haven’t noticed.” You rapped on the side of your head for comedic effect, but neither Natasha nor Steve laughed or cracked a grin.

“How do you feel about filing for divorce tomorrow?”

At the sound of Nat’s words, you felt the bile jump back up your throat. You knew there wasn’t enough food or fluid to make much of anything now, but all the same, you craned your neck back over the toilet and retched. When nothing came out, as expected, you turned back.

“What?”

Natasha looked a little ill herself, but still, she continued.

“How do you feel about just…fast-tracking a divorce from him and taking off new? We’ll talk assets later.”

Assets? Fast-track? Divorce? What the fuck?

“What the fuck, Nat?” you repeated as much out loud.

It normally wasn’t your thing to be so blunt with her, but the inquiry certainly seemed to invite some extra candor. You swiped at your mouth for any excess spit that might’ve trickled out, crudely, and in a second, Steve was handing you the towel. Then helping you to your feet, holding your arm and lower back in a grip you could feel was secure. You were unsteady on your legs, so he and Natasha guided you over to the sink, where you could regain your bearings and freshen up a bit. Sneaking a look at your reflection in the mirror was a bad idea; your face was sallow, and the rest of your body had every appearance of being horribly weak, for lack of a better word. You caught a glimpse of a gash sitting just above your left temple and immediately looked away. Stupidly, you hoped Steve and Nat hadn’t seen it.

“He did that to you,” Nat said without missing a beat.

You winced, and you washed your hands, not looking up.

“I thought you said it wasn’t him. Soldat, you told me.” And for a second, your eyes flickered to Steve, whose expression was a touch more sympathetic, if not visibly discomfited now. Like he didn’t want to speak for once.

He did, anyway: “Doesn’t matter if it was Winter or him, really. Point is he hurt you while trying to protect y—”

“And yet, you asked me to forgive him just last week for killing my dad in the same type of rage,” you replied, and instantly regretted the accusatory tone you’d taken on.

Your anger was misdirected at Steve. It wasn’t his fault for sharing the truth about your husband’s—his best friend’s—past when you’d asked him. These were queries you’d made, helping to form justifications for your own decision to stay after what had happened in Madripoor. Obviously, Steve would be biased to help support his friend in a time of need. But now things were different; Bucky had never been activated as soldat and ended up hurting someone he’d loved before. Steve was free to change his mind after seeing that happen and urge you to leave, or at least reconsider, your marriage to Bucky.

The second look you gave him attempted to convey as much, a bit more apologetic as he and Natasha led the way out of the bathroom. Steve smiled and held your arm again, though you probably didn’t need it. You walked downstairs to the kitchen together. Over by the toaster, Sam was inspecting a charred bagel with a scowl

“Rogers, you really need to ditch this shit,” he said, gesturing to the rusted metal contraption that appeared to be from 1918, and had just burnt two bagels to a crisp.

“It was a gift from a friend, piss off,” Steve replied, grinning a little. Reaching for the blackened bread roll and even going so far as to take a bite, crunching loudly.

“Did your friend happen to fight in World War II?” Nat asked. She lent one look to the archaic machine but said nothing further, opting instead to take a seat at the kitchen table, where a sea of papers was strewn about.

Then, to you, “Come. Sit.”

Somewhere in your tentative stroll from where you stood to where she sat, and in the middle of the men’s toaster bickering, Sam called out that he’d have bacon and eggs ready in a second. Steve offered up his singed sesame bagel in the interim, and you told him no thanks. With a still slightly throbbing skull and a nauseous gait, you took the chair next to Nat’s and looked down at her papers.

Honestly, you thought your present condition might warrant some leeway when it came to holding off on the heavy-hitting topics first thing, but, to your surprise, Natasha slid a crisp white packet over almost instantly.

“Nat, what the fuck?” you groaned for the second time.

“Read it. Give it a second to digest, then we can—”

“No!” you cut in, pushing the packet back to her with a little more force than you’d meant, “I-I can’t. Not now.”

On the very first page, in bold and capitalized typeface, there was printed a brief string of words you’d never wanted—or thought you would ever need—to see:

‘VERIFIED COMPLAINT: ACTION FOR DIVORCE’

“It’s just the petition. No harm in taking a look,” Nat said.

You could hear a faintly gentler tone in her voice, even as you shook your head and looked away from the papers.

“I don’t want to. I can’t do this right now.” You kept shaking your head for a couple seconds after, turning your gaze instead to the bay window of Steve’s kitchen.

A nice, sprawling yard stretched as far as you could see. In the distance, a fuzzy white horizon was punctuated the slightest bit by the outline of a wood fence, but apart from that, the land was empty. The lot was secluded. Happy and effervescent in a nearly cloudless sky, the midmorning sun cast its rays without so much as the threat of a storm’s hinderance. You fixed your eyes on the clear expanse above and silently wished it would rain.

Before more than a minute or two had passed like that, Sam was approaching the table with two platters. Steve balanced four more by himself, watching the sway of one plate of scrambled eggs in his arms with a wary look before setting each one of the dishes on the table.

“Bon appétit,” Steve said, butchering his French just about as badly as Sam had the bagels. You and Nat thanked them both anyway and started clearing off the table, pushing papers away in favor of steaming plates. Sam and Steve sat down, and all of you began to eat.

While you dutifully piled on each scoop of eggs, bacon, sausage links, biscuits, gravy, and grits—far more than you knew you could feasibly consume—you wished again for a rainstorm, and maybe a quiet breakfast. One that wasn’t marred by talks of legal separation and lengthy battles in court, if you could help it at all. To this end, and perhaps against your body’s best interest, you shoveled two supersized spoonfuls of egg in your mouth, so that if Nat tried reviving those subjects again, you could put off the conversation by simply continuing to chew. You felt your stomach turn inside you but, stubbornly, ate more.

You had just swallowed it all, about to make way for a warm, flaky buttermilk biscuit, when a sound cut in, and your belly flipped again. Your teeth had barely sunk into the bread a second when Nat set her own food aside, then used two fingers to push something toward you.

“Just skim it. Let me explain what the process can be,” she said, tapping her index on the first line and meeting your eyes as if to plead. She had to have known she’d be met with resistance—from you, of course, but also Steve. She raised a defensive hand to him before he even cut in:

“Come the fuck on, Nat. Will you give her a break?”

“I’m saying this for her sake! I’m doing it for her.”

“And throwing divorce papers in her face over breakfast is really the best way of going about it? Is that for her?”

Sam swallowed whatever he’d been chewing on, glanced down at the top paper, and seemed to brace himself.

“Guys, is now really the right time—” he started.

“That’s what I’m saying!” Steve barked over him.

Natasha ignored the plainly disdainful look from the latter, lifted her hand off the paperwork and instead trained her gaze solely on you. Just like she had in Zurich. Focusing intently on your face, ignoring whatever Steve or Sam were saying in the moment, she turned to you and found your expression was stale. Unmoving. Frankly, half of what was running through your mind right then was how badly you wanted to puke again. As if the eggs had turned rotten in your gut the second they reached their destination in your GI tract, you felt a heavy, oppressive fog of nausea taking shape between your ears, and you just wanted everyone to stop talking.

Sam and Steve continued on without a hitch, agreeing vaguely but also appearing to bicker over other things, like when was the most appropriate time to have this conversation. Natasha was leaning in, reaching for your hand this time, and you knew she meant well. You would bet any large sum of money there wasn’t a malicious bone in her body, and she was doing this for your benefit. All the same, you were grateful when the front door swung back on its hinges, and a new person walked in. Nat, Sam, and Steve all suspended their conversations.

“Hey, wh—” the blissfully unaware, semi-stranger began.

“Sharon!” Steve cried, “Would you tell Romanoff she’s being a goddamn pest with no sense of boundaries?”

Sharon halted at the threshold of the house, skating a look between Nat and Steve at first, then Steve and Sam, then just at you. The look didn’t linger for long, and before you knew it, she was setting down a fistful of grocery bags and twisting her mouth into a frown.

“Will you shut up, Steve?” was her only response.

Sam rose from his chair and pointed as if to say, ‘Yeah, that’ before joining her in the foyer to help carry in the Wegmans bags. Natasha leaned back in her chair with a vaguely pleased look, and Steve just rolled his eyes. He slapped his palm overtop the stack of divorce papers still laying before you and, seemingly undeterred, continued,

“Do you think it’s fair for her to force divorce papers on this poor soul—” pointing to you, the poor soul, apparently, “—when it’s been a week since she left?”

Sharon started handing off the frozen stuff first, sliding a box of Stouffer’s across the counter to Sam, who then deposited it in the freezer. These exchanges took place in relatively quick succession, with Sharon only chancing a look toward the kitchen table once or twice as they did.

“I think she should do whatever the hell she wants,” she said, “And I think their divorce is none of our business.”

Fair enough take. One that you could respect, at the very least, even if you weren’t certain she particularly cared for you at all. You reckoned she had no reason to, and on the whole, appeared to be a pretty reserved person.

You wanted to add a word in her defense, reiterate to Steve that he didn’t have to go to bat for you, the poor, defenseless soul, right now. Instead of being able to speak, though, you felt an upsurge of something heavy in your throat. You clamped a hand to your mouth again, cheeks flushing with the heady sensation and also out of embarrassment, then pushed your chair back and stood.

“I— gotta—” you stammered, just audible to the table, through the wall your fingers had made over your lips.

You sprinted up the stairs without another word.

The first trimester ritual repeated, and ten minutes later, you re-emerged from the bathroom feeling two big spoonfuls of scrambled eggs lighter and still none the happier, healthier, or wiser. You took a peek in the full-length mirror at the other end of the room and discerned from a distance of ten feet that you looked like dogshit.

You flopped down on the bed face-first, heedless of the pool of sweat that still encompassed roughly half of it, and let out a weak, muffled breath into the sheets. Someone had been gracious enough to replace all the blankets and pillows you’d kicked off last night. When you heard a knock on the door, it sounded a lot like Nat’s.

You rolled to the side, eyes screwed shut in frustration.

“If you’ve come to tell me my marriage is a fucking dumpsterfire, I agree completely, Natasha. I’m dumb.”

A little huff of a half-laugh sounded from the doorway. You opened your eyes and saw Sharon standing there.

Up close, she looked a little paler than you’d remembered seeing her last in Switzerland. Soft beads of perspiration dotted her neckline from what had likely been a hot and arduous journey walking up the driveway with all the food, and presently, she seemed tired. She wore a simple gingham blouse that had her eyes shining with vibrance, though, and both hands, you noticed, were full—she had a mug in one and a spoon in the other. She smiled kindly.

“The mob tends to have that effect,” she said, strolling in. Setting the mug on the nightstand and easing the spoon into it, stirring, “Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

You had no idea what all she knew about your marriage. You weren’t so sure you could extricate yourself from all the blame of having the thing go up in flames in four short weeks. Nevertheless, you smiled back and offered up something good-humored in return, like, well, I’m not exactly winning wife of the fucking year anytime soon.

Again, Sharon chuckled. It was small. She leaned back against the nearest armchair and, pointing to the cup she’d left to rest on the nightstand, said in a soft voice,

“Give that a minute. It’s hot.”

You glanced over and saw a little string that you guessed was attached to a teabag sitting at the bottom of the mug. The drink smelled like chamomile, maybe. You sat up, readjusted your pyjama top, then slid your socked feet underneath you so you could scoot closer to the edge of the bed. On a deeper inhale, you decided the tea was definitely chamomile. And too hot, as Sharon said.

“Thank you,” you told her.

“It’s not poisoned, I promise,” she replied. Letting out that funny little chuckle of hers—one too low to be considered a full laugh, but very close—and then, seeming to realize what she said might’ve sounded off, “Like— I heard what happened with Schröder. Him trying to drug you after the wedding and all…that. I— I’m sorry.”

Bad time to be making jokes, she appeared to chastise herself, but you just nodded along with the faintest grin.

“It’s OK. I’d pay money to be knocked the fuck out now.”

You grinned bigger, and she smiled too.

“It should make you sleepier, if you wanted to nap.”

You replied that you would, in fact, love to be unconscious right now if it meant not having to put up with all this bullshit morning sickness, and you slowly reached for the mug. Sharon stood up, and while you took your first sips, she fluffed the pillows behind you.

She was right. The tea felt like a hug. You settled under the covers and brought the cup to your lips once more, taking two big draughts before setting the drink aside. Yeah, that shit’ll put you right out, no drugs needed. You sank even further under the sheets and watched Sharon hover between the bed and the doorway, looking around as if trying to find something to do—some way to make herself feel more useful, if you had to guess from the pensive look in her eyes. Finally, she settled closer to the door and gave you one, fairly sanguine look. The warmth of your drink had already begun to nestle inside your weary bones, and your eyelids felt heavier. Still, you tried to return the sunny look before getting fully settled.

“Thanks again, Sharon. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, of course.”

She started to leave. In fact, she’d already made it three-fourths out of the room when something stopped her in her tracks. She turned back to you, and you looked up.

“This…probably doesn’t mean a whole lot coming from me, but—whatever you decide to do with Bucky…is okay. We’ll support you, whether you choose to raise this baby with him or do…whatever it is you want to do. Don’t let Nat or Steve or Sam or anybody tell you differently. It’s your choice, y’know, whether you wanna stay married…”

Sharon trailed off, and somewhere inside, you could tell she meant to finish with words like, ‘…even if you didn’t get to make the choice to get married in the first place.’ You appreciated it. You beamed with just your head poking out from over the covers and thanked her again.

And, before she left, for the second time, she stopped. She walked over to the nightstand and bent slightly at the waist, just enough to set something small down. You turned to the side and saw a vial—a minuscule tube—on the surface. Your eyes widened, realizing what it was.

“Sam picked it up in Madripoor. He said Steve had given this to you…to, uh, give to Schröder, and I thought you should have it back,” she said, pausing, “Just in case.”

You eyed the little vial of poison on the nightstand and nodded, still not completely understanding. Your head throbbed, your stomach was still turning, churning. Your brain was about ten blinks away from logging off entirely and drifting to sleep. All you could do, then, was repeat what Sharon had said as you exchanged one final look.

“Just in case.”

Your eyes closed, and you fell asleep very soon after.

You couldn’t have been out for more than an hour; you were sure of it. However, the next time you glanced over at the clock on the bedside table, you saw it read 11:04.

P.M.

Shit.

SHIT.

That chamomille tea was no fucking joke.

Just as your thoughts drifted back to Sharon, the conversation you’d shared, the drink she’d given you, the poison she’d left behind for you to keep, you heard her voice all over again—and now, not just in your own head.

Presently, she was standing over your bed again, though the room was much darker this time around. She pressed a finger to her lips, hey, please, please, be quiet, alright? At first you wanted to make a sharp and strangled sound. A cry for help? You weren’t sure. Didn’t know. Couldn’t see very much of the woman at all, except for the outline of her face from the moonlight streaming in through the window. She stared and ‘shh’ed’ some more.

And you were contemplating yelling out a loud obscenity in response to it when next she cut in, markedly gentler:

“Keep it quick. Nat and the guys will be back in thirty.”

You blinked hard into the darkness and waited for your vision, or else your still-missing voice, to return. It didn’t. You just stared back, eyelids going up and down and up and down like a goddamn idiot gone sluggish off one too many Quaaludes, and it was several seconds more before she gestured behind her, into the shadows.

You tensed under the covers, chock-full of terror. You squinted, and shrank, and might’ve nearly pissed yourself were it not for the intervening force of a face.

A familiar face.

Bucky’s face.

You leapt up from the bed, displacing each one of Sharon’s cool and careful warnings from your mind all at once. You didn’t mean to, and as soon as she’d shushed you again, you shut your mouth. Fell still. Sharon slipped out of the room, reminding you both, again, that you had to be quiet, and you had to be quick. Then it was just you and Bucky. Silence and slightly less than five feet of space between you two. Then, shortly, no space to spare at all, as you ran to meet each for a hug a second later.

Your head struck his chest, and it was hard. That, alongside the python’s squeeze he wrapped around your body, hugging you to him in the tightest embrace imaginable, had your mind reeling, skull pulsing just a bit. You pulled back and stood smiling up at Bucky, whose eyes were wide, drinking the sight of you in.

‘Are you hurt?’ were his first words.

You shook your head that you weren’t, still unable to talk.

“Why are you— Who— who brought you— I didn’t—”

It seemed Bucky was equally hard-pressed to form a sentence himself, while his eyes were roaming wildly, all over you. Looking for bumps or bruises or cuts, whatever the wound might have been. He stumbled to the lamp and flicked it on. You tilted your head left, reflexively.

“I’m fine, Bucky,” you said. Sudden and swift, “I’m good.”

But you didn’t move your head too far to the right, either, for fear he might see the cut above your temple—the one soldat had caused when he’d pushed you to the floor, trying to protect you from a threat he couldn’t see.

As it was, your husband seemed to be too much in shock to see anything else apart from what stood immediately in front of him. He hugged you again. He kissed the crown of your head. He constricted your body so tight in his arms you felt a pressure start to build behind your eyes, and suddenly you weren’t so much pulling away as you were wrenching your body from him. When you met Bucky’s gaze again, the sweet blue irises were glossy.

“Nat wouldn’t say where you were, just that you were safe and needed to be…be alone for a while, but I—” He stopped, and it was as if he couldn’t even finish with the words, because his breath was stuck in his throat and his eyes were stinging too much. He looked down, briefly.

You wanted to reach for his hand but hesitated. He took yours a second later, holding extra tight as he continued:

“I thought I’d— thought you might’ve…left. I don’t know. I hadn’t been able to sleep, and then she— Sharon, she called me tonight, said you were here, so— so—”

You felt a pang of guilt holding his gaze, seeing how all the hurt that had come to accumulate behind those eyes over the last week went spilling, at length, into emotions he was either too overcome or sleep-deprived to express. The weight of this suffocated him, made him extra quick to speak his mind but slow to make sense of just about anything that was coming out of his mouth. He stopped, sucked in a breath, then pinched your hand in his, and you didn’t know what to do. You had no idea what to say.

“I was scared, Bucky.”

It sounded pathetic coming out of your mouth. Your husband nodded as though you’d just said the most profound thing in the world. His knuckles went white from just how hard he was gripping your hand, his head bobbed along in agreement, and for a moment, you winced to think that he might hug you again. Instead, the fingers tangled between yours just made a tighter knot.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said.

“You scared me,” you added, voice wavering.

Your left hand was going numb. You didn’t want to give him pause—possibly hurt his feelings—by freeing your touch from his, but that grip was brutal. Deathly rigid and unforgiving. Thoughts of Brooklyn and Madripoor came flooding back; Bucky was so much stronger than he realized. His tone, in contrast, was dulcet and soft.

“I didn’t know I’d get like that. I should’ve told you, doll.”

“I shouldn’t have tried the activation in the first place.”

You shouldn’t have tried digging into Bucky’s past all. When all there seemed to be at every turn was a brand new way for him to hurt you, or the people you loved, maybe there came a time when you had to stop asking questions altogether. Maybe that was what his mother and all the women who’d gone before her had known to do, what you had been too stupid to see all along. There was no knowing these men at all, only taking them as they were and learning to cope with what they became.

Bucky shook his head.

“No, doll, it’s not on you,” he murmured low. Still forceful

Thankfully, he released your hand to cup your cheeks, and he kissed your forehead. You felt your pulse in your palm, throbbing from where he’d held it. When he let go the second time, his expression was considerably softer.

“Listen, I’ll take you home, we can talk things over. As long as I know you’re safe, it doesn’t have to— to—”

Hey. He was already halfway toward the door before he realized you weren’t following him. He turned and gestured forward. He beckoned you, brows drawing in.

“Baby? C’mon.”

You didn’t budge.

Your feet were rooted in place, as though cemented to the floor. No matter how much you wanted to appease him, go along with whatever he asked, you couldn’t. You shook your head, and Bucky tilted his own, confused.

“Baby?”

“I’m leaving, Bucky.”

You couldn’t hear your own words slipping out between your teeth, only the blood rushing through your ears. Bucky stopped and turned to face you completely.

“What?”

“I’m leaving.”

“What— what do you mean, ‘you’re leaving’?”

“I want a divorce.”

That part you did hear yourself. You wished you hadn’t.

You wished you hadn’t seen the light break off from Bucky’s eyes, expression going limp the instant your words registered with him. You nearly wished you hadn’t said them at all, seeing just how far his face fell and how hurt he looked by them—but quietly, from somewhere more rational-headed inside yourself, there was a voice reminding the rest of you that it needed to be done. You couldn’t keep pretending like this wasn’t what had had to come next. What you’d been skirting with Nat all day and hadn’t been able to bring yourself to admit before now.

Your husband still didn’t seem to be computing it fully. He walked closer to you, and his gait was unsteady.

“Divorce?”

Your vision was bleary; you hadn’t even realized tears had begun to brim at your waterline as you watched him.

“It’s what we need, Bucky,” you could barely get it out.

“I don’t,” he shot back, not missing a beat, “I don’t.”

“It’s what I need.”

“You don’t mean that.”

His voice was hoarse, face shifting from lax incredulity to one of a wince—screwed up in a way that said he felt ill. You shook your head but couldn’t look away from him.

“You don’t mean that,” he repeated.

“It’s what I want,” you pressed on, just as sick yourself.

“You said what you wanted was me.” Again, Bucky’s voice splintered, and you could feel the pain in it.

“You said you wouldn’t hurt me, Bucky.”

Gritting your teeth, unsure where else to fix your stare on his face but those eyes—while your own betrayed their feelings too easily, fraught with wet, rolling tears—you shouldn’t have been surprised when his went wider.

“What are you talking about?”

The question was short, sharp, and biting, spoken with such haste as might be mistaken for anger, but the eyes softened his look at once. The anguish painting them now as he stared back at you were a proof, beyond a doubt, that it was betrayal, not rage, which steered him. He turned, and it was as if he couldn’t see a thing but you; his elbow clipped the lamp and knocked it over, but still, he just stared. In turn, the ceramic appliance rolled onto its side, toppled the mug and the vial beside it, and all three went crashing to the floor. Bucky didn’t blink.

“Wh—” he started again, but you didn’t hear the rest.

You remembered Sharon. Heard a flash of her last admonition in your head—be quiet, be quick—and without thinking, you fell to your knees. You tried retrieving what pieces of chipped lamp and shattered mug you could, quickly. You spotted the small vial on the floor and shoved it in a pocket. Your hands swept over the broken pieces without any real idea of what you were doing—all except needing to clean Bucky’s mess—and then swiftly, stupidly, you tried picking it up by yourself.

Of course, a shard cut you. The little slit that was left in its wake could have been no wider than a fraction of an inch, but still, it bled. You looked down at the cut, just then starting to sprout red from left to right along the side of your palm, when a new sight crossed your vision. It was fast, too. All but thoughtless in the way it broke in, gripping your hand in his, and yanking you to your feet. Bucky hadn’t seen that you’d cut yourself, it seemed, and, out of instinct, had grabbed your hand to help you up. As before, his grasp was like a vice, and his thumb pressed right inside the lacerated flesh, sending a whole new maelstrom of pain shooting up your wrist and arm. Now, as then, he was heedless of his strength and his sheer, brute force, that he didn’t even see the effect of his grip. He just held on, held you, tighter, tighter, and—

“STOP!” you shrieked.

You shoved him off. Pried his touch off your palm and gripped your forearm in your other hand and pored over the sight, seeing the gash almost doubled in size from just where Bucky’s finger had sunk into the fresh wound. You let out a sharp, muffled cry through lips that tried to stay closed—remembering Sharon again. You shook your head, clenched your jaw, and tore off the other direction.

And when your husband reached out, eyes wide with their own shock and apologies, ‘Baby, fuck, I’m so sorr—’ you threw him off again. With your non-bleeding palm, you thrust your hand against his chest and pushed hard:

“Don’t touch me!”

When he reached for you again, as if by force of habit, you held up a defensive arm and sobbed out, ‘Stop!’

‘Don’t touch me, don’t—don’t—don’t fucking touch me.’

You screamed it. You didn’t mean to. Thinking only vaguely of the need to be quiet, and almost entirely on the stabbing pain in your hand, the imprint of Bucky’s touch on your body, and the blood trickling down your forearm, you darted into the bathroom and threw the door closed behind you. You locked it. You meant to.

Twenty minutes might as well have been twenty years in Bucky Barnes’ mind. In a moment like this, following yet another supreme fuck up on his part, he felt powerless. He had had to fight the instinct to barge into the next room over with every fiber of his being, and, making fists by his sides and pacing the floor and hating himself was all that seemed capable of occupying his mind just then.

He’d knocked on the bathroom door at least ten times. He’d been ignored each time, no matter the duration.

He still had your blood on his thumb, and it made him ill.

You said you wouldn’t hurt me, Bucky.

While he uncurled his hand from a fist just long enough to stare at the streaks of red stretched over his finger, he heard those words replay over and over again in his head. He’d said it—swore it—himself, and still your blood was turning a cool, dark, dry shade of crimson on his thumb.

This wasn’t how he’d meant for any of this to go. Still, notwithstanding his best intentions, none of it mattered. He’d seen a sincere look of fear in your eyes looking up at him, and nothing in the world would change what he’d done, or who he was. He’d caused you pain tonight, last week—though his memory of that was still so hazy and dark he hardly knew what else had happened, even now—and above all, he’d failed you as a husband, a protector.

You were likely curled up in a ball by the bathroom sink, cowering in fear because of him. The thought sent another tidal wave of nausea thrumming through his skull, a lump in his throat growing larger alongside it, and before he knew what he was doing, Bucky was striding back to the bathroom door. He banged his fist against it.

“Honey?”

No answer.

“Baby, please open the door.”

More silence.

The moment brought to mind a memory from the night you two had been married. How you’d fled to the en-suite bathroom and locked yourself in it; how Bucky had rattled the whole doorframe with the force of his knocks, demanding you come out. He’d hardly known you then. You hardly knew him now. The realization of this made the weight in his throat all the more excruciating as he stood, and, wincing with pain, Bucky kept knocking.

“I’m sorry, honey, I’m so sorry.”

Pleading now. His voice was hoarse all over again.

Had he been the slightest bit more desperate and reckless, he might’ve been tempted to muscle through, kick the door in with his boot. But Bucky knew better. He could already guess how much that action would terrify you now, while tending to an injury that he himself had inadvertently made worse. Barreling inside would be neither romantic nor sweet, just sinking what may then be a lethal dose of salt in the deeper, metaphorical wound. He refrained. Instead of continuing to knock, he dropped his forehead to the door and closed his eyes.

“Please believe me, baby,” he tried again.

He’d said it so quietly he feared you might not hear it. Then, a little bit louder, ‘Please, please believe me.’

No sound to be heard inside but running water.

“You mean everything to me, doll.”

By now, his voice was clogged with pain, teetering on the brink of agony as he rested his hands on the door, and willed you to open it. Say something to him. Anything.

“I’d never mean to hurt you. Not in a million years.”

For a moment, he heard nothing more. Just how desperately he needed to hear a voice in reply could not be overstated. Craving a new sound worse than oxygen in his lungs. At first, when he heard something other than himself nearby, it nearly knocked him back with joy.

A voice right next to his ear, “But you did, didn’t you?”

The joy lasted less than a second.

The voice beside him was low. And close. Not coming from the other side of the bathroom door, as he might’ve reasonably expected from you, and not even in the tone of a female’s voice, as he might’ve seen, were Sharon to have appeared by his side. This new voice was deep, and masculine, and in his ear now, chuckling some as a gloved hand pressed the barrel of a gun to his temple.

Bucky didn’t blink.

You stepped outside not wanting to see him.

The bleeding had long since stopped, thanks to the aid of a cool, damp washcloth and a few minutes’ pressure, but even once it ceased, your legs were reluctant to carry you back. You dreaded the thought of having to resume your conversation with Bucky—of having to look him in the eye and tell him all over again that it wasn’t safe for you to be married to him. But you didn’t have much of a choice now, either. This wasn’t your honeymoon, where you could stay locked in the bathroom, try climbing out a window, and hope for the best like you’d done before. You had the man’s child inside you, for fuck’s sake.

That uncomfortable subject and at least a dozen more were already swarming your brain as you made your way out of the bathroom. You’d taken a few extra squares of toilet paper to press into the cut, were looking down at it with a tense, uncertain gaze as you ventured out, when you were obliged to stop just a few steps into the room.

“Hi, honey.”

It wasn’t Bucky.

Your eyes snapped up to the source of the voice in an instant, and, on seeing you were right—that it wasn’t Bucky but a gaunt, grinning blond with a gun to your husband’s head—you almost screamed at the sight.

You’d wanted to scream, anyway. It would’ve been the sane thing to do, and one that nobody could’ve blamed you for in the moment, you reckoned, but strangely the sound never came. You just stared at the two, eyes wide and jaw slightly more lax as your lips made an ‘o’. Bile jumped up in your throat. You wished it would choke you.

‘Please. Don’t.’ was all you could get out.

Johann Schröder’s smile stretched wider.

“Don’t what?”

The question was clearly meant to be derisive, rhetorical. Still, with your fingers trembling, you tried answering:

“Don’t hurt h—”

“Why?”

You watched the gun sink deeper against your husband’s face, and he flinched. Your stomach clenched inside you.

“Why shouldn’t I hurt him, hon? Seems like he’s gotten pretty damn good at doing it to you,” Schröder sneered.

His words stung. The grin didn’t flinch. And, as if to punctuate his sentence, or else remind your husband that he was tied to a chair and entirely at his mercy now, Schröder struck Bucky in the face with the butt of his gun. If an onlooker hadn’t known better, they might’ve mistaken you for the one who’d been hit, though—at last, you unleashed that scream, and you reached out for Bucky, hands open and pathetic and desperate to help.

“Think it hurt as bad as your hand?” Schröder hummed.

Your feet were stumbling forward, “He didn’t mean—”

Another resounding thud against Bucky’s skull, this time hard enough to split his lip in half. If he’d grimaced in the slightest, you would’ve seen the teeth smeared with blood. But, true to form, James Barnes didn’t wince. He hadn’t even seemed to acknowledge the blow as it landed. Just stared at you and, with eyes as hollow and deadened and faintly pleading as you’d ever seen them before, manifested their silent apology to yours—again.

“Bet he didn’t mean to hurt anyone as the Winter Soldier, either. Still couldn’t have felt too good for all the folks he butchered, though.” At that, Schröder’s sick amusement morphed into a laugh, and he was taking Bucky’s collar in his other hand. Shaking him lightly while he spoke.

“Couldn’t have felt all that great for your dad, I bet.”

The diversion turned to you, all toothy smiles and mocking eyes. He didn’t care. He let you stagger another step toward the two of them, even try to get your hands close to Bucky. But when you’d drawn too close, he stopped you cold. Not thinking much else in the moment, you made a move to push Schröder’s arm away, hard, and were shortly rewarded with a shove of your own. He knocked you sideways onto the bed, and you landed on the hand you’d hurt. Before you could let out so much as a sound yourself, Bucky’s voice tore in:

“Schröder.”

Schröder turned. He raised his Ruger to your husband’s head again, as casually as if he’d asked him for the time.

“Yes?”

“Don’t touch her.”

Schröder turned to you. Though he didn’t move the Ruger again, he did point his finger at your form, haplessly curled into itself amidst the covers and pillows.

“Why? Saving all the rough stuff for later, are we?”

You cowered as his free hand reached for you, and just as your husband’s eyes went wide and a vein nearly tore through his skin from how hard it protruded, you cried,

“What do you want?!”

Schröder stopped. He brought his hand to a halt just south of your thigh—and then he dropped his weight on the bed beside you. He gestured indistinctly, almost disbelievingly, toward Bucky. The latter appeared near-apoplectic, nails raking down either arm of the chair.

“What do I want?” Schröder quipped, incredulous, “What do you want, doll? To stay married to him?”

And you knew he’d intended the question to be hurtful; you knew it by the glint in his eye, the goading tone of voice and the look he’d flitted to Bucky—nondescript and yet saying a world more than words could ever convey. He knew what had gone on between you, had likely heard your last conversation in its entirety, and was now using it against you. Mostly to taunt, then to injure your husband with truths he hadn’t yet uncovered himself.

Schröder’s eyes were shining with sadistic delight as he took your hand in his. He didn’t waste another second.

“No, no, that isn’t what you want at all, is it?”

Ignoring the screech of Bucky’s restraints as he tried to lunge out of his chair. Hearing him curse when he failed.

“—you said you’re leaving him, right?”

Schröder slid the thin, glistening ring off the hand he’d been holding before you could even think to stop him.

“—said you want a divorce, is that it?”

Then his grin got so big and conceited and enlivened by the sight of pain working its way onto Bucky’s face that any good sense you’d had left inside you was abandoned in a blink. You didn’t hesitate, or else try and make a pass to retrieve your ring—you just hit the man in the face.

Your fist was small, and his chin was hard. You knew before you ever threw the punch that it’d probably hurt you more than him, but you did it anyway. It succeeded, at the very least, in catching Schröder by surprise and swiftly pissing him off. Seeing this and feeling a bit bolder, you were somehow able to dodge his hands when he lurched for you again. Inside, your own anger flared.

“Why the fuck do you care?” you spat.

You found momentary respite in the corner of the bed, sliding back against a wall that would only protect you for so long. As soon as Schröder regained his bearings, he had you back in his sights and his grasp just as quick.

He dragged you back. He pulled you up. He dug the tips of his fingers so hard into your side that you thought the flesh might tear in two across your ribs. But it didn’t. Crescent-like indentations did leave their mark in a grisly set of five, though. You felt the sting of it as Schröder loosened his grip, then sucked his next breath through his teeth as if calming himself. Your gaze only hardened.

“I care,” he said, once he’d completed this slow inhale. He replaced his touch by pinching your face in one hand and bringing it up to his, expression more like a snarl. Then, raising the gun to your face in his other hand, “because I made a deal with your father. Remember?”

You did. Your head jerked back by force of instinct, but he held it. From every direction, then, you had nothing to hear but the sound of your own pulse thrumming a fast, panicked tempo in your skull. You tasted blood in your mouth without a drop on your tongue. And, had that deafening fear and revulsion been anything less, you likely would’ve heard something else beneath it all.

Would’ve felt it, if you weren’t already so numb: Schröder’s hand sliding its way down your body, diamond ring still stuck to the tip of his index finger. You sensed it as though seeing yourself from another perspective—watching his hand trail lower, lower, lower until something in Bucky split in two and he bellowed:

“SCHRÖDER—”

He said something more after that; you were sure of it. You just couldn’t hear him, or see him, or discern much of anything else but your own racing heart as the man who’d just beat your husband twice and lifted a gun to your head proceeded to press his touch to your belly. Almost conscientious and gentle as he lowered it.

“Was this part of the deal, too, doll?”

Your eyes widened. Realizing—then feeling fear seize you completely. Forgetting the metal at your temple and shaking your head with a force, but slow enough that your husband wouldn’t see it. Meanwhile, across from you both, Bucky seemed more than sufficiently occupied by his own blinding rage—he spit a glob of blood to the floor and, with his teeth bared again, swore he’d kill him.

Over and over and over again, oaths of taking Schröder’s life and making it gruesome and painful and slow filled your ears, but none of it stuck, for either you or Schröder. Instead, your maniacal captor just smiled, leaning in.

“I said, was this part of the deal, Mrs. Barnes?”

The heel of his palm sank into your stomach, and as the shock of his first words began to fade, a pain replaced it. His hand made an impressive demonstration of flattening and forcing itself so hard against the skin that a flurry of stars cropped up in your eyes, and you cried:

“Stop! I-It wasn’t— just— just stop. Stop.”

“Stop? Was it part of the deal or not?”

Schröder bore down even harder.

“It just happened!” you keened. Unsure why you felt compelled to answer for what had gone on at all—addressing the baby in this awful, oblique way—though reckoning it had something to do with the pressure he was applying to your stomach. You tried to squirm back.

But your stuttering pulse and your pleading gaze and the ache in your stomach proved to be all too much for any real progress to be made. You’d scarcely moved off an inch before he drove his palm deeper, and with the agony of a body about to rupture beneath it, a shriek clawed out of your throat. Your mouth fell open, and for once, you couldn’t curtail the pain, or fear. Schröder’s hand had just forced the noise from your mouth, along with some mindless, broken pleas to stop pushing, it hurts, please, please, when the face above yours only brightened. Schröder’s cruel, snide mouth flashed a smile above you, and before you could whine again—

He kissed you.

It couldn’t have lasted for more than a second.

Still, the moment seemed to stretch indefinitely. And felt perverse. So deeply nauseating and unsettling to every last nerve, muscle, tendon, and bone in your body that the response it evoked could be nothing less than visceral. You didn’t need to think at all to shove him off. Whatever might’ve given you pause with a loaded gun to your head was forgotten in a second, and soon enough, you weren’t alone in letting your reproach be known.

It started off with a crack, then a harsh, crude splintering of wood. A violent rift, from what you could hear of it, and when you turned your head, your suspicions were confirmed: Bucky had snapped half the arm of his chair away from the seat, and his right hand was almost freed.

Whatever barrier he faced in being bound more than four times over with rope seemed immaterial to him now. He could strain as hard as he pleased—feel the coarse synthetic fibers dig into his flesh and leave streaks of red, if not break the skin itself—and any pain, as before, hardly appeared to register with your husband at all. He just muscled through it, thrusting his wrist even harder. The whole force of this movement rocked the chair on its legs, and just when you sensed it might collapse beneath his weight, you felt Schröder stand up. The man didn’t need to move too far or do much else other than drop his hold on you and flip his gun to point it at Bucky instead.

Even when he had, though, Bucky didn’t flinch. His hands were in fists and his drive was like a machine’s—he tried forcing his way out of the right hand’s restraints, and the second the wood gave way, he was shoving it off.

Blind to the firearm Schröder was holding, or his words:

“Stay where you are, Barnes.”

Bucky was just then shaking off the rope that had been loosened by the break in the wood, jaw still tight as ever.

“You’ve got three other limbs to free, my friend, just—”

Schröder was still speaking when you saw his finger slip to the trigger, and it seemed to you it was itching to pull.

“James, stop!”

That plea came from you. More of a strangled cry, really—no more pleasant for either man to hear than it was for your throat to shriek. It did, however, stop Bucky cold. Your husband paused just long enough to meet your gaze. And in it, you saw, at least, that he was all there, if not enraged. But not soldat, or anyone else but himself.

You sighed in relief, despite what seeing two red rivers seeping out of Bucky’s mouth might otherwise provoke.

It was him. You might’ve smiled if another hadn’t cut in.

Schröder seized Bucky’s wrist. With it, you saw his hand just as mangled and bloodied as his lips. Knuckles cracked, slit, and soon to be littered with bruises of every shade, he shocked you again by how calmly he took it. Even when Schröder sank a thumb inside a big, gaping crater of a flesh wound he’d found on the back of his hand, your husband didn’t blink; he just looked at you.

‘I’m sorry.’

When the barrel of the gun returned to his head—this time, at the rear, as Schröder had circled back around the half-broken chair and was leaning over him—you could see the apology lodged in his eyes on full display.

“For safekeeping.” The man wielding the gun seemed almost pleased as he dropped your ring inside the breast pocket of your husband’s shirt, before patting it gently:

“Now where were we?”

A beat. Bucky’s right hand twitched beside him, but evidently, he knew better than to move in that moment.

“Right, right—” Schröder pretended to be remembering, tapping steel to Bucky’s skull, “She’s leaving, isn’t she?”

More silence.

You wanted to speak, beg Schröder for mercy, anything.

“Do you know why that is, Bucky?”

But before you could utter even a word of protest, the voice pressed on. Schröder was leaning in his ear.

“—what you did to her?”

The baby. Brooklyn. All the bloodshed that had ensued last week, leaving your husband completely in the dark. Of course, he couldn’t remember. He hadn’t been himself, and was scarcely more able to control his actions as the Winter Soldier than he could in a dream.

To your horror, Schröder reached down for Bucky’s hand, and, still holding the gun to him with the other, lifted it.

Pointed it.

Pushed it closer to you.

“C’mon, Buck. You don’t want me touching her, right? Why don’t you feel for yourself what she’s been hiding?”

Your blood turned to ice. You’d never felt so immobile—paralyzed—in your life, but seeing the hands drift closer and closer and feeling defenseless to their course, your body went numb. Your limbs grew heavier than lead.

And when you felt the smug, smiling blond guide your husband’s touch toward your head, you understood it all.

You were perched at the edge of the bed a foot away. Schröder was nudging Bucky forward in his chair, urging him to reach out and tilt her chin a little, go on, that’s it. And neither one of you had a choice, so he touched you. His fingers, directed by someone else, were obliged to brush the skin of your chin, your jaw, your cheek, and your brow, before finally settling above your left temple.

Your husband felt the cut—touched the stitches.

You winced, but not from any physical pain. It was Bucky’s face as the tips of his fingers skimmed the wound. The look of chagrin that crossed his eyes. Then bewilderment. Fear, as plain as anyone could see it— was he the cause of that? Had the hurt been from him?

You couldn’t bear to answer him, so you looked away. It was Schröder, again, who had all the power to speak.

“Can’t remember pushing her down?” he said, tone dark, “Making her split her head open on the bedside table because soldat didn’t know his own strength—only that he had to keep her safe—and sensed a threat outside?”

Bucky shook his head. His face was grave.

Schröder kept making him prod the skin.

“It’s bruised here, too. You feel it?”

Your husband did, and you thought it might break him. So tender and forlorn were the eyes, raking over every spot where a touch, his touch, had left you hurt before.

If nothing else could bring you back to your senses, the wounded look in Bucky’s gaze was sure to get it done.

You hardly thought again, just croaked: ‘It’s not his fault.’

Schröder’s hand then descended your neck, your torso.

As if he hadn’t heard you at all—

“You already saw what happened to her hand.”

—and forcing Bucky’s touch lower still.

“But what about here?”

Your breath hitched in your throat when you felt your husband’s hand come to rest on your stomach.

It was like a fire had ignited in your lower half, and nothing close to the soft, pleasurable kind. Not the flutter felt in anticipation of a touch from your husband, not the desirous sort. In fact, you dreaded it now; seeing Schröder over his shoulder, urging him closer, making him flatten his big, broad, scorching palm over your belly.

What should’ve been the ecstatic scene you’d conjured in your mind at least a hundred times since marrying him—the picture of domestic bliss as you said it, smiling, I’m pregnant—was now nothing short of torture. Choice all but stripped from you here, forced to emerge inside this terrible place, you found yourself needing to shrink back, shake your head, look to Schröder’s stubborn, unyielding gaze and beg him not to make you do this now. Not now.

Not here, with Bucky’s skin a shade of glacial white and his eyes going wide, taking on a look you’d never seen.

“What do you—”

He stared hard at the hand on your belly, but it didn’t last for long. As if realization were trying to seep in, he couldn’t meet it. His eyes flitted back to your face.

“Baby, what’s—” he tried again, stammering.

“—right, that’s it, Mr. Barnes.” That was Schröder.

Satisfied in the suspense of the moment keeping your husband still, he lifted his hand from Bucky’s and snapped, that’s it, and clapped him over the shoulder.

Congratulating him before the truth had even sunk in.

“A baby, that’s right! You’re going to be a father, Buck.”

And how far was the look on Bucky’s face from the one you’d dreamed before. The lips you’d envisioned in a smile now twisting bleakly, parting slightly, and the eyes you’d once hoped to be bright and elated only staring back with rings of red enveloping the irises. Whatever tears formed at his waterline were decidedly not of joy.

Only guilt.

“You did it.”

Desperation.

More moisture in his eyes as his hand started to tremble across your stomach, voice hoarse and soft, “Is it true?”

You didn’t need to nod. You just watched him, let your own eyes fill with the worst, stinging tears you had felt in your life, and from the silence that followed, Bucky knew.

As if the life beneath his palm were something dear, but still too much for him to comprehend, he shook his head. He stroked his thumb over the cotton of your pyjamas and tried inching closer, as much as his restraints would allow him. Then, with words that were audibly strained, but always gentle, he lowered his voice—as if to keep the communication between you two, despite your position:

“I love you.”

His hand was still on your belly as he said it. He reached up to cup your face. Even lower than before, “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry.

That much was evident from every look he’d given you tonight. Every move he made a de facto apology, all actions in the vein of atonement, it couldn’t possibly escape your mind or his that he knew he’d done wrong. It was only a matter of accepting this—maybe coming to terms with the fact that your life wasn’t safe in his hands—for the guilt plaguing Bucky to multiply. Paralyze him.

There was no better time for Schröder to strike. Just as the anguish had flooded Bucky’s face completely, and his hand had had to lower itself from want of strength, a sound split the air. Bucky was so lost in his thoughts that it didn’t even register at first, but the impact was real, and it was harsh: Schröder punched him squarely in the jaw. The next, swift snap was his nasal bone taking a blow, and breaking beneath it. Blood breezed down and into his mouth. Feeling warm, his lips and chin doused in a second, he sensed nothing else. He might’ve groaned.

He caught another swift right hook, and his mind went blank. Nothing of substance threatened to materialize between his ears, save for the rush of blood through and from his skull and the dim recognition of something ugly.

Something horrific.

He couldn’t protect you.

His body was as much an idle waste as it was a danger. Useless now, as he was tied to this chair, and a risk to your well-being even if he weren’t. The hazard was him.

Schröder hit him again, and Bucky realized that the ringing he’d heard in his ears was your screaming.

“I’m doing her a favor,” Schröder spat before shoving him back in the chair, almost knocking it sideways.

The blond advanced with ease. His knuckles were drenched in blood; none of it was his. When he reached for Bucky again, the resistance was slight, and a simple, firm grip on the collar was all that was needed to drag his frame to sit straight. Bucky was barely upright for a second before the next—and worst—blow struck his face. His whole head rang with it, reeling, but still, he could make out the words as they were spoken to him.

“She’ll never be safe with you, Barnes. Never—” and at the last, Schröder lowered his gun. Started to loosen the rope from Bucky’s left arm, “—I could free you now, and you still wouldn’t get within an inch of what you want.”

He nudged the rope away and let it fall to the floor. Bucky lifted his hand, but the effort was in vain. No sooner had a finger of his stirred than Schröder was delivering a kick to the chair and letting it splinter. Topple. Skitter a half-foot across the hardwood floor with Bucky’s ankles still bound to it, before finally, gracelessly, breaking apart.

Bucky was on the floor, blinking through a stream of blood and a sea of muddied thoughts when Schröder kicked the chair again. The rope slackened some more.

“Her own father knew as much, so he made me a deal to take her off of your hands. Settle his debts the way he should’ve done the first time around,” Schröder said, and now his tone was lower. Lethal as it ever was, and stern.

“I know how much you hate to lose your playthings, Buck, but this one’s better off with me, I promise.”

And, as if to emphasize his point, Schröder turned and reached for you. Bucky’s own hands were slow, fumbling in fits and bursts to get the rope unwound from his ankles, but they were determined. He just couldn’t get the bleeding to stop, the ringing to subside, or his brain, in its concussed state, to let him move with a little more agility. He’d been hit too many times. He could barely lift his head off his shoulders and hold it straight, so he was forced to stay where he was, keep at his task, and listen.

“You’re weak when you’re not soldat.”

Using his knuckles, Schröder brushed the blood that was evidently all Bucky’s across your cheek, and you flinched.

“When you make the switch, still…you’re inhuman.”

Then he tilted your head, making you show them both the mutilated, stitched-up flesh above your temple. Again, you tried to slink away, but his touch was firm.

“Don’t you think your bride deserves better than that? Your child? Forced to live in fear of that thing you are?”

Blood coursed down Bucky’s face, and his lips were curled apart in a grimace, mouth hanging slightly ajar. His eyes fixed their look on you. The rope was undone.

He’d just started to try and stand when the edge of his vision blurred. He felt the lacerations in his face pulse as one, and with it, half his sight went skewed to the left. Schröder couldn’t help but crack a smile seeing him stumble, pitch back, and barely catch himself on the bedside table. When he stood, he was mostly hunched.

“Look at you, Buck. You can’t try and save her like this,” Schröder taunted, drawing you closer, “So stop trying.”

The man’s hand was like ice holding your face. The grip grew tighter when he saw your husband limping your way, and before either one of you could move, the index of Schröder’s other hand had slid down to the trigger. He didn’t wait to give another warning before he did it—just pointed the gun and fired one shot over Bucky’s head.

His aim was good. The bullet missed your husband by less than an inch. The gun had gone off by your ear, and immediately, you seized the side of your head as a sharp, searing pain cropped up. Your skull was still ringing when you heard the thing discharge again, and you realized it had been aimed at Bucky’s neck. He’d ventured another step, and Schröder had fired a second round to graze the top of his shoulder. Crimson bloomed through his shirt.

Bucky should’ve stumbled again. He might’ve staggered back with a grunt of pain, lifted a quick, reflexive hand to feel the wound, but the sense of it all was slow to reach him. The moments that passed him were delayed just the same, as if the world around him were distorted—the fibers of time tugged and stretched before his eyes—and he could hardly keep himself straight. When he got another look down the barrel of the gun, he didn’t blink. Couldn’t see, really. It was all misshapen sights and sounds and a dim recognition that his mind was in a fog.

Somewhere from within that mist, he heard, faintly:

“I’ll go— I’ll go— I’ll go with you, I’ll go— just stop.”

Schröder turned to you, and the smile that he wore was cruel, but Bucky wasn’t able to make out the expression.

All he could see then, to the faintest extent, was you—your face, gripped hard in another man’s hand, eyes pleading and wet with tears, and a slightly slack jaw.

“Leave him for me?” Schröder repeated, sneering.

You nodded. Blinked. Rolled your tongue along the inside of your cheek before pulling it back and biting down once. There was a hint of a wince in your eyes, but, from what Bucky could tell, it vanished just as fast as it came.

Your lips parted again. Your eyes widened a little.

“So the girl has some fucking sense.” That was Schröder.

He’d had his weapon re-holstered and your face firmly seized in both of his hands in no more than a second.

What came next surprised no one, though the sensations of disgust and rage were as quick to turn a stomach as the shock would have done. Schröder bent down and, having pulled your face closer to his, kissed you again.

Schröder’s mouth was glistening with a grin and Bucky’s own blood—smeared all over your face from how hard he’d been holding you—when he looked up and turned.

“Sensible and sweet, isn’t she? Tastes like it, too.”

Bucky saw nothing but red. It wasn’t just blood crowding his vision now but violence and rancor and outright hatred, stirring his limbs to start moving again when the rest of his body was plainly too battered to venture an inch in that condition. He staggered again, watched you again, and had made it almost halfway across the room when another sight slowed him, if only for a moment.

Schröder’s lips were back on yours, as if to mock him, but what startled him, really, was the way you’d opened your mouth. You couldn’t mean it. Clearly. Schröder was gripping your jaw, forcing it open—it had to be—and he was coaxing your tongue out from inside and weaving it with his. Once more, time moved like molasses, and that was all your husband had had to see: you kissing him back, gripping his arm through the thick, black tactical gear, and still parting your lips more and more for him. Like you needed a touch, or something, worse than ever.

That stalled Bucky, though he was nowhere close to stopping now. Briefly preoccupied, and seemingly shocked as well that you’d accepted the kiss so eagerly this time, Schröder didn’t see the approach. If he had, he likely would’ve turned and made a move for his Ruger, but as it was, he had only to blink—and there was Bucky.

He hit him with a force that was blinding, directly to the side of his head so hard that he’d had no choice but to separate from you. Schröder was stunned one second and on the floor in the next. Bucky threw him there, kicked him down, and, wavering for only a moment to cock back the shoulder that’d been shot, he ignored the pain and punched the man again. And again. And again.

There was a callousness, an indolence, and an ease with which he was able to inflict the pain, that much was evident. What didn’t seem so natural, at least in Bucky’s mind, was the weight that was in his hands: Schröder’s body felt limp before he’d even landed the second blow.

The pressure grew heavier and heavier in his hands the harder, and more frequently, he delivered each hit, but for now, he didn’t care. Bucky kept on punching until the face beneath him was gnarled and bloody, and his own fist, too, slashed every which way with more cuts than he was able to count. He would’ve kept going—could’ve ignored the stabbing pain in his shoulder for as long as it would take to ensure the man was dead—but as it was, he refused to ignore the voice he heard. It was yours.

Muffled now, as your body was bent to the side and your head drooped lower still. Your voice was soft but clear:

“Bucky, please, stop.”

He did.

He dropped the man’s collar from his hands as soon as he’d heard you say it, and he turned away as if nothing had transpired behind him at all. His focus was on you.

“Baby—”

To his surprise, he watched you spit on the floor.

Your face was grim and almost sick, and you spit again.

The look grew even worse, and afterward, you didn’t waste a second more; you stood and left the room.

Bucky was stunned at first, and his instinct had been to follow. Then he heard a rattling sound beside him. He glanced down and paled, seeing Schröder there.

His face had turned blue much sooner than Bucky had expected—and not from any bruising but a lack of oxygen in his lungs. He was choking, foaming slightly at the mouth while he gasped for air. Surely, it hadn’t been the hits that caused it. The whites of Schröder’s eyes were as conspicuous as he’d ever seen them. Desperate.

Bucky swiftly got the sense that the life of his former captor was lost, and frankly, he didn’t care enough to watch him die. He left what remained of Schröder’s form to continue writhing on the floor, choking and sputtering for a breath that would never come, and went after you.

Downstairs, he found you hunched over the kitchen sink—spitting, retching, and trembling, too, but breathing.

You let the water from the faucet fill your mouth, and you rinsed again. You winced as something stuck your cheek.

Bucky drew closer, quickly, and when he was right by your side, he saw you spit a shard of glass into the sink. He looked over to the counter, and he spotted three more

They were minuscule, really. Nothing quite the size to leave a wound too deep, but sharp enough to cut your lips, your tongue, or the insides of your cheeks. When Bucky leaned in, he saw droplets of red joining the flow of the water beneath it. You coughed over and over again

“Don’t,” you croaked, seeing Bucky reach for the glass.

Before he could reply: “It’s the poison. From Madripoor.”

Your husband’s blood went cold in his veins. He didn’t touch the glass, but he did press closer to you, feeling his insides churn as the cogs started to turn in his head.

The vial of poison you’d been given to slip in Schröder’s drink at the Foxy Den—how the hell had you gotten it back? Why would you think you needed it, if he— but no, that couldn’t be the case. There wasn’t a shot you just—

“—put it in your mouth?” Bucky couldn’t curb the fear in his voice. He reached for you and spun you to face him.

“Did it kill him?”

Your eyes were wide for entirely different reasons. Bucky couldn’t believe what he was seeing; his mouth was dry.

“I didn’t want to kiss him,” you went on, voice shaking a little, “I didn’t— I just— I couldn’t get him the poison any other way. I knew he’d kiss me again, and when he did—”

“I know,” Bucky said. He smoothed the hair from your face, shaking his head. Feeling his stomach clench with fear and dread as he hurried to get a look in your mouth.

You’d snuck the vial inside your cheek, then crushed it between your teeth before Schröder had kissed you. You’d all but forced him to swallow the poison, shoving your tongue down his throat, but what of the stuff that remained? The rough, trembling fingers of Bucky’s hand were trying to pry your lips apart as gently as they could, ensure all the serum was out, but at present, you wouldn’t let him. You pushed back gently, though not too far to prevent your own touch from roaming his shoulder.

“The bullet—” you started.

“Barely nicked me,” Bucky cut in, “Baby, I need to see—”

That you’re safe. That you won’t be hurt in any way. He couldn’t finish the thought himself, having seen what the poison did to Schröder. Instead, he just held you closer and fought the lump that was starting to form in his throat. Adrenaline had worked well enough to clear his mind of the haze, but the rest of him was all high-strung.

Your clothes clung to you both, wet with blood and sweat. Your breaths were fast. Your expressions were feral, eyes no calmer as they scanned over the other’s form and soaked in every trace of what had happened. Bucky in his formalwear and you in something close to a chemise—like your honeymoon night all over again—you each got a glimpse of the gore ornamenting yourselves and let the room fall quiet, if only for a minute or two.

Your husband was the one to break the silence, at length, with cracked and grisly hands sliding down to your hips.

“You’re okay?”

His touch shifted you back in place to sit on the counter.

“I’m alright.”

You wanted to say more; assure him, in a voice as sedate as you could manage, that this wasn’t his fault. Whether he would believe a word of what you said was a separate question, but, at any rate, it didn’t matter. The next thing you knew, Bucky was slotting himself in the space between your legs and pulling you into his arms.

In spite of himself and all the wounds, he held you tight.

“You’re alright,” he repeated.

His face sank into the crook of your neck, and you felt his muscles contract again—pulling you closer—as he drew a shaky breath against your skin. You hugged him back.

“Are you?” Your voice was small.

In a blink, Bucky resurfaced. He lifted his head from your neck and, still holding you, hadn’t seemed to have heard.

“The baby,” he said quickly.

He stepped back. Lowered his gaze and his hands to trail over your hips and near your stomach, and he stared, as if trying to make sense of something dire. His blue eyes were wide, and they assumed such a look of panic that you feared a blood vessel might actually burst in one.

After all the great lengths he’d gone to, ensuring you were safe and taking extra precautions, on the off-chance you might be pregnant, here you were.

And there he went, sliding his touch lower and lower again until his hand was pressed into your belly, and the gaze you’d once thought soft before had all but melted into tenderness—delicacy. Complete, loving unreserve.

When his eyes met yours a second time, they were shiny.

Wet with the only kind of tears you’d want to see in them.

“You’re really…” he started, just to taper off, blinking.

And then his cheeks were dotted with the tiny, round droplets, and he’d finally ventured a smile for the first time in what seemed like ages and you couldn’t keep from reaching for him. The second you’d lifted your arms you were back in his, lips and nose smushed against the front of his stained white button-up and breathing deep.

Or trying to, anyway. Bucky had you squeezed so tight to his chest you had nothing but his shirt to inhale at first. You didn’t mind, and when he pulled away a moment later, you realized that your eyes, too, were filling up quick. You had to steel yourself against a maelstrom of emotions that threatened to emerge—the aftermath of a half-dozen traumas laid bare over the last hour—but the longer you were here, and the more your husband stared at you like that, the quicker your courage was depleted. In the span of five seconds, your senses were shot to hell. All you could think was what you could feel, and all you felt was Bucky: his arms and his hands and the raw, blistering heat between your bodies. The rest was noise.

It surprised you both when you kissed him. Physically, your mouth and his were hardly up to do it, injured as they were, but the impulse was strong, and it flowed between you. As soon as your lips latched onto his, Bucky was holding your face, molding his body to yours without so much as a second thought, and the mouth you met was sturdy. Hungry in the way it kissed back.

A string of words from Schröder flashed in your mind—‘Never be safe’—and you grit your teeth together, snagging the cusp of Bucky’s lower lip as you did it. He groaned. Before you could even try to apologize, though, he was gripping your face harder in his hands and coaxing your mouth open with his tongue. His front was still flush with yours, and your legs were starting to wind around his hips. Your husband nudged you back against the cabinets, and from the force of that push, you felt it.

Felt him.

Surely, it had had to take two very fucked up individuals to get all hot and bothered from a bloodbath that had just taken place; but, again, here you were—together.

And there you went, grinding your lower half with his.

“Doll?” Bucky broke out, word slurred just a little.

For a second, you thought he was going to stop you. Your eyes scanned his, and you were already planning to apologize for being so horny, it must just be the—

“You know I love you, right?” he breathed.

You blinked. You were about to nod, when you felt the bulge in his slacks start to rub against your barely-clothed heat, and something akin to a shockwave coursed through your frame. It couldn’t be helped. A monsoon of hyper-sensitized pleasure trembled over the skin in a way you’d never felt it before, and suddenly you were letting out a moan: a muffled cry of, ‘Yes, I-I know.’

Your husband swallowed and stared, slightly taken aback by the reaction his erection had produced. He’d never felt that either. At least from what he could remember.

The truth was that he’d never had a pregnant wife before—someone whose body was now extraordinarily responsive to his touch, nearly aching for him.

When you scooted your butt to the edge of the counter and dug your heels in the backs of his legs, humping him, almost, he got the idea. Bucky swallowed again.

“I love you too, I— I—” you started, already out of breath, “I just really need you to fuck me. Can you— please—”

Bucky didn’t need to be asked once, much less twice. He already had his belt, button, and zip undone before you could even look down, and then your own pyjama shorts were sliding off too. The counter was cool against your skin, but your husband’s warmth was more than enough to compensate for the loss. You smiled again, sheepish.

“It’s just…hormones,” you said, quieter toward the end.

You weren’t sure why you felt so ashamed to simply say, ‘James, I’ve been damn near insane with desire ever since you put a baby in me. Can you give me five more?’ But you did. You felt your cheeks start to heat as your lower half was left exposed to the air, and Bucky slipped his hand down between your legs, practically groaning:

“Honey, you’re soaked.”

There wasn’t one iota of shame in his tone.

He was more than happy to find you drenched beneath his touch. He had a smile on his face and a warmth bleeding from every fingertip as he caressed that soft, tender spot. You didn’t need to tell him what was on your mind, either. He sensed something was making you shy, and rather than have you say it aloud, he just touched you gentler, stroked the skin more affectionately, and tilted his head so only you could hear him, quiet as ever:

“That’s my girl. Feeling good for me?”

You felt your heartbeat between your thighs.

“My baby,” Bucky went on, voice dulcet and slow.

Your body was trembling at the edge, waiting. Impatient.

“My wife,” he said that with a smile, into your neck.

He lowered you onto his length, and you whined.

“Mother of my child.” The smile got bigger.

You couldn’t see it, but you could feel it. Feeling him slide inside the most precious, wet, pliable part of you, stretching you out, you couldn’t help the sounds you made. You felt full in a whole new way; the groan Bucky let out when you were impaled down to the base of his cock said he shared the feeling. He throbbed inside you.

“You’re—fuck.” Bucky’s words broke off at the sensation.

Your walls were as slick as ever, your body delicate, rolling your hips to the first gentle thrusts that his shaft carved inside. Neither one of you could last long like this.

Still, at the threat of sublime pleasure, you felt fear, briefly: Schröder’s implacable stare—and the thousands more like him in HYDRA. You couldn’t help but grip Bucky tighter, willing these thoughts away with the rhythm of your body over his. Feeling him fill you up, fuck you with quick, deliberate thrusts and hold you, ‘That’s it, take what you need, sweet girl, you’re okay.’

You wished you were. You wanted to be. With every stab of Bucky’s hips, you hoped this would be the last night you ever feared for you or your child’s life, but deep down, you knew that wasn’t true. This was everything your husband’s varied ‘enterprises’ entailed, and a life with him meant never knowing a day without it—fear.

The head of Bucky’s cock grazed an especially sensitive ridge in your walls, and you whimpered into his shoulder.

You smelled blood.

He pushed you back against the counter and pounded harder, breaths heavy and labored and gruff as he spoke:

“You’re okay, baby, it’s alright.”

Your mind tried clinging to that thought, nodding along as if to convince yourself. The pleasure grew stronger, and your body was hot. Everything was heightened. Bucky couldn’t keep his eyes or his lips or his rough, bloodied touch from roaming you wherever he could reach, and he kept rutting his hips, assuring you gently, again and again, that it was all okay. He was right here.

The pleasure from the depths of your body was beyond your control—you couldn’t help it when the band inside of you snapped. You held Bucky closer and you moaned, more desperate and needy and soaking for him, taking something from him, and knowing the bliss you felt would only steal the dark thoughts for a moment or two.

Bucky’s eyes said it just the same. He couldn’t keep stuffing you full, feeling his pleasure hit its peak, and finally painting your insides without sharing that look.

You were less than halfway down from your highs when you felt him go still, panting fast, then hold your face.

“I love you.”

It was desperate. Hoping for something.

“I love you, too,” you told him, and you meant it.

But there was more. Both of you knew there was more.

“I can’t be married to you, Bucky.”

You didn’t know why it had to come out now, but the emotions were there—his gaze had all but drawn it out.

Still sheathed inside you, your husband tensed. He looked as if he might try and shake his head, but the movement was stalled by his own momentary shock. He’d known the words were coming, but the sound of you saying them now wasn’t any less jarring to hear. Before he could reply, you found yourself cutting back in:

“Not now, at least. We need some…time. To think.”

You weren’t sure what you were saying, just that your lips were moving and every new word was hurting him more.

“Even with Schröder gone, there are so many…dangers for both—or, all—of us, and I don’t know…I just can’t—”

—imagine bringing a child into a world like this. Like his.

You didn’t need to say it.

The pain in Bucky’s eyes already communicated as much, and the conviction in your own only convinced him that you’d meant it—and what you said was the truth. You couldn’t stay in a marriage that wasn’t safe.

Just as you opened your mouth to say something more, the man surprised you when he squeezed your hand.

Nodding, almost imperceptibly, in front of you.

“I can wait,” he said, “Whenever you’re ready, doll.”

His voice was hoarse, words strained from the lump in his throat as he spoke, but the message was sincere.

“Whenever you feel safe,” he added, softly.

You wanted to hold him again. Like before, your eyes began to well with something stinging and harsh, but the look you’d fixed on him was filled with nothing but love. You would’ve reached for him then, if he hadn’t moved his hand to his pocket. He felt around inside it, briefly.

Then Bucky retrieved your wedding ring.

Holding you up against him, pressed snugly into the counter with your legs still wrapped around his lower half, he pinched the silver band between his forefinger and thumb and held it up to you. It glistened in the light.

“The next time you wear it, I want it to be because you chose to marry me. Not for anything, or anyone, else.”

Nothing arranged, no game, no being forced to stay.

You nodded and had to blink through a layer of tears.

Bucky’s thumb traced the moisture, cupping your cheek in one of his hands. He’d had to keep blinking himself, and before you could reach for him, he kissed you.

“I really hope you marry me again one day, Mrs. Barnes.”

You smiled, having parted but still holding on.

“I think I would like that, too. One day.”

The next thing you heard was a sound at the front door: what sounded like a crash. Half a dozen sets of feet stumbling inside, crowding the foyer, making a loud, frantic clamor that you and Bucky knew only too well. The two of you scrambled to get your clothes back on as Steve, Nat, Sam, and Sharon all seemed to yell at once.

You had one hell of a story to tell them.

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champagnefountains · 11 months ago

Text

LUCIFER MAGNE - H.H.

CHAPTER II - Prompt: Lucifer continuing to wear his wedding ring despite being in a relationship with you.

Previous chapter: [x] Word Count: 3.4k+ words (unedited). Genre/other tags: Angst with some fluff. Jealousy. Fem pronouns used. Warnings: Swearing. Self-deprecation. Manipulation (on Alastor's part).

It had been nearly over a week since you and Lucifer last talked – it had also been a week since Lucifer was last seen around in the hotel. Angel, being the gossiper he was, relayed everything that had transpired between you two to the others the following day. Seeing the sensitive and sad shell of a person you were left in, everyone remained cautious and had started walking on eggshells around you. Of course, you were quick to pick up on that, as embarrassing as it all was (minus Alastor, who continued on with his usual theatrics and mischief).

Charlie in particular was the most concerned out of them all, since this was her dad we were talking about. She knew with certainty that he was confining himself in the castle to distract himself from what happened – likely something involving his rubber-ducky obsession – instead of facing the problem head on. It was his pride that sometimes got in the way of his better judgement.

Not only that, but Charlie clearly saw the massive toll it took on you. If you weren’t distracting yourself with work or doing something related to the hotel, you would lock yourself away in your room, only coming out to quickly grab a bite to eat from the kitchen. Charlie even made efforts to strike many conversations with you from time to time, but was either excused or was only given one-worded responses. She knew not to take your dismissive behaviour to heart, but she couldn’t help but fret over you.

So it came as an absolute surprise when out of nowhere, Charlie received a call from her father. She messily scrambled for her phone on her desk, fumbling and nearly dropping it in the process before violently tapping on the small screen. “H-Hello?! Dad, hey!” She answers a bit too enthusiastically while nervously combing her hair with a free hand. “Uh, hey Charlie!” Lucifer stiffly greets from the other line, “I just…um, thought I’d give a call to, uh, see how everyone’s going at the hotel!” The Princess noted how much hoarser his voice was than usual, but decided not to comment on it aloud.

“Well, y’know how it is! It’s been busy and lively as always–everyone’s been working really hard and all,” she answers vaguely, nervously chuckling. “Err, yeah! Right. That’s a–that’s a relief to hear. Yep,” he hums. There was a brief, awkward pause that ensued soon after, the both of them not knowing what to say next. The whole exchange was becoming increasingly painful that Charlie resisted the urge to pull her hair. She then clears her throat. “H-How about you, dad? What’ve you been up to? You’ve been gone for a couple or so days,” Charlie finally musters, “are…are you doing alright?”

“Me? Oh yeah, psh! I just got, erm…a lot of things going on at the moment. It’s not so easy being the big boss of hell after all! Got a lot of important things to do! Plus, I’ve got heaps of paperwork to do for the hotel. You should know how tedious that is,” He says, adding an exaggerated groan.

The princess furrows her brows. “Oh, that’s…strange. ’Cause I could’ve sworn you left all the papers here…y’know, the ones you told me to revise over?” Charlie replies, side-eyeing the said documents stacked neatly on her desk. A startled yelp escapes his throat. “O-Oh...did I?” He stammers.

Charlie couldn’t help but wince at the evident panic that began to set in as she listened to her father make incomprehensible noises from the other line. It was a poor attempt in reasoning, which ultimately became useless in the end. Lucifer let out a long sigh, caught red-handed. “Oh, who the hell am I kidding? You guys probably already know what happened–which by the way, Charlie, you shouldn’t be lying to me about!” He pointedly remarks.

“I-I’m sorry, dad! It’s just…I’m really worried about you,” she reasons, before shortly adding, “...The both of you.”

There was a small pause. “...How is she, by the way?” He then asks quietly. Charlie nervously tugs her bottom lip with her fangs. “Well, she’s keeping herself busy. Constantly, as a matter of fact. And I know she’s trying hard to convince us all that she’s holding up okay, but…she doesn’t look too good, dad. She seems really upset.”

A shaky exhale sounded from his end. “I…I really am hopeless, aren’t I?” He mumbles defeatedly. Even though she couldn’t see him, she could picture him burying his face in his hands. The image caused Charlie’s eyes to soften. “Dad, no. It’s not too late. You still have a chance to make things right,” Charlie gently encourages through the speaker, “you just need to talk to each other–”

Suddenly, from the corner of her eye, a bright, blazing portal manifests from thin air – from it, emerges Lucifer himself who appeared extremely dishevelled, effectively catching Charlie off guard.

“But, hun, y-you don’t understand! I messed up big time!” He exclaims, tugging on his unkempt hair as he aimlessly paced around her office. “I-I mean, look at me! I’m a fucking mess and a coward! Why would she ever think to take me back after what I did!?” He chuckles humourlessly, shaking his head in disbelief, “I-It’s like no matter how many times I try to redeem and convince myself that everything’s finally going right in my life, I just continue to fuck myself over and over again. And it’s just– ugh! It’s pathetic! I’m fucking pathetic!”

Charlie’s chest tightened considerably as she watched her father self-destruct before her. Strands of his golden hair were sticking out here and there, his dress-shirt tousled, and his eyes were glossed over and red, from both a lack of sleep and crying. He looked utterly devastated. Chucking her phone away, she immediately sped towards and enveloped Lucifer in her arms, who immediately broke down into heavy sobs. Seeing him like this brought tears to her own eyes, but she firmly told herself to be the stronger person in this situation, for his sake.

“Hey, hey. Dad, listen to me, okay? Everyone deserves a second chance. You of all people should know–you were the one who taught me that, remember?” Charlie rubbed his back soothingly, trying to ease the jumpiness of his shoulders. “And that also applies to you. I…I know you’ve been through a lot, especially with mum…” She couldn’t help the way her frown deepened as she spoke, “...and I miss her too. I miss her a lot. But…I think it’s finally time for you to move on. It’s been years, dad. You deserve to be happy and you’re allowed to be in love again.”

“[Name]’s an amazing person, and there’s no doubt about that. She’s proved that more than many times already. I’m certain that once things ease over and you guys finally talk things through, everything will turn out okay; she’s very understanding and kind like that. You’ll both be okay.” Charlie gently pulls Lucifer away and with the sleeve of her blazer, she wipes his damp, reddened cheeks. “I know for a fact that she loves and cares about you deeply – we can all see it as clear as day. You…you love her too, don’t you, dad?”

For a brief moment’s contemplation, Lucifer suddenly recalled the times you spent together, from your initial meeting to now. He had always thought you were a strong and independent soul, with the way you carried yourself. You just had something about you that naturally drew in those around you, including himself. When Lucifer got to know you in a deeper level, he was enthralled by how kind and understanding you were – you were always there to listen to his many tales and endless nonsense; you would always seem genuinely interested in his rubber-duck-esque inventions, offering some input and critiquing his creations; and you would always be so, so supportive of all his plans and ideas, no matter how extraordinary they all seemed.

If he hadn't known any better, Lucifer would've thought you were an actual angel. You were the saviour that wore off the darkness in troubling times, and the one who pulled him out of the void that Lilith had left him in. That and more, as you continuously gave him a real reason to remain hopeful. You were proof personified, that he was able to open his heart once more, and to love again.

“I-I do, I really do,” Lucifer affirms in a heartbeat. Charlie smiles warmly, relieved by his answer, “then that’s all you need to say.” At that moment, Lucifer's chest swelled in overwhelming pride for his daughter, knowing that despite not being as present in her life until recently, she grew up to be the good and strong-willed person he had hoped for.

“O-Oh, jeez. Since when did you grow up so big? I should be the one comforting you,” He tearfully jokes, sniffling whilst returning her smile, “but thank you, Charlie. Really. I’m…I-I really am grateful to call you my daughter.” The two royalties then shared a heart-felt moment and a bone-crushing hug, with the King's heart being filled with a new-found determination. Because, just as he always says: The show must go on.

Earlier on:

On the other side of the building, you were drowning yourself in your own self-despair as you overlooked the balcony by the front entrance of the hotel. Your eyes lazily scanned the new hotel patrons below, who were engaging in some trust exercises led by Vaggie, who came in to cover you just moments ago. Every once in a while, you couldn’t help but glance at your phone, silently hoping to receive some sort of notification from Lucifer, or even an inkling of his whereabouts. But you received nothing, which only fuelled your growing anxiety.

You felt awful leaving the way you did that night, especially after dumping so much onto Lucifer. You felt like you were being completely selfish, and had cornered him into making a big decision. And because of that, your relationship was on the line. You let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing angrily at your face.

Little did you know however, that you had some company lurking nearby, watching you in silent amusement.

“Now, don’t you look as miserable as ever?” Alastor mockingly chimes in, stepping out from the shadows to make his presence known and joins you by the balcony. You roll your eyes at the deer-demon before turning your head the other direction. “Yeah, and what about it?” You scoff, leaning in to rest your arms against the rails, “Can’t you go bother someone else, Alastor? I’m certainly not in the mood right now.”

“Why, I wouldn’t be a good hotelier if I left a dear co-worker of mine so down in the slumps!” To your dismay, Alastor reappears in front of you, obstructing your field of view, "And might I add, it's not healthy for you to be all cooped up in your room all the time – stay there any longer, and it can do silly, little things to your head!" He emphasises his point as he spins a finger in a circular motion by his temple. You shot him an irritated look, slowly growing fed up by his prodding.

"Listen, I don't need you telling me what I should and shouldn't do. I’m more than capable of deciding that on my own,” you growl, straightening up to cross your arms firmly against your chest. “Hm...no, I don’t think so!” Alastor hums, shaking his head disapprovingly, “The unfortunate affair that took place in your courtship with the King has left you in such a vulnerable, and problematic state. And I’m sure you’ve taken note of how everyone’s been acting around you – constantly walking on their tiptoes in fear of setting you off on a hissy-fit. You’ve caused them to worry a lot about you, dear. Poor ol’ Charlie, especially.”

You open your mouth to retort back, but nothing came out. A strong pang of guilt struck you as his words began to sink in. Seeing this, Alastor’s grin widened a faction as he stepped forward and levelled himself with you, now facing you eye-to-eye. “And as the executive producer of this fine establishment, might I critique that your behaviour is affecting our team’s morale and performance…and we mustn’t have that now, should we? Especially not since we’ve all been more preoccupied recently with our guests!” He…had a fair point, as much as you didn’t want to admit it.

“I…I’m sorry. I didn’t…know…” Your voice began to trail off, shoulders slumping in realisation of how selfish and contemptuous you’ve been acting this whole week. You recalled the fretful expressions of your friends and your dismissive attitude towards them. “I-I didn’t mean to make everyone worry…” you quietly say. Alastor’s words only made you feel immensely worse about the whole situation, leaving you sniffling on the spot.

“Now, now. As long as you realise your mistakes, then you shall be forgiven,” he coos, softly patting the tuft of your head. At that, you couldn’t help but send a doubtful glance his way. “W-wait a minute…why do you care all of a sudden? What exactly are you playing at?” You suspiciously question as you rub at your eyes.

“Oh, how you wound me, dear! Why must you always question any act of kindness I display? Is it really that hard to believe?” He adverts, evidently feigning hurt. You deadpan. “Yes, it is,” you reply almost instantly. Alastor chortles at your bluntness, “Haha! You’re quite a work of art, aren't you, dear? Now, let’s go out for a walk, shall we?”

Before you could’ve processed what he had said, Alastor had already spun you around, pulling you with him as you both headed down a flight of stairs. “Wha–Alastor, where are we–where the heck are you taking me?” You asked, trying to keep up with his long strides so as to not trip down the stairs. “Hm? Did I not already specify? It looks like your brooding has impacted your hearing, dear. That’s a shame,” he slyly comments, now dragging you towards the entrance, “We’re both going for a walk around town, it’ll help clear that cloudy head of yours!”

“Hold on-Stop! Just what makes you think I’d agree to go out with you?” You shoot back, retracting your arm from his hold and stopping metres behind him. Alastor sharply turns around and pulls out a wrinkled, yellow piece of paper out of thin air. Your eyes dart towards the sheet, seeing a familiar hand-writing across the page.

“Why, I just knew you were going to question me – you're so predictable. But might I add, we’re not going out without purpose! No, no! Our lovely Charlie has composed a list and requested we fetch a couple items in town!” Stepping forward, you swiftly snatched the paper from his clawed hand and briefly scanned the list, noting that it largely consisted of decorations and party items. “She wanted to organise a heart-warming celebration for the wayward souls here who have accomplished some milestones on their journey to redemption! An anniversary ceremony of sorts, if you will,” Alastor explains, lightly patting the non-existing dust off of his suit.

“But couldn’t you just…I don’t know, teleport the things here?” You blatantly ask, raising a brow at him. You knew he was more than capable of doing such minuscule tasks within a span of seconds. “And waste such a beautiful day outside? Now, why would I even consider doing that?” Alastor states matter-of-factly, “And like I said, the short trip will help clear your troubled mind! Consider it a gesture of compassion from yours truly.”

There was clearly something off about all this but you couldn’t see any reason for an ulterior motive. It was just…simply a manager looking out for the well-being of his work-colleagues, as uncharacteristic and off-putting as it sounded out loud. Already exhausted, you couldn’t bring it in yourself to question his actions any further.

“You’re really not going to take ‘no’ for an answer, are you?” You ask. Seeing the way Alastor’s grin widened had you sighing in defeat. “Shall we then?” Alastor questions, offering an arm out to you. Rolling your eyes, you loop one of your arms through and follow him out the hotel. ‘A small walk wouldn’t hurt…’ you think to yourself as the doors shut behind you.

Currently:

Lucifer tiredly dragged himself to his designated room in the hotel, to rest for a while and take a much needed bath as per Charlie’s advice. He gave himself a lengthy pep-talk in front of the mirror as he brushed his teeth, deciding to approach you tonight to finally talk and clear things out. Yes, he was absolutely terrified about the possibility of things going south during the confrontation, but he didn’t think he could handle another second being without you. And he needed to make that loud and clear.

After putting on an outfit and neatly slicking his hair back, Lucifer looked at his reflection once more in the bedside mirror, inspecting himself up and down to flatten any remaining creases of his clothing. But it wasn't until his gaze landed on his left hand that he tensed up. Peering down, he brought his hand into view to inspect the very wedding band that caused it all. With a shaky sigh, Lucifer slowly pulled the ring off of his finger. He took a moment to examine it, eyes filled with sentiment before kneeling down to open his bedside drawer, where its designated ring-box sat. The moment he encased the ring in its box and locked it away in his drawer, it felt like a breath of fresh air. To his own surprise, Lucifer found himself tearfully laughing – he felt...genuinely happy. Proud, even. It was at this very moment that he felt like he was finally ready to move forward.

After patting the stray tears away from his face, Lucifer slowly made his way down to the front lobby. There, Charlie and Vaggie were talking amongst themselves by the lounge area, whilst Angel and Cherri chuckled away by the bar, with Husk tending to their beverages. The King didn’t give an inkling of care as to where Alastor had gone, and he was certain that Nifty was hiding somewhere in the small crevices of the hotel, cleaning away. All in all, there was no sight of you whatsoever, visibly disappointing him.

Seeing his approaching form, Charlie waved his father over towards them. “Hey, dad. Are you feeling a bit better now?” She asks with a comforting smile. “Yeah, totally. Thanks, dear,” he says, patting her shoulder affectionately before turning his attention towards her partner. “Hey! How’s it going, Maggie? I’ve heard you’ve been working real hard lately, huh? Good on yah!” He commends, playfully nudging the said demon. “Oh, um…it’s–it’s Vaggie, sir. And uh, thanks,” she nervously chuckles, rubbing her arm. “Mhm, yeah…that’s–that’s great,” Lucifer distractedly hums, all the while scanning around the room. Noticing this, Vaggie shared a worried look with Charlie.

“Erm, dad, she’s not here at the moment if that’s what you’re wondering,” Charlie starts, alerting her father. “Oh? Well, is she up in one of the guest rooms?” Lucifer asked, gesturing upstairs with a thumb. To his confusion, Charlie appeared somewhat nervous, her hands fidgeting with her suit. “Uh, no, she’s actually not in the hotel at the moment,” Vaggie steps in, “she’s been out doing a couple of errands for us.” Lucifer raised a brow at the slight edginess in her tone, eyes darting back and forth between the two girls. “...Um, alright. What the heck is going on right now?" He asks, pointing an accusatory finger at them both, "You guys are acting sketchy as fuck. Are you...are you guys hiding something from me?" He narrows his eyes. Charlie sucks in a breath, brows pinching together, “Well...dad, t-the thing is–”

“She’s out with Smiles right now!” Angel suddenly intervened, calling out from the other side of the room, and causing Charlie to cower and duck behind Vaggie. Lucifer felt his shoulders grow rigid. “She’s…what now?” He dangerously asks, glaring at the arachnid. Before Lucifer trudged towards the direction of the bar, the front doors of the hotel abruptly flew open. He felt the vein in his neck nearly burst at the sound of your laughter interlacing itself with that god-awful, irritating radio feedback. What a wild coincidence.

As Lucifer turned around, his eyes nearly flew out of his head as he saw how close you were with Alastor, arms basically locked together. The radio-demon was quick to meet eyes with the King, and out of spite, Alastor flashed him the biggest shit-eating grin he's ever seen.

“Oh, fuck no!”

Chapter III - Finale [x]

Thank you for reading!

#lucifer magne x reader #lucifer morningstar x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #lucifer magne #lucifer morningstar

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clockwayswrites · 5 months ago

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Birb in the hand Part 8

Birdritch Masterpost

For several reasons, Bruce hadn’t expected to wake up cuddling a stranger. One, there were enough family in the makeshift nest. Two, there had been no stranger, just a strange bird. Three, cuddle pollen or no, Bruce should have been alert as soon as the stranger became a factor.

Instead, Bruce woke slowly, sleep muddle brain confused about why he was awake until he clocked the uneven breathing of the person in his arms. Bruce’s brain went from asleep to alert in an instant as he ordered ‘breath’.

And in that instant Bruce knew that the person in his arms wasn't one of his.

There was a stranger in the Batcave.

A stranger who wasn’t breathing right.

Bruce walked them through answering questions as he took in everything else. Other than Alfred, his family was close. The furthest away was Jason who was asleep on the meeting table rather than in the next with the rest of them. They were starting to wake up, aware something was wrong.

Noticeably missing was the bird entity.

Instead they had a stranger— a stranger who whimpered in pain as Bruce got them upright.

A shapeshifter? An unwilling shapeshifter, possibly. An unwanted transformation could certainly explain the pain.

Dick offered to get a towel and Bruce mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ at his oldest. Bruce was worried by the fact that the breathing hadn’t regulated yet. At least the cold was enough to shock the stranger into a forced breath and Bruce tried to guide them through it.

“There, keep that up,” Bruce instructed.

The stranger pinched Bruce for that. He hardly jolted, but apparently he had moved enough to make Cass giggle at him. A soft huff of a laugh escaped, mostly at Cass’ amusement, but partially at the sass of the stranger.

“I know you know,” Bruce said in response to the pinch. “Now your body just needs to know.”

Bruce didn’t let the second pinch deter him anymore than the first. Gently, he ran a pattern with his thumb up and down the other’s hand, a silent beat to count to. Their hand was calloused. They were someone used to holding tools and using them, but of a precise sort as the rest of the skin was soft. There were a few bandages on the fingers and palms of the hand. Precise tools they were bad with? No, precise tools but either an absent mind or someone who moved too quickly. The wells of their fingernails were stained with bluing and solder and graphite. A specialty machinist of some sort perhaps, watch maker?

“Well, at least it wasn’t an orgy,” the stranger said, suddenly, voice raspy from the panic attack.

Bruce could see Jason trip out of the corner of his eyes from where he was finally getting up off the table.

“Ew,” Tim whined after a beat of stunned silence. “Oh, ew, no, nope, not thinking of that. Where’s the brain bleach? B, tell me the JL has invented brain bleach.”

“Or that thing from Men in Black,” Jason groused.

“No, Reds, the JL does not have brain bleach or ‘that thing from Men in Black’,” Bruce said dryly.

“Wiping a specific memory is actually incredibly hard,” the stranger said. “We’re still learning how all of those pathways connect and that’s even without considering instinct and muscle memory. Now preventing memories for forming, that’s easy. Take me and why I’m even here, no clue, but much harder to erase something that’s already known and perhaps something that could cause a cascade failure… and shutting up now.”

“Are you always like this in the morning?” Jason asked.

“Believe it or not,” the stranger drawled, “waking up in a cave asleep with a bunch of vigilante and no memory of how I got here is not my usually morning.”

Bruce found himself giving a soft chuckle. Normally he would never, but now that the emergency was over apparently his brain was happy to slip back into the morning fog. He did his best to put some Batman gravel into his voice as he spoke. “Once you’ve rinsed off, we will explain. There was cuddle pollen involved, you need to make sure it’s gone so that you are not exposed again.”

“Okay, well, at least cuddle pollen explains some of this,” they grumbled softly. They made a move to lean away from Bruce but stopped short with a hiss of pain.

Bruce moved forward to keep supporting them. “What’s wrong?”

“Just my body being my body. Where’s my bag?”

Cass appeared holding a messenger bag a moment later with a smile.

“Oh, thank you.” Carefully and with Bruce’s support, they leaned forward to take the bag and start searching around in it. “I’m sorry, I don’t know which one you are without the whole getup.”

“B.B.,” Cass chirped. She sat down crosslegged and helped hold the things that the stranger set aside from their bag.

“B.B? Oh, Black Bat,” they said with a little nod and a soft ah-ha as they found what they were looking for. “Thank you B.B.”

Cass gave an acknowledging little noise as the stranger shook a pill out of a small container and knocked it back with a swig from their water bottle.

“Sorry, alright, willing to offer a hand up, B.B?” They asked.

Cass set the items back in the bag, hoped up, and offered her hand. Bruce made sure to support the stranger as they stood, which let Bruce feel the fine tremors that ran through their body and hear the bitten back sounds of pain. Bruce trusted Cass and Dick to help them to the showers and bring a set of clothing to change into. When he turned around, Tim was already poking at the messenger bag.

“Red,” Bruce sighed.

“B,” Tim interrupted and twisted an ID tag clipped on the bag for Bruce to see.

It was a Wayne Enterprises ID badge the color combination of R&D. Danny Fenton, it read, he/him, R&D.

---

AN: take care darlings, take care and be delightful.

#dp x dc #spirit halloween ship #birdritch

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zemosbff · 3 months ago

Text

study session

amongst other things…

pairing: mentor!agatha x witch!reader

summary: tired of studying, you find something far more enjoyable to do together with your mentor, agatha harkness..

content warning: (legal) age gap, teacher x student, fem (afab) reader, a little mix of everything; dry humping, nipple play, eating out (r receiving), fingering (r receiving), mommy kink

word count: 1.6k

a/n: haii :3 this is my first ever fanfic, i hope you all enjoy it! don’t be afraid to leave requests or some feedback!

MINORS DNI. 18+ ONLY

the words in the book you were reading soon turned into mush. your head throbbed and a big sigh left your lips before turning to your mentor sitting on your right.

you had been agatha’s student for a couple of months now, ever since you moved in next door. she had been the first to introduce herself to you, and as soon she realized that you too, just like her, were a witch, she took you under her wings. she wanted to teach you everything she knew, wanted you to be her perfect little student.

“agatha..” you started, but as soon as you locked eyes with the older witch already staring at you, you quickly forgot your trail of thoughts.

as embarrassing as it was, there was no denying your feelings for agatha. which maybe wasn’t so weird after all since she was quite literally the only one you had. you spent more time with her than alone, and you had tried to convince yourself it was because of your immense dedication to the research and work you put into learning and be a good student. but that wasn’t exactly the truth, and deep down you knew it.

so, instead of trying to bury your feelings, you decided to have some fun with it instead.

you had no idea whether agatha actually liked you back though, so it was definitely a risky game. but you were tired of studying, and it was a risk you were willing to take. besides, she always used pet names for you which sent butterflies down your stomach. was it normal for a mentor to call their student things like “hon, “sweetheart”, “angel”? or your personal favorite, “good girl”. you weren’t sure, but in your mind you were the only one she would call those things. hopefully.

“what, darling?”

darling. the word sent shivers down your spine, and you tried hiding your little smirk that creeped up your face. perhaps agatha saw this, because what she did next made your breath heavier.

she calmly put her hand on your thigh, still keeping eye contact with you as she started to move her hand up and down, caressing you carefully. the touch wasn’t necessarily out of the ordinary, but made your heart flutter nonetheless.

you had grown impatient as of lately, and therefore dressed in a way you thought would attract the older dark haired witch beside you. the short dress made an easy access to your already dripping cunt. it took so little to make you worked up, something that agatha regularly took to her advantage, unbeknownst to you of course.

“are you going to answer me or not?” she let out a small chuckle, watching your cheeks grow red.

“can we do something else?” you asked with uncertainty. you didn’t know how she would react, perhaps your delusions were just that - delusions.

she leaned towards you, and when she was so close you could feel her breath against your ear she whispered in a seductive voice.

“like what?”

she leaned back again and bit her lip while watching you lose your confidence and quickly surrender to her.

your legs started to feel weak, and you felt thankful for sitting down. was this actually happening? is agatha flirting with you or is this simply your imagination slipping away from reality?

she closed the thick book in front of you harshly and continued.

“alright, since you’ve worked so hard, would you like a little reward?”

you managed to open your mouth and let out a pathetic attempt to answer yes while nodding.

you had no idea what would happen next, it felt as if your head simply stopped all kinds of thoughts, not wanting to interfere with whatever was going to happen next.

agatha leaned forward slowly, as if she was afraid to scare you away if she moved too quickly. you could see the lust and yearning in her eyes, and as if something took over your body you crashed your lips onto hers. her hands reached your hair and gripped tightly, making you groan into her mouth, which led to her taking the opportunity to stick her tongue in your mouth. you had been kissed before, but nothing could compare to this. months of stares that lasted a bit too long, pet names and touches that could be considered flirting, but both too anxious to actually take the first step.

it felt as if you were on fire, shivering when her tongue went deeper, making you forget how to breathe properly. while keeping body contact she stood up, and you obediently followed her lead. her hands laid on your shoulders and still deep in the kiss you moved to agatha’s couch; the bedroom simply being too far away at the moment. you needed each other, and had no time to spill, so the couch would do. agatha pushed you down while quickly following, she sat down beside you, legs touching.

without breaking the kiss you raised one of your legs and put it on the other side of her, making you sit on top of her. the sudden change of position made agatha whimper into your mouth and you realized you now had the upper hand.

desperately wanting some friction you started moving your hips back and forth, searching for something to get you off on. agatha’s hands found your hips and pushed you down while helping you move.

“please.. i want you..” suddenly the words you had been thinking of for so long finally left your mouth, and you couldn’t believe this was really happening. apparently those three words i want you was all that was needed for agatha to hungrily touch you all over. her hands lingered over your breasts and just seconds later she threw your dress over your head. still sitting on top of her, she had a perfect view of your completely bare chest. she looked at you shamelessly while she took one of your nipples into her hot mouth, swirling her tongue just perfectly making the hairs on your body stand right up. one of her hands found your other nipple and gently pinched it, looking for a reaction from you which you gladly gave her, whimpering loudly.

she moved on from your breasts and instead started leaving wet kisses all over your neck, trying to taste every part of you.

“you want me baby? tell me you want me” her voice was low and husky, making your legs tremble.

“yes, god agatha, i want you so bad”

“such a good girl”

there it was. good girl. nothing in the world could ever get you as riled up as agatha calling you a good girl, specifically her good girl.

you sucked in a sharp breath when she moved you to lay on your back, and she slowly lowered herself and pulled down your underwear with only her teeth. you could tell she was skilled, way more than you were, so you decided to just let her take full control over your body. she could use you, do whatever she wanted with you without question.

she put a trail of small fluttering kisses along your inner thighs, making your whole body shiver.

“does this feel good hon?”

without even waiting for your answer she teased your folds with her nose, before licking up your leaking juices.

“so wet for me already, hm?”

you let out a loud moan when she for the second time closed the distance between your soaking core and her mouth. she explored your pussy with her tongue and started getting more and more aggressive with it. wanting to give you the most pleasure possible she started rubbing your clit in circles with her fingers, still burying her entire lower face into your folds.

“feels.. so good..” you finally let out with a heavy breath, not knowing what else to say or do.

your hands reached down to her thick hair, pulling it harshly when she bit down on your sensitive clit.

mindlessly fucking you with both her fingers and mouth she felt you tense up, and you started to feel the familiar sensation in your abdomen, knowing you were close.

“i.. i’m close..”

“beg.”

“please.. please let me cum”

“that’s what you call begging? honey, you’re pathetic” she said with her low sexy voice, absolutely sending you over the edge.

“agatha oh my god, please let me come, please mommy”

and with that you let it all out, squirting over her face while you bucked your hips up and down to ride it out. with a sigh and eyes rolling back in your head she inserted a finger in your hole, stretching it out without any warning.

“fuck, agatha!” you screamed, while she hushed you, explaining that we didn’t want the whole neighborhood to hear now, do we?

but in all honesty, you couldn’t care less. she pumped her finger in and out, soon leaving you a blabbering mess.

a second finger appeared inside you, and she picked up her pace even more while your walls started to clench around her.

agatha leaned forward and pressed loving kisses all over your face while tears started to form in your eyes as she continued aimlessly fucking you, not giving a single thought to just how overstimulated you were at the moment. just a single touch would make you melt.

your breath became more prominent and you knew you wanted, no, needed, to orgasm on her fingers. your back ached and with a couple more sinful moans from you and a third finger from agatha, you screamed her name while letting loose the best orgasm you’ve ever had in your entire life.

panting like she had just ran a marathon, agatha left a kiss on your forehead.

“how was that, hm?” she asked, and all you could think was that this was so, so much better than studying.

a/n (again): let me know if anyone would be interested in a part 2! also i lowkey rushed this because i just wanted to be done with it, but hope yall enjoyed it anyways!

#agatha harkness #agatha all along #agatha harkness smut #agatha harkness x reader #wandavision #kathryn hahn #kathryn hahn smut

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everythingspokenfor · 18 days ago

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Helping hand

All characters are aged up 18+. MDNI

꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦

"So you have never done it." You looked at him expectedly, like the answer you want from him is a day to day query, like this isn't an embarassing situation to land up in.

Bakugou fidgeted with his fingers, rosy blush spreading from his ears to the column of his throat. He looks at everything but you.

"there is nothing wrong with it," you are trying to help, "you have nothing to be embarassed about", but you aren't really helpful, every word that leaves your glossy lips pushing Bakugou further into humiliation.

"it's just.. I don't do it.. like my quirk, I sweat alot, I don't wanna blow my, you know", words finally spill out his lips, a little jagged but you take what you get. A big small part of you want to make a crude joke, tease him, say something stupid like he doesn't want his dick blown- but you stop, he has barely started coming out of his shell, any further teasing is simply going to get you kicked out of his room.

So, you choose to wait, let him get out any more words he wishes to say, when he doesn't, you continue," I see, we don't have to do anything major today", the implication of your statement makes Bakugou's imagination wild, his hips subconsciously humping the air, you notice it, he doesn't, "I'll go easy today, it'll help with the nerves, do you watch porn?."

You question baffles him but he still answers, nodding his head before already answering the question you would have asked next,"it's.. mild.... Like mild stuff, foreplay then sex haven't really paid mind to it", he is no longer fidgeting with his hands, they are now tightly gripping the bed beside his thighs.

Nothing to obstruct your view of his lap, you see his cock, it's hard and it's thick so thick that it probably won't be able to lift it's own weight. And it's creamy, distinct head of his cock, visible easily because all the precum that's leaking out, it's alot, messily smeared over his sweats.

"I guess I'll take things in my hands", another crude joke bubbles in your mind at your own words,"I'll do things at your pace, today I'll give you a handy, tomorrow we'll figure more out."

As much as teasing him was fun, you knew he needed release, today you'll spear him, you suppose.

Bakugou tensed up, probably imagining you giving him a handy, the word itself making him cringe. "you can do it", he mumbles, humping his hips up again this time more prominent. "Do what?", you question innocently, hand barely hovering over his thighs.

He knows you are teasing him, he looks at you like he hates you but his cock weeps, prominent drop of precum dribbles out. "Give me a handy, bitch." Desperation evident in his voice, tongue spitting venom because you won't let his cock splurt.

He barely has time to react before you grab his cock through his sweats and squeeze , already hard for so long, poor Bakugou cums before you even have a chances to stroke him.

His orgasm causing him to hunch over, both his hands grabbing your wrist and tightly pressing against his cock. Mouth open, in a silent moan, toes curled hlon his sock clad feet. He lets go of your hand and collapses back on the bed. Heavy breathing, accompanied by loud heart beats ringing in his ears.

You slowly pull your hand away, motion causing him to let out a hiss. "Don't fucking say it." He grits out, hand over his eyes.

You don't really know why you do it, the thought of teasing him not really in your mind, maybe you were asking pathetic of a mess as he was.

You looked at your hand, cum smeared on your fingers, before you put them in your mouth and sucked them clean.

"good diet." You breath out, before swiftly leaving the room.

Bakugou lay there, dumbfounded, and more pent up than he was before.

꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦

#bnha #bnha x reader #mha #mha x reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugou x reader #bnha bakugou #bnha fluff #katsuki bakugo x reader #bnha smut #mha smut #bakugou smut #bakugou katsuki x reader #mha bakugou #katsuki x reader #bnha bakugo katsuki #katsuki bakugo mha

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getosbigballsack · 10 months ago

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Random thought!

But just imagine 35 years old CEO Gojo Satoru falling in love with the young woman whom he hired to be his surrogate.

Desperate at this point to fulfill his role as CEO and the heir of his family clan, he knew he had no other choice but to find someone who would be willing to give birth to his child.

He thought his ex-wife was the one. After all, she was pregnant when they were still together. When the due date came around and Satoru heard that she gave birth to a healthy baby boy, he was over the moon until he saw the baby for himself.

He knew that that wasn't his baby. Blonde hair and green eyes? No one in his family had blonde hair and green eyes. So he asked for a DNA test. His ex-wife refused at first, but then she gave in, and when the test came back, the baby was 99.99%, not his child.

He was broken. He served her divorce papers the following day, and after everything he had done for her, this is how she chose to repay him. As if cheating wasn't enough, she had to get pregnant and gave birth to another man’s child.

So now here he is sitting in a cafe waiting for the surrogate.

...

You didn't have much of a choice. 26 years of age and still struggling to get your bachelor's degree just so that you could live a comfortable life and be financially stable.

But with the way things are right now, you knew that it was an impossible task to complete your final year. You could hardly manage to pay your school fee. You kept on getting rejection letters from student loans, and let's face it, you barely had time to study to even try to get a scholarship.

So now you're stuck looking for a quick and easy way to make money. You had little options, and prostitution just so happened to be one of them. And you almost turned to it, that's until you heard that a "rich" CEO was looking for a woman who was willing to give birth to his heir.

So now that's how you ended up in the situation to you're in currently. Nervously playing with your fingers as sat across from no other than Gojo Satoru.

"Your name is Y/N?"

"Yes, and you're Mr. Gojo Satoru."

He shook his head yes while taking a sip of his coffee. "I hope you don't mind meeting like this. I thought it would be better to meet in a more casual setting instead of my office. I don't want to intimidate you."

"That's fine, Mr. Gojo."

"Before we get started, are you sure you want to do this? I want you to be absolutely sure because once you sign the contract, there is no backing out of it."

You shook your head yes before responding, "it's something that I've thought about deeply, Mr. Gojo, and after reading through the contract a few times, I came to the conclusion that I would rather have a baby for a stranger who is willing pay to me more than what my school fee is worth than go and become a prostitute."

He was shocked by your words but said nothing of it. It wasn't his place to say anything or have any comment about your personal life.

"Well then, I guess we can go ahead and meet with our lawyers and sign the contract."

"Lawyers? I thought... I can't afford a lawyer right now," you said to him.

He chuckled, "I figured that that would be the case. No worries, I had already hired a lawyer for you."

"You did?" You asked. Just then, the door to the cafe burst opened, and in came a man and a woman dressed in suits.

"Ah, there they are. Right on time."

Gojo stood up and greeted the lawyers before he introduced you to them. The man, Mr. Nanami Kento is his lawyer, and the woman Tetsu Akari is your lawyer. First impression she has a kind and calm aura around her.

But let's move down the line.

You four all sat and discussed what was on the contract, and before you signed it, Gojo asked, "Is there anything that you need to clarify before signing the contract."

"Yes, uhm, it's about the procedure. Are we going to uhm... have... uhm intercourse to conceive the baby?"

"We could since it's the safe way to go about this, but no," he answered with a small smile on his face.

"Ok then, where do I sign."

This is the beginning of how Gojo Satoru fell in love with the woman he hired to be his surrogate.

#gojo smut #jujutsu kaisen gojo #jjk gojo #gojo satoru

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lovegalor333 · 2 months ago

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˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊✧˚ · .

woman crush wednesday (paige x reader) (next part)

summary: paige is asked who her celebrity crush is on instagram live and you’re pleasantly surprised when she responds with your name

content warnings: none!

inspired by this request from @rizzlerbuckets 🌟

“You have to see this, Y/N.” Your best friend exclaimed as she joined you in your kitchen where you were making dinner for the both of you.

You glance up from the stove to see her phone in her hand outstretched in your direction. There’s a video playing and from what you can see, it’s a screen recording of an Instagram live. The are two girls in the frame and they look like they’re in a dorm room.

“What is this? Who are they?” You ask confused, turning your attention back to the steak you were frying in a pan.

“They’re basketball players, just watch.” She insists, pushing her phone closer to your face.

You turn your gaze to the video and do as your best friend says. You watch the girls on screen as they read through the comments they were getting. They would laugh every now and then and you found yourself entranced by the blonde and the way her eyes scrunched at the sides when she smiled.

Your best friend turns up the volume of her phone and watches you closely with raised brows.

“OK OK! This is a good question whos your celebrity crush?” The girl with the braids directs to her friend next to her.

The blonde girl ponders for all of three seconds, “This is easy.” She grins and you’re expecting the usual response of one of the many famous men that most girls pine over. Channing Tatum, Michael B Jordan, Harry Styles, Justin Bieber, Vinnie Hacker, Jude Bellingham and you’re not sure why your best friend wanted you to watch this so bad. Until you hear her answer and it’s none of the names you imagined, it’s not even a man. It’s you.

“She’s bad bad.” The blonde continues, “And she sings. What more could you ask for?”

“Damn OK, someones down bad.” Her friend teases, “Y/N, if you’re watching this, let my girl Paige here take you on a date.” You laugh because you imagined the girls never would have thought you’d actually watch this video but, little do they know, your best is chronically online and sees everything that’s posted about you. Of course, she picks and chooses what she shares with you but you’re secretly glad this video made it through her vetting process.

“How old is this girl?” You ask cautiously before making any further comments.

“I’ll Google!” Your best friend chimes, tapping away at her phone. “Twenty two.” She clarifies, the same age as you.

“And she’s still in college?” You ask.

“It says here she was injured for the majority of two seasons so she was eligible to redshirt. She goes to University of Connecticut.” Your best friend explains, probably reading through Wikipedia.

You and your best friend discuss Paige over dinner, scrolling through her various social media accounts. Now you knew her age, you had no problem voicing how you felt about her. “She’s hot.” You say as her most recent TikTok plays on a loop.

Not only was she blonde, which was historically your type, but she had the most beautiful blue eyes that could draw you in, even through a screen. She played basketball, so of course she was tall but the way she carried herself so confidently and purposeful had you in a chokehold. Her muscular body, that she had no problem showing off, had your heart rate spiking each time she flexed her biceps in videos that now flooded your For You Page.

“Well, you know where Connecticut isn’t far from? New York.” Your best friend says, “And where are we? NEW YORK!” She triumphs as if you hadn’t already been able to come to that conclusion yourself.

“I’m messaging her.” You announce, opening Instagram and searching for Paiges name.

“What are you going to say?”

“I don’t know, something flirty.” You reply, fingers hovering over your keyboard as you think.

“Picture of your mommy milkers?” Your best friend says and you laugh at her suggestion, “No! Not yet, anyway.”

You type out a message before deleting it and you finally land on,

heard you wanted to take me on a date?

Paige is quick to reply, you’ve barely put your phone down before it pings.

hahah you saw the live?

im embarrassed

dont be, im flattered

and wondering where you’re taking me

You cringe at your boldness but the send the message anyway. Paige was hot and she clearly thought you were too so what was the harm in having some fun?

are you busy right now?

wow, you don’t waste any time

not for the date darling, call me

Paige sends you her number and you press call, anxiously waiting for her to answer. When she does, her voice is smoky and sweet and your brows raise at her tone and you excuse yourself to your bedroom, leaving your best friend grinning from ear to ear like a kid in a candy store.

You and Paige chatted for longer than you realise and you find yourself giggling like a teenager at her words. It’s almost midnight when Paiges words become softer and slower, “It’s late. I should let you go.” You say not wanting to keep her up.

“Or you could stay on the phone and sing me to sleep.” She quips, earning another giggle from you.

“Let’s save that for another time. When I’m actually there and you can feel my breath on your neck.” You drawl.

You hear a sharp in take of breath, “Don’t play.” Paige says lowly.

“Goodnight Paige.” You giggle, satisfied with her flustered response.

“Goodnight Y/N.”

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊✧˚ · .

a/n: just a short one but this was actually really fun to write! hope u enjoy 💋 vinnie hacker mention because p is never escaping that 😭

#paige bueckers #wlw #lgbtq #oneshot #paige x reader #uconn wbb #wcbb #paige bueckers imagine #blurb #fanfic #lovegalor333

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andypantsx3 · 11 months ago

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READY OR KNOT | 2 | TODOROKI SHOUTO x READER

SUMMARY: Todoroki Shouto is so unsettlingly beautiful, you’re certain he has to be an omega. That is, until a chance encounter with a pushy alpha reveals you were incredibly mistaken—and the surprises don’t stop there. Shouto's suddenly mystifying behavior adds another layer of complexity to an already confusing inter-agency investigation. It would be so much easier to figure things out—and suppress your growing feelings—if only Shouto would stop being so strangely attentive to you... TAGS/WARNINGS: pro hero au, fem + afab reader, omegaverse, alpha shouto, beta reader, misunderstandings, courting behavior, slightly case fic-y, undertones of sexual violence (not between main pairing), aged-up characters, eventual smut, 18+ minors please dni! LENGTH: 4.9k, 2nd of 7 chapters

It turned out it was not so easy to forget what had happened with Shouto. Especially when Monday morning rolled around, and with it, some very pressing questions about the party.

Mina found you first thing in the morning, already up to your eyeballs in the case file at your desk. A frown marred her pretty mouth as she rounded the corner into the case analyst area. She neatly dodged your deskmate’s ginormous stack of paperwork, nearly as tall as she was, eyes homing in on you like dark little missiles.

“I heard about what happened with Suzuki,” she said, looking you over with uncharacteristic concern. Her eyebrows were drawn, her features pinched. It was an expression that didn’t overtake her cheerful visage all too often. “Are you okay?”

You blinked up at her, the name escaping you for a moment, until you matched it up with the support alpha from the party on Friday. Your lips downturned in reflexive distaste.

“I’m fine. You must have heard that Shouto scared him off,” you answered. “All he really managed to do was imply some stuff.”

Mina’s eyebrow twitched, like she had more questions on that, but she dutifully adhered to the matter at hand first. “I did hear that and we are going to be discussing that in a second. But that doesn’t mean you’d still be okay with everything that did happen. I’ve got a meeting with HR about Suzuki this afternoon, and I’m thinking of firing him.”

You jolted, a quick pang of guilt striking through you. Firing him. That seemed a very intense option.

You thought Suzuki was an asshole, sure, and you remembered all too well the horror that had overtaken you as he’d reached for his belt. But you also knew he had been drunk out of his mind—drunk enough that he thought you were an omega of all things, somehow perceiving things that weren’t even there.

You’d thought about it a lot this weekend, running over the events in your mind, and while the whole incident left a sour taste in your mouth, you thought Suzuki probably had been close to alcohol poisoning considering how strongly he smelled of Tetsutetsu’s horrible drink. He wasn’t exactly sound of mind, the lines a little blurry.

You’d never waylaid anyone like that while intoxicated, but you had done and said your fair share of things you regretted when you’d sobered up. You didn’t know what to think.

You looked up at Mina, finding her watching you consideringly. “No?” she asked.

You scrubbed a hand over your face, unclear what the right thing was. “I saw him and he was like, really not all there, Mina. I think he should be punished for sure, but what if you gave him a warning that if this happens at all again, he’s gone?”

One of Mina’s eyebrows arched. “Shouto said he was holding you against the wall even after you said no.”

You could feel your nostrils flare in anger at the memory, the feeling of that hand against the wet patch on your shoulder, unbudging.

“He did, but he also thought I was an omega, Mina,” you said. “I think he was close to alcohol poisoning, actually. He hasn’t caused any other trouble like this, has he?”

Mina shook that head of wild pink curls. “No, he’s been a model employee thus far. But I still don’t like it. That’s not what the Pink Riot agency is.”

A sigh filled your lungs. The support of Mina and Kirishima was enough for now. “I don’t like it either. But he was drunk, and nothing did actually happen, thanks to Shouto. Give him a warning that any other tiny slip up means firing, and I will be satisfied.”

Mina looked hesitant, dark eyes searching over your face, but eventually she sighed, shrugging her shoulders. “Fine. Once and only because you’ll need an accurate record from support in your investigation and it will be harder to get if he’s gone. But he will be fired if I hear even a whiff of a rumor again.” She paused. “And you’ll have to talk to Eiji, because he’s going to like this even less than I do.”

That wrung a smile out of you.

Kirishima was a good alpha and seemed to think of the agency almost like his pack. As easygoing as he was, he guarded his people resolutely, like a farm dog patrolling a chicken coop. You could almost imagine him standing at attention, head forward and tail pointed like an arrow.

As heartwarming as that image was, that didn’t mean you wanted to be the one to tell him though. You shook your head, throwing out your hands. “Oh no. Your alpha, your problem. The one privilege of my secondary gender is I’m not part of this shit.”

Mina clucked, sighing. “He is my problem.”

You laughed, knowing very well she’d know how to solve it. But her expression shifted, suddenly looking sly, and you realized she was about to saddle you with another problem.

“You’ll have to tell Shouto then,” she said, her voice deceptively light.

You blinked, eyebrows raising. Shouto…? “Why the heck would I need to tell Shouto?”

A grin slowly crept over Mina’s mouth, and she leaned in conspiratorially, looking altogether too pleased. Her hot pink nails settled on the edge of your desk, tapping delightedly. “Because he’s your assigned supervising hero. And you’ll be seeing him again in just a few minutes.”

A sudden flurry of butterflies erupted in your stomach, your mind flashing through the feeling of Shouto over you, tall and strong and warm, pressing you carefully to the wall. You could all but feel the whisper of those pretty eyelashes on your skin, feel his careful exhale, the brush of his mouth against your throat.

Your ears prickled with heat, and you could feel your face go slack in shock. He would be here—? In front of you again?

“He’s—what?” you garbled out, trying to dispel the phantom feeling of Shouto against you.

Mina looked downright smug. “He asked to be assigned right after I spoke to him at the party on Friday. Interesting, don’t you think?”

Heat licked at your cheeks. “Is it,” you managed tightly. “That’s… nice of him.”

“Very,” Mina agreed. “Especially since I heard about what happened after Suzuki left.”

You hated her.

“I’m a beta,” you reminded her, not liking the implication.

Mina’s dark eyes rolled. “Eiji liked me even when he thought I might present as a beta.”

“That’s different,” you told her, floored that you’d sidetracked into this so quickly. “I’m actually a beta. Also what the hell are we even talking about. This is a work case.”

Mina flapped a hand at you. “I’m sure you’ll both work it very hard, very thoroughly,” she said with no small amount of relish.

You seized the case file in question, holding it up between you like a shield, flapping it at her in turn. The manila folder flopped stiffly, the pages making a sort of wobbly sound. “Why are you like this,” you hissed.

Mina’s eyes glittered, and she opened her mouth to respond, when the soft tread of a boot in the hall made her perk up. Her grin went unholy. “Speak of the devil,” she said.

Shouto certainly did not look like the devil, as he rounded the corner. The fluorescent lighting made a sort of soft halo off the glossy strands of his distinct two-toned hair, and his features were just as angelic as you remembered—finely-wrought and almost deliberately formed, as though he were sculpture from the hands of a master. He was almost too beautiful to look at this early in the morning, and you felt your breath draw up short in your lungs.

He blinked when he saw you, those heterochromatic eyes widening nearly imperceptibly as he approached.

“Morning, Shouto-kun,” she purred. You hated her.

“Good morning,” he said, his tone low and soft. Your fingers tightened on the file folder, bracing yourself against the loveliness of the sound.

A flush rose to your cheeks as you did so, and Shouto’s eyes followed you curiously. Beneath the high collar of his hero uniform, you could just glimpse a flash of his scent patches, neatly placed as usual. You wondered absently what he would smell like if you peeled them back and leaned in close. As a beta, your nose was not as good as the other genders, but if you got in close enough, and if Shouto’s scent was strong enough, you’d probably be able to tell.

He looked like he’d smell delicious.

A cackle from Mina alerted you to the horrifying fact that you’d just been staring at Shouto as he approached, mouth open and expression vacant.

“Uh… good morning,” you managed.

The corner of Shouto’s mouth quirked up, and something beneath your skin tingled in response.

“I hope you are well,” he murmured.

You could see Mina’s eyes darting back and forth between the two of you with barely suppressed glee, and a sudden bolt of shame went through you.

Just because it was super obvious how hot you found Shouto didn’t mean he felt the same. He was a fucking pro hero for crying out loud. Rescuing people was what he did—the save on Friday did not have to mean anything.

Plus, knowing for sure that he was an alpha had closed the window on your little celebrity crush. Out of the hundreds of couples you’d met in your lifetime, you’d only ever met one alpha-beta pairing—both tradition and biology seemed to win out in almost all mated pairs, alphas and omegas unable to help their inherent attraction to one another.

And with that in mind, it was actually super disrespectful of you to even think about this impending partnership in any terms less-than-professional.

You rallied yourself, inclining your head respectfully to Shouto, gesturing with the case file in your hands.

“Yep, I’m good. I’m grateful for the save and I’m sure I’ll be even more grateful for your help on this case.” You turned to your boss, routing her back on track. “Mina, what information have you shared and what do I need to get him up to speed on?”

Mina’s pout was so defined it could be seen from space. You ignored her, raising your eyebrows.

“I only put the call out to other agency heads for a supervising out-of-agency hero. Just that it’s an omega assault case possibly involving a pro, and your name as the lead investigator.”

Your gaze returned to Shouto. He was still watching you intently.

“How much time do you have before you’re needed back at your agency?” you asked him. “Do you want to grab a conference room and I’ll get you up to speed? I’m sure Mina has a lot to do just now.”

He nodded, his hair falling into his eyes in a way that should not have wrung the oxygen out of the atmosphere, but did. “I am on patrol after lunch, but I’ve asked that my schedule be cleared until then.”

Perfect. Plenty of time. You stood, hefting the case file with you, clearly dismissing Mina, who looked put out.

“Great, I’ll show you to the conference room then,” you said. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Mina flashing you a pink finger, and you could easily guess which one. You stuck out your tongue at her as you passed Shouto so he couldn’t see, not above pettiness.

You gestured Shouto into one of the smaller rooms across the floor with especially good soundproofing, holding the door open for him. You sucked in a breath as he brushed past you, trying not to admire how tall and broad he was, the way those shoulders spanned the breadth of the doorway.

Shouto took a seat and you spread the case file out before him, trying not to look down at him as he glanced up at you. His fingers twitched on the conference table, like he was holding them in place. You carefully retreated to a safer distance, hoping you hadn’t annoyed him.

“Okay so the basic brief is as Mina said. There have been multiple reports of a suspected pro harassing omegas late at night in Bunkyo. Initially they were identified as a masked male wearing scent patches, roughly five foot ten, always wearing some dark jacket. But the suspected hero element came into play late last week when they attempted to strap quirk suppressors on their target. The omega in question had a vapor quirk so she was able to dissolve and escape before he did.”

Shouto’s eyes tracked you as you spoke, solemn and attentive.

“So far the suspect has not shown any signs of a quirk himself, and without any scent ID it’s hard to know what secondary gender to look for. Our best option is to work the possible-pro-hero angle and rule out who we can, since that’s all the identifiable detail we have on this guy at this time.”

Shouto nodded, propping an elbow on the table. You tried to ignore how even that small gesture made him look like a center spread in Heroes Illustrated.

“I’d like to read the individual reports and hear your plan once I have,” Shouto said.

You perked up, pleased with the terms he was speaking in. A good case analyst always had at least a sketch of a plan—what order to speak to specific people in, which angles had highest priority of investigation, and how the labor could be divided and work double-checked.

Most heroes were people of action and hated having to be corralled into approaching cases like some sort of assignment, instead of busting in and blowing things apart. But it was the best way to make sure all avenues were investigated thoroughly and that work was peer-reviewed in case someone missed something.

Shouto’s phraseology told you he was familiar with approaching cases like this, meaning he probably listened to the Todoroki agency analysts. You’d never worked closely enough with him before to know, only trading high-level information back and forth on a couple of joint cases, presenting findings in a meeting room stuffed full of Pink Riot and Todoroki agency heroes.

You found yourself smiling faintly.

“I’ll get you some coffee while you read. Everything is in chronological order in the file and I’ve tabulated some notes,” you said. “How do you take yours?”

Shouto’s gaze slid over you, careful and assessing. He paused. “I’ve been told I should not share that information.”

Your eyebrows went up. “Your… coffee order?”

Shouto nodded seriously. “Bakugou says it’s disgusting and embarrassing.”

Bakugou—pro hero Dynamight, that was—was Kirishima’s best friend, a loud alpha of an explosive manner and incendiary opinions who often showed up unprompted at the agency to stomp around and mean mug, all the while hiding that he was attempting to press leftovers on Kiri and Mina. You laughed, curious what Bakugou had browbeaten another pro over.

“Your secret will be safe with me,” you said coaxingly.

Shouto blinked, mouth quirking slightly again. He looked like he genuinely liked the idea of that, and your stomach fluttered in response.

Of course then he opened his mouth and provided a rundown of the inhumanly numerous sugars and syrups he liked, such that it constituted more of a soft drink than a coffee order. You tried to keep your eyebrows from creeping up into your hairline, smothering a laugh.

That was so unexpectedly cute. Especially for an alpha.

“One coma-inducing order of sugar with a splash of coffee, coming right up,” you saluted him.

He did something with his face that was a cross between a tiny smile and a pout, and you threw yourself out the door before you dissolved into a puddle of goop.

You went down to the cafe that operated out of the ground floor of the Pink Riot building, a favorite lunch spot of most of the heroes for how enormous their sandwiches were. The order took a fair few minutes, as it took the barista a good while to pump in the zillions of requested syrups, his eyebrows raised nearly to the moon as you recited them.

When you returned to the conference room, Shouto was already well into the case file. He glanced up as you entered, those heterochromatic eyes pinning you with an unexpected intensity. You started, wondering if you’d done something wrong.

But then his mouth slid into another tiny smile, and he looked so genuinely pleased to see you—or the coffee cup—you found yourself helplessly smiling back.

After depositing his cup next to him, you fetched your laptop and emailed Shouto’s agency the case files while he read. You wrote up the preliminary notes you’d been able to pull together on the case—a list of three agency heroes whose exact whereabouts had been accounted for during one or more of the incidents, who were therefore not on your list of possibilities.

Shouto was staring at you when you shook yourself out of work mode an hour later, quiet and intent. You startled, jumping in your seat.

“Oh my god—I’m sorry—did you say something? I didn’t mean to ignore you,” you said.

Shouto shook his head, another smile quirking that perfect mouth. That expression was growing familiar. “I have just finished,” he said.

A sense of relief washed over you. “Okay great. Did anything stick out to you that you think I’ve missed so far?”

“No,” he murmured. “Your work is very thorough. I would like to hear your plan.”

His tone was low, almost appreciative, and you tried not to let it go to your head.

“Okay, then we’ll begin with the active duty and equipment logs,” you told him. “I’m already through all of the duty logs available, but I still need the one from Thursday when the last incident happened—it’s supposed to be ready this afternoon. That will rule out a few heroes, and the equipment logs can tell us more about who had what out during the time of the attacks—I think we start with the heroes who had suppressors on them then.”

Shouto nodded, looking like he was following along. “You want to narrow the pool before you speak to anyone in case you arouse suspicion.”

You nodded, pleased he understood. “Yes.”

That blue and gray gaze nearly pinned you to your seat. “That is smart.”

A sudden wash of heat licked up your spine, pooling in your limbs. You struggled to keep your face neutral, your ears burning. “Th—thanks.”

“Who have you ruled out so far?” he asked.

You turned your screen to him, showing the notes you’d drawn up. “Kiri’s clear—no shock there—Tetsutetsu, and Tetsu’s sidekick who was with him on a cleanup during the first incident. I’m hoping Thursday’s log will clear at least one or two more.”

Shouto inclined his head in agreement. “And your interview plan?”

You smiled, and scrolled down to your notes on that, pleased at how he was letting you lead the investigation. He listened intently as you walked him through an outline, double-checking that everything worked with his schedule.

As you talked, he offered a few suggestions of his own, but he mostly seemed content to follow your outline—completely unlike even the most agreeable of the Pink Riot agency alphas. In fact it was so contradictory to everything you’d experienced thus far that you found your gaze darting to his scent patches over and over again, as if assessing whether they were really covering up an alpha scent.

But no—you had felt the pull of his Order under your skin on Friday. You, a beta, naturally resistant to Orders in the way omegas weren’t. And you’d gone so boneless against him, too, affected by his proximity in the most embarrassing way. Shouto was definitely an alpha, with that kind of pull—and probably a preternaturally strong one at that.

But he was also just—your eyes drifted to his coma-inducing coffee cup—kind of a strange one, too.

The two of you discussed the case for a few more minutes—until your stomach growled, loud enough to interrupt your planning, and the corner of Shouto’s lips lifted again.

“Would you like to finish up over lunch?” he asked, saving you the embarrassment of excusing yourself.

You grinned. “I think my stomach already answered for me,” you agreed.

Shouto helped you reorganize the paper files and lingered over you as you locked them into your desk cabinet, waiting for you patiently. Then he let you lead him downstairs to the cafe. You were conscientious of not standing too close to him in the elevator, all too aware of him in that tiny, enclosed space.

When you made it down to the ground floor, Shouto surprised you by steering you over to one of the tables, bidding you to sit.

“What do you enjoy here?” he asked, looking down at you expectantly. “I would like to get it for you.”

You shook your head. “Actually, I’m pretty sure I should be treating you for the save. How about you tell me what you want?”

Those heterochromatic eyes blinked down at you, and a tiny crease appeared between Shouto’s eyebrows. His mouth turned down. Against the subtlety of his expressions thus far, the look appeared almost distressed. “I insist,” he said, something strange in his tone.

“Shouto, really, I—-”

“I insist,” Shouto said, a little more firmly. There was the flicker of something strange under your skin again, like the tiny molecules of your body shifting in response to him.

You froze, startled, and your mouth opened for you before you realized what you were doing. “I—a pesto sandwich—”

You clamped your mouth shut, mystified.

But Shouto looked pleased. He smiled, wider than you had seen so far, a devastatingly handsome quarter-moon sliver that sent your pulse pounding in your ears. You watched him turn and walk off, something you might have said was almost smug in his step, had you known him better.

You sank into one of the seats, befuddled by what had just happened.

Shouto returned a few minutes later with water and an order number, placing the bottle in front of you like an offering. You regrouped, thanking him, then raised your eyebrows as he leaned forward, looking serious.

“I have been wanting to ask. Where does the alpha who harassed you work?” he asked, his tone dropping low. A strip of afternoon sunlight caught in his hair, dancing like flickering flames in the strands of scarlet, liming them in an orange glow.

He was beautiful in the sun, and it took you a minute to reroute your brain from his face to his question.

“Suzuki’s in support,” you said. “But Mina’s disciplining him, and I don’t have to see him often. I do expect he’ll behave after this. But why do you ask?”

Shouto frowned, leaning in closer. “Support maintains the equipment logs.”

It was the same at the Pink Riot agency too. “I—well, yes, but—”

“I should like to be there when you go to support,” Shouto said, catching your eye. His expression shifted into something solemn, his mouth a flat line.

You waved your hand dismissively. “I appreciate it, but don’t worry. He’s not gonna do anything, it’s literally just logs—”

“I must insist,” Shouto said again, his tone soft but unmistakably firm. His fingers flexed tightly where they rested on the edge of the table, the knuckle of his index turning white.

Despite yourself, his concern warmed you, that hot, tingly feeling heating your ears again.

“I really would be okay,” you said. “But if it means something—I’ll wait until tomorrow when you get here?”

Shouto nodded. “I would like that very much.”

A smile teased at your mouth. Now that was stereotypical alpha behavior, much as you appreciated his concern. Suzuki wasn’t going to jump you over a log file in a workplace—especially not after Mina had taken him to task. Shouto’s concern was unnecessary, but so very typical of an alpha. It felt familiar, like Kirishima’s brand of protectiveness over his tight knit agency, you thought. Harmless and well-intentioned.

A tray being placed on your table cut off any response you might have given, and your eyes blew wide as you registered the amount of food on it. Your mouth dropped open when a second tray was placed alongside the first one, the cafe worker smiling down at Shouto before she left, clearly recognizing him.

Shouto looked down at the food, his features arranged in minute shock.

“I do not remember ordering this…” he said, glancing at his receipt slip. You watched as his eyebrows furrowed slightly, that crease appearing between them again as his eyes flickered over the order. Then he cut himself off, those long eyelashes fluttering. “I… apologize.”

Apologize? Meaning, he had ordered this?

“You bought all this?” you asked, floored.

Shouto gave a tight nod. “It… would seem so.”

Your gaze picked over the trays again. They were piled high with at least six sandwiches, several pastries, a takeout container of soup, four different kinds of cookies, two fruit cups, and a handful of the granola bars they kept by the register. It was a literal mountain of food, and you sort of doubted even a pro hero could put that much away in one sitting.

“If you were so hungry we could have come down so much earlier,” you insisted, but Shouto’s embarrassed expression only deepened.

“It is… not for me,” he said slowly. It looked like it pained him to admit it.

You blinked, drawing back in your seat. “It’s…..me?”

Shouto nodded seriously.

A shocked laugh leapt out of you, bright and pleased. “Shouto, I was hungry but this is like, eleven meals!”

“You will have leftovers, then,” Shouto replied, sounding embarrassed. The tips of his ears were red where they peeked through his mop of multicolored hair.

You were so suddenly, utterly charmed by him, a splash of warmth pooling in your stomach, flooding through your limbs. You had absolutely no idea what had possessed him to do this, but it was undeniably sweet. Coupled with the easy way he’d let you take the lead on the investigation, and the way he’d moved to protect you on Friday night—it all painted a portrait of a very good, very kind sort of person.

You’d really lucked into a good partnership. You were grateful.

“Thank you, Shouto,” you said sincerely. A hint of a flush colored his high cheekbones, and he nodded.

You decided not to press him anymore, setting aside your speculation for when he’d gone. Instead, you unearthed your requested sandwich from the mound of food, and selecting a pastry at random. Shouto watched you as you bit into your food, a strange sort of intensity in his gaze.

Eventually, however, he took his own food, and the two of you chatted as you ate, moving on from the case to discuss his patrol, your shared friends, and a slew of other silly topics. You found him just as easy to talk to outside of case work—he had the same straightforward way of approaching life as he did his casework, his outlook consummately honest and thoughtful.

You regretted it when Shouto eventually had to excuse himself for patrol, but not before disappearing and reappearing with a takeout containers and a bag for all the things he’d ordered you, which he carefully but insistently packed away, before putting in front of you with a meaningful look.

You laughed again, taking the bag from him as you got up to make your way back upstairs as well.

“Thank you for lunch,” you told him, trying to convey how sincerely grateful you were. “I’m looking forward to our partnership.” You stuck out your hand to him, smiling up at him.

Shouto’s expression didn’t change much, but his mismatched gaze grew warmer where it rested on you. “As am I,” he said, tone soft.

Long fingers curled around yours, and for a moment you felt that same, weak-kneed desire to collapse against him as you had on Friday. It took an inordinate amount of focus to pump his hand in a handshake, and even more willpower to let him go.

You waved him off, and watched him go, feeling a strange sense of emptiness as that broad back disappeared through the door. In just a few short hours, it seemed, Todoroki Shouto had dug himself a comfortable little spot in your heart—far deeper than a case partner should have.

You ruminated on this as you made your way back upstairs, mind running over the events of the last few days. You couldn’t figure out why Shouto was having a weirder effect on you than any other alpha, even accounting for his unearthly good looks, nor why he seemed to be equally lost today—ordering a zillion things without even realizing he’d done so.

As you made your way back to your desk and cracked open the case file again, you resolved to solve this mystery as well. You were good at getting to the bottom of things—and Todoroki Shouto would be no exception.

#todoroki x reader #todoroki shouto x reader #shouto x reader #shouto x you #shouto todoroki x reader #todoroki x you #bnha x reader #andie's writing #character: todoroki shouto #tw: a/b/o

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scarletemeterio · 28 days ago

Note

hii, saw u wanted arcane requests. from what ive seen on tiktok, apparently jinx was able to escape after the explosion in the very last episode and survived and ran away on that blimp thing, so could u please write a jinx x fem reader where after the explosion, jinx comes to get reader and they run away together happily to another region to have a fresh start and have a quiet, peaceful life. 🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼 pls and thank you.

A Fresh Start (Jinx x Gn!reader)

Warnings: mentions of death, use of (Y/N) once

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Fandom: Arcane

Summary: see request

Word Count: 1.6k

No set pronouns for reader

•••

You still remembered every detail, every word said, replaying the moment in your head. You'd had a fight with Jinx, nothing serious you'd thought, but when she and Ekko found you, you could see the pain in her eyes. She came running to you, wrapping her arms around your neck.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean all those things I said,” she apologized, her voice breaking. “You've always been there for me, and I've been ungrateful about that.”

You hugged her tightly, with your arms surrounding her waist, hiding your face in her shoulder.

“It's okay, it doesn't matter now,” you mumbled. “Are you okay?” You asked, breaking apart and caressing her face.

She simply nodded, but you could read her like an open book, and you knew that there was something she wasn't telling you.

Before you could keep questioning her, Ekko decided to speak.

“I hate to interrupt the sweet moment and everything, but we have to hurry if we wanna survive,” he said. You gave him a confused look, slowly breaking your embrace with Jinx.

“Yeah, the world is basically about to end,” the girl said. And both she and the boy tried their best to give you all the information you needed, trying to come up with a plan.

When you were almost finished with the globe, Jinx pulled you apart for a moment, wanting to talk to you.

“I really am sorry about before," she started saying, “I just couldn't think straight at the moment and I took it out on you.”

“Hey, I said it was okay and I meant it,” you comforted her, grabbing her hand.

“I just don't want us to be on bad terms, we don't know what could happen out there,” she whispered, trying to hold back her tears.

“We're not on bad terms, okay? Don't worry about that, my love,” you answered, not wanting to think about the worst case scenario.

“Thank you for not giving up on me, (Y/N), I'm so lucky to have met you. You mean the world to me, and I love you so much.” Tears were already falling down her cheeks, making it hard to contain yours too.

“I love you, too, baby.” You pressed your foreheads together, closing your eyes to better savour the moment. “Don't worry, we're gonna be okay,” you tried to reassure her. “I'm not saying today will be easy, but we'll make it, and soon this will all be just a dark moment from the past.”

She wrapped her arms around your neck once again, not being able to control her sobs anymore. You were taken aback from the sudden action and her reaction. Her embrace was tight and almost filled with dread, almost as if she was certain something bad would happen. You decided to get those thoughts out of your head. Danger was knocking at the door, and you couldn't ignore it anymore; the moment to fight had come.

When you got to the fight scene, Vi quickly joined you, and so did Vander. Ekko took control of the globe, making it crash into the building, knocking the air out of your lungs. When you finally got back on your feet, you quickly went to help Vi and Jinx against Vander, but a hard blow at you was the last thing you remembered before losing consciousness.

You had no idea how long you were out of it. Ekko's figure was the first thing you saw when you woke up, and he helped you sit down slowly.

“Hey, easy there,” he said. “You got hit pretty badly.”

“I'm fine,” you groaned. “Where’s Jinx?” He ignored your eyes, tilting his head. “Ekko?”

He only had to look at you, and you could instantly feel the world crumble around you. Tears quickly flooded your eyes, still looking at the boy in front of you.

“Tell me it's not what I'm thinking,” you pleaded.

“She sacrificed herself to save Vi.”

You closed your eyes, letting the tears roll down your cheeks. You wanted it to be some sick joke, for her to get into the room and tell you that it wasn't true, that she was fine and you didn't have to worry about anything. But you knew her, and you knew something felt off about her in that last conversation you had. Turns out something bad did end up happening.

•••

Not many days had passed, the pain still fresh. You were lost in your thoughts, staring at the city in front of you. You were in the spot Ekko had shown you not long ago, trying to find a bit of peace in contrast to the mess in your head.

Life in Zaun was very unpredictable, which made it difficult to make long-term plans, but also made it easy to not get attached to anything nor anyone. But Jinx was the exception. You just couldn’t stop yourself from getting attached to her, and now you were suffering the consequences.

To be honest you wouldn’t really change anything, not even the pain you were feeling right now. Changing things would mean not even getting to know her, and you were grateful to have met her, to share your life with her. You were simply paying life’s price for love.

You suddenly felt a presence behind you, but you kept your gaze to the front.

“I'd really like to be alone, Ekko,” you said, assuming that the boy had come to check on you.

“I'm not Ekko.”

You froze in place. You had to be hallucinating, it had to be the only explanation. She was gone, and nothing would change that. You shook your head in disbelief, looking up at the sky.

“I'm even hearing her voice now,” you said. You could feel that presence even closer now, and you quickly grew frustrated with what you thought was your own mind. “Leave me alone!” You screamed, turning to the presence behind you and freezing once again when you finally saw her.

“Hey, it's me,” she whispered.

You quickly got up, never breaking eye contact.

“But- You- How?” It was all you could say, barely whispering, still not truly believing what you were seeing. She was right there.

“I guess being injected with crazy amounts of shimmer to keep me from dying had its perks,” she explained almost jokingly, trying to lighten up the mood. “I managed to escape the explosion.”

“But I don't understand. Why didn't you come back right away? Why let us believe you were dead?” You had a million questions in your head, and you could feel your heart beating like crazy.

“I needed everyone to believe it, to have a fresh start. Vi would never give up on me if she knew I was still alive; she'd follow me to the end of the world.”

You still kept your distance from her, it all seemed unreal. A few minutes ago you were grieving her, and now she was right in front of you, as beautiful as ever. But you felt anger inside you as well. She could've told you, she could've saved you from that horrible pain of thinking she was actually gone for good.

“You knew you were gonna fake it all along, didn't you?” You realized, thinking about that last conversation you two had. “That's why you were so emotional, so shaken and distressed.”

“Baby, I-.”

“You knew, right?” You interrupted her, voice cracking with your words.

“I did.”

You closed your eyes. You didn't really know when you'd started crying, but the tears kept falling down your face.

“You let me believe you were dead, Jinx! Dead!” You didn't even try to hide how emotionally distressed you were. You needed to let everything out. The blue-haired girl broke the distance between you two, holding you in her arms while you sobbed into her chest, quickly collapsing to the ground.

“I'm so sorry, baby. I made a mistake and I should've told you,” she said while running her hand through your hair. You could tell by her voice that she was also crying, filled with guilt. “I'm sorry, please forgive me.”

“I get why you did it,” you told her after a while. “I don't blame you for wanting peace, but you have no idea how much it hurt me to think that I'd lost you.”

She cupped your face and made eye contact with you before pressing your foreheads together. “I'm sorry,” she repeated, feeling like she could never say it enough times to express just how much she regretted not letting you know before.

“I'm just glad you're actually okay, love.” You leaned in to her touch, savouring the moment after such turmoil.

She gave you a kiss on your forehead before speaking.

“I want you to come with me,” she uttered.

“Come where?” You questioned.

“I don't know, away from here,” she replied. “I really want that fresh start, but I know that trying to live without you would be absolute hell. I've had many uncertainties in my life, but you just feel right. If there's something I'm sure of is that I love you, with every part of me.”

“I love you, too,” you told her. “And I'd also follow you to the end of the world.” You let out a hopeful smile, and so did she before cupping your face to kiss you.

Her lips against yours felt absolutely right, like it was just the way it had to be, forever and ever. You belonged together, and there was nothing you wanted more than to build a future with her, away from all the ghosts from the past. You knew it wouldn't be easy, both of you had a lot to let go of but with her by your side everything felt a bit easier, and for the first time in a long time, you felt hopeful.

•••

i absolutely loved this request, thank you anon! i'm a sucker for angst

also i'm 100% sure she's still alive

#arcane #arcane x reader #arcane x you #jinx arcane #jinx #jinx x reader #jinx x y/n #jinx x you

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fastandcarlos · 4 months ago

Text

Daddy The Hero : ̗̀➛ Logan Sargeant

summary: unable to put your daughter to rest, you rely on logan to step in with the magic of dad to save the day

“Logan, are you free?” You called downstairs where you knew Logan was sat watching the next part of the series that you had been watching. Your frame leant against the wall, too tired to even stand upright anymore as cries continued to echo through the upstairs.

“Babe?” Logan shouted back, pausing what he was watching before standing up from the sofa.

You stayed where you were, hearing Logan’s footsteps walking through the house, relieved when you saw the shadow of his figure first before his body appearing at the bottom of the stairs, concerned eyes looking up at you.

“Everything alright?” He questioned, already knowing the answer before he even asked his question.

Your head shook as a dejected sigh escaped from you. “I feel like I’ve done everything I can to get her to go to sleep, but nothing’s working.”

The frustration in your voice was clear for Logan as a sympathetic smile appeared on his face. You always offered to do the night routine whilst Logan relaxed after his busy days but tonight you were just about running on empty.

“Can you come and see if you can do anything? Please. I’m at a loss,” you asked, relieved as Logan immediately made his way up the stairs, forgetting all about what he was watching before.

If there was one thing you adored about your relationship with Logan it was how well you worked as a team, particularly after having your daughter too. When one of you was struggling, the other stepped in and made sure that you both felt well supported.

“What’s going on?” Logan smiled as he followed you into your daughter’s bedroom, noticing her sat up with a wide grin on her face.

“I’m going to go and tidy up the bathroom, give me a shout if you need me,” you told Logan, pressing a kiss against his cheek.

He hummed in response, taking a seat beside your daughter’s bedroom. “I’m sure we’ll be alright; you take it easy for a while sweetheart.”

You couldn’t help but smile at how calm Logan’s voice was, if he needed to stay up all night with your daughter then he would, he’d do anything to make life easier for you.

“What’s going on baby?” Logan asked, brushing his hand through her hair as her small frame turned so that she was facing him. “You know you should be asleep right now.”

“I want to stay up with you and mummy,” your daughter argued.

“You can’t,” Logan gently giggled, “mummy and daddy are grown-ups which means we get to stay up just a little bit later than you.”

“It’s not fair,” she huffed, her sassy attitude beginning to show itself.

Logan knew your daughter’s attitude was directly inherited from you. It was like dealing with a mini version of you sometimes with how well your daughter could outsmart him with her comebacks and jibes.

“What about if I stay here with you until you fall asleep?” Logan offered, keen to get her to sleep as quickly as he could. “We can have some daddy and daughter time?”

“Yeah, let’s do that,” she smiled.

Logan nudged your daughter along her bed, making room for him to just about squeeze his tall frame into the bed with her. She immediately snuggled into Logan’s side, allowing his arm to wrap around her and pull her as close to him as he could.

“How’s that?” Logan asked, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. The giggle that came from her was all that Logan needed to know that your daughter was much happier now. Logan fell quiet, keeping his eyes on your daughter as he watched her eyes flutter shut, hopeful that was how they’d stay for the rest of the night.

After finishing up in the bathroom, you crept into your daughter’s room to check in on how they were getting on. Logan’s eyes flickered across as soon as he saw you, giving you a thumbs up in the darkness of the room to let you know that she had finally fallen asleep.

Slowly, Logan sat himself up, sliding your daughter down off of his arm. He thought he’d got away with it, but soon enough her eyes darted open and looked over in panic when she realised where Logan was going.

“It’s alright, go back to sleep darling,” Logan whispered, feeling her grip tighten.

“Don’t leave me daddy,” she groaned, kicking her legs against the mattress of her bed.

“Come on sweetheart, it’s time for me and mummy to get some rest,” Logan tried his best to explain to her, but she was having none of it, digging her heels, and her hands in stubbornly.

Logan’s eyes looked between you and your daughter, reminding himself of just how exhausted you were. You kept staring across at them as your daughter remained strong, refusing to let Logan go as he tried his best to carry on sliding away from her.

“I’ll stay here for the night,” Logan told the two of you.

“A-are you sure?” You asked him, drawn to the difference in size between Logan and the bed that your daughter slept in. “You’re going to do yourself an injury Lo.”

His head shook, “I don’t mind, if it means you get a peaceful sleep for the night, then it’s worth it.”

After a little bit more persuading, Logan encouraged you to head to bed, leaving him in with your daughter. She was beyond excited to have Logan stay, falling asleep almost in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for the man who spent the night beside her.

Before you even saw Logan the following morning you could hear his groans coming down the stairs. Every muscle seemed to ache from where he had squeezed himself in, unable to move out of fear of rolling either out of the bed or onto your daughter.

Your teasing smile was wide as Logan appeared in the living room, throwing himself down on the sofa and stretching his body out for the first time in hours, full of relief.

Your eyes kept watching him, unable to hold back your laugther. Logan shot a glare across at you as he sat himself up with a shake of his head.

“Did you have a good sleep?” You jokingly quizzed.

“Never again,” he huffed, running his hands over his face. “Next time I offer to sleep in her bed, please slap me across the face.”

“Do you mean that?” You laughed, “because you know that I will take great delight in doing that.”

“That was awful,” he complained, nodding in response.

Despite how much it hurt, it was a relief for Logan to look across at you and see you full of energy again. The night’s sleep you had was exactly what you needed to feel like yourself once more, and although he’d suffered, Logan was pleased to see it.

“I do appreciate you stepping in last night, I know how busy you are too,” you told him, your laughter turning into a wide smile.

“We’re a team,” he reminded you, “I’m always going to step up and help, I’m her dad after all. Plus, I think I happen to be a pretty cool husband at the same time too.”

Your eyes rolled as Logan smugly smiled back across at you. “Oh, trust me, you’re the best husband ever,” you assured.

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

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nxsturn · 11 days ago

Text

or nah ( c.s )

warnings: smut (rough sex, praising, choking, lowkey talking you through it, a little bit of begging).

you were sitting on the edge of his bed, legs crossed, tracing the rim of your glass with your finger. the light from the window filtered in, soft and golden, casting a warm glow over the room. you were both quiet, but there was a tension in the air, thick and unspoken.

Chris had been unusually distant tonight. it wasn’t like him. he usually had that easygoing energy, the kind that made you feel at ease. but tonight, there was a certain weight in his gaze, as if he was trying to decide whether to say something or let it go.

finally, he broke the silence. "so.. where do you think this is going?" his voice was casual, but there was an edge to it, something uncertain.

you looked at him, your heart skipping a beat. you didn’t know how to answer right away. the question lingered, hanging in the air like an invitation to step into uncharted territory.

you both had been having fun together —laughing, kissing, exploring each other, but it had always been just that: fun. no commitments, no labels. just two people sharing moments. but now, it felt like he was testing the waters, like he wanted to know if you were on the same page.

"what do you mean?" you asked, even though you knew exactly what he was asking.

he ran a hand through his hair, clearly trying to figure out how to phrase it. "i guess.. i’m wondering if you’re down for something more.. casual. no strings attached, you know? just us, doing this, having fun. nothing complicated,”

there it was. the question you’d been avoiding, the one that had been lingering in the back of your mind every time you saw him. a part of you had wondered if he was looking for something more serious, but another part of you had hoped it would stay light, easy, carefree.

you looked away for a moment, taking a breath. the truth was, you liked him, more than you wanted to admit. but you also liked the freedom of it all. you liked not having to answer to anyone, to just be in the moment without worrying about expectations.

"what are you saying?" you asked, trying to sound nonchalant even though your pulse quickened.

"i guess i’m asking if you’re okay with keeping it like this," he said, voice soft but clear. "no drama,"

you could see the uncertainty in his eyes, the little crack in his otherwise confident demeanor. it was almost like he was waiting for you to confirm what you both already knew: that this was all there was, and neither of you wanted to mess it up by making it something more.

you took a slow sip of your drink, feeling the cool liquid slide down your throat, trying to steady yourself. you could say yes. you could agree to keep things casual, keep it light, keep it fun. it was tempting. easier. but deep down, you knew it wasn’t just about what was easy. it was about what you really wanted.

you met his gaze. "and what if one of us starts wanting more?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

he looked at you, searching your face for any sign of hesitation. "then we talk about it," he said, his voice steady now. "but i’m not looking to complicate things. i just want to know if you’re cool with keeping it.. easy. no pressure,"

you could feel the weight of his words, the invitation in them. you could tell he wasn’t asking for anything more than what you were both already doing. but somehow, it felt like this moment, this question, was more significant than any kiss or laugh you’d shared before.

you sat there for a moment, considering. there was no right answer, no clear direction. everything about this felt uncertain, but maybe that was what made it so thrilling. you had no idea where it would go. but in that moment, you weren’t all that sure you really cared.

finally, you smiled, leaning back on your hands. "i think i’m down for that," you said, your voice steady now, a little playful. "just.. fun,”

Chris’ smile matched yours, and for the first time that night, the tension seemed to lift. he leaned forward, closing the space between you, his lips brushing against yours, soft and slow.

you both move closer, hands finding familiar places on each other's bodies. the air gets warmer, charged with anticipation. he runs his fingers through your hair, pulling you closer while you trace patterns on his chest. there's no rush, just exploration and familiarity.

his hands slide down to your hips, lifting you effortlessly to sit on the counter. he steps between your legs, pulling you to the edge, pressing you against his growing bulge. one hand stays on your hip, the other moves up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your lips.

his eyes locked with yours as he reaches behind your back, unhooking your bralette with one hand. he tosses it aside, his gaze never leaving yours. he reaches up to run his fingers through your hair, fanning it out over your shoulders.

you watch as he bites his lower lip slightly, a sign of his own growing desire. his other hand trails down your arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

his fingers hook into the waistband of your sweatpants, slowly pulling them down, along with your panties, while you lift your hips to help him. once they're gone, he catches your mouth in another intense kiss, his hands roaming your exposed skin. you can feel how much he wants you, pressing against his camo jeans.

he breaks the kiss to pull his shirt over his head before unbuttoning his jeans to pull them down — along with his boxers, letting them hit the floor with a soft thud. he steps back between your legs, his length pressing against your center. he looks at you intensely, asking for permission without words.

you part your legs wider, inviting him closer. he smiles mischievously, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

he reaches down, lining himself up with your entrance. he pushes in slowly, you gasp softly at the sudden fullness, your hands gripping his biceps.

once he's fully inside you, he pauses, letting you adjust to him. he leans forward, his lips brushing against yours as he starts to move, pulling out slowly before pushing back in. he sets a steady, slow pace, savoring the feeling of being inside you.

you crane your neck to watch as he slides in and out of you, a soft moan escaping your lips. the sight of him disappearing inside you makes your breath catch. he notices you watching and picks up the pace slightly, one hand moving between your legs to circle your sensitive spot.

you can see the muscles in his arms tensing as he holds himself above you. you mewl, arching your back to take him deeper, your nails digging into his arms.

his hips roll forward, hitting a spot inside you that makes you whimper. he smirks, doing it again and again, his other hand coming up to cup your breast. "you like that?" he growls, his voice dropping even lower.

you lick your lower lip, nodding as he hits that spot over and over again. "please.." you whimper, not even sure what you're begging for. more? faster? harder?

"tell me what you want," he whispers against your neck, gently biting down before soothing the sting with his tongue. his pace quickens slightly but you can tell he wants to hear you say it.

you're breathless, trying to form the words. "harder.." you manage to get out between gasps. he groans against your neck, his hips snapping forward with renewed vigor.

he wraps one hand around your throat, applying gentle pressure as he continues to thrust into you. his other hand grips your hip, pulling you onto him with each powerful movement. his eyes are dark with desire as he looks down at you, his thumb brushing over your pulse point.

you whimper, feeling overwhelmed in the best way possible. your hands clutch at his chest, feeling the muscles rippling beneath your fingers. "you're so..." he trails off, his hand around your throat tightening slightly as he buries himself deep inside you.

"perfect," he finally finishes, his voice strained. he begins to move faster, his hips slamming against yours with each thrust. the hand around your throat tightens slightly, cutting off your air supply slightly as he chases his release.

you're seeing stars, your vision blurring at the edges as he fucks you with reckless abandon. his hand on your throat is the only thing keeping you grounded as he pistons in and out of you. you feel him throbbing inside you.

he hears your choked groan, feeling you tighten around him like a vice. he growls, his hand around your throat tightening even more as he buries his face between your neck and shoulder once more.

"fuck..." he pants heavily, slowing his pace but not stopping completely. his forehead presses against yours, eyes locked onto yours with intense desire. "you take me so perfectly," he whispers, admiration clear in his voice. the hand around your neck moves to cup your face tenderly.

as he speaks, he thrusts into you again, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars. you feel yourself releasing around him, clenching around him like a vice as you let out a muffled whimper. "good girl,"

his movements become more deliberate, drawing out your pleasure as long as possible. "that's it, beautiful," he breathes against your ear, his body tensing, "cum all over me.."

©nxsturn

based off the song by ty dolla $ign.

#christopher sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo angst #sturniolo fluff #sturniolo smut #sturniolo x reader #christopher sturniolo x reader #matthew sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo angst #matt sturniolo fluff #matt sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo angst #chris sturniolo fluff #chris sturniolo smut #nova writes ୨୧

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biteyoubiteme · 5 months ago

Text

orange float

taehyun x fem!reader

synopsis: teasing your boyfriend all night isnt always a good idea but sometimes it is

warnings: 🔞!!! semipublic sex (in a car), spanking, slight fingering, dirty video mention, no protection, creampie, prob forgot some

wc: 1.7k

an: feedback is appreciated! this is apart of my float event! check out the other members fics [float m.list]

[m.list]

“Can you see my pantie line?” you ask your boyfriend. He's sitting on the edge of your shared bed watching you get ready. you lean over your vanity watching him in the mirror as he checks you out.

“a little,” Tae smiles, leaning back on his elbows, already dressed for going out. you had known when putting on your tight dress that you didn’t really have the right panties for them but you tried nonetheless and although you didn’t care about people knowing you wore underwear it didn’t always go with the outfit. you finished putting on your lipstick before pulling your dress up your legs and tugging your panties off. “what are you doing,” taehyun sits up as you toss the fabric into your laundry. fixing your dress to lay the right length.

“you said you could see them, so I took them off,”

“but I liked it,” he pouts, you roll your eyes walking over to him and wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

“Just think of how easy it is to access me now,” you brush the hair from his face.

his hands slide up your backside, cupping your ass in one hand and your hip in the other. “I didn’t even think of that,”

“But later we have to go now,” you give a soft kiss to his cheek, pulling away.

you should have known that teasing him would lead to him being a little bit angry, not at you but at the fact you two were now sitting around a table with his friends and not back at him in bed. but the two of you had promised to be here with them to celebrate the end of summer before you all went back to school. at dinner you noticed taehyuns hands on you, sliding up your leg pushing the boundaries of how far the fabric could go up before you were flashing anyone who looked under the tablecloth. when a question was directed at him he would be slow to answer not realizing he was distracted by drawing patterns on your skin. It was then that you knew he wasn't going to stop.

“I'm going to the restroom,” you whispered to him before standing, fixing your dress, and making your way to the private stall they had in the back of the restaurant. you knew you were playing with fire when the idea came into your mind but you knew the reward would be worth the risk.

taking out your phone you set it up against the mirror almost as if you were doing a fit check. and that was how the video started, hands running over the fabric to lay it down, turning to see the curve of your body before you started to pull up your hem, back leaning against the wall as you exposed yourself. you held up your hand wiggling your fingers in front of you before dipping them down into your wetness before holding them up again to show just how much his hands were affecting you. you shoved your fingers into your mouth before lowering your dress and ending the video. cutting off the sound you sent it to Tae with nothing else.

as you were walking out of the bathroom you saw the message had been read, your grin hard to suppress as you watched him across the room. jaw tight while you sat back down next to him, his phone face down on the table next to his plate. “is everything okay?” you ask leaning over to whisper to him.

he only gives you a pointed look, even your sweet smile is not enough to make him crack. He reached for his glass of water and you slipped your hand to his thigh, a shake showing up his arm as you brushed over the bulge in his pants. “don’t,” he warns, voice low but you just scrunch your brows, “don’t what?”

“don’t play games you can’t win,”

“why not it's fun this way,” You let your fingers brush back over where he's straining, his hand catching yours and pulling it back up to place on the table. even if you got into trouble you felt as if you won so you went back to your dinner, laughing and joking with your friends while Tae was stewing beside you. it wasn't until you were leaving and he had you walk in front of him that you knew you had messed up. his hand on your hip was enough weight to tell you he wasn't playing. you waved goodbye to your friends all of you making it to the parking garage where you had left your cars. but instead of opening the passenger seat door for you he pulled open the door to the backseat shoving his free hand into his pocket and nodding his head for you to get in. “you’re putting me in the back?”

“I'm punishing you in the back, get it,” his tone leaves no room for rebuttal. you climb in moving to the middle seat, the leather sticking to your thighs as he climbs in behind you.

tae is fast to put you into the position he wants you as soon as the door is closed, the tinted windows enough to make the space seem darker than it is as he has you on your knees, your ass facing him and your hands holding the door's handle.

“Do you think you deserve to be treated well when you act so bad in public?” he rolls your dress up to your hips, the palm of his hand warming up your skin, sliding up and down your thighs.

“no,” your voice is breathy as you look over your shoulder to watch him. He unbuttoned his shirt enough to show the curve of his chest, all smooth tanned skin.

“I don’t think so either,” he nods before the flat side of his hand comes down to smack you on your ass, and you jolt forward at the sting, your hands tightening your hold on the door. he rubs over where he hit before letting his hand come back down again. “acting all slutty in the bathroom, teasing me all night knowing damn well I needed you as soon as I knew you didn’t have panties on,” he slaps you again, your back arching, his thumb rubbing over your hot skin, sliding down to rub at your inner thigh. you were so wet and aching that you whined at the contact pushing back against his hand trying to get his hand to slip higher.

taehyun pulls his hand away from you tisking, “No you don’t get rewarded for bad behavior,” you watch as he unbuckles his belt, tugging the button of his pants open and pulling out his straining cock. you mewl at the sight shaking your hips. he tugs on himself giving a few loose pumps, “maybe if you’re good here i'll let you cum tonight,”

“Please,” you whine but he only sits up wrapping his hand into your hair and turning you to face forward. he sits up so that his veiny shaft is pressed right against your clit, leaning over you to whisper into your ear, “I need a lot more begging before I think about forgiving you,” he’s moving with slow drags collecting your wetness against him, all the ridges of his cock sending a chill down your spine with each brush against your clit. you’re trying hard to stay still but the pace he's moving is slow enough to drive you insane.

“I'll be good I promise, I'll be good,” you say and he hums right into your ear, you can feel the vibration on your back but he doesn't even seem like he heard you, “please I need you,”

your back arches, when you feel him, feel him slip far enough for his tip to prod at your entrance, your begging lost in your throat as he pushes into you, mushroom tip teasing before he rams in without warning. you shout hands slipping from the door handle and pressing into the seat but Tae isn’t distracted he curls your hair into a fist pressing your face into the leather seat. your mouth opens as you moan one hand reaching out to fist the seatbelt for some kind of leverage as Tae begins to pound into you at a punishing rate.

His free hand is holding your hip as he thrusts, snapping his hips over and over into you, cock so far stuffed into you that you can feel him pressed against your womb with every movement. The car is filled with the lewd sound of your skin slapping, all your slick making it easy for him to find such a punishing pace, your back arching as you promise you'll be good for him. “Louder,” he demands, hand from your hip moving to pinch your clit.

“I'll be good please!” you cry, thighs shaking at the pressure he is putting on you, your hair sticking to your cheek as he presses your head down, he angels his hips and he brushes your gummy spot your brain malfunctioning as you moan, clenching around him as he aggressively hits your gspot again and again. you can’t even beg anymore, your gasps filling the car as he rubs against your clit at a speed you don’t think you'll recover from.

“fuck you feel so good,” he says through clenched teeth, breathing labored as he stuttered in his thrusts, “I could have fucked you right there on that table after I saw that video, teasing me in front of my friends, you wanted this pussy fucked good hum? that's why you act so bad, fuck,” he moans as you felt the coil in your stomach snap, your orgasm taking over you as your pussy sucked him in. his head rolled back as he slowed his movements, the feeling of you cumming around him sending him over the edge, hot cum filling you up as you twitched around him. he let your hair go letting his hand fall to your side, leaning over you to press a sloppy kiss to the back of your neck.

both of you tried to catch your breath but it felt as if the car was too hot for the both of you to find much comfort. when he pulled out you could feel your combined cum slip down your weak legs. “you see I could have cleaned you up with your panties if you had worn them,” he scooped up the mess with his fingers shoving the slick back into your pussy, “but you were right, easier access,”

#txt x reader #taehyun x reader #kang taehyun #taehyun smut #taehyun txt #txt taehyun smut #soobin #Yeonjun #beomgyu #huening kai #kpop smut #txt smut

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redflagshipwriter · 6 months ago

Text

Check Yes Chapter 6

masterpost

“Have you experienced events that could be described as fatal?” Danny read from his notebook. Before Jason could answer he continued, “Do you know the name and species of all your progenitors? Have you ever wondered if you are-”

Jason held a hand up to ask for silence. He was in the zone on a training module that Barbie had sent to the whole team. He was not going to get any more shit from fucking Tim and Stephanie about being an out of touch old man like Bruce who ran code directly from the 90s.

Danny cut himself off to wait. Without looking up, Jason could see some kind of bouncing movement that had to be Danny fidgeting. “You’re early,” Jason eventually said. He shut the program that he’d been running and then blinked his full attention over to his date. “It’s not- is it 5 already?” He blinked away the gumminess in his eyes and checked the time.

Danny flushed a little green. His freckles glowed a little whiter in contrast. “No, it’s 4:30,” he admitted sheepishly. “I, uh, left work a little early.” He floated up and then abruptly over into a flip. Like an antsy mermaid. Jason leaned back and watched, fascinated by how easy movement looked on Danny. It was the way he’d used to see Dick, but now he knew how hard Dick’s easy mobility was earned.

“You don’t feel gravity at all, do you?” He confirmed, envious and charmed.

“Uhh.. Can’t say that I do,” Danny admitted. He shrugged. “Not like this, anyway. I do in my human body, obviously.”

“Is that literally-” Jason cut himself off with a mortified flush. Holy shit. You can’t just ask someone if they have a magical transformation into their own corpse. Insensitive much?

Danny gave him a knowing look but gracefully ignored the question. “Anyway. Do you remember what I asked earlier?” He cocked his head to the side and full body wiggled. “I had Frostbite help me write them out. Undead health isn’t really my area, but he knows everything that’s ever been known, which is pretty cool.”

“Uh…” Jason thought back. “I told you when we were eating that I died once,” he reminded Danny with a raised eyebrow. “So that’s an easy yes.”

Danny shrugged helplessly. “I didn’t know how serious you were or if you were describing something extremely short term like needing afib or something longer term-”

“Dead, buried, in the ground for months,” Jason admitted. “Presumably rotted, but I came back to myself with living human physiology, if extremely damaged from what killed me.” It was really gross to think about. It was also impossible to totally avoid. There should have been no coming back from all the blood drying up and shit.

Danny stared at him with an open mouth for a few seconds. Long enough that Jason fidgeted, uncomfortable.

“That’s the most metal shit I’ve ever heard in my life,” Danny said reverentially. “That’s so nasty, man. You rotted? Does this make me more of a necrophiliac than you?”

Jason choked on his own spit.

Danny did another flip.

“My parents were definitely human,” Jason managed, voice strangled. Best to get this back on topic. “I know for sure. I’ve met them both.”

Danny blew a raspberry. “It’s not always obvious,” he pointed out

“Anything that would show up on Batman’s DNA analysis can be ruled out,” Jason corrected himself. “And neither of them had any non-human capabilities. Died from things that a Tamaraean or Kryptonian would be able to get out of.”

“...Oddly specific species mentions,” Danny said. A line formed between his brows. His toes touched down to earth and he crossed his arms. “You… I wasn’t thinking of that type of non-human.” He cleared his throat. “It’s just that, you touched Wolf.”

“And a Kryptonisn wouldn’t be able to?” Jason asked a bit dryly. He didn’t understand the logic.

“Not unless they were really juicy with death,” Danny said in a weirdly mellow tone for such a disgusting sentence.

Jason gagged a little. He couldn’t help it. Oh, christ. Yeah, bodies got wet and shit after a while, but characterizing that as juicy? That was out of line.

“Not like- not like that!” Danny fluttered his hands at Jason, torn between horror and cackling. “I don’t mean like, dead and rotting. I mean dead and reanimated with ectoplasm. Souped with the sweet nectar of the afterlife. Wolf is a ghost, man.” He snickered.

“Wolf is a ghost,” Jason repeated.

Danny frowned. “Wolf,” he said. “Not Wolf.”

“What?” They sounded the same.

“You’re saying it wrong,” Danny said, saying the name the exact same way that Jason had been. “It’s Wolf, not Wolf.”

Jason stared at him warily. “...Spell it for me.”

“W-U-L-F,” Danny rattled.

Ah. Ok. Jason took that onboard. “Wulf is a ghost,” he said again. “And therefore I ought not be able to touch him. I can touch you.”

“Like this? For sure.” Danny went through his flashbang light-show and shook out his newly black hair. “I’m a physical being. In my ghost form, I can consciously let you touch me. But Wulf was actively in the Ghost Zone when you hit him. You put your hand into the Ghost Zone and smacked him. The living have ghostly properties in the Ghost Zone. He’s tangible there but you should have been intangible.”

“...Maybe I’m a ghost?” Jason posited, cocking his head slightly as he said it. Danny was the expert. “I never found any answer for why I just woke up in my grave one day.”

“You just woke up?” Danny repeated, delighted. He put his hands on his face, breathed into them heavily, and then ran both hands through his hair. “That’s sick. That’s fucking sick, man. Did you have to dig yourself out like a zombie?”

…Did Danny think this was like, hot, and not disturbing? “Tore off my fingernails on the coffin splinters,” Jason confirmed, fascinated with what a little freak this guy was. Danny’s pupil dilated at the words. Jason could almost have been offended because that shit was traumatic, but hey.

If he really thought about it. It was sick as fuck.

“I think yes, by the way,” Jason decided. He waited for Danny to give him a questioning look before he elaborated. “You’re a monsterfucker, my guy. I’m attracted to you, but not because you’re dead. Whereas you’re clearly into the fact that I’m a dead guy.”

Danny opened his mouth. He shut it. He put a hand over his mouth. “Huh,” he said. “Huh.” His brow furrowed. “If I said it was scientific curiosity and that passion for death runs in my family- no, I hear it.” He flapped a hand at Jason to cut off the laugh he couldn’t stop. “Hush. Okay. Fine.” He stood up a little straighter. “I’m a necrophiliac and I’m proud.”

A window banged shut in the kitchen and there was a clatter as someone’s shitty little brother fell into the sink.

“...Hi, Duke!” Danny called.

Jason put his hand over his face.

“Hi, Danny!” Duke called back, voice choked. “Good to hear from you, man.”

“You can’t fucking be here!” Jason said between his fingers. “I have plans, you shitty Zebra mussel.”

Danny looked at him.

“...What?” Duke asked. He came into the room to frown at Jason.

Jason rolled his eyes. “New Zealand mud snail.” They still didn’t get it. “Spotted lantern fly.”

Blank stares.

“Fucksake,” said Jason. “I’m calling you an invasive species.”

Danny laughed. Duke made a loud pffft sound and unlocked his phone. He held it up and showed them the screen. “Would the New Zealand zebra lantern fly have this?” He triumphantly brandished his phone screen, which was a screenshot of his chat with Jason where he’d confirmed that he had permission to come over.

“New Zealand zebra lantern fly,” Jason repeated, vexed as fuck. “You know damn well-”

“It checks out, boss,” Danny reported, leaning back from Duke’s phone. “Looks like he’s allowed in. Let ‘im use your TV while we go out.”

“Yeah, let me use your TV while you go on a date,” Duke echoed, clearly enjoying this a lot.

“...I’ll get my coat,” Jason said sullenly. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

“We’ll bring you back dinner,” Danny told Duke.

Jason stalked away into his bedroom, wondering when he’d lost the plot to his own life.

#dp x dc #dc x dp #dead on main #red check yes

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mionemymind · 8 months ago

Text

Chapter 1: Second to You

My Rival Series

Summary: “I hate Wanda Maximoff. I hate her face and the way she hides her freckles. I hate her smile and how perfect she laughs. I hate how smart she is and how she knows everything. I hate her.” Y/n complained.

But how could she hate the girl that always took #1 in everything? How could she hate the girl that captivated her mind 24/7? How could she hate the girl she would willingly be #2 for?

Or the time where Y/n Y/l/n and Wanda Maximoff were academic rivals that fell for each other.

A/n: Gif credits to @aftertheglitterfades

Warnings: Rivals to Lovers, Obvious Feelings, Stubborn Reader, Cursing

Word Count: 4.1k

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 |

One Month - Spring Semester

“Please be a hundred - please be a hundred.” The brown eyed girl silently pleaded under her breath. Her hands were clenched together, easily covering her mouth. She couldn’t, actually wouldn’t, give her the satisfaction of seeing her nervous.

With her dark brown hair, quick green eyes, and pretentious smile, Wanda Maximoff already had a lot going for her, something Y/n could easily list out. ‘So god forbid, please humble her for one moment’ Y/n thought to herself.

Trying her best to not seem so obsessed, Y/n carefully studied Wanda’s reaction. While the rest of the class seemed upset over their grades, seeing Wanda’s smile among the crowd of frowns ticked something inside Y/n. ‘Oh please, not another 100.’ But there went that fucking cocky smile, one that brought Wanda’s dimples out, and Y/n knew the answer.

Looking back at Professor Hathaway, the older woman gently smiled at Y/n as she handed her test backwards, careful to not expose her grade. Once she passed, Y/n slowly flipped it over, eyes squinted as if it would help lessen the blow.

‘Oh god - a 99.’ Y/n tried to steel herself from any reaction. She knew Wanda would be looking at her like a hawk. Taking a peak past the paper, Y/n could easily spot those green eyes anywhere in a crowd. And just as Y/n expected, Wanda was looking.

“Okay class, this week's test was better. We currently have a class average of 65. There were two outliers that have caused the average to bump up. For those that need help for next week, please feel free to reach out to see where we can improve. No homework due but please try to review the remarks I’ve made.”

Everyone was quick to start packing up, especially those that barely scored a passing D. But for Y/n, she packed quickly to avoid Wanda. Hearing Wanda talk about another perfect score would only rile her up and considering she still had to study for the managerial accounting test, talking to Wanda was the last thing she wanted.

But Y/n never got what she wanted. When a classmate accidentally bumped into her backpack, causing the contents to spill, Y/n couldn’t help me internally curse at her luck. “I’m really sorry about that Y/n!”

Y/n didn’t dare focus on the feeling of Wanda getting closer, she didn’t even need to see to know she was only a meter away. “It’s okay Katie. Just be careful next time.” The blonde meekly smiled as she walked off to her next lecture, leaving Y/n behind to pick her stuff up.

Just as the final book was stuffed into her bag, Y/n rose up from the ground, ready to grab her test, but Wanda was quicker. Holding back her distaste, Y/n watched as Wanda’s smug smile grew seeing the 99 plastered right at the corner.

“Better luck next time, Y/l/n,” Wanda proudly stated as she held up the perfect grade written on her test. Holding back her profanities, Y/n snatched her test and shoved it at the bottom of her backpack. “And messing up a simple year for Renoir’s paintings, my my, this is easy at this point.”

Y/n slung her backpack and started to walk out of the lecture hall. Usually, no response and the sight of someone leaving would give a normal person the idea that they don’t want to talk. But Wanda wasn’t normal by any means.

She walked at a similar fast pace beside Y/n, enjoying the silent treatment she was receiving. “Not gonna talk? Ya know, I could help you study in case you need it.”

Y/n scoffed as they exited the humanities building. ‘The nerve.’ Y/n thought.

It was a nice spring at Evergreen University. The weather was at a perfect 75 degrees. People were out on the lawn, enjoying themselves, hanging out with friends, having picnics, overall having a great time. But none of that was something Y/n hardly got to experience nowadays.

For the majority of the first month of the spring semester, Y/n had either been stuck at her dorm, the library, or some other student’s dorm, helping them study. The luxury of having fun was something Y/n could hardly afford. Not when Wanda Maximoff was a constant reminder of your failure to beat her.

“99 is still good, Maximoff, in case you forgot.” They passed by a couple of people that knew Wanda, but that didn’t deter the brunette at all. She waved at them with her perfect smile which irritated Y/n even more.

“She speaks! Didn’t know you were settling for second place now. You must’ve lost your confidence. Afraid you can’t beat me?” Y/n grumbled something that Wanda couldn’t hear.

With Y/n’s dorm hall getting closer, the brown eyed girl quickened her pace, hoping that Wanda would stop. “More like I don’t want to humble you. Princess might get hurt if I actually try my best.”

Wanda feigned hurt, dramatically placing a hand on her chest. “Going for the ego jab? What will I ever do?” Wanda laughed, a laugh that came from her chest, one that was wholehearted, and god did Y/n hate it. “Takes more than that to hurt me.”

Stopping right before the entrance, Y/n halted infront of Wanda, the two almost colliding.

“Oh yeah? Then-”

“Y/n, can you help me with accounting?” Y/n turned around to her savior. It was one of her classmates from her managerial class. Her name was Holly.

“Sure thing.” Unbeknownst to Y/n, Wanda rolled her eyes at the pathetic excuse. Holly was a smart girl, one that hardly needed to study. This was all just a lame excuse to hang out with Y/n, something Wanda easily saw through.

Adjusting her backpack, Y/n walked towards Holly, holding the door open. Looking back at Wanda with a frown, Y/n remarked, “Next time, I won’t go easy.”

Midway - Spring Semester

“Are you going to come with me to the party?” It was a Saturday night at Evergreen University. Parties were a typical thing especially since the campus had a large selection of greek life.

However, today was not a typical Saturday. Midterms were finally over and the majority of campus was out for the night, trying to enjoy a little stress reliever.

“Can’t Natty. I gotta study.” Y/n said hunched over a book. While Y/n did receive well above passing grades, none of them could compete with Wanda’s. It’s like no matter how much Y/n studied, there was always one small detail that would prevent her from being perfect.

“You’re always studying. Can’t you give me at least one night away from all of this.” Natasha looked around the room, Y/n’s side was filled to the brim with various books, journals, and papers. It was an academic mess.

“You know I can’t.” Natasha sighed at Y/n’s response. She walked towards her bed, giving Y/n a tight hug. Having been roommates since freshman year, Natasha knew how Y/n was when it came to her academics.

“At least I have senior year to try.” Y/n laughed, knowing that she’d never really go to a party. She had nothing against them, but the idea of pretending like you’re having fun was exhausting for her.

“Text or call me if you need me to pick you up, okay? I’ll have my ringer on the highest volume.” Natasha grabbed her phone and keys, blowing a fake kiss to Y/n.

“Thanks love. Stay up till 1:00 am for me? If I don’t text you by then, go to sleep. I’ll have a ride.” Y/n gave a thumbs up as Natasha left.

Looking back at the time, it was only 10:00 pm. The dorms hardly muffled the loud music playing on the floor above. And knowing the RA on the floor, they’d simply dismiss it until 2:00 am.

Shaking her head, Y/n grabbed the nearest bag and stuffed the essentials she needed. A night trip to the library wasn’t going to hurt.

“Accounting can literally go fuck themselves,” Y/n uttered. She was currently tucked away in a far corner on the fourth level of the library. This place hardly had any students around and with midterms being over, not a single soul was in the library at this time, well besides Y/n.

“I need a break.” Pushing the chair back, Y/n stretched her legs and arms out, releasing out a weird primal groan in the process. Tapping her phone screen, it was a quarter past twelve. Her body was stiff and desperately needed a walk.

“How the hell am I so stiff?” Y/n cracked her neck, hands, and knuckles, a very bad habit she developed at a young age.

Grabbing her wallet, Y/n walked away from her spot and traversed through the long aisles of books. She eyed a couple of interesting subjects on the way to the vending machine, saving them in her head the next time she needed a new book to read.

It didn’t take long before she spotted the bright fluorescent machine. Eying the choices, there wasn’t much. To play it safe, she got a Pepsi and quickly started to drink it.

‘I really need to start drinking more water.’ The thoughts on being healthy always came around this time, among other things. So to distract herself more, Y/n walked around the floor, hoping to do some exploring.

She was hardly a couple of meters away when Y/n saw her. Asleep on top of her books and notes, mouth slightly parted, and slightly shivering was Wanda Maximoff. The sight caused Y/n’s breathing to hitch. The grip on the bottle tightened, feeling already irritated and Wanda hadn’t even said a word.

Looking around for anyone nearby, Y/n grumbled knowing that no one else would be studying on a weekend this late at night, but of course the only two people on the campus that would be are herself and Wanda.

Y/n wanted to leave, everything from her mind and body told her to walk away and act like you didn’t see her. But how could Y/n ignore the way Wanda’s body shivered from being under the a/c? How could she ignore the way her lips twitched from reacting to a dream? How could Y/n ever ignore her?

Betraying all logic, Y/n walked to Wanda’s table. Although she wanted to wake her up, which would’ve been the nice thing to do, the large part of Y/n didn’t want Wanda to know she could be kind to her.

They’ve been at this stupid ‘race’ or ‘competition’ since freshman year ever since they took the intro to biology together. A lot of the people in the class had struggled, especially those that were not pursuing a STEM major. So when the professor made a light comment that Wanda was always first place in the class and Y/n was second, something inside them changed.

Maybe it was the way Y/n noticed how much Wanda thrived under praise or how she loved answering the professor’s questions. None of the characteristics really bothered Y/n at all and she certainly didn’t care to be second. But then more exams came and Wanda was always first and Y/n was always second.

Next came the light taunting from her friends, saying Wanda has never been beaten academically that it started to rub you the wrong way. And then came the fateful day, where Wanda had come to Y/n after class ended and asked, “Do you want help with biology?”

The question was supposed to be harmless, but it was the fact that Y/n was around with her friends who then started to chuckle and taunt the question. It felt embarrassing especially since she didn’t even suck at the subject.

So with a sore ego and hurt pride, Y/n mumbled a no and walked away as her friends howled even more. Ever since then, the two have been at it. And by the looks of it, it was not going to stop.

‘Just walk away and let her deal with it.’ The thoughts in her head were convincing. Wanda would eventually wake up and be fine. She would get up, go back to her dorm, and probably act like nothing happened.

Turning back around, Y/n almost walked away but her heart couldn’t. Sleeping alone in this lonely part of the library was not something Y/n wanted for Wanda. Looking around the table, Y/n spotted Wanda’s phone past all the humanities notes.

Grabbing it, Y/n was surprised to find that there was no passcode. ‘Maximoff, you really need to change that.’

Looking through her contacts, Y/n finally was able to find Pietro. Sending a quick ‘pick me up from the fourth floor of the library’ felt harmless. Especially since it sounded like something she would say.

Placing the phone back in its original spot, Y/n felt satisfied enough to walk away. But Wanda just had to whimper in her sleep, still shivering from the cold.

Y/n would never admit it outloud but she would have cursed Evergreen University for making their libraries so cold. Taking off her flannel, Y/n shook her head as she placed it on top of Wanda. She had plenty more in the closet, so losing one was not going to hurt.

‘I fucking hate her.’ Y/n convinced herself as she finally walked away from Wanda. The brown eyed girl got back to her table. It was useless to continue to study. Wanda was all she could think about right now.

Sighing, Y/n grabbed her phone. It was getting close to 12:30 and there was still no text from Natasha. Packing her stuff up, Y/n walked out the library at a slow place. Within a block away from the library, Pietro had jogged past Y/n, not even recognizing the girl with how dim the streetlights were.

No one else witnessed this, and once again Y/n would never admit it, but she did smile knowing Wanda was going to be okay.

Pietro could hardly make his way through the library. If we’re being honest, he kind of forgot that this library was 24/7. After scrounging through the fourth floor, he finally found Wanda asleep at her study table.

Muttering curses under his breath, he walked to her, ignoring the flannel that covered her. ‘I didn't even take that long.’ He thought to himself. Pietro had only taken around 10-15 minutes to get to her. How did she manage to fall asleep?

“Sestra.” Wanda woke up from the constant tugging on her shoulder. Grumbling a few incoherent words, she sat up, barely awake. Yawning into her hand, Pietro shook his head at the sight of Wanda. “You fell asleep studying, again?”

Wanda shrugged her shoulders, too tired to even respond. “Let's get you back to your dorm.”

As Pietro helped Wanda pack her stuff up, the brunette finally noticed the flannel on her shoulders. She snaked her arms through it, enjoying the warmth and comfort it provided.

Too tired to think, Wanda followed Pietro out of the library and to her dorm hall. It didn’t take long for them to arrive. Thankfully, Wanda didn’t have a roommate, perks of having rich parents.

Pietro had muttered a goodbye as he dropped Wanda’s bag near her desk. He flipped the lights off and closed the door.

Wanda easily slipped under the covers, flannel still on. The cologne was distinct, something her body already knew who it belonged to. But having been too tired to think, Wanda simply thought it was Pietro’s flannel.

But had she actually paid attention, she would’ve noticed the only person using this cologne was Y/n. Had she been paying attention, she would’ve noticed how much her body enjoyed having the flannel on. Had she been paying any attention, she would have noticed that the flannel was slightly too small to fit on Pietro.

And if Wanda had a bit more energy, she would have noticed that her subconscious didn’t fight the feeling of Y/n.

Almost a week has gone by since the library situation. Y/n was certain that Wanda had figured out her stunt. I mean the flannel had her initials written on the underside of the tag. But when Wanda walked into class, flannel surprisingly on, it shocked Y/n.

‘Does she seriously not know?’ During the whole lecture, Y/n could not focus. All her undivided attention was on Wanda Maximoff. The way the flannel hung off her shoulders or the way she would purposely cover her hands with the sleeves.

Every single detail was not left unnoticed. And as class ended, Wanda came over with her usual smug self. She made a comment or two, but Y/n hadn’t heard a single thing. Not when her flannel was still being worn by Wanda Maximoff.

And by the looks of it, Wanda didn’t know. It literally took Natasha shoving Y/n for the brown eyed girl to even respond. “See ya, Maximoff.”

Y/n had panicked and blanked hard. She left in such a hurry that even Wanda was confused.

“What’s up with her?” Wanda asked Natasha, but even she didn’t know.

“Okay, this has been like the 10th time you’ve looked at her in this past conversation. What’s up with you?” If Y/n could, she would leave the country at the moment. Feeling so embarrassed, Y/n thought about denying Natasha’s comment, but god she was being so obvious about it.

“I-,” Y/n sighed with her head in her hands. “I did something nice to someone I usually don’t do anything for.”

Natasha hummed as she ate her banana. She carefully looked back and noticed Wanda talking with some of her friends out on the lawn. They were too far away to even notice the pair, but it didn’t hurt to be careful.

“So you were nice to Maximoff? What’s the big deal?” It irritated Y/n that Natasha could be so nonchalant about everything. Couldn’t she clearly see why it was a big deal?

“I guess…” Y/n looked over at Wanda once more. Her smile was radiant even if she was a little far away. And the way her body tilts back every time she laughs, Y/n could have sworn that she could hear it from her spot. Or maybe it was the way her mind remembered everything about Wanda.

“It just made me think what if we were actually friends rather than…this.” Natasha could easily see this was a big deal to Y/n. However, their whole situation was rather odd. The banter and competition was just a children's game to her. No harm really came out of it.

“Well I think there’s still time to make up. Why don’t you go over there and just try to talk to her?” Y/n scoffed at Natasha’s absurdity.

“Yeah - over my dead body.”

“We’re partners.” Y/n wasn’t dead but it certainly almost felt like she was as she choked on Wanda’s comment. Quickly gaining the attention of other classmates, Y/n waved them off and regained her composure. She wiped the water from her lips and stared at the piece of paper that Wanda shoved in her face.

Team 7 - Y/n Y/l/n and Wanda Maximoff

“I told the professor that you and I could easily do this project alone, but he wasn’t having it. Apparently we need to improve our teamwork skills.” Y/n looked up and easily saw how displeased Wanda was. Using all her acting skills, Y/n did the same.

Before Y/n could say anything, Wanda commented, “Just come over to my dorm after math club. It’s at Bourbon Hall. Dorm 321.” And just like that, Y/n easily forgot all about her kindness as Wanda walked away.

The day was almost over. All Y/n had to do was enjoy another meeting at math club, be civil with Wanda, and then go to sleep. Although she didn’t necessarily want to do it in that order, duty called.

Y/n was about to enter the room for math club until Lily stumbled in front of her with urgent eyes. “Hey Y/n, Dean Holloway wants to see you.”

“Do you know why?” The Dean never had random meetings with students. Generally, students would pop up to him with issues. Not the other way around.

Lily shook her head no with a small frown. “Sorry, he didn’t say.” Looking over the math club, Y/n could see that Wanda had already arrived. There was never an instance where Y/n wasn’t at a meeting, but knowing Wanda, she could handle it like a pro.

“Okay, can you tell Wanda that I’ll be late and to start off without me?” Y/n adjusted her backpack.

“Sure thing, I’ll let her know.” Y/n gave Lily a small smile before walking away.

Their banter was supposed to be a children's game, simple, harmless. Nothing was supposed to come out of it. But the look in Y/n’s eyes told a different story. Her thoughts flooded with insecurities as the conversation she had with the Dean replayed.

“Thank you for coming at such short notice Y/n. I wanted to see you before your current meeting with math club.”

Y/n hadn’t gone back to attend math club. It meant seeing Wanda, the very last person she wanted to see at all. She knew that the brunette would already be pissed at her being late, but it was better to avoid that conversation entirely.

“I’m going to cut to the chase since you’re a very busy student. By the board, new requirements have been added to your scholarship effective immediately.”

“What are they?” There was no letter or notice coming from the school about her scholarship so this must have been a very recent decision. The Dean was unable to look Y/n in the eye as he recalled the meeting. He looked stiff and strained, something that was easy to notice.

“For the upcoming math club state competition, the school is requiring that you and your group must achieve first place. There is no tolerance for anything less than that.”

Y/n could remember the silence being deafening. She didn’t know what to say. The whole reason she was even at Evergreen University was due to her full ride. And for the board to randomly put that on the line felt so targeted.

Y/n tried to beg for an explanation as to why the board decided this. Wasn’t she a great enough student? Regardless, Dean Holloway was useless. He couldn’t give her a single reason as to why they decided to implement this. Essentially making Y/n deal with it herself.

For a minute, Y/n allowed herself to dream about first place. It felt plausible, but as her phone buzzed in her bed, reality came back. Right on the screen it said Wanda Maximoff. Not wanting to speak, Y/n let the phone ring until it hit voicemail. Before she could have her moment of peace, a harsh set of knocks were at her door.

Figuring it was Natasha forgetting her key again, Y/n slowly got up. “Coming - coming.” Not bothering to check the peephole, Y/n opened the door, her eyes landed on her.

The girl who knew every answer to every question. The girl who hasn’t left Y/n’s mind since freshman year. The girl who was the reason she was second.

“Not going to the meeting is one thing, but ditching our plans is another.” Wanda passed Y/n up, allowing herself to enter without permission. She sat down at Y/n’s desk, immediately spouting out ideas about their project.

But as Y/n stared at Wanda, she couldn’t help but think, ‘You’re the reason I will never be first.’

And that made it real. It was no longer a children’s game. This was a competition. And Wanda Maximoff was going to have to lose.

Chapter 2

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