#lots of jokes about her wanting to go home. to just go back to what her life was before the disasters

[jjkeverlast]

hurts so good│jjk

✧ pairing best friend!jk x fem!reader

✧ rating explicit (18+)

✧ summary having jeongguk as a best friend had it's cons. for one he complains, a lot. surprisingly he shows up at your door at two in the morning to complain about something incredibly different.

✧ warnings & tags friends to lovers - hung!jk - light sub!jk - humor - explicit content - oral (m. receiving) - unprotected sex (lol) - soft reassuring kind of sex :((( reader just wants to show guk that he can still fuck despite his big size :((((

✧ word count 4.3k

✧ author's note this fic is a re-upload! if you've seen it before, this is why:)

"Jeongguk? It’s two in the morning."

You’re shocked to see Jeongguk in nothing but a black sweats attire and a pissed off face. 

"I need to vent." He reasons. 

"At two in the fucking morning?"

Now you’re pissed. The sleepy eyes long forgotten and the eight hour of sleep you were looking forward to all day. You let out a huff, moving aside for Jeongguk to enter. He better have a good fucking reason for this shit, you internally think as he comfortably sits on your couch as if it’s his own home. Sure, he carries the best friend title but he really had a thing for being way too comfortable in that department. Which explains him snacking on your unfinished snacks after your movie night — yes, with yourself. 

"Hey! Seriously?" You snatch the bag of chips, as his mouth is full paired with his doe eyes looking at you in shock. 

"I was hungry!" It’s muffled, small crumbs of chips flying out of his mouth. Disgusting. 

"Just tell me why you’re here so I can go to bed as quickly as possible." You settle the bag of chips beside you as you sit next to him on your living room couch. Jeongguk swallows the chips, his annoyed face returning quickly — as if he forgot why he was irritated in the first place. 

"Okay, well, Victoria is out of the picture." Victoria as in the woman who’s been involved with Jeongguk the last month. They met through one of your friends and quickly they agreed to see each other. You’d heard zero complaints about their relationship, up until now. 

"I’m sorry Guk. What happened?" Now he’s being really quiet, too quiet for your liking. 

"Jeon Jeongguk." Your voice is stern and he knows he’s gonna have to speak up now or you’ll kick him out. 

"You won’t believe me." 

"Try me." His brows raise, noticing you’re quickly losing your patience with him. 

"It was because of… of the sex."

Sex. A very broad subject in your opinion, having a million reasons why sex can be bad and shakingly good. So for Jeongguk to reason sex, your mind immediately thinks that it has something to do with the fact that Victoria didn’t finish while they fucked. Which could be true? You wouldn’t know. Yes, so Jeongguk and you were best friends and overshared a tad bit much at times, although sex? Sex was never really on the table of ‘subjects to talk about’. 

"Fuck this is gonna sound so wrong." Jeongguk grunts, tilting his head back and your thoughts are left on the shelf for now. 

"It can’t be that bad." Jeongguk makes a noise, stating he’s disagreeing with your comment. You roll your eyes at his childish act. 

"Jeongguk, if it’s about you not making her finish I will kick you out."

You’re serious. If he came to your apartment to complain about not making someone cum at two in the morning, he’s gonna join the wolves and god knows whatever lurks in the streets at night. 

"It was hurting her. Y/N, I fucking hurt her." You’re puzzled, trying to figure out how exactly Jeon Jeongguk could be hurting anyone. 

"Wha–"

"With my fucking dick."

It’s silent. The air con noise grows louder in your apartment as you both stare at each other in fright.

Did he just say—

"Y-your dick?" You tilt your head, eyes wide open not having a chance at being closed. He’s nodding slowly and you wheeze — thinking this is some sick joke that he wanted to pull on you.

Classic Jeon Jeongguk. 

"Y/N, I’m serious." Your laughter continues on, you almost tearing up as it becomes uncontrollable. As your mind slowly processes the awkward silence from Jeongguk's side, you quiet your laughter and listen to what he has to say. 

"It’s because of my-my length." 

"Length? As in you're big enough to reach her cervix?" You joke playfully, hitting him on the arm as you’d guessed he’d laugh at it but instead?

"Yeah."

You’re speechless.

Your laugh being completely swallowed, taken back by the agreement to your joke. Was he serious? He couldn’t possibly, then that would mean he probably has a big di–

"You don’t believe me."

You really don’t. 

"It’s just hard to believe… that’s all." Jeongguk couldn’t possibly. It’s weird for you to even think about. 

"How can I make you believe me? Cause I am seriously struggling with women and this isn’t helping." He gives you a stern look with a glimpse of urge for help. He’s desperate. 

"Prove it to me." There’s no words to describe the expression that is currently resting on Jeongguk's face. A mix of every expression a person can carry.

“I’m not showing you my dick.” He gives you the obvious tone of ‘you can’t be serious right now’ and crosses his arms as you’re no help to his little situation.

“Then I’m not believing you.” 

“Fine!”

“Fine.” You’re both staring into the black TV screen, arms crossed as the silence returns. It’s awkward for once. You were obviously joking about Jeongguk showing you his dick — not yourself wanting to see what’s behind his black sweats. As if the thought ever occurred to you of what it looks like…

Okay, so maybe you have. Once. It wasn’t your fault when Victoria had been drunkenly babbling over how big Jeongguk was. You didn’t think of it as much, seeing she was in a drunken state. But when Jeongguk admits it, you immediately try to shut down the idea that he might be telling the truth. You didn’t want to even begin to imagine how Jeongguk is in bed. Is he needy and whiny? Or controlling and grunting? No, seriously Y/N stop. You grunt in annoyance and that catches Jeongguk's attention, watching you bite your lip. He would never admit that you, leaning your head back, your lip tucked in between your teeth is hot. Like really fucking hot. No. You’re his best friend, for seven years to be exact. He can’t possibly find that hot. 

Maybe it was because of the fact that he sought your help after Victoria threw a tantrum at him for having a big dick. It has never occurred him to be attracted to you, you had been friends for so long that sex or just anything regarding a sexual situation between you never crossed his mind. When he looks over once again, your eyes now closed, swallowing the silence that's filling the room between you as the tension grows. Maybe it’s only from Jeongguk's side, or maybe yours as well, although he can’t tell what you’re thinking. 

"Let’s just forget this okay?" You finally speak, with a regretful tone which Jeongguk catches too quickly for his liking. He should’ve never found you hot for a split second. It’s wrong. So fucking wrong of him. 

"Yeah, okay. I’ll leave." Jeongguk rubs his palms against his sweats, trying to calm himself from the ungodly thoughts of you crossing his mind slowly. 

"Or–" You start off, catching his attention as he turns to meet your eyes, you look tired. "You could– you could stay.’’ He never expected for you to invite him to stay. Sleepovers between the two of you were never involved in your seven year long friendship. Jeongguk wanted to stay, and because you proposed made him hopeful. Hopeful in a sense that maybe, just maybe you’ve thought of it too. 

"Sure, okay, I’ll stay." He’s hesitant. Are you both going to share a bed? 

"You can just sleep on the couch. I’ll get you a duvet." You smile awkwardly, leaving the living room and entering your bedroom while Jeongguk feels incredibly stupid. Of course you don’t want him, you’ve never wanted him. He wants to slap his face for letting himself be attracted to you. 

"Here." You’re already back, holding the duvet close to you, as you place it on the couch you wish him goodnight and return back to your room. 

As your door closes, Jeongguk sighs loudly, falling back against the couch. He’s fucked. It’s fine, he just has to sleep his attraction towards you away. He discards his sweats attire, leaving him in his black Calvin Klein boxers, a personal favorite of his. 

When he finally settles in, covered in your duvet, he catches the smell of you enveloping the fabric. It doesn't help his mind which already has you covering most of it. He tries to shake out of it, turning and at last closing his eyes. 

After what feels like an hour of tossing and turning, Jeongguk comes to the conclusion that he can’t sleep. He wants you, more than he thought he would. He’ll probably hurt you, which is one of the few reasons holding him back from knocking on your door. Also the fact that you are very clear on the best friend scale. 

There’s a lot of risks that would be taken if he stood up and walked towards you, admitting how much he wants you, how desperate he is to let you touch him. All thoughts vanish from him when he comes to conclusion that he’s saying fuck it. He’ll just leave if you don’t feel the same way and burrow himself deep in his bed and never leave until his attraction disappears completely. 

He gets up, throwing the duvet off himself and being met with your white wooden door. His heartbeat is increasing as he urges himself to pull his arm up and form his hand to a knuckle to leave a knock. 

As he’s about to knock, the door flies open and you’re standing in front of him, in nothing but a loose transparent white tee. Your nipples are on display for his eyes and he’s gulping over seeing more of you than he expected. Wait–why are you awake? 

"Y/N?"

"I– I couldn’t sleep." You’re looking down, stealing a quick glance at his bulge which he notices. Do you, do you want him? God the buildup is absolutely killing him. But he tries to control himself, holding himself back from asking you if he can kiss you. 

He clears his throat, "Why?" You were probably thirsty or maybe the thought of him being here caused you to sleep badly. He felt bad. 

"I can’t stop thinking about it."

Your posture changes, a dominant demeanor overlapping itself on your shoulders. You’re stern, firm and just plainly honest. Could you be any hotter? 

"Thinking about what?" You’re smiling, your gaze landing on his silver chain hanging around his neck. With a swift movement you’re hooking a finger around it and pulling him to your lips. Jeongguk freezes, his lips feeling warm as they’re covered by yours. He can’t process the fact that you’re kissing him. It feels so right, your chest pressed firmly against his, as he’s able to feel your hardened nipples through the fabric. 

Before your fingers can grab onto his hair, he stops. "Are you sure?" You’ve crossed the friendship line, the kiss breaking the scale completely. 

"Yes. Let me feel you Guk." Your pleading eyes, and the firm grip your finger has on his chain leaves him dizzy. He lets you, lets you take full control of him. 

"Touch me." He catches your smile at his request before you pull him further in the bedroom and guide him to lay down. His heartbeat is going crazy fast, his mind barely being able to comprehend that you’re about to straddle his lap. 

As you position yourself on top of him, a low grunt leaves his lips as the contact between your core and his visible bulge closes. He’s already so hard and you’ve barely touched him. 

Your fingers grab his hair, tenderly running your fingers through the undercut. "I love your hair like this." You compliment as you go back to kiss him, missing the warmth of his mouth already. 

Jeongguk is careful with you, wanting to touch you everywhere, run his hand down your spine and feel the warmth of your skin under his palm but he holds himself back. His mind is back to thinking of you hurting, and feeling hurt because of his length. This is a bad idea.

"Wait." He holds your shoulders, your hands laid flatly on his chest with a worried expression. 

"What’s wrong?" You look like someone who’s scared you’ve gone too far and Jeongguk feels a tinge of guilt. 

"I don’t want to hurt you." He whispers, being careful with his choice of words. 

"What if I want it to hurt?" You trace your fingers on his chest, drawing them in small circles as his eyes move to your half hidden smirk. 

"I–"

"Just, trust me." Your head falls down on his chest, leaving kisses on his chest and letting your tongue run freely on his exposed skin as he whimpers beneath you. Your tongue feels amazing on him and he gives in, letting you control the situation. 

"Okay." Jeongguk softly says, your head moving lower towards his abdomen, peppering his skin with kisses and biting gently down to give him a small taste of what awaits him. 

He can sense that you’re being patient, savoring up the moment of having him like this. His body is a canvas for you, to mark, bite and let your mouth run freely on. He wants you to take control, to show him how well you’ll be able to please him as he later on will give you his cock to fill you up. 

"This– this feels really good." He mumbles, barely forming a full sentence, too captivated by the feeling of you above him. 

You hum against his skin, seeming more than pleased in hearing his compliment regarding your mouth. You’ve moved longer down, your legs now settled between his as your breath lands hot on his clear hard on. 

Jeongguk looks up to see you gawking at him and he grows embarrassed. 

"Y/N, stop looking."

"Sorry, you just weren’t kidding." Somehow the answer resolves in you and Jeongguk laughing like idiots and him throwing a ‘I told you so’ into the middle of your shared laugh. The laughter soon dies down and the irresistible tension returns to the dark bedroom, the only light coming from the outside lights covering the streets. It’s the only light which helps the both of you in seeing a glimpse of one another. 

"Can I?" You ask, holding one hand firmly on his hip as your thumb traces on the top of Jeongguk's Calvin Klein boxers. He gulps, nodding as he allows you to take things further. 

You take your time in taking his boxers off, Jeongguk can’t help but have his hips shake – reasons being he’s nervous yet thrilled for this to happen. Having his cock on full display for your eyes is nerve wracking, he’d never see this day coming. 

"Hey, I’ll be gentle." With that you use your thumb, smearing his leaking precum as he bucks his hips wanting more. Jeongguk is infatuated by your touch, becoming more needy for you.

"Fuck– your hand feels so soft." He throws in a compliment and surprisingly you go at a faster pace, a sudden moan escaping his lips. Fuck, how are you so good at this?

The sensational feeling from your hand has Jeongguk closing his eyes, also because he’s nervous to look at you while your hand is wrapped firmly around him. He’s too confused and captivated by you and the pleasure you’re giving him that he still really hasn’t processed what is happening right at this moment. It feels surreal. 

Your thumb traces itself on his tip once again, Jeongguk running his hand through his hair as his breathing speeds up, a familiar feeling of release washing over him.

Fuck, you haven’t even touched him for long and he’s already thinking of coming.

You, his best friend since he had his awful hair fazes that just never really complimented his features. His best friend since high school, as you both lamely made fun of the PDA couples, who never knew what the word ‘privacy’ meant.

He’s too deep in thought, until you suddenly stop.

Jeongguk hesitantly opens his eyes, using his elbows for support as he now looks at you.

"Can I taste you?"

Jeongguk almost chokes at your question. His already fucked out state isn’t even hesitant. Fuck he’d love your lips wrapped around him. Your lips look even softer than your hand. The outline of your lips visible for his eyes as the moonlight discreetly shines over them.

God, you make him so weak. 

Truth be told, Jeongguk doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever been this willing, this open to just anything.

But if it includes you? He’s all for it. 

"Y-yeah."

Fuck, he just stuttered.

You probably think he’s being hesitant and–

You gently lick his tip, swirling it around to allow the taste of him to linger itself in your mouth, your hand starts to move again and Jeongguk's mouth falls apart, his eyes watching you.

If only you could see how pretty you were as you open wider, inviting more of him. Your mouth feels so warm, so welcoming. He wonders if it’s possible to get addicted to a certain body part, because he’ll for sure mention your mouth if asked. 

"God, your mouth." He wants to caress your cheeks softly, as his thumb can feel how well he’s filling your mouth up. Maybe it’s too much… too sentimental. Seeing you’re literally stuffing your face with his cock, your hand stroking what you aren’t able to take. 

Although, he forms a sort of courage and asks you gently, "Can I touch you?" You let go of his cock with a pop, brows furrowed as if you’re uncertain of where exactly he wants to touch you. 

"Please?"

"Okay." Jeongguk leans closer to you, his hand cupping your cheek as his thumb grazes the top of it. You lean in his touch before you go back down, taking him in your mouth once again. He won’t survive this. No. He won’t survive you. 

He’s almost about to break when his palm feels the bump caused by his cock in your mouth as you bop your head faster, all while Jeongguk whines freely — not knowing he’s making you extremely wet by moaning so carelessly. 

It’s not until you use your hand, focusing solely on sucking his tip that he’s almost about to finish. You retrieve before he’s able to, a string of saliva connecting you to his tip as you smile so innocently. Yeah, he’s definitely not surviving you. 

“What are you doing to me?” It isn’t a question, rather a statement towards everything he feels for you in this instant moment. 

You guide yourself back up, lips molding against his. He can taste himself on your tongue and it drives him crazy. He’s almost willing himself to take control — he’s never done or wanted that before, but there’s just something about you which drives him in a completely different direction. 

Should he touch you? Touch you in ways he’s always found appealing but never for him? He’s willing, for you he is. Slowly but surely, he tenderly peppers your neck with kisses, slipping his tongue to run along. He’s startled when you moan so effortlessly. He wants to hear more of you and those heavenly sounds you’re so willing to offer him. 

You begin to move, grinding your clothed core over his bare cock and a rush is sent through him. It’s almost as if he’s gotten you needy now, so needy you couldn’t contain yourself from grinding on top of him — still fully clothed. It feels new, although Jeongguk loves it, cause fuck he can feel how wet you are. Did you get this wet by only touching him? 

"You’re already so wet." A grunt leaves his lips when you only hum in response, continuing your grinding, almost as if you’re losing yourself completely at the touch of him. 

"Fuck, fill me up. I can’t wait anymore." You push him down, hurrying yourself to take your shirt off. Since when did you go from being patient to impatient so fast? He can’t help but feel extremely proud of himself, patting himself mentally on the back. 

But then he’s in tact of what’s happening, you’re about to sit yourself down on his cock and he’s afraid — even though you made it clear you want it to hurt — he just… cares too much about you and the thought of you being in pain because of him doesn’t sit well with him.  

"Hey, are you sure? I really don’t want to hurt you." You’re just about to position yourself, freezing in your movement. You’ve probably caught on how afraid he is. 

"Guk, I want this. It’s okay." You peck his lips softly, his hold on you loosening to inform you that he trusts you. 

His tip is barely inside of you and a whimper lets itself out of him. Scratch that about your mouth being his favorite body part of yours, your pussy definitely steps on the podium for number one. 

You continue, Jeongguk catching the sight of his cock disappearing within you and his breathing starts to quicken. He probably won’t last long, not when you wrap yourself so nicely around him the further you go down. 

"Shit—" You let out, fully sunk down on him. There’s a tinge of discomfort covering your face but Jeongguk forces himself not to worry, you want this, you want him. It’s soon replaced by a smile, as you start bucking your hips, letting yourself settle on him. 

He really takes the time to notice how beautiful your breasts are, looking so delicate. God, he wants to touch them, touch every inch of you. 

He’s reminding himself of the sounds you let out as he placed his lips on your neck, would you react the same way if he latched his lips on your exposed breasts as well? There’s really only one way to find out. Yet he wants to be good for you, letting you use him to make yourself finish. 

You surprise him once again, guiding his hands towards your breasts — as if you knew he was having a tantrum with himself over if he should touch them or not — he was right, they’re incredibly soft. Your nipples perked and good enough to suck but then again, he holds himself back. 

"You feel so good." Your words are mostly slurred, too focused on the pleasure — your eyes closed as you run your fingers through Jeongguk's hair — his hair that you like. 

He makes you feel good, you keep reminding him when you mutter it once more as your hips buck at a faster pace. Shit, you really know how to ride him well. 

It’s as if something clicks for Jeongguk when you go down to bite his earlobe followed by an angelic whimper. He loses all control of himself. "Fuck–" He’s taking control, flipping you around so you’re beneath him, hair sprawled on your pillow and eyes about to pop out of their socket. 

"What are you–" Jeongguk latches his mouth on your hardened nipples, nibbling his tongue softly on them and it was so worth it. They feel so soft against his tongue. Although not as soft as your pussy wrapping itself perfectly around him.

Jeongguk feels dizzy, drowning in the feeling of how he’s swallowed by your warmth. Fuck he’d keep himself buried in you forever if he could. 

He starts thrusting, profanities break out from you when the pace quickens. He’s reckless at this point, showing you how much you affect him. 

As the time passes, skin grows hotter, small beads of sweat covering Jeongguk's forehead. You’re both close. He can sense it as you convulse around him which almost leaves him breathless. 

"Fuck— it hurts, it hurts so good." With that your body loses its composure beneath him as you come undone. 

It’s something about you making him good about himself, not only him as a person but him in whole. You’ve always been so accepting of whatever bullshit he’s brought upon you. He feels safe around you, your arms wrapped around his form as you run your fingers through his hair. You feel like home. You are his home. 

With a low muttered fuck, Jeongguk feels his cock twitch as his hips stutter for one last thrust, filling you up with everything he has. 

His hair covers most of his sight, both of you panting in sync as you try to calm yourselves. When his cock begins to soften, he takes it as a sign to let himself plop down next to you. 

"I’ve– I’ve never…" Jeongguk doesn’t know where to begin. He can’t recognize the person he was right before. 

"Taken control?" You steal his unspoken words and he turns to see you smiling softly. The moonlight has turned to a chrome yellow, indicating that a sunrise was indeed nearing. Your features have become more prominent for Jeongguk's eyes and your beauty captivates him by an invisible hook. 

"Yeah, taken control." 

"You should do it more often." It’s an encouragement and it seems to work because the idea of being in control doesn’t faze Jeongguk. He loved it. 

It’s been around an hour after Jeongguk surprisingly fucked you. You’re both situated in your kitchen. The sunrise covering most of the apartment with it’s golden rays that strike inside the windows from the living room.  

"What are you thinking?" Jeongguk caught onto your frown, indicating you’re thinking about something. 

"I’m thinking that… I liked this, what just happened, I really liked it. It felt–"

"Right?" He answers for you and you nod. 

"I don't want this to be the last time."

"It won’t be." Carefully, Jeongguk cups your face, his nose brushing against yours. He really wants to kiss you again. 

"Kiss me." You seem impatient, and Jeongguk gladly does as you request. 

Maybe, maybe this was always supposed to happen between you. 

[disapprove]

"It looks good, you look good. It's just that I thought I'd be seeing you in button downs first at our wedding, you know?" Abigail couldn't help the soft laugh that fell from her lips and as he spoke she could only watch him and hear him talk. "Hush!" She hissed as he started about moaning names out in bed, pinching his arm only lightly before moving her hands around the back of his head. Abby pulled his face down lightly so she could bring her lips to his ear, whispering. "I could call you boss, though. Professor, maybe? A little roleplay..." Lips pressed to his earlobe as she giggled softly, eyes rolling as she let go of him again. "That does sound a lot like punishment." She mumbled to his words about the meetings. "If there's anything I can do to help you out, stand by, let me know. And if you do want to talk to me about it, just talk. You should take care of yourself." And if he didn't take care of himself, she would help him. Abigail nodded to the house on the property and headed for the entrance. "Mom's name is Marloes, dad's name is Jan. They're Dutch name so I don't blame you for pronouncing it wrong, just a little preparation." She said with a chuckle, taking his hand and walking in the house to meet her mother first in the kitchen doing preparations for the barbecue. "Mom, this is Chase - Chase, this is my mom Marloes." Her mother was basically an older version of Abigail, long and thick hair braided together and wearing plain overalls with sandals. Abigail was clearly nervous to find out what they thought of him but it helped that it was fake in the end. "Goodness, Abby you've got yourself got a proper young man. All dressed up, too. Come in, you must be starving." Her mother even used her same joke. It made Abby smirk lightly. "Such a tall and strong man. We could use your help around the place. Don't worry, we have got plenty of meat for you in return." Abigail was only watching Chase, seeing how he reacted. "Lovely to have you here, Chase. You two look very cute together." Her mother flashed Chase a wink before pressing a kiss to Abigail's cheek. "Let's bring your stuff upstairs, you can meet dad after." She mumbled, smiling at Chase as she started to head for the stairs. "There's still time to turn around and head home, you know.." She chuckled.

he was a simple man, or at least that was what chase had liked to pretend he was. either way, now that he had gotten a taste of her it was going to be far too hard to forget about that. if he'd had it his way there wouldn't have ever been a time that he wasn't on her, but he also knew that was asking for far too much from whatever it was they were calling this thing between the two of them. ❝ i try not to dress up. ❞ he admitted with a laugh as he stood back up, dusting himself off. chase knew that once he graduated, this would be his new normal, so he was trying to push that off as long as he could. his arm moved around her as she came to him, returning the kiss as he laughed. ❝ your account manager, hm? i guess that sounds better than what you could be thinking. just don't start moaning that out in bed. ❞ he winked to the girl, giving her shoulder a squeeze as his free hand moved to scoop up his bag from the ground. ❝ everything is fine, they just want to loop me in on all these meetings now. apparently taking over the company means i've gotta sit through all the boring shit. but we don't have to talk about that, lets get this fun weekend started instead. give me the tour, show me my future in laws. ❞ he teased once more, finding it all too easy.

[rhynestonez]

BY THE BOOK ( PART 1)

Congressman! Bucky X Assistant! Reader

Summary: Freshly fired and desperate, you apply to a poorly written government job—only to end up assistant to Congressman James Barnes, a quiet war hero with no clue how to run an office.

You knew something was off the moment you stepped into the office.

Not the usual “It’s-Monday-and-everyone-hates-their-lives” kind of off. No, this was quieter. Tighter. Like the whole floor was holding its breath and pretending not to look directly at you. Hallie from HR waved at you with a little too much teeth. Greg didn’t make his usual awkward dad-joke at the coffee machine. And your boss—well, he hadn’t shown his face at all.

The silence followed you all the way to your desk, cubicle 3B. You sat down, booted up your sluggish desktop, and tried to shake the feeling crawling over your skin. Maybe you were just paranoid. Maybe Hallie had finally figured out that you stole her granola bars from the break room and this was her revenge.

Or maybe you were about to get fired. “Hey..” came a voice from above you, making your stomach drop. You looked up. It was Jason—your supervisor. Clipboard in hand. Nervous energy oozing off him like sweat.

“Could you… come with me for a sec?” And there it was. The death knell. The walk to the conference room felt like a funeral procession. One that only you had RSVP’d to.

You passed by desks you used to joke around with. Smiled tightly at coworkers who suddenly became very busy with their spreadsheets. The same people you shared frozen yogurt with two days ago now wouldn’t meet your eyes. It was like being a ghost at your own job. Still here, but already halfway gone.

Jason opened the door for you. There were two people inside.

HR Hallie and one of the senior managers. The manager smiled sympathetically, like he’d just euthanized your childhood pet and wanted you to know he felt really bad about it.

You sat down. And they began.

Something about restructuring. Budget cuts. A shift in departmental focus. You were “valued.” and “appreciated.” and “not being let go because of performance.” but the bottom line was the same.

You were being released back into the wild.

You nodded a lot. Smiled even more. Signed the papers they gave you without reading them. You felt numb, like your brain was trying to protect you from registering the slow-motion collapse of your paycheck, your routine, your health insurance.

“Do you want a moment to gather your things?” Hallie asked gently, as though you might burst into tears.

“No, I’m good.” you said too quickly, already rising to your feet. “I don’t even have that much stuff.”

Another lie. You had so much stuff.

Back at your cubicle, the walk of shame began. You grabbed the cardboard box someone had thoughtfully left on your chair. You avoided looking up, knowing what you’d see- coworkers pretending to be busy while stealing glances, faces frozen in sympathetic guilt. The worst kind.

You packed in a fog. Mousepad. Desk cactus. Your favorite pens. The ceramic mug you stole from the supply closet. The birthday card everyone signed last month with forced little messages like “You’re crushing it!” and “Don’t forget us when you’re famous!”

Well. You wouldn’t have to worry about that.

Jason hovered awkwardly nearby like a shadow. “You sure you don’t need help carrying anything?”

“Nope. Just my dignity.”It slipped out before you could stop it. He gave a stiff chuckle. You wanted to melt into the floor.

You made your way to the elevator like it was the final scene of a dramatic indie film. Box in arms. Head held high. Pretending this wasn’t the most humiliating day of your professional life. The elevator doors opened. No applause. Just an old man coughing inside.

Perfect.

You got home two hours later. Kicked off your shoes, dumped the box on the floor of your living room, and collapsed on the couch like a deflated balloon. You stared at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above you.

And that’s where you stayed. For the rest of the day. And most of the next.

You ate chips straight out of the bag. Watched reality TV you’d never admit to enjoying. Didn’t shower. Only left the couch to grab more snacks or charge your phone. You were spiraling—but it was a soft spiral. One wrapped in blankets and denial.

Eventually, shame crept in like an uninvited guest. You opened your laptop. The screen glowed like an accusation. You pulled up a job board. Your search history from last time was still there: “office jobs near me.” “remote jobs for introverts.” “do I really need health insurance if I’m careful.”

You scrolled.

Most listings made you want to evaporate. Corporate jargon. Unrealistic qualifications. $40K salaries requiring six degrees and willingness to be emotionally abused. You were about to close the tab when something caught your eye.

“ASSISTANT NEEDED – GOVT JOB”

No punctuation. No detail. The kind of post that practically begged you to ignore it.

So naturally, you clicked.

“Man needs help. With papers. Office stuff. Maybe coffee sometimes. Not illegal. Good pay. Please have experience with Microsoft… the word one. And fast typing. Not too fast. Just normal. Must be trustworthy. And not annoying.”

You stared. You re-read it. You laughed. Out loud. For the first time all day.

“This has to be a joke..” you muttered, mouth curled into a tired grin. The name at the bottom just said: Congressman J. Barnes.

You weren’t sure if it was real. You weren’t sure you cared. You clicked “Apply.” Attached your outdated résumé. Wrote “Available immediately” in the cover letter box. And hit send. “God help whoever’s desk that lands on.” you muttered, already tossing your laptop to the side.

You figured you’d never hear from them again. But the next morning, your phone rang. Unknown number. You squinted at it.

Half of you wanted to let it go to voicemail. The other half wanted to believe in a miracle. You answered.

“Hi, is this..?” a chipper voice asked, trailing off a little like she was reading your name off a list. “This is Gemma, from the Office of Congressman Barnes. He’d like to bring you in for an interview.” You blinked.

“…oh.”

-

You stood in front of your closet like it had personally offended you. Somewhere between the third blazer and sixth wave of panic, you realized you had no idea what to wear to a government job interview.

Especially one that might’ve been posted by a man who thinks Microsoft Word is called “Microsoft the word one.”

“I don’t even know what I’m applying for..” you muttered to yourself, yanking out a wrinkled blouse that hadn’t seen daylight since your cousin’s wedding. “Is this for a desk job? A CIA field mission? Coffee courier to a congressman with a mysterious past?”

Because let’s be honest—you Googled him.

Congressman James B. Barnes. And let’s just say the results… were not what you expected.

There were official headshots: clean-cut, classic suit, stoic stare. But then there were older photos. Grayscale. Battle-worn. Like something out of a history book. You clicked deeper into the rabbit hole and discovered enough chaos to make your resume feel wildly underqualified.

War hero. Former assassin. Reformed government weapon.

Now… congressman?

“This man needs more than an assistant-“ you muttered, buttoning your shirt with trembling fingers. “He needs a therapist. Maybe a nap.”

And then there was that job description. The weirdly direct, charmingly awkward message that had made you laugh harder than you had in days.

“Man needs help. With papers. Office stuff. Maybe coffee sometimes.”You could not imagine this man typing that. But you kind of wanted to meet whoever did.

The morning of the interview arrived far too quickly. You barely slept. Your nerves were frayed. Your eyeliner was uneven.

You triple-checked your bag: résumé (printed on fancy paper you borrowed from your neighbor), breath mints, water bottle, emergency chocolate, and a sticky note with the name Gemma – Front Office Contact written in panicked caps.

The Capitol Hill building was less intimidating than you expected. Smaller. Like it didn’t quite get the memo that it was hosting a literal congressman. Security was tight but polite. The guard at the front desk glanced at your visitor badge, then up at you.

“You here for Barnes?” You nodded. He snorted. “Good luck.” You opened your mouth to ask what that meant—but he waved you through before you could.

Great. Definitely not ominous at all.

The elevator dinged open on the third floor, revealing a hallway lined with framed press clippings, black-and-white photos, and one strange oil painting that made your eyes sore.

You approached the office door and hesitated for exactly one soul-crushing moment.

You could still turn around. Blame traffic. Say you got the wrong building. But instead, you knocked. “Come in!” a bright voice called.

You opened the door and were immediately greeted by a perky woman in a lavender button up—Gemma, you assumed—who smiled like she just saw a long lost friend.

“You made it!” she said, motioning you in. “Right on time. I love that. He’ll love that. Timeliness is kind of… a thing.”

You smiled nervously. “I’m a big fan of clocks.”

God. You were already spiraling.

Gemma didn’t seem to notice. She gestured for you to sit in a sleek waiting chair beside a bookshelf stacked with…well. Mostly military history. And something called ‘how to overcome being antisocial’ which honestly felt like a cry for help.

“He’s just finishing a call-“ she chirped. “Shouldn’t be more than a minute.” You nodded. Hands folded tightly in your lap. The silence stretched.

Then you heard it. A low voice. Just beyond the closed office door. Rough. Steady. Calm like a storm cloud.

You couldn’t make out the words—but something about the tone made your skin prickle. So this is him.

James Barnes.

Your potential boss. War hero turned congressman. Possibly the worst job poster in the history of the internet.

You felt a laugh catch in your throat and swallowed it back. This was fine. Normal. You were in control. “Can I ask..” you whispered to Gemma, leaning slightly closer. “Did… he actually write that job post?”

She blinked, then smiled guiltily. “I… typed it. But he dictated it.. I suggested we workshop it but he said—and I quote—‘If they’re the right person, they’ll understand what I meant.’” Your stomach did a weird little flip. “Right.” You mumbled, eyebrow twitching slightly. The door opened. You straightened instinctively. And there he was.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Hair slicked back neatly. Navy-blue shirt rolled at the sleeves. One hand in his pocket. The other—metal, unmistakable—still adjusting the watch on his wrist.

He looked up. Eyes like winter. And when they landed on you… he actually smiled. Just a little. Not the polished politician kind. The real kind. A bit tired. A bit curious. A bit… surprised.

“You’re early.” he said. Voice just like you imagined—low, quiet, steady. “That’s good.”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

Your brain offered nothing useful except: Holy shit he’s hot.

Gemma, bless her soul, stepped in. “This is the applicant we spoke about.” He nodded. Extended a hand. You shook it, startled by how warm the metal felt. Strong but careful. Like he knew exactly how much pressure to use.

“Nice to meet you.” he said. “I’m Bucky.” You blinked, then instinctively gave your name. “-but I’m sure you already knew that from my application..” He huffed a soft laugh. Not unkind. Just amused.

“Well-“ he said, stepping aside and gesturing to the door behind him. “Let’s talk.”

His office was quiet. Not the peaceful kind—more like the kind of silence that follows a bomb going off. Thick, slightly tense, and filled with the unspoken energy of “I didn’t plan for this.”

You sat down as Bucky gestured vaguely at the chair across from him and lowered himself into his own, the leather creaking under his weight. He didn’t speak at first—just opened a drawer, pulled out a pen, then closed the drawer again. Looked at the pen like he forgot what to do with it.

You smoothed your blouse, the long skirt you wore and cleared your throat lightly, trying to keep your posture professional. His office was cluttered but lived-in, stacks of folders on the floor and two mugs on his desk—one clearly from yesterday. Or possibly last week. You couldn’t tell.

He opened a folder, blinked at the blank sheet inside, then closed it. Then looked up at you. Then back down. Then exhaled through his nose like this was already too much.

You offered a polite smile. “Should I… begin?”

He cleared his throat. “No—I mean. I’ll start.”

You folded your hands in your lap, waiting. Silence. He tapped the pen against the desk. Slowly. Then, after a beat too long.

“…Why do you want this job?”

It came out flat. Hesitant. Like he wasn’t sure it was the right question but figured it sounded interview-y enough to work.

You sat up straighter, shifting into the persona you’d practiced in the mirror. “Well, first and foremost, I believe I can bring organizational cohesion and administrative fluidity to your daily operations. I have extensive experience in interdepartmental coordination, and I thrive in high-pressure environments with adaptive logistics.”

Bucky blinked. His brow furrowed. “…Right.”

You smiled, trying not to panic. “Also I’m really good at, you know, keeping things… tidy.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

You saw him glance at your résumé—upside down—and then make a noise deep in his throat. His eyes scanned the desk like he was searching for help. Or divine intervention.

Another long pause. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then tried again: “Do you… type fast?”

You hesitated. “Yes. Around 85 words per minute, depending on format.”

He nodded like that meant something. “Cool.”

You both sat in the silence of that word for a second too long.

“…Are you… looking for someone with any particular certifications?” you offered, trying to help. He blinked again. “Hm?”

“Like government clearance, or scheduling software—”

“Oh. Uh. No. I just need someone who… knows how to do things. Like calendars. Paper stuff.”

“Calendars and paper,” you repeated with a kind smile. “Yeah.” Another pause. He fiddled with the pen cap, then tossed it onto the desk like it had personally betrayed him.

“Have you ever worked for someone…as an assistant?”

You straightened a little. “I’ve worked in team dynamics with various communication styles, so technically no, but I’m adaptable. I understand how to read nonverbal cues and maintain effective workflow even without constant direction.”

Bucky stared. He tilted his head a little, like he was trying to decipher a foreign language.

“…So you’ve never done it before?”

You smiled again. “Correct.” Oh god..

“Okay.” More silence.

You could see the panic just barely behind his neutral expression. It sat in his shoulders, in the way his fingers tapped against the desk like Morse code. He clearly hadn’t expected to do this himself. Or at all.

You tried to fill the space.

“I uhm- also have experience managing travel itineraries, liaising with constituents, and handling confidential information with discretion. I’m extremely punctual, digitally literate, and can operate independently.”

He gave you a slow blink. “…You sound like a brochure.” You froze. “Oh. Sorry.”

“No—it’s fine. I just. Didn’t catch… half those words.” You flushed immediately. “Sorry—I’m nervous. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s—it’s not bad.” He shifted, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re just… a lot more professional than I thought.”

You tried to laugh. “Well, your job posting did say ‘not annoying,’ so I figured I should overachieve.” That actually made the corner of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. But close.

“I actually didn’t write that part.” You lifted a brow. “Oh?”

“I said ‘don’t hire anyone weird.’ Gemma translated.” You laughed quietly, the tension cracking a little. Then he rubbed his chin and asked, out of nowhere.

“…Do you like cats?”

You blinked. “Um—yes.” He nodded slowly, like this was very serious. “Good.” And then nothing else. You waited.

He leaned back in his chair, clearly out of questions. After a moment, you gently asked “Would you like to know about my references-Or work history?”

“No.” he said. Then added “I read the résumé.” You could see it sticking halfway out from under his coffee mug.

“I don’t really know what to ask.” he admitted finally, voice lower, quieter. “I’ve never had an assistant before. I usually just… figure things out alone.” There was a flicker of something vulnerable in that. Something human. And tired.

You softened. “I can help with that.” He looked at you for a long moment. Then nodded once. “Okay.”

You blinked. “So… am I hired?”He stood up abruptly. “Yeah. Tomorrow. Eight a.m.” You scrambled to your feet. “Right—great! Should I bring—?”

“Coffee. If you want.”

You tilted your head. “How do you take it?”He paused. Shrugged. “I don’t know. Gemma makes it.” You laughed despite yourself. “Guess I’ll improvise.” You reached for the door, and with a nervous sigh you stepped out.

The door clicked shut behind you. Bucky exhaled slowly. Then sat back down in his chair like he’d just returned from war.

He stared at the coffee mug on his desk.

“Calendars and… liaisoning.” he mumbled under his breath, brow furrowed. “What the hell is a liaison.”

Right then, the door cracked open again—without knocking—and Gemma poked her head in like a cartoon squirrel.

“So?” she asked, too brightly.

Behind her, Jace from accounting and Maya from policy hovered in the hallway, definitely pretending they weren’t listening.

Bucky glanced at them all. “What?”

Gemma stepped inside fully. “How’d the interview go?” He shrugged. “Fine.”

“Just fine?” she asked, moving closer. “You’ve had that same piece of pen cap in your hand for twenty minutes.” He looked down. He had, in fact, snapped it clean in half.

“She was really impressive.” he said, almost defensively. “Said a lotta smart stuff. Big words. I think she knows what she’s doing.”

Jace leaned into the doorway. “Did you ask her that weird cat question again?”

Bucky squinted. “It’s a valid question.”

“Sure-“ Maya said, sipping from a mug. “Because nothing says ‘professional screening process’ like ‘Would you feed my cat if I forgot.’”

Bucky muttered something under his breath and grabbed the crumpled receipt off his desk, folding it in half.

“She’s not annoying.”

“Oh well then.” Gemma grinned, hands on her hips. “Hire her immediately, let’s throw a party.”

“I did.” Bucky said flatly. They all stared. “You what?” He shrugged. “She starts tomorrow.”

Jace whistled. “Hope she brings her own chair. The spare one in your office still has three screws missing.”

“I can fix it.”

Maya blinked. “Really now?”

“I’ll try, she’ll be a good addition here..”

Gemma raised her eyebrows. “Wow. High praise already.” Bucky ignored them, turning back to his papers—but not before glancing once toward the door you’d just walked out of.

“Aw-“ Gemma teased. “Are you flustered, Congressman?” He didn’t respond. But his ears did go a little pink.

“Get out.”

[thebluediner]

THE ULTIMATUM QUEER LOVE SEASON 3: EVERYTHING I'M NOT

a/n: just a little something I thought about I'm so smart, sexy and brilliant oh my gosh, this will not represent how the show actually works I'm just making it up as I go cause I can

the cast had all settled into the same dreaded room, the room of doom, as you and billie called it . everyone was paired with someone new but their original partners were still right there just across the room sitting next to their temporary replacement.

god forbid you had jealousy issues you’d drop dead from the get go. but instead of full-blown chaos of possessiveness it all just manifested in awkward silences, some side-eyes, and occasional sharp tongued “talks” that always ended in frustration that made the original couples feel less inlove.

your eyes naturally found her, lauren, your girlfriend of five years. she was sitting comfortably next to the woman she had been paired with, laughter shaking her entire frame like she was the only person in the room like they were the only one who existed. her hand brushed her shoulder, casually but it didn't feel like it to you.

and that stung.

lauren was the one who gave you the ultimatum. she’d claimed she wanted to get married that she needed to start building a future, a family, something real. but through all the deep talks and heartfelt monologues on camera, you’d said almost nothing. not because you didn’t care or because you didn’t love her.

but because you couldn’t believe she was doing this to you when she knew exactly why you hadn’t proposed yet.

when you first got together, lauren had been a freelance artist barely scraping by, constantly venting about how drained she was. she said the passion had died back in high school, and that now she was just painting to pay bills. on top of that, she picked up shifts as a barista just to keep herself afloat.

eventually, she’d asked if she could stop working and move in with you “just until she figured things out,” she’d said. It made sense at the time. you were in love, and she was stressed and spiraling. you had a solid job in tech that paid fairly well, and it felt like the supportive thing to do.

when she joked half-seriously about becoming a stay-at-home girlfriend, you’d smiled like a fool and said it sounded cute.

from then on, you were the one keeping the entire relationship alive. rent? you paid. groceries? you paid. her new fitness certification she decided to chase after getting bored with art? you paid. that spontaneous vegas girls’ trip with her best friend? you paid. her mom’s mortgage troubles? her little siblings tuition setback? you covered it all.

what you didn’t have was the extra ten, maybe twenty grand needed to plan a wedding and start a family. not yet, you thought that was something she understood that with a few more years of saving, you’d finally be ready.

but to lauren, waiting meant you were wasting her youth, her time, her beauty and her potential to post instagram wedding photos that will have her closest friend talking.

she thought you were stalling and maybe you were just not for the reasons she believed.

across the room her laughter echoed again. she tossed her hair back, hand on her chest like she couldn’t breathe from how funny she was. and the person she was with was attractiveall, clean smile, attentive in a way you hadn’t had energy to be in months.

you looked away before you bite the inside of your cheek anymore harder.

your new partner’s perfume drifted toward you, soft and her a subtle reminder that she was still beside you, even as both your eyes trailed elsewhere.

her name was billie.

when you first met her, you’d been thrown off by the way she wore her hair. she had bold combination of colors that felt like it shouldn’t have worked on paper but now a week in it made perfect sense on her. it suited her.

billie hadn’t opened up much at first. she was one of those people who talked a lot you'd think you know her but you really don't .but , slowly but surely between silent shared meals and tense group challenges, her story started to unfold.

she was here because of an ultimatum too. her partner, nicki, had dropped it on her out of nowhere ,marriage, but only under one condition.

bllie had to convert.

nicki came from a devoted religious background and apparently that background didn’t leave room for exceptions. marriage wasn’t just love to her it was faith, ceremony, shared beliefs.

but billie couldn’t do it. not because she didn’t love her but because converting felt like erasing herself. like folding herself into someone else’s idea of “acceptable.” that wasn’t love. that was compromise she couldn't afford.

the real sting though was when the pairings were announced nicki was matched with someone from her own religion. someone who was already a step ahead of billie. someone who didn’t have to change anything to be the one.

to billie that wasn’t just a hurt it was so much more she felt it physically it was sickening. it was a reminder to her how someone else could be easly be what she couldn't be for someone she loved. that kind of rejection cut deeper than the anything else.

so here you are with billie. a new couple wrapped up in personal sacrifices, cultural identity, and quiet betrayal all sit under the same roof.

both of you have given and sacrificed for your relationships but now have to watch your partners flirt with people who represent that little extra you couldn't give.

[jjwolves]

RAVEN LIKE A WRITING DESK

What: 4 Coral Glasses X Reader Headcanons Where She Shares a House with You

Who: Coral Glasses from ENA Dream BBQ (By Joel G)

How Much: ~1000 words, ~4 mins

Credits: Image Banner -> Joel G

Warnings: None

Coral Glasses is a bit reluctant to move in with you at first. That's a big leap. For her, every single life decision is like carefully tiptoeing around deep puddles of soda in a desperate effort to keep her pants dry. And now you're asking her to stand next to the road and hope, no, pray, that a taxi doesn't zoom past and drench you both in Sweet Shrimp Energy: Code Pink?! The thought alone has her sweating! "Ah, I'm sorry, but--but! I'd like to, but--the way you're looking at me makes me think that you have a lot of expectations for this. I don't even know if I'm in the right job, let alone housing unit..." The pen that was tucked behind her ear comes loose and falls into her coffee. She sighs, resigned. You didn't want to force her into anything, but before you can rescind the offer in order to honor her comfort, she begins acting like there's no other option. Suddenly, it's a fact of life. "I'm too anxious to be a breadwinner... Huff, I'm not cut out for this at all. I'm not cut out for this life. Ugh... Well, if I'm going to be living with you, I'm going to have to ask... Do you have room for 100 business outfits?" Confused, you ask if she... wants this? She seems kind of put off by the idea. She responds to this with confusing resignation. "You want me to, right? Want me to, eh... live where you live?" You say yes, but only if she wants to(?) "Yeah, I mean... I already packed my stuff, so..." You get the feeling that this is going to be a trend.

She wasn't joking about the 100 business outfits, all of which are identical. The closet belongs to her now, out of necessity if nothing else. Besides the closet, she's slow to warm and integrate into the new living situation. You're over the moon that you get to spend so much time with her, seeing her every morning and every night. Beneath the weird faux resignation and constant analysis paralysis that Coral Glasses suffers, you can see a glimmer of someone who really loves you back and wants this as much as you do. You see it in the awkward, pale hand on your shoulder, and the tasteful outfit she arranges and leaves out for you in the morning. You see it in the fact that your plants stay watered even when you forget to water them, somehow. It's never acknowledged by her, though, because most of the time? Coral Glasses is just doing her best to take up as little space as possible. She keeps her clothes to the closet. She keeps all her papers crammed into a corner on your desk. Her briefcase is left directly next to the front door. Sometimes, you wake up and find that she had migrated from the bed and to the couch overnight. You don't know how to broach this subject with her. All you know is that you feel kind of guilty--it's not like you created these rules or anything, but it's clear that you're going to need to be the one to help her integrate a little. How can you tell a coral reef to grow out further than it already has? And would that be love, or would that be entitled?

You try to draw closer to Coral Glasses in lots of little ways. You put colored bookmarks into her folders to better organize them, doodling little marine creatures on them. The next time she opens the binder, a small, gentle smile graces her lips as she nervously adjusts her glasses. "Oh. Thanks, this is so cu--er, c-convenient. This is really efficient now. So. Thanks." One night, she comes home especially drained and frazzled from work, stumbling through the door with her suitcase in hand, trudging up the stairs like a zombie and collapsing into bed after dropping the case at the foot of it and slinging her suit jacket over a nearby chair. Already in bed yourself, you stir slightly as Coral Glasses unconsciously angles herself awkwardly in order to weakly grasp a hand in two of hers. It's not a normal sleeping pose at all. You don't notice that a miracle happened that night until you wake up to see that your beloved enterpreneur is still in bed with you, and on top of that, she was apparently comfortable enough to slap her suitcase next to the bed and put her clothes wherever was convenient. Also, your hand is really really sweaty. You silently realize that you may be the only person in the world who would be thankful to Runas for a messy room.

It seems like that moment of overwhelming fatigue was what was needed to crack open the oyster's shell, so to speak. After that fateful night, it seems like Coral Glasses is finally growing into your home. Her papers are scattered across your desk at any given moment and rings of coffee are stained onto the covers of any notebooks left unattended in the Business Radius. A business jacket is almost always hanging off of the chair next to your desk. And, yeah, you usually wake up to a soaked bed and clothes, especially if Coral Glasses was cuddling you while you were asleep. You love that girl, but your bed is permanently infused with the smell of seawater mixed with some sort of chemical toner. You joke one morning about it raining in your bedroom. Her coral's pulse slows for a moment. Then, much unlike her, Coral Glasses gives you a smirk which drips with irony. "But you knew what you were getting into." And then she pecks you on the forehead with a very clammy-feeling kiss before heading upstairs to get ready for work. You think you might have created a monster. A really sweaty, nervous monster who laid out an outfit for you overnight identical to hers. You'll pretend to be clueless... But secretly? You're more than OK being twinsies with her. She can never know.

[hufflezki]

summary: peter comes home after a date with you, then hops on a video call to complain about natasha teasing him for the kiss mark on his cheek.

-> mcu!peter parker x fem!reader who definitely didn't mean to leave a kiss mark, fluff, established relationship, peter calls reader 'babe' once, peter ranting to reader, natasha teasing the poor boy, word count: 1,054

[ 🎧‧₊˚ ] — fuzzy feeling by grentperez

“I remember when you gave me a lego bouquet.”

“Yeah, I was actually really proud of that.”

“And now you got me a real one.” You smile at Peter, holding up the fresh bouquet of flowers that he got you. To be frank, they cost a ton, but you had this look of pure joy on your face that Peter thought made all his efforts worth it. He made today’s date a little special, since it's been weeks after he took you to a proper one. And you couldn’t really blame him, it's hard having to juggle your responsibilities being an Avenger and all. Yet, despite that he never missed a time to be with you. Even if it meant dropping by your house as spiderman just to have a late night movie marathon.

Much to his own surprise, Peter managed to plan this date in secret. He sought out help from his friends—Ned and MJ gave him the idea to take you to an arcade, Aunt May—who helped him find the specific flowers for his bouquet, and even some of the Avengers—Tony made him promise that there’d be no funny business. All for this date to go well, since he really wanted to impress you. Of course, he knew you’d say that he doesn’t need to do much, but he wants to. With the amount of times you’ve sided by him, he thinks it's about time to make it up to you.

“I wish I could preserve this forever.” You pull the bouquet closer to you, feeling like a little girl all over again. You don’t know how Peter does it; every time you’re with him he makes you giddy and excited. It's a new feeling that you have yet to get used to. Meanwhile, Peter is sure that he’s the luckiest man on earth right now. He places a hand on the small of your back, pulling you closer to him. “Well, I’ll see what I can do.” He mumbles as you continue your walk back to your house. You wish he was joking, but knowing Peter, he’d probably get busy on the weekends trying to find a way on how to make the bouquet last a bit longer. Surprisingly, that’s not even the most outrageous thing he’s done for you.

The Avengers Tower is quiet this late at night. Which isn't really surprising, considering its the weekday. And most of the team were probably busy with work this morning. For Peter, this is kind of nice. No one would see him just arriving and tease him about having a girlfriend and going on a date with her on one of his off days.

That’s until Peter makes the mistake to stop by the kitchen, and grab himself a glass of water before sleep.

“Hey, kid.” Natasha comes out of nowhere, at least from Peter’s vision, and makes herself known by leaning beside the countertop. Her arms crossed as she scans his entirety, eyes narrowing at something on his cheek. “Hi, Natasha.” Peter tries not to sound intimidated as he pours himself a glass of water. Truthfully, Natasha still scares him sometimes. She was hard to read; sarcastic most of the time they interacted. But she was a great mentor whenever they trained together. Still she loves poking fun at him, a lot. And God forbid her and Tony join forces. Peter could only wish he had the ability to phase through walls like Vision.

“Had a fun date?” Peter nods his head, knowing where this conversation’s going and wanting it to end now. Though, the playful look in Natasha’s eyes tells him that he won't be going anywhere anytime soon. Peter opens the fridge and places the pitcher back inside, then senses her figure standing behind the fridge door. “What’s that kiss mark on your cheek?” She says, out of the blue, Peter's eyes widen as he stumbles back, almost spilling his drink. “What? What kiss mark?” He could see her smirking. Touching his face, and retracting his hand, Peter then sees a small tint of your lip gloss transferred onto his fingertips. His whole face turns a shade of red, before he hears Natasha chuckling.

“Uhm, I should go, good night.” He, hastily, excuses himself from Natasha. And he can hear her saying something along the lines of 'being glad she wasn't Tony' , when he passes by her. The warmth on his cheeks then spread down to his neck.

Yeah, he was definitely glad she wasn't Tony.

“And then she pointed it out!” Your boyfriend has been whining to you the last couple of minutes, about Natasha teasing him, still dressed and pacing back and forth in his room. It's honestly entertaining, and he’s too deep into it for you to say that you did leave that mark on purpose. “I’m sure she means well, Peter.” You offer him some kind of comfort, which makes him pause, looking at you with a deadpan look. “I know! But, babe, I can almost guess what was going inside her mind!” You hum, resting your face down on your palm.

“Right, because a kiss on the cheek couldn't be more scandalous.”

“Exactly– wait, whose side are you really on?” He sits down on his bed, closer to where his phone is currently propped up on his nightstand. On his screen, he sees you shrug, which makes him sigh and deflate. “You did this on purpose.” He grabs a nearby pillow, burying his face on it, as he hears you stifling a laugh. “I just wanted to see how long it would take for you to notice.” Peter shakes his head, grumbling something incoherent on his pillow. When he looks up, he’s frowning. “Not long apparently, thanks to Natasha.” He grabs his phone, pulling it closer to his face as he lays down.

“You have to make it up to me now.” You nod your head, your compliance making it impossible for him to stay mad. “How can I make it up to you?” He ponders, narrowing his eyes.

“A kiss. Tomorrow.”

“Just one?” He shakes his head, then holds up two fingers. “More than two.” You let out another laugh.

Well, it's a good thing you didn't mind giving him more kisses.

miscellaneous masterlist ꩜ .ᐟ

[thenexusofsouls]

Hearing that Wanda felt he was helping her just by talking with her and allowing her to get to know him made him so happy. This amazing woman who had taken time out of her life to help someone so strange and different when they were struggling deserved to have that kindness and positivity come back to her in some way. Energy had a way of balancing itself, Xenos knew. Humans sometimes called it karma, whether good or bad. He wanted to make it a point to help the beautiful energy Wanda had sent his way find a way back to her. She deserved to smile and feel as happy as he did right now.

"Would... love... to get to know... you too," he said. "If you... are ever... com-... comfortable... with that." He didn't want to press, but he also didn't want her to think he wasn't interested in knowing more about her, because he most definitely was.

He appreciated so much the way Wanda respected his boundaries and gave him choices instead of simply doing whatever she wanted. Although there was a significant amount of sensory overload that entered into his fear of touch, it was also the way those sensations were thrust upon him when he wasn't prepared for them. If he had a second to anticipate how it would feel, that alone made it feel less intense to him, less overwhelming. And of course the way she'd hugged him was gentle and loose, so he didn't feel caught, held, trapped, or restrained. She seemed to understand so well, and he supposed that was because maybe she had such boundaries herself, in her own way, and she was merely treating him the way she wished to be treated herself. He would certainly do that for her.

When she laid her head against his shoulder, Xenos couldn't help the way he bowed his face against her hair, taking in her scent. It felt so wonderful to have someone want to be that close to him, for he tended to frighten nearly everyone he came across. He supposed he didn't help matters much by being so standoffish, but he'd never felt that way with Wanda.

She would hug and touch him to help him get used to happy touching? As if Wanda couldn't get any more amazing to him, she just did. Xenos smiled so brightly then. "I... give you... permission... to touch... and hug. I trust you. Warning first... does help... though," he said. "Would like... to get used... to your touches, Wanda. Never knew... touch... could feel so nice."

Xenos thought for a moment, though. Since she was doing so much for him, he felt like he ought to do more for her, he just didn't know what she might need from him. "Anything... you want... from me? Can do... something... for you?" he offered, eager to make her as happy as she'd made him.

- - - - -

"I am doing it to be able to trap him, just not right now," Stephen admitted. "I want to know that I can get control of the situation if he threatens the general public. He doesn't need to know that's what I'm doing, but I've got a responsibility to make sure I can handle him if I need to."

"Yeah, well, just don't piss Wanda off, okay, we have to live with her. You go home to your... magical... library... place... and-"

"-magical library place?"

"-leave us here to face the wrath of a very short but very angry woman, and that's really not fair," Tony said, talking right over Stephen. "Keep that in mind."

"I'll try to," Stephen said, forcing a smile.

"Why do I think he's going to get us all in trouble with Wanda?" Tony asked Steve after Strange had left. The playful banter between them, though, was a welcome change of subject. "Well, I have to make sure they're straight, you know, and you can't do that if you're... right up... in there," he said, putting a flat hand in front of his face to demonstrate. "I gotta step back and get perspective. Plus you can lift a lot more than I can. Don't make me get the suit. I don't wanna spend my afternoon filling out property damage claims if I overshoot something," he joked.

They made their way to one of the vacant rooms near Wanda's own, and Tony was happy to see a pile of boxes in the hallway. "Oh good, here they are." Once they'd carted the panels into the room, unboxed them, and got them installed, a little over an hour had passed. They'd made several changes to the room besides that, including changing the bedding, changing the settings on the intercom, and Tony even had a quieter toilet installed. "Anything else you can think of for someone with uh... sound and sensory issues?" he asked Steve.

what are you afraid of? (Xenos)

Xenos should never have come this close to this developed of a human city. Even wandering the suburbs of New York City had been a trial for him, with car horns blaring, people yelling, and a sense of too many things moving around him all at once. But once he'd reached deep into the city, he knew he'd made a mistake. There was a stark lack of awareness from the people walking around him. Some bumped into him without warning while others simply seemed to have no spatial awareness whatsoever. There were even more car horns, and more yelling, and Xenos felt his chest tightening from the stress of it all.

Soon, he couldn't breathe, and try as he might to get out of there, it seemed the more he walked, the deeper into the city he embedded himself. "Back!" Xenos shouted to someone who had bumped into him hard, pushing him away with one of his hands.

"Hey man, screw you!" the human said to him as he kept on walking.

He hadn't realized that he'd wandered into a roadway until he was almost hit by a car. It screeched to a halt and Xenos lifted his hands to cover his ears as the sound of the car's horn blared so loudly he thought he would die. "Get away!" he yelled, and it happened. His magic lashed out, creating a dome of isolation around him, encompassing the entire block. Everything went silent, for he'd removed all the humans from within the dome, leaving them outside its invisible border. Inside, he left the animals and insects for they did not bother him, but the cars, trucks and buses were now uninhabited, turned off, still.

The silence was wonderful, and he felt the tension begin to release him. The dome's barrier kept out the sounds of the surrounding city, as well as those of the angry and confused humans who had been moved from their vehicles, or who could no longer pass down the street because of the invisible barrier. While Xenos paced back and forth in the middle of the street, slowly calming himself, people outside the dome where already calling emergency services and police, angry and scared by what had occurred.

The Avengers were called in.

Xenos moved inside a building, where it was dim and peaceful, taking deep breaths as he slowly wandered around. This was better. Much better. He didn't care or even realize the disruption he'd just caused within a major human city.

Outside, people were telling tales of a strange man who had somehow made invisible walls in the city, not fully understanding what all had happened. When the Avengers arrived, they were met with a large block of New York City that looked... empty, uninhabited. Cars left abandoned, doors to buildings left open. It looked like something out of a zombie apocalypse... but where were the zombies?

Steve couldn't punch through the wall. Tony's repulsors couldn't penetrate it either. They couldn't even see what it was they were trying to knock down. But not all members of the team were as hindered by the magical barrier as the rest...

Xenos knew the moment someone had entered the dome, and he twitched with the sensation of his magic being disturbed. Perplexed, for this had never happened before, he walked to the door of the building and peered out. A human was there... but how? No human should be able to defy his magic. None ever had before. He watched her from afar for a bit, until it seemed that she was, either intentionally or inadvertently, headed right for him. Did she know he was there? No, no, she could not. Humans lacked such senses, he knew, especially in this time. The sorcerers of old were all but gone from the world now, or... or at least Xenos hadn't encountered any for a very long time.

Slowly, he stepped out of the building and onto the sidewalk, his body tilting awkwardly to the right as his head did the same, as though he was trying to size her up and see her better. When she spoke to him, he recoiled suddenly from the sound of her voice. He didn't take steps back from her, but rather only leaned back, his head snapping backward a bit as a dog or cat might do if they were startled while curiously trying to get the scent of something. He thought about her words for some time before responding.

"Not afraid," he said, but his voice was barely there. He couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken to anyone to any real capacity, and his voice suffered from a lack of use. He didn't think it was loud enough for communication purposes, so he tried again. "Not... afraid." Xenos put up his hand almost as if he was making a wait a minute motion with it, but moved it up and down, as though pressing some imaginary buzzer in the air, his fingers outstretched. He was merely thinking of the right word, his head turning this way and that like the word might suddenly be floating in the air somewhere he could see. "Overwhelmed," he finally decided upon. "The city is... too much." His hands found his head and he swayed a bit, as thought he was in pain. "So I have expelled it... from this space." He then made a pushing away motion with both his hands, moving them out from his body.

But then Xenos' head tilted again, his face obscured by the draping hood of his long coat. "How...?" he asked, pointing back in the direction she came. "How... did you enter?"

[arathejedi394]

i cracked this morning and read the first like 200 words of my og novel that i wrote when i was 13/self-published at 14

and like

why did hank green post it on his instagram with praise?? like i think of it and i cringe. today i re-read the first 200 words and i wanted to stop existing?? why did my mom give him a copy of it i did not ask her to do that??? i just went to one of his concerts in 2014 and my mom just gave the book to somebody and for some reason that somebody gave it to hank green and then suddenly im in the crowd 15yo new best friend bc nerdfighteria and hank green is like "oh somebody gave one of the guys this book just before the show and i took a look at it and i kinda like it it's pretty good" and up he holds none other than my og novel he goes "a 14yo wrote this and it's pretty good this affirms my faith in humanity or something like a very young not-adult did this whole novel and it's not bad that's cool" idk what he said it was 10 years ago. and there's me in the crowd freaking the fuck out i say to my new bff who i had just met at the beginning of the concert bc we were standing next to each other like "BRO THAT'S MY BOOK" new bff is like "BRO THAT'S YOUR BOOK???" and starts jumping up and down for attention like "YO THAT'S THIS GUY'S BOOK" hank green hears points at me and goes "HEY HE'S RIGHT THERE YOUR BOOK'S PRETTY COOL KID" AND THEN!!! HE FUCKING PUT IT ON HIS INSTA??? AND PRAISED IT??? THE STICKY NOTE MY MOM LEFT ON IT WITH LIKE 10 WORDS OF SYNOPSIS STILL ON THE COVER??? ALL OF HIS INSTA FOLLOWER'S SAW MY MOM'S HANDWRITING??? AND MY WHOLE ASS INITIALS + LAST NAME??? A COMPLIMENTARY REVIEW BY HANK GREEN HIMSELF??? WHY?? WHY WAS MY 15 MINUTES OF FAME THAT CRINGE ASS Y/A NOVEL???

nobody go looking back at hank green's 2015 insta. do not confirm this is true. let this be a totally unverifiable claim of some rando fandom blogger.

listen. i was 13 when i wrote that book. i was so full of brand new baby teen angst. i do not understand why hank green did not open the book flip through a couple pages go "oof this kid needs a therapist and a writing coach" and never mention it again. i do not understand why he mentioned it on stage, i don't know why he put it on his instagram, it was so bad. ohmygod. i wish i could forget it ever happened

eXCEPT I CAN'T

bc iT wAs SuPpOsEd TO BE A TRIOLOGY. aNd I ONLY WROTE ONE. AND MY PARENTS ARE STILL ASKING ME WHEN BOOK TWO IS COMING.

IT'S BEEN TEN YEARS.

[msommers]

that quote that's like. you can't go back but even if you could you won't be the same...... riya feelings.

[neverendingford]

.

[boombambaby]

Without really considering the ramifications of it, Kuzco snorts in reply and rolls his eyes at the ridiculous notion of him ever losing his home. " What, you mean the palace? Like that would ever happen. " Even now, after his nice guy transformation and with his thoroughly reformed personality firmly in place, Kuzco balks at the idea of someone kicking him out of the palace. A miniscule, almost nonexistent nagging sensation in the back of his mind reminds him of the panic he felt when he was told he was being placed on the 'waiting' list as Emperor, however. How small and impossibly lost he felt as he fought them on the old law, and raced to figure out where he would go when he found himself flat on his ass outside of the palace gates before finally seeking out Pacha; the only friend that he had at that point.

Now that he thinks about it, it's giving karmic justice, and he looks away to avoid letting Malina see the heat in his cheeks when he realizes how right she is. Again.

At the mention of her kicking his ass Kuzco can feel his lips tug up into a smirk and he turns back to face her just to playfully wiggle his eyebrows at her; despite the tension lingering in the air between them, he still can't help himself when it comes to teasing her. " Yeah, and it'd be kinda hard to woo the Emperor and beg for his forgiveness from behind bars. " He jokes, glad for the momentary reprieve from the heavier topics. This is difficult for him, he's never had to delve so deeply into his psyche before, at least not since he was hunted down in the jungle as a llama, and though he's loathe to admit it, it's taking a lot out of him.

Kuzco isn't looking for sympathy, of course. He isn't the only one at fault here, and he'll have his chance to ask questions too; but having to face these harsh realizations and answer for his past actions is harder than he thought it'd be. " No. . . " He sighs, brushing his hair away from his shoulder and bringing his knees up to fold his arms over them. When he realizes what he said his eyes widen, and he stares at her, shaking his head in a panic.

" Wait, I don't mean NO like no I don't trust you, that's not what I was saying . . " Kuzco groans in frustration, slapping a hand over his eyes and sighing heavily. " I trust you. That wasn't it, it's just . . I've never had anyone who cared, Malina. I've never done this before. I've never even wanted to. What good would it do for the Emperor to complain and be all 'woe is me!' with his sad, lonely life and the dinosaur trying to raise him when he's got EVERYTHING else at his fingertips? " It's blunt and honest, and he means every word of it. Though he's leaning his chin against his arms, effectively pouting, he turns his stare to her, trying to convey with his eyes how deeply he means what he's saying and how much he wants her to understand.

He didn't do it, any of this, to hurt her. He just doesn't know what he's doing; and as someone used to being in control at all times, and someone who very much considers himself perfect, he can't stand not knowing something. " I've buried all of this so deep in the back of my mind I forgot any of it even existed. it only comes out in nightmares, or on particularly bad days. . . like the day of our fight. " He finishes quietly, with a breathy sigh.

It takes a while, but Malina eventually decides to control her fury, even if she still feels upset about what his past self almost did to the villagers. However, the frown on her face never disappears as she listens to the rest of the story. A strange feeling courses through her body when he mentions that he was the most important person in his life. She wonders what Yzma told him to make him think he had to prioritize his own needs over everyone else's. "Still, you should've considered their feelings. How would you have felt if your house had been destroyed?" She asks, concerned. If Kuzco ever tells her about the bride's lineup, she'd give him a puzzled look. Truth be told, she had never heard about that. Perhaps she was somewhere else by the time the council recruited all the candidates for the Emperor, so she had to agree with him that it was actually sheer luck. Malina glances at him as he pinches the bridge of his nose and nods. "You're right. I would've even tried to kick your obnoxious ass, and you'd have thrown me in the dungeons for the rest of my life. That doesn't sound too romantic if you ask me." She says and snorts slightly, trying to feel less tense. His story about Yzma sounds quite familiar, as Malina thinks she has heard from Kronk in his many monologues when she went to visit him at Mudka's about the reason she wants Kuzco gone, so she can take over. Even if Kuzco wasn't her favorite person back then, she didn't wish him any harm. Still, the more she thinks about Yzma manipulating and shaping him the way she liked as part of her plan, the more upset she feels with the whole situation. "Even if I am still annoyed about your decisions and past behavior, it must have been tough for you, then, but I still can't understand why you didn't tell me about what she was doing to you sooner?! Didn't you trust me?" If someone asks, no. She doesn't believe he sounds pathetic at all. Everyone has issues, including Emperors, but she feels hurt by his silence. They had been friends and a happy couple in her eyes, so it was surprising that he hadn't opened up to her even after all these years they had known each other.

[bi-writes]

I can imagine asking Ghost to take my daughter to the daddy-daughter ball, only not to be able to get rid of him once he brings her home.

"you what?"

you rest your forehead against your locker door, closing your eyes as you tune out the nonchalant voice on the other end of the phone.

he always cancels.

but this?

"y-you can't cancel," you say finally. "you have to go. you can't do this to her, are you fucking kidding me?" you put a hand to your forehead. "you're a fucking asshole. i-i bought her a dress. it's for fathers and daughters, i can't fucking take her. it's all she's been talking about, i can't believe you--!"

you kick your locker shut and take a seat, resting your elbows on your knees. he gives you another excuse, but you just blink away your angry tears.

"no. don't bother. in fact, i don't want to see you again. i don't want her to see you again."

you put the phone down, your hands trembling from how angry you are. you aren't even surprised that he's not calling you back.

he's never wanted her. never.

"sergeant."

the firm sound of your title immediately has you on your feet. you stand up straight, but you relax a little when you see it's just ghost. his head is tilted to the side, and he's watching you carefully from under his mask. you can't see his expression, but his eyes are intense. he's focused on you, very much so.

you wipe the few tears that are under your eyes, and then your phone pinging takes your attention away from him. you pick it up and curse under your breath, opening your locker again to grab your things.

"i'm sorry, lieutenant, i need to go. can i get back to you tomorrow?"

"it's pick-up time, isn't it?"

you freeze from putting your jacket on, eyeing him warily before zipping it up.

"yeah," you say finally. "and i have some bad news to deliver, so while i'd love to stay and chat, i really need to go."

"doesn't hafta be her father," simon shrugs, leaning up against the locker beside yours. "could be anyone."

you glare at him a little, "if you're trying to make some kind of crude joke about the lack of men in our lives, lieutenant, i'd be careful if i were you--"

you stop when he grips your chin tight between his gloved fingers. you blink, unsure of what to do, and he shakes your jaw a little.

"i could take 'er."

you frown up at him, too annoyed to notice how he bends a little more, his face nearly against yours.

"it's not funny, lieutenant."

"not laughin'."

"you..." you meet his eyes, deflating a little. "you...you'd...you'd do that for me?"

ghost merely clicks his tongue before letting you go. when you make your way to your car, he follows, and you try to hide your smile as you make your way home.

ghost exchanges his mask for something more discreet when you aren't looking. a black n95, but his eyes still kill the same. when you come back to the car with a little girl on your hip, she stares wide-eyed at the hunk of man sitting in the passenger seat. he raises a brow at her, saying nothing, and you swallow hard as you buckle her into her seat.

"uhm...this is ghost. can you say hi, honey?"

"ghost? like halloween?"

"like halloween, baby."

as you buckle yourself back in the drivers' seat, you side-eye ghost when you hear the crinkle of a plastic wrapper. when you peek into the rearview to reverse out of the parking lot, you see your daughter with a big smile on her face and a red lolly stuck in her mouth.

"always carrying around sweets, lieutenant?"

he shrugs. "maybe."

she makes him wait in the living room while you get her dress on (she wants a big reveal, coming down the stairs and all). you bought it off of etsy, a custom-made, princess-inspired dress. it has a big skirt of silk and tulle, with a big bow at her back, and when you look at her smile in the mirror, you feel that searing slice of something that makes you want to kill the man that almost ruined her evening.

she gets to do her big reveal. she spins at the top of the stairs to make her big skirt move, and then she's running down the stairs, giggling, laughing, and just as she makes it to ghost, he grabs her under her arms and tosses her into the air. she shrieks with delight when her big dress moves, and you bite your lip watching them. the sight of ghost hiking her up on his hip and commenting on her bow makes your mouth water.

fuck. have his arms always been that big?

they look funny. your daughter looks like the prettiest princess, and ghost looks exactly as he always does--like a SAS lieutenant. he might not have any of his gear on, but the cargo pants, thick boots, and windbreaker don't hide his physique.

"have fun, baby."

you come up next to her, kissing her face, and she clings to your superior, arms tangled around his neck as she waves goodbye. you give ghost the keys to your car, tell him to bring her back by seven, and then you pamper yourself while she's gone.

you drink a few glasses of wine. you take a hot bath. you pick a movie to watch and don't have to make sure the rating is at least PG.

when ghost finally comes back, you're laying on the couch with another glass of wine. pajamas on, blanket over your lap, and you smile when you see her passed out in ghost's arms as he closes the front door behind himself.

"asleep? already?" you giggle. ghost sets your keys down by the door before taking his boots off, and you watch intently as he carries your daughter up the stairs to put her to bed. you follow him, grabbing some of her pajamas from the drawer as he lays her down on the bed. you work together to get her little shoes off and shimmy her out of the dress, and as you get her into her clothes and back under the covers, she barely even moves. she's so tired, yawning and snuggling under her blankets, and you shut the door behind you, leaning against it as you blink up at your lieutenant.

he stares right back down at you. you reach a hand up and trace along the edge of his mask. it's quiet. inappropriate. he won't move away from you, and you won't move either.

you could get used to this. you could get used to watching more adult movies, drinking more wine, having time to fixed your chipped nail polish. you could get used to being bent over your unmade bed and fucked nasty.

you grab onto the crumpled sheets, arching your back more. your knees dig into the mattress as your ass hikes up, and ghost grunts as he uses your hips as an anchor and fucks into you harder. it's been ages since anyone's found your sweet spot, and ghost's cock is nudging it every single time his hips come back to meet yours. his thighs are nearly as fat as his cock, and you feel like your entire body is being rewired as he gives it to you so good, inside and out.

thumb against your clit, balls smacking your pussy, cock splitting you open--you used to think sex was made only for men, but maybe you just never found a real one to show you just how toe-curling it really could be.

if you thought it was good on your tummy, ghost shows you an entirely different feeling on your back.

it's so intimate. no one has ever looked at you this way before. his hands are intertwined with yours, and all you can do is cry and squeeze his hands as he sinks all the way inside of you and barely moves apart. in the dark, he takes his mask off, and you can feel the pant of his hot breaths as he grinds into you deep, slow, purposefully. the stimulation on your clit has your thighs shaking, and when you think the tears are too much, ghost flattens his tongue to lick them off before kissing you wet and languid.

ghost barely pulls out. he just circles his hips, punching back into you, and you see spots behind your eyes when he finally opens his mouth and groans into your ear. something about hearing his voice, hearing him falter, it makes you come. as soon as your cunt squeezes, ghost chokes, gripping your jaw tight and coming deep. you squirm underneath him, arching your back--he fills you up, so much so you can feel it spurting out around his cock and spilling out between your thighs.

you're too tired to protest when he sinks between your thighs after--you have to get clean somehow, right?

when you come into the kitchen in the morning, ghost is at the stove, your daughter on his hip and an egg frying in the pan.

he doesn't leave you when you take him back to work; and he doesn't leave you when you go back home. you should've known better, maybe. it's your own fault. ghosts like to haunt.

and this one is home.

[livingfandomly]

This is something I’ve seen a lot and I’ve also joked about a lot but after SotR I just need to clarify my actual thoughts on this topic: Snow’s “twink death” and his inability to let go of, what was essentially, a month long relationship.

The thing is, it’s not Lucy Gray that he’s holding a grudge against… it’s her lifestyle. He got to experience first hand, the freedom and self-assurance that groups like the Covey generated for themselves. He saw Lucy Gray run off into the woods, swim in a lake, sing and dance with her peers, all after a game that should’ve destroyed her spirits - because that is the point of the Games. To have a sole surviving reminder of why the Capitol is in control. To send back one “victor” who every district hates because the person standing in front of them is taking their friend/child/sibling/cousin/partner’s spot. To completely dismantle that person’s ability to cope with the world the way they used to and to have them beholden to the Capitol for “awarding” them with riches. They’re supposed to serve only as a reminder, a threat, a shell of a person who is visibly hollow and tarnished, hated by many, feared by some and pitied by few.

Lucy Gray is not that shell. Lucy Gray, therefore, serves as a constant reminder to Snow of what should not be happening to those who get to leave the arena. The more he takes command of the Capitol and the Games, the more the “mistakes” of the Games stand out to him because his benchmark for measuring them is Lucy Gray.

Keep in mind that the 10th Games were also the first time he got to see from the inside out. He saw what pissed off the tributes. He saw how they were transported. He also saw how the public reacted at the home district. Lucy Gray had nightmares, sure, but her ability to re-mingle with her friends was a failure of the Capitol. He saw the need to maintain a constant difference between “victor” and “friend”. He saw the need to put them on tours so that the divide and distance grows. He saw the need to be able to broadcast every aspect of the Games without having to constantly be frantically cutting the feed or very obviously fixing the narrative, because that was yet another failure of the system the Capitol was trying to enforce.

This becomes so clear in SotR when he has his talk with Haymitch and realises that the Lucy Gray spirit he has been trying to squash is still alive. Not only that, it’s infectious. It can take someone like Haymitch, someone who is very well pressed under the Capitol thumb, and spark a fire inside him. The colours of the Covey, the singing, it doesn’t just represent Lucy Gray, it represents aspects of freedom that shouldn’t exist. Even him saying:

“You love her. And oh, how she seems to love you. Except sometimes you wonder because her plans don’t seem to include you at all.”

Is so telling because he can’t fathom that a person in the districts could have the independence of thought to do whatever they want. To him, she should be desperate to go back to the Capitol with Snow to get a chance to live the dream that they’re trying so hard to sell, but obviously failing.

So no, Lucy Gray isn’t just the girl he couldn’t get over. She’s the girl that serves as a warning, as an abomination of the purpose of the Capitol. As his personal blueprint of what should not be repeated ever again.

[erwinsvow]

𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮 — 𝐚.𝐜.

summary: against better judgement, you send a letter to a man at folsom with very sad eyes. against even better judgement, you send letters every week for years until he stops replying one day. and against everything you know, when he shows up at your door, you invite him inside.

pairing: prison letters reader x andrew cody

word count: 12.4k

tags: reader is silly and does things i do not recommend. kids do not write letters to prisoners and fall in love with them. unless it's andrew cody obviously. lots of context no one asked for. nurse!reader, descriptions of wound (andrew cuts himself to get into your work because why wouldn't he!), descriptions of wound handling, smut (oral - f receiving and mating press and the tiniest hint of breeding). takes place in season one, but just imagine he's got season two's hair. you have to fully immerse yourself in the fact that it's andrew cody and then ask yourself—wouldn't you take him home too? it's not her fault!

author's note: here she is! thank you for the patience ♡

you honestly had signed up as a joke. the club was known through your campus to be run by a couple of bleeding hearts. no one had thought the school would approve their activities—letters to prisoners. it was a recipe for disaster.

you should have known better.

but a friend of a friend was involved, and you knew it would make your nursing school application look better, and honestly, you didn’t think anything would come of it. a couple of letters here and there. you had thought it’d be all anonymous, messages of motivation and prayers signed with a first name only.

until your friend—bleeding heart and hopeless romantic, trying to appeal to those very same qualities in you—had shown you the website. that’s when you should have realized it wasn’t just a recipe, it was going to be a disaster.

the prisoners recorded videos—thirty seconds, short and sweet. a name, a couple of sentences about them, hometown and hobbies. underneath the video you could see what they had been arrested for. only the ones who were in for petty crimes—drugs and robbery, things where no one else had really gotten hurt, were allowed to partake. that was good at least. didn’t need any murderers sending letters to pretty co-eds.

your friend picked the guy she thought was the cutest. you watched his video—he was handsome, you couldn’t deny it. but the more videos you watched, the less you wanted to write a letter. you could almost see it, the desperation behind their eyes. it seemed like every man had nefarious intent. like your prettily written letter would not be used for motivation and prayers of a better life outside.

you decided not to send one. you’d rather have an empty slot on your application than a bad feeling in your gut for the rest of the semester. it’s not like the prison was across the country—it was just a couple of hours away.

she asked you to give it one more chance, watch a couple more videos. just pick a cute one, she’d told you. when you’d made a noise of disapproval, she had rolled her eyes.

“okay, pick whoever seems the nicest, then.”

so you had.

the video had been labeled andrew cody. first degree robbery.

the man in the video had been incredibly genuine. you don’t remember exactly what he had said—just bits and pieces. you knew he was from oceanside, born and raised from the way he sounded. he said he had a lot of brothers and a sister back at home. that he spent his time working out and reading books to distract himself from how noisy it was inside. the first thing he’d do when he got out was go to the beach and listen to the waves and breathe in the clean salty air.

and deep down inside, you knew you were just as much of a bleeding heart as the rest of your friends. you had folded instantly.

but it wasn’t just that. you spent the next several nights thinking about him. sad eyes, a singular half-smile at his own joke and then a real one when he mentioned going to the beach once he was released. he’d followed it up with—not that it’ll be any time soon. that made you sad, in turn. you thought about what he was like before prison—did he smile more? was he always so sad?

you thought about a lot of things. more than whatever your friends did, telling you how they had sent their letters, flirty yet inherently professional, so as not to get in trouble with the advisor.

you took a while to send yours. first you couldn’t think of what to write—everything felt so stupid compared to what he must be going through. andrew would hardly want to hear about the mundaneness of your daily life, or the struggles of trying to get into the nursing program.

you thought about not sending a letter at all after the first few times you tried to put pen to paper.

and then you thought about how sad he must feel, how lonely and scared, how terrible it would be to see all the other prisoners get letters besides him.

so you drove to the beach. you surprisingly had more in common with andrew cody than you even realized when you selected him. there was nothing you loved more than the beach, which is why you had even picked your college to begin with. and now, four years later about to graduate, you couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

you caught the sunrise. you brought your little notebook with you to the water after setting your bag down on the bench. the seagulls were flying around, a couple of other beach-goers walking along the border where the sand met the ocean. it was a day like any other.

there were two sides of you—a hopeless romantic inside of an inherently logical girl. one side argued how stupid it was to send letters to a stranger. the other wondered if this would be the day that changes your life. you push away the thought and focus on writing the damn thing.

you thought andrew might like if the letter smelled like the salt-water. the stupid idea felt a lot less silly when you were attempting it, bringing your notebook all the way down to the water and hovering it. a slightly bigger wave caught you by surprise, the corners getting wet where it splashed up.

cursing to yourself, you walked back to the bench with sandy feet. and then you started writing.

dear andrew, and then you paused. fuck. you got out some of the introductory stuff—your first name, that you were a nursing student. it took a while to get the rest of the page filled, until you stopped for a moment and thought about what you would tell the man with the sad eyes if he was sitting next to you.

i came to the beach to write this letter. i’m sorry if the corners are wrinkled when you get it, i almost dropped it in the water trying to get it to smell like the beach so you had a little piece of home with you. i’m not near oceanside but it’s still the pacific.

i can’t imagine how hard it must be to grow up near the water and then be so far away for so long. but at least you know it’ll always be waiting for you when you get released. they want us to write motivational things but i’m not sure how motivating it would be for you reading this letter about my silly life. so i thought i’d write about the beach instead.

it’s about seven in the morning. the weather isn’t too cold and sky is pink and orange right now. the waves were calmer an hour ago when i got here but now it’s getting more intense. there’s a couple with their dog, and another man running on the sand. i’m on a bench writing this, but i’ll walk along the water again before i leave. i would try to send you a shell but i’m sure they’d take it away. maybe sand?

i love the sound of the waves too. my school isn’t close enough to hear it, but i have one of those machines that makes the noises. it helps a lot when i’m trying to sleep. maybe you can get one when you get out too.

you fill up a page, and then another page. when you fold up the letter and slip it into the envelope, you take a couple grains of sand and drop it in there. a little piece of home for him.

then you mail the letter, and think that was that.

+

two weeks later, you get a letter in the mail. you’d heard some of the other girls had also gotten responses—some had been mildly wholesome, while others had been more along the lines of what are you wearing?

but you weren’t worried when you opened yours. andrew didn’t seem the creepy type to you, it felt more like… like he would be glad to have someone to talk to.

you read it in bed, holding an old stuffed animal tightly. his handwriting is stiff and neat, the evenness of the letters and dotted i’s and crossed t’s makes you smile. the way he wrote your name, with bleeding ink like he had pressed too hard into the paper while doing so, made you smile wider.

the first line—thanks for the sand—made you laugh.

andrew writes of the book he’s just read, how the beach you described sounds just like the one in his hometown, and a request that you tell him more about your life in the next letter. his letter isn’t as long as yours, which makes sense to you. he couldn’t have that much to write about. but the last line is what really gets you—thank you for the letter. it’s nice to talk to someone.

you blink away tears, unsure when you had started crying. you reread the letter twice over the next day and a half, deciding to head back to the beach early in the morning to write the next one.

and you’ve always been bad at this. your friends have always called you a hopeless romantic—but maybe you’re just in too deep. it was the product of having been alone for your entire life, not having the dreamy, intense love that so many of your friends had already gone through once or twice at this age. the result had manifested in how you treated the world around you. every door someone held open, every nice response, every lingering gaze could mean something more. that this could be the person, that this could be your soulmate.

you knew it was stupid. nothing could be stupider than assuming that a prisoner, for god’s sake, would be anything more than just that—a prisoner you write letters to. but your heart still beats faster each time you reread the letter, and when you think of his pretty, sad eyes and earnest expression, the urge to write another letter haunts over your entire body.

dear andrew, thank you for writing back. thank you again for writing back and not being creepy (like the responses some of my friends got). i could tell you more about my life but i really wasn’t lying—it’s pretty silly and mostly boring, but since you asked so nicely i’ll try for you. right now i’m getting ready for graduation. i bought a white dress last week. i’m waiting to hear if i got into the nursing program here. i majored in nursing so I just need to do one more year and then after that i can go work in the hospital. i’m thinking about labor and delivery since i think it would be so nice to see babies all day, but one of my friends said the emergency room is always hiring. she thinks it would toughen me up. but I’m not so sure i want to be tough. just incase all of this school talk is boring you, i’ll just tell you about my day on the condition that you'll tell me about yours. yesterday i woke up early and went on a walk. i made breakfast and went to class, and then studied in the library. my friend showed me a creepy response from one of the fellow inmates (by the way, thank you again for not being creepy.) i walked to get a chai—i don't really like coffee. and then i studied, watched the bachelor. it was terrible! my favorite contestant got sent home :(. and had dinner, then I went to sleep early because i woke up early to come to the beach today to write this for you. so i went to sleep thinking about this letter and woke up thinking about it too.

you add a little bit more about your routine this time, just so he has something to read about. you try to make yourself sound interesting where you can—but you’re really not. and you don’t want to force it, make your letters sound grand and full of lies.

you don’t know why—it’s not like you’ll ever meet him. but lying to andrew feels wrong, you guess.

stupid. you’re stupid for adding the last part—but something in your heart flutters reading the line again, because you did. andrew’s sad eyes are in your mind all the time, and you know it’s just a silly infatuation, that he’s a prisoner and you’re a random student and more likely than not, he’s not going to respond to this letter. but you still keep it in.

and so you send the letter. and what’s worse—the one you get back makes your heart swell. he says that you describe your routine so well he can almost see it happening in his head like a movie. he says that he could describe his day-to-day but that it might make you sad. you’re sure it will. he seems to know a lot about you from just a handful of letters.

you reply. he sends another. you reply. and before you can even discern what’s happened, this has been going on for the better part of a year and a half.

andrew gets all the life updates—your nursing school acceptance, how the first year goes. early morning clinicals, the mean preceptor who made your life hell for a month, the baby you got to help deliver, the cat you’re thinking about getting. and the not so great stuff—despite the nursing shortage, it seems the only available job at the hospital you like is in the emergency room.

you don’t give him names but he figures it out well enough. the program you sent the letters through was smart enough not to include the university’s name in the return address, but dumb enough to use a p.o. box in the same city. and in that city, there’s only two colleges, and only one of those has a nursing program.

these are the things he uses to figure out where you are after he gets out—not that you need to know any of that just yet.

after you get the job, the letters are stamped with the mark of the local post office. you must not know that they’re doing that, now that you can’t send the letters through the school anymore. that’s the last piece of the puzzle, figuring out which emergency room you had been working in.

he keeps those letters. they’re his sanctuary—pages and pages about your life. the highs and lows of an innocent girl who thought it would be a good idea to send letters to a prisoner. letters where you asked about him, how he was feeling, how he was doing. how much time he had left, how he thinks the next parole meeting will go, how that annoying guard has been recently. how’s your family, andrew?

if he closes his eyes, he can almost see you. you’re a faceless entity, a glowing angel with a halo hovering in his mind when he really needs you. you’re too perfect to be real—and he knows you would be outside too. if you can care this much through letters, go out of your way to send them even after you graduate, he can only imagine how you’d be if you stood in front of him.

the other students who sent letters stopped after one or two. he’s likely the only one who’s still getting them, and when someone questions who they’re from, he tells a story about his girl, waiting for him outside. a nurse—smart and pretty and devoted and who never fails to send him a weekly update. lives too far to drive up here but he’ll be there one day.

and then he gets sent to solitary.

he doesn’t like to think about it, if he can avoid it. sometimes the noises of the world get to him, brings him back to days and hours he wish he could wipe from his memory. the sound machine you recommended in your very first letter helps some. but the day he goes free, there’s only one sound he knows will calm him down—your voice, the first time he’ll get to hear it.

he has to go home first. he needs a car, the internet, a couple of phone calls to make sure he’s going to the right place.

days turn into weeks. unfortunately—very unfortunately. the only thing andrew wants is to finally see you in person, to finally hear what your voice sounds like. what color is your hair? what color are your eyes? he knows you like yellow—what would he find if he saw you? yellow hair clips? painted nails? how about your apartment? would the walls be yellow?

no, probably not. you rent. you wouldn’t do anything that wouldn’t get you your security deposit back. you’re too good for that, too safe.

yellow sheets, maybe. blankets, pillows. if he closes his eyes, he can imagine himself in it.

he tries to leave after the first job but there’s too many watchful eyes, too many moving pieces. he needs to get everything together—his truck, cash and some cards, a plausible excuse. he needs to make sure no one comes following him, needs to make sure that in his quest to come find you, he doesn’t get you tangled into the web of his family instead. he’s stuck somewhere between figuring out how to keep you safe and the realization that the safest you’ll ever be is right now, before he comes for you.

but fuck, if it doesn’t haunt him. the fact that he’s finally so close to you. that you’re a car ride away. that somewhere out there is the girl who, one day, realized another letter wouldn’t be coming.

had you cried then? been upset? wondered what had happened? bothered to find out if he was dead or freed or living without you? he hates that he couldn’t get you another letter to explain himself, but he figures explaining in person would be easier, and better. in all those years, you never once wrote him about a date or a boyfriend or anything in that realm.

the way your last few letters were, it were almost as if he was your boyfriend. (he lets the thought linger inside him for a few seconds, if that. any longer and it would possess him like a demon and he’d be rendered useless. unable to work, unable to think, unable to breathe. just him and the idea that he was that important to someone else.)

+

and then one day, a couple days after a job and after being fed up with the entire world being scared of him, he leaves to find you.

that’s just the thing—no one understands him. all his life, he’s been the unstable one, the one others are worried about, frightened of. but no one understands that there’s nothing to be afraid of.

no one, except maybe you.

so he says he’ll be back in a week, and he drives down to the hospital where you work.

he hasn’t gotten a real look at you yet. he spent the first night in the parking lot of the emergency room. he watches hordes of nurses go in and out, and no one stands out. he spends some time doing research—nurses only work three times a week.

his odds of seeing you for the rest of the time he’s in town are fifty/fifty. it feels like he should be able to pick you out from a crowd, with the way he knows you so intimately, but he can’t. he keeps an eye out for yellow water bottles or shoes or lunch bags, but he doesn’t see any for two days.

so he decides that he needs to get inside.

pope keeps a pocket knife on his person, and another one hidden in the car in case of emergencies. that’s what he uses to slice his palm open so he has an excuse to get inside. not too deep—he’s not stupid. just deep enough to need stitches, shallow enough that he can still feel all his fingers and wiggle them around.

and then he goes inside, and he waits.

each time the doors open, a different nurse steps out. some are too old, others too young. no one has anything yellow on them, or the personality that he knows could only belong to you. cheery, but serious. empathetic to a fault. you would probably cry if you saw a kid crying, just like how you used to write to andrew, telling him you had cried thinking about a patient you lost and their family, cried thinking about him alone in prison.

you’ve shed tears for him. a man you’ve never even met. he has to recognize you when he sees you. he knows he will—the two of you are bonded in more ways than one. through ink and blood and tears.

“david?” a voice calls out. so lost in his thoughts, he’d not realized the doors had opened again or the name he’d given them. he looks up, making eye contact with the nurse, his nurse, and she walks closer. “david?” the voice repeats, and he raises the non-bloody hand.

you are just like he thought you’d be. your hair is pulled back, which is a shame. he wants to see what it looks like when it’s down, what it smells like when you get close enough. pieces in the front fall out from behind your ear. his finger twitches momentarily.

and, he thinks with a pleasant sort of smugness, there is yellow—the plastic band around the stethoscope, the badge reel with a smiling cartoon on it, the pens tucked neatly in your scrub top pocket.

“hi david, i’m going to be your nurse today,” you start, looking at him in the eyes. your eyebrows furrow a little, like you’re trying to remember why this man looks so familiar—it’s not like he had expected it. his hair isn’t the same anymore, longer than the video you had seen of him. if that was your benchmark, he certainly looked somewhat different. he doesn’t fault you for not recognizing him right away. in fact, it’s better this way. “if you’re ready, i can take you back now.”

you smile at him, beautifully. a bright, wide smile, like there’s nothing in this world you’d rather do than take david back, and have a look at whatever’s bothering him. it’s genuine, it’s safe, it’s warm. how do you do it? he thinks briefly to himself, how do you make everyone feel like they’re the most important person in the world? just with a smile and a couple of sentences you must say a thousand times a shift.

andrew’s not one for many words, but his thoughts run rampant—he’s always thinking. he can’t get his brain to turn off, not now, not ever. even putting pen to paper was hard for him, even for you. but you seem to understand him, just like you did back then. without words, without talking, without touching or knowing. you just know him.

you take him to a bed behind a curtain and start rattling off a list of rehearsed questions. first name, age, date of birth. the more he says, the more you seem to get a step closer to recognizing him, but he doesn’t push it.

you come closer to the bed and gesture to his wrapped up, bleeding hand.

“may i?”

“yes. yes,” andrew says, unsure of how it’ll be to feel your hands on him for the first time. you start slowly, unpeeling the layers of gauze that he had brought with him from home as a just incase. he doesn’t flinch or wince, but you still speak up.

“i’m sorry, i know it’s not very comfortable.” you apologize without needing to, and he’s sure it’s because you want him to feel better about it. “how did this happen again?” you ask, staring at his wound closely. you’re not very far from his face. he can feel your breath even against his skin.

“accident. was cutting something.”

“well, you should be more careful, david.” his middle name has always felt foreign to him, though somehow, it doesn’t seem that way coming from your lips. andrew briefly feels like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than here, no one else he’d rather be than david, getting his hand tended to by you.

“yeah. i should.”

“well i’m going to go ahead and get this cleaned up. just to be sure, any drug allergies?” he shakes his head. “great. we’re gonna clean it and then the doctor will be in here to stitch it up and we’ll get you on your way back home. does that sound okay?”

you look at him earnestly. as if on the off chance he said it didn’t sound okay, you’d have an answer ready to go. nothing to shame him, nothing to make him feel bad. just to comfort him and make him feel better. like there’s nothing more important than getting him back home with aid instructions for the rest of the week.

memories of your letters wash over him like a warm wave over soft sand. you’ve known from the jump that you were meant for this, but it all suddenly makes sense. how kind you are, how gentle you are with him, how you’d be with anyone.

you were meant for this, just like how you were meant for him.

“that sounds okay.”

you sit on a stool at the level of his hand. you dab with the cleaning solution and tell him you’re sorry about the sting. it’s half a dozen apologies in the short time he’s known you, and he sits and wonders, staring at your pretty hair and the undoubtedly smooth skin of your neck, that he’ll have to work you out of that habit.

you shouldn’t be apologizing for anything, much less helping people the way you do.

he stares at you while you think of another question to ask him to distract him from the pain of cleaning his wound.

and your patient is nothing if not a starer. when you got up to add something to the chart and stopped to chat with a fellow nurse and friend of yours about how long it might take the doctor to see him—calling him by his nickname, mister sliced hand in bed four—she interrupted you half way through the conversation.

“the one who’s staring at us right now?” you turned your head too quickly to see what she was talking about, and were faced with sliced-hand david, looking at you and the other nurse.

not in a creepy way, like some other past patients of yours. he’s just…looking. like he’s waiting for you to come back. his gaze doesn’t leave you, you notice. he watches your friend as though he’s watching over you.

the thought is almost… sweet.

and then you shake your head and turn around, breaking the eye contact. you have a bad habit of doing this—turning every interaction, every look into your eyes and held-open door into something more than it was.

your new friends at the hospital also call you a hopeless romantic. you knew that you were just sort of an idiot when it came to these things. it was the long-standing result of still never having been in a real relationship. you’d never felt the fireworks, never known the rom-com sort of true love and happy ending. you had never even gotten to the angst-filled third act breakup.

so maybe you were still a bit of a projector—projecting every single interaction into something more than it was. a patient with a staring problem became a man who was looking out for you, worried for you, love at first sight.

and you shake your head again. snap out of it. you had a problem, seriously.

the closest you’d even come to anything remotely related to love at first sight was the insane amount of letters you’d written to a prisoner a few years ago, and even then—

stop. it. you barely knew what the guy looked like, and yet, you found yourself wondering all the time what had happened to him. if today would finally be the day you’d find out. he could be the stranger next to you in the coffee shop. the person buying fruit next to you in the grocery store.

for all you know, he could be the next guy who walks into your life, and yet—

“you are seriously such a goner,” she says with a laugh, playfully shoving your shoulder.

“what? i-i just got lost in my thoughts.”

“a guy could blink at you and you’d be imagining your embroidered towels and baby names-”

“that is not true-”

“right, i know. you’re right. you’re just gonna hold out for mister prisoner until you’re an old lady with a bunch of cats-”

“hey! i have one cat and he is adorable, okay-”

“yeah, yeah. that’s how it always starts. one cat.”

“i’m going to go take care of my patient now.”

“don’t let him blink at you.”

you roll your eyes and make your way back to bed four, where david stares up at you with pretty, sad eyes. eyes that seem a little familiar, but it’s hour eight of twelve and you’ve taken care of half a hundred people so far. your tiredness seeps through your pores but you still smile and sit on the stool.

“sorry about that, david.”

“are you okay?” he asks, incredibly earnestly. you blink at him dumbly. once, then twice.

“yes?” you reply slowly, unsure of what he means. maybe you’re more tired than you thought. “is everything okay?”

“i saw her push you.” you blink again.

“oh. oh. no, no, she’s my friend. that was just, um-” you blank momentarily. his concern is so palpable you can feel it in the air. “-a joke. she was joking.”

“oh. okay.” david goes silent but his eyes are still on you. you decide the best course of action is to change the subject.

“so! david. this might be hard but no going in the water for at least a couple days. maybe more, depending on what the doctor says.”

“sure. can i.. can i still go sit on the beach?”

“yeah. that should be fine.” you clean out the wound further, but he doesn’t wince. “do you do that often?”

“yes. it calms me down.”

“me too. something about the sand and the waves. the air is just-”

“cleaner.” for the first time that night, david interrupts you. your eyes leave his hand to look up at his face.

“yeah,” you agree, slowly, wondering why his words feel so familiar to you. “cleaner.”

there’s a brief pause, and david doesn’t say anything. you look back down at his hand, continuing your work. but something inside of you stirs, curiosity poking and prodding at your memories. you’ve heard that before, somewhere, and even then you had thought about how no one had ever used that word to describe the ocean air before, when—

“i thought you wanted to deliver babies. do you not want to do that anymore?”

as if it was in slow motion, you retract your hands away from his. you move your head to look up at him and your jaw falls open a little—you had known david looked a little familiar, but when you had seen that thirty second video of him, his hair had been short and his skin had been a little paler, and the man sitting in front of you now—

well he wasn’t cute anymore.

he was handsome now—dark brown curls grown out. he looked like he’d spent some time in the sun, recently. his eyes—sad and pretty as they were—seemed a bit softer now. and your gaze on him made them even softer, like he was trying his best not to frighten you. how someone takes care of a skittish animal, ready to bolt at any second.

you swallow, and then bring your hands back to his, keeping the piece of soaked gauze on top of his wound gently

“i-i do. want to. this was just the only job opening when i-” you pause, sucking in a deep breath. he already knows about this—andrew. it was in one of your letters. “when i finished school.”

you feel his hand move under your touch, and then his other hand, the unwounded one, over yours. his grip isn’t tight, but it’s tense. hard. like he wants to make sure you can’t just disappear like sand between his fingers.

“i thought you might have found another job by now.”

“it-it’s hard. you get used to something and it’s hard to leave.” you pause again. there’s a million and one questions storming through your mind, but you stare into hazel eyes and they all go quiet, one by one. “you said your name is david-”

“i wanted to see if you would recognize me.”

“i’m sorry, i-”

“don’t apologize.” andrew, like his letters, speaks concisely. you should have guessed. you would send him pages just to get a few paragraphs back—and he would always say it’s because he didn’t have much to talk about, that learning about your day to day was much better than whatever he could tell you.

it was the first time your heart fluttered with the knowledge that out there, somewhere, is a man who wants to hear about your day. the closest you had ever gotten to the semblance of a real relationship. a man who cared about you, even if he never said as much. it was always clear to you, through his carefully chosen words and the things he wrote you about and how much he said he liked hearing about you.

he used to ask you questions about things from a dozen letters ago. remember to follow up after some big exam or a really hard week at work. asked you what you did to feel better. tell you what he would do to help you feel better—nothing creepy, never creepy. if you were supposed to be scared of him, you never were. he never gave you any reason to.

“are you okay?” andrew asks, and you blink yourself out of your thoughts.

“yes. yes, sorry. i just-” it’s a little ridiculous.

you’re a smart girl. you’ve always been a smart girl. you don’t do stupid things—you don’t drink yourself silly at bars and go home with random men. you don’t say yes to dates with strangers, despite how much you believe that a stranger can become a soulmate in an instant. you don’t put yourself in situations you can’t get out of.

but when it comes to andrew, you haven’t listened to a single one of your own rules. you sent him letters for ages after the other girls in your class had stopped. you had opened up about your life and wanted to learn about his life in exchange.

and despite every greater instinct, you had fallen asleep for years thinking about the day he might walk back into your life.

“did you ever get my last letter, andrew?”

you’re not even sure where the words came from—that’s the last thing you should be saying right now. how did you find me? when did you get out of prison? why are you here right now? should have all come before.

but something inside you burns, like it has for years, with the knowledge that he never sent you another letter. and you need to know why.

andrew sits up a little straighter, taking heavy breaths and staring at you. it’s the first time he’s heard you say his name, his real name. you two haven’t moved an inch, his hand still on yours. he blinks slowly at you and you don’t realize it, but you’re holding your breath.

“i did. i-i was in solitary. they don’t let you write letters there.”

“oh. i’m so sorry,” you say, and it’s second nature. you hate what andrew went through, and seeing him in front of you brings you back to the first letter you ever got back from him. how polite he was in it, how sweet the whole thing seemed. it was never meant to get this far, but it had, and you—

you are nothing if not a believer of soulmates and fate.

“that’s okay. not your fault.”

“but still. that must have been really hard.”

“i wanted to write back. i-” he stops, pulling out something from the pocket of his button-up shirt. he unfolds a piece of white notebook paper—and the breath you were holding leaves you quickly. that’s the paper you used to write him letters on.

“is that my last letter?” when andrew moves to look at you, he’s expecting it. a nervous lilt to your voice, fear in your eyes. like he’s crazy, like you’re scared.

instead he glances over hesitantly and you’re beaming up at him.

“you carry around.. my last letter?” the words come out as a smile forms on your face—pretty and genuine and sincere. you stare at him expectantly, and he doesn’t know how to respond.

“i…” the words falter. “i just wanted to ask you about it. did you, did you get that cat?”

“i did!” it comes out louder than you meant it, drawing the attention of some other nurses around you. you turn briefly, using your free hand to push the curtain so it’s closed around you two. “sorry. i did, yes. he’s so cute. i don’t have my phone or i’d show you the pictures-”

“that’s okay. you-you can show me later.”

“but i didn’t say i was getting a cat in that one. i just said i was thinking about it,” you feel breathless.

“but there was another one before that. you mentioned it then too. i figured you’d get it since you were thinking about it so much.”

“yeah. yeah, exactly.” your brain can’t seem to compute what’s going on. any fear that had been in you, if there was any of it to begin with, has completely melted away, replaced with a warm, glowing feeling in your chest, slowly spreading out to your limbs.

you had been thinking about getting a cat for ages—a thought you had mentioned to andrew maybe twice. and your justification had been just as andrew said, because you were thinking about it so much.

how did he know that?

and then the curtain opens behind you, and the doctor comes in to stitch up andrew’s hand. you have to pull away from his hand and andrew thinks you’re leaving, eyes following you and his expression shifting, but you don’t leave. you go to the cabinets to pull the supplies and help the doctor and and keep your eyes focused on the wound while his hand gets stitched up. eight stitches and not a single wince of pain or discomfort.

and though the thought makes butterflies emerge and fly around your stomach, when you finally look up at andrew, he’s been staring at you the entire time.

+

you have a tiny apartment in a shitty neighbourhood. it doesn’t feel safe at all, save for the fact that one of the houses down the street is owned by a rookie cop and his wife. there’s not that much crime, but the area inherently feels bad.

maybe it’s just that way to him—since he doesn’t want you living in a place like this.

it’s fine for now though. he’ll get you a better place soon enough. it’s by the water, and when he closes his eyes, he can hear the waves crashing on the sand. the sound alone might be enough to justify why you’d live here.

he keeps his eyes shut, just for a half dozen heartbeats, when he pulls up against your curb. he just wants to hear it before he says goodbye—it’s getting late, almost dark, and you must be exhausted. you’ve been at work all day and though you act like you’re completely fine, he knows how intense it is. there’s other letters, safely stored away, where you told him about how breaks are far and few in between, how you barely get time to drink water and eat a snack because of how busy it gets. he offered to stop and pick you up something to eat but you refused, saying you had food at home that you shouldn’t waste.

you sit in the passenger seat of his truck, staring around it as if you’re looking for some more information about it. anything would help you—half-empty drinks or gum wrappers or extra clothes in the backseat, but there’s nothing. the truck looks like he just got it yesterday, no sign of use or anything branding it as andrew’s car.

“can i walk you to your door?” you snap out of your thoughts.

okay—maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea in the world to let a virtual stranger drive you home. but when his hand was taken care of and you give him the paper instructions with way too many sample packets of antibiotic gel, all he said was that he’ll wait for you.

“wait for what?”

“to make sure you get home safely.”

and, really, what are you supposed to say to that? no, i’m good, thanks. you’d be even stupider than you already are to say that to someone who is just trying to be nice to you.

(he’s more chivalrous than any guy you’ve ever talked to, and probably more than any guy your friends have ever complained to you about. and more than that, it’d be rude to say no, especially once he realized you wait for a shoddy-at-best bus to get you home because you don’t have a car and it’s too dark to walk. he wouldn’t take no for an answer after that.)

and more than that—he waited another two hours for you to get home. every time you’d step out to bring back another patient, you’d see him, sitting there, waiting patiently for you. glancing up when the door would open to get a glimpse of you, of the small smile you shot his way before taking back whoever’s turn it was.

and he’s not a real stranger, a voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you. you’ve known him for longer than some of your coworkers have known their fiancees and husbands. and in all the time you’ve known him (meaning all the letters you’ve sent and received), you’ve never gotten a creepy word or even a fragment of a sentence that frightened you.

so you think the least you can do is let him drive you home and walk you up the two flights of stairs.

“of course. thank you, for-” your sentence gets interrupted. andrew gets out of the car and you turn to do the same, but then you see him—walking around the front of his truck, coming to your side and then opening the door for you.

oh.

your heart thuds dully in your chest at the very idea of andrew opening his car’s door for you to get out. after driving you home and politely asking to walk you up. whatever inhibitions you had melt away and you briefly think that whatever he asked of you, you’d do it in a heartbeat, no questions asked.

if that made you stupid, then so be it. you’d gladly be the stupidest girl on the planet if you get to feel whatever it was that andrew cody has made you feel for the last couple of hours.

his truck is jacked up tall, and he gives you his hand, the one without the cut, to help you get down, and you accept. he closes the door for you and lets you lead the way up the stairs.

silently, you two walk up the creaky steps together. hands brush together for all of seconds and he briefly wishes seconds lasted longer, until you’re standing in front of your door.

you’d once had a cute spring-themed wreath on the door, bought on clearance from the local store after easter, and a matching door mat. your elderly neighbor had told you to get rid of it because it was basically an invitation to criminals that a young girl lived here alone. you’re stupid, but not that stupid.

and now your front door looks barren and empty. there’s a few plants you can see from the window sill but the curtains are drawn and there’s an extra dead bolt a fellow nurse from the hospital’s husband had helped you install.

you look up silently at andrew and he looks back at you. this is it—it’s supposed to be goodbye. any normal girl would know that this is where the night needs to end, that you need to process what all of this means and if you had any friends you trusted with this information, calling them and asking what to do.

but you don’t want to call your friends, because you know what they’d say—to lock your door and get a restraining order and burn andrew’s letters, the ones you kept in a cute box under your bed and reread much too often for anyone’s comfort.

and you’re not a normal girl.

“do you want to stay for dinner?”

there’s not much to study on andrew’s expression—he keeps it stern and serious for the most part. his eyes are soft when they look at you and they soften even further when you say those words.

“yes. yes, thank you.”

you think maybe he wasn’t expecting it. you think that you weren’t expecting it either, not exactly sure where the words had come from. but you still lead andrew inside, showing him the only slightly comfortable couch you had to get delivered since you didn’t have anyone to help you lug a used one up the stairs. the squeaky door that leads to the bathroom, the tiny space you called your kitchen. your bedroom is behind a closed door and andrew stares at it when you go inside to change out of your scrubs and come back out in the kind of clothes that you sleep in.

and then he stares at the shut door even after you leave, before realizing that you’ve already made your way to the space between the living room and kitchen, a narrow expanse with a small round table and some placemats with flowers on them. you set down your backpack and take your hair out of the clip that holds it back for you at work and suddenly, he’s staring again.

it’s just a little too close to everything he’s been dreaming about for years.

“i’m really sorry. i was supposed to go grocery shopping but i hate bringing everything up-”

“don’t apologize.”

“also, i’m-i’m not really a good cook. i’m sorry-”

“i don’t think anything you make can be worse than prison food.”

“i really doubt that. you’ve never had my cooking.”

you glance back him and he meets your eyes at the same time, and you both start laughing. it’s nothing crazy—andrew didn’t seem like the kind who laughs easily anyway, but he cracks a smile and the noise is indelible—all you can think of is how you can get him to laugh again.

“do you like spaghetti?”

+

if someone had told you yesterday that this time tomorrow, andrew from your letters would be sitting across from you at your dining table, eating spaghetti that you made while rushing, looking so in place in your tiny home that your heart hurts, you think you would have passed out.

you watch him while he eats, absentmindedly swirling your own noodles on the plate, unable to focus on eating when he’s really in front of you. after countless dreams and days spent wondering what had happened to him and if he was okay and if he ever thought about you. he’s… bigger than you thought he would be. shoulders broader than you had realized from that tiny video. his mannerisms interest you more than they should—how quiet he is, but how he seems to latch onto every word when you go on and on. just like the letters, it seems he’s still a listener.

(it doesn’t help matters when he tries to clear the table and wash the dishes after—you have to wrestle the plates out of his hand and tell him to go sit down, that he can’t get his bandage wet. jostling against his iron-hard body was not on the list of things you thought you’d get to do today, and the very realization that andrew is twice as strong as you on his worst day does…things to you. things that do not need to be named or explored right now. he’s still a stranger, you try to remind yourself. no he’s not.)

but it seems that he can’t sit still. he wipes down the counter and then comes back to help you dry your yellow dishes and when you both finish up, with you still smiling at him and unsure of what excuse you can conjure to get him to stay, he finds it all by himself. you tell andrew to go sit on the couch while you finish up and he does, and when you follow him out there, he’s standing in front of it. he turns his head to look at you and then back at the couch.

your cat is perched on his usual spot, and you go over to him, scratching the top of his head between his ears and making extremely childish, stupid-sounding noises at him.

“andrew this is wardy,” you say, picking him up and bringing him closer. “he’s really friendly. i promise.”

“hello, wardy.” when he says it, you look up at him with a look he can’t find words to describe. as close to love as you can get it when it’s a technically a stranger. the way he greets your cat and helps you clean and knows more about you than some of your friends and coworkers do.

there’s no words for it. it just is.

so you sit on the couch next to andrew, your cat between the two of you, and you wait for him to tell you that he wants to leave. you flick on the television, settling for whatever silly romance movie is playing on your netflix account, sitting in the almost-silence with andrew and wondering why still, it doesn’t feel necessarily uncomfortable.

eventually andrew reaches out to pet wardy, and he curls up into his touch, settling comfortably against his forearm. (his huge, thick, veiny forearm, you think briefly, before chasing the thought away with a broom. and then another one—no wonder he had bled so much at the hospital. with veins like these.)

“this area’s not the best,” andrew says, speaking as though you need to be reminded of it, to know that he doesn’t approve.

“i know. but it’s cheap and it’s near the beach.”

“but you live alone. it’s dangerous.”

“but-” you glance over at him. he takes up most of your couch, wardy’s head resting against his thigh now, while he continues petting him. he looks over at you and it’s clear—this isn’t an argument. “you’re right. but i mean, how bad can it be? if you’re here now?”

you pause. stupidly, you’ve just revealed whatever thoughts have been rattling around in your head. like the fact that you’re assuming he’s going to be here more often, when the truth is that you have no idea if that’s true.

why would it be true? you tried, in earnest, to make sure your life never seemed anything more than it really was in your letters. but andrew drives a brand new truck and wears an expensive watch and you have absolutely no idea what he was robbing or why he was doing it—and you never asked. the assumption that just because he found you, meant that he was going to keep you was completely insane. a misgiving on your part, because surely, whatever’s waiting for him back home is better than your crappy cooking and a tiny apartment and a cat that you—

“sorry, i’m sorry. that’s such a jump. we just met. i’m so sorry, i can-” you stand up, and so does andrew.

“why are you apologizing?”

“because i just.. i don’t know.” you try to pace around your apartment but you only get a few steps away before you have to come back. “this is crazy. we’re both crazy.”

you feel it in the air before you hear him say it. it gets tenser, quieter, more serious. like what you’ve both been dreading for the last few hours is about to happen.

“do…do you want me to leave?” you turn to face him quickly.

“no! no, i don’t. that’s why this is crazy. people are going to think we’re insane. i don’t want you to go. i want you stay. i want you to tell me everything i missed in the last year and a half. i want to know what you did with my letters. i want to know-”

and when andrew reaches forward to grab your forearm—gently, not meant to hurt you—you freeze in your tracks. staring up at him, all the words in your brain, every stupid thing your friends ever told you about this make-shift relationship you had concocted in your head melting away.

“i want that too.”

“oh. well, i just thought-”

and this time, he doesn’t let you finish, leaning in for a kiss that makes your knees give out. andrew’s mouth—wet and hot and on fire—kisses you like you two were made for each other.

as cheesy as the thought feels, you swallow it and wrap your arms around his neck. it’s every stupid romance movie you’ve ever seen coming to life, your life. all because of him. he doesn’t break the kiss, not even to breathe. you feel his tongue poke into your mouth and you accept it gladly. you fall back on the couch and the movement of it makes wardy scamper off, and you move your head just for a second to see where he runs off too, but andrew doesn’t stop. he lines kisses along your cheek and your jaw until you turn back and he gets your lips again.

you feel his weight on top of you, and briefly, you wonder if you should tell him.

countless nights spent wondering what this would feel like, how he would kiss you, all the things he would do to you. you have to keep reminding yourself, you’re just a stupid girl—it’s not your fault that a few nice letters was enough to make you head over heels for the last few years.

because somewhere deep down inside, you knew. you knew that it would be like this, that it would be perfect, that it would be everything you wanted. that he would take care of you and want you as badly as you want him. your crown title of hopeless romantic had finally paid off.

another thought stirs as he keeps kissing you. it’s feverish and hot and makes you warm all over—how long it’s been since he’s had someone, how he kisses you like he’s out of practice. his mouth is so hard against yours it almost hurts, but you welcome the pain. it’s like he’s proving to you that he’s really there now, that nothing can tear him away from you.

but then he does pull away. you catch your breath, hands traveling to his face and running your fingers through his hair. andrew’s pretty eyes close and you cherish it—that you made him feel like that. he leans into your touch, head resting against your hand while you both take long, heavy breaths.

andrew leans in, pressing your foreheads together.

“i-i’ve wanted to do that,” another breath. you feel butterflies continuously emerge and flutter around your chest and your stomach, all the way down to between your legs. “since your first letter.”

and then you can’t resist—leaning back in for another hard, wet kiss. you feel him shift, strong hands on your hips, but staying firmly there, not traveling despite how much you wish they would. he’s been polite again, you think. waiting for you to give him permission.

“you can-” you start, but andrew keeps pressing kisses against your neck that make it hard to finish your sentence. “you can touch me.” you expect his hands to spread—grope and grab and tease until you’re begging for more. for him to be impatient and hungry and not stop until he’s inside of you.

“i can’t believe you’re real,” he says quietly, one hand moving up to your waist and touching the soft skin there gently. he traces up your arms and then down before intertwining his fingers with yours. you stare up at him, stupid as ever. every time you think you know anything about andrew, he proves you wrong.

“i can’t believe you are, either,” you say, tilting your head up for another kiss. a short, chaste one this time. “you’re just as nice as i knew you’d be.”

“you think i’m nice?” he asks, voice low. you nod in response, words escaping you. you settle to answer with another kiss, hands going to his shoulders to steady yourself, tugging and pulling on his bottom lip with your teeth.

you push up until he understands, and he uses two huge hands to get you into his lap, sitting up with his back against your couch. you straddle him, trying your hardest to not lose your train of thought as you realize how hard he is against you.

“i think you’re too nice,” you tease, unsure where you’re finding the confidence. under you, andrew looks spacey and flushed and all kissed out, but you don’t plan to stop. you lean in to press kisses to his cheeks and work your way to his jaw and neck. when you stop to look at him again, he looks hopelessly up at you, and you think he’s waiting again, waiting for permission to do something. “i think you’re so nice that you’re not telling me everything you’ve wanted to do to me these last few years.”

the way andrew looks up at you after you said that—god. you wish you could engrain it into your memory. you’re not someone who does this often, but you might just be good at figuring out how to get andrew to crack. he looks up with some of the hunger you’d imagined there’d be, and it makes something stir inside of you.

it feels strange to be wanted the way andrew wants you right now. you’re just not used to it, not entirely sure that you’d ever feel this way. that someone would ever make you feel this way.

your thoughts are wiped again when he pulls you into another kiss, and you deepen it, moaning into his mouth. you’re being so loud that your older neighbor might be able to hear you, but you can hardly bring yourself to care right now. andrew is quiet, like you thought he would be, but each soft grunt and heavy sigh is enough to make your entire body tingle.

you think you’re being better at staying quiet yourself when andrew scoops you up into his arms, carrying you like it’s nothing for him. you yelp loudly, forgetting everything for a second, realizing how lovely it feels to be carried by him. he leads you two to your bedroom, setting you down gently on the bed.

you stare at him, hovering above you, wondering how you’ll get to do this. how you’ll get his clothes off and watch out for his hurt hand and that you’ll finally get to feel him inside of you—when he just stops moving.

andrew looks up and around your bedroom, craning his neck to take in all of it. you’re not sure why, stuck in a position under him that forces you to just watch.

“is everything okay, andrew?” when you say his name, he turns back to stare down at you.

“yes. yes, it is. it’s just-” he pauses, looking back up and then down. the room is decorated with lots of pretty frames. there’s yellow curtains on the windows and your sheets are yellow under you too, just like he’d suspected. seeing it in real life almost sends him back to years ago—the first time he’d wondered what your bedroom looks like. the place from where you write your letters, the place you read them. “it looks just like i thought it would.”

and just like every other part of tonight, your reaction continues to surprise him. you smile and then laugh, holding onto his shoulder even tighter.

“spend a lot of time thinking about my bedroom, huh?” you tease, and he remains just as confused as ever.

you are such a conundrum. andrew thinks that he wants you so badly he can’t form a proper thought—and then the thoughts merge and blend and anger at the very idea that you’re so trusting of him. you should be more careful. you shouldn’t trust anyone how much you’re trusting him right now—inviting him inside your home, letting him into your bedroom.

and then you pull him down for another kiss and it all washes away like letters in the sand.

eventually he does pull away—though it takes an enormous amount of self control. the words you said on the couch haven’t completely left him yet and he still needs to answer you. you claw and pull at his shirt so he lets you take it off of him, you trace a hand down his chest, stopping at his heart and pressing your palm flat against him.

you’re staring, he thinks, but you’re really just admiring. taking in every detail, every scar and bruise so you can ask him about it later, moving your fingers down his abs and biting your lip while you stare daggers at his chest.

he moves away from your touch though, as sad as it makes you.

“you wanted to know everything i’ve thought about you?” andrew says, and the words make you tense up—thighs clenching, walls fluttering just from words alone. your fingers tighten around his bicep where you’ve been holding on, and you nod up at him dumbly. “can i show you?”

your head falls back onto your pillow with a thud. you nod again.

you let andrew set the pace—he peels off your clothes and you lift your hips and raise your arms in compliance. he starts with a kiss to your stomach that makes you whine, fingers leaving his skin and grabbing onto your sheets instead just to have something to hold on to.

you’re embarrassingly wet—you already know you are. it’s almost painful how badly you want him, even against better judgement that tells you that you could have, at the very least, taken things slowly.

you guess andrew just brings it out of you.

his kisses move south and you brace yourself, every muscle tensing up in anticipation. andrew is silent except for his deep breaths and somehow, with each one deeper than the last, they make your entire body shudder in anticipation. when he finally gets to your leaking cunt, you hear it. a strangled moan, sounding painful and from the depth of his chest and filled with want and need. just from looking at you. you can’t imagine what he’ll sound like when—

“this is what i thought about. this is always what i thought about.”

and then andrew licks down the length of your cunt with the flat of his tongue, and you can’t think about anything else anymore. he’s relentless, exploring you with his mouth like he’s a man starved. you can hear the noises, obscene and sloppy and wet as they are.

and then you feel it—his mouth around your clit while one finger prods at your tight opening. your back rises off the bed but he holds you down with one huge hand over your stomach. his finger slips inside you more easily than he thought it would. though you’re wetter than he imagined, he doesn’t stop teasing your clit.

your wetness coats everything—his tongue, his lips, his chin. your thighs are wet too, and he’s sure he can get your yellow sheets soaked too if he could tease you long enough. but he’s been incredibly patient all these years, unsure if he can wait any longer to get what he’s wanted.

his hand keeps you pinned down while his mouth stays on your clit and then andrew adds another finger and you thrash up against him. it’s useless against the weight of his hand holding you down, but your body moves anyways, hands wrangling into his brown curls, likely making a complete mess of them. you keep pulling and he moans between your legs and the vibration makes you thrash harder, a completely exhilarating cycle.

when he finally releases you from his grip, you think the other hand will explore up and down your body, but true to form, you’re wrong. andrew finds your hand and holds onto it, lacing your fingers with his while he keeps going.

when adds a third finger, you realize that he’s saying something against you. you can’t quite make it out with your heart thudding in your ears and how loud you’re being, but then it becomes a little clearer—

“you taste even better than i thought you would-” and you can’t stop it, the tension in your stomach winding tighter and tighter before it snaps altogether. a white hot heat washes through your body and makes you shake even harder, but andrew’s hold on you keeps you completely grounded. he works you through it, not stopping even once, not until you’re trying your hardest to pull away from him. you try to catch your breath but it’s useless. your head feels completely empty.

incoherent, you grab at andrew, murmuring something about inside, please, and he really tries to stay level headed. but one glance at your naked, writhing body and your expression while you beg for him is enough to tip him over the edge.

resisting you requires a level of self control that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to have.

andrew doesn’t think he’s ever had any self control when it comes to you. it’s why he did this, isn’t it? showed up at your hospital with your sweet letter folded up and somehow convinced you, without saying much of anything at all, to trust him and let him back into your life. he doesn’t even know how he did it—he can’t recall most of what he said to you. it plays in his head like a movie, like how your letters used to.

he doesn’t know what he did to deserve your trust, just knows that he’ll do whatever he has to in order to keep it forever.

andrew’s thoughts about keeping you cloud him while he lifts up your legs, manhandling your body while you squeal under him. he pushes your knees to your chest and lets your legs hang in the air while he hovers over you. all he can think about is getting inside of you—-giving you exactly what you’ve been begging for, fulfilling every fantasy he’s had about you in the last three years. the noises you’ll make. how tight and wet and warm you’ll feel around him. how you’ll look with his cum dripping out of-

“andrew, please, please,” you plead, and he’s not sure that you understand exactly what you’re asking for. it’s good that it’s him you picked for those letters, good that he’s the one who tracked you down.

someone else, well, he thinks, lining himself up with your soaking wet entrance, someone else might have had bad intentions with you. not andrew, though.

his intentions for you are only good. intentions to keep you happy and safe and move you away from this tiny apartment and make sure you get the job that you want, no matter who he has to threaten in order to do so. intentions to keep everything taken care of so the only thing you ever have to worry about again is him, just like you’d done for all those years when you wrote to him.

and as he slips inside, he knows those letters are in this bedroom somewhere, that this bed is where you read them, that these were the pretty hands that held his letters and these were the pretty eyes that read them.

you stare at him while he hovers over you, not pushing in just yet. andrew’s dick is just like the rest of him—thick and broad and so wide that you don’t know how you’ll be able to walk tomorrow. there’s veins too, just like his arms, and it’s all you can think about with him enclosed over you.

when he pushes his thick head past your fluttering walls, you make a noise like nothing he’s ever heard before. pure want and heat wrapped up with pleasure and pain. you keep begging for more but he’s not sure you can even handle it—but who is andrew to deny you?

he pushes further inside of you, now half way, and you cry out. andrew leans in to kiss you again, swallowing the noise and letting you moan against his lips.

another thrust and he’s almost all the way in. he pulls out and pushes back in, and then he starts his rhythm. your tits bounce with every thrust and he watches entranced, until his eyes go back to where you and him meet. in this position, on his knees with you folded underneath him, he can see it perfectly.

it’s enough to make him finish instantly. you look completely fucked out under him, crying out with each push of his hips.

your open your wet eyes and glance up at him. through wet lashes and blinking eyes, you get out a few words, stopped by each thrust.

“is it-” you gasp, words getting caught in your throat because andrew is so deep inside of you that you can feel him in your stomach and your chest. “is it what you imagined, andrew?”

“god, yes,” he says, and the sound is so perfect to you. it comes out broken, in the form of a gasp and a moan combined, and you want to hear it again and again. he says your name like it’s a prayer grounding him to you and you keep your arms wrapped around his neck, holding him close to you and bringing him in for another kiss. you can feel andrew’s pace start to stutter, his moans getting louder and his grip on you getting tighter. you hold his face in your hands, locking eyes again.

“inside, andrew, please, i want it inside, please, please,” and again, andrew thinks to himself, like some besotted fool, who is he to deny you? he releases whatever inhibitions he had left and fills you up with his cum—rivulets almost never ending. it leaks out around his dick, messing up your sheets and staining your thighs and making a mess of everything. he hears your heavy breaths and looks to see you smiling sweetly up at him.

and then he collapses next to you.

“hi andrew,” you say quietly next to him. your hands go to his, playing with his fingers and running the pad of your thumb over the veins on his hand. “was it how you thought it’d be?”

“it was better,” he says, breathless. you giggle and lean in to press a kiss to his cheek—and for a moment, he forgets everything. the circumstances of your introduction and the way he’d discovered you long forgotten for a few heartbeats. just you and the sound of your laugh and the promise of the future he wants with you before him.

“there’s still some things i thought about that we didn’t get to yet,” you tease, and he wonders, briefly, what he’s going to do with you.

and then you two hear it—scratching at your closed bedroom door.

“oh god,” you say, sitting up in bed.

you groan a little since your thighs are sore and it’s a wet, sticky mess between them. andrew keeps his hand on your arm and helps you sit up, and joins you in the position, like he’s preparing to help if you need something.

“warden, stop,” you say, but he doesn’t listen. you turn to andrew. “i’m gonna get him.” you try to move your legs and put weight on them, but you feel your knees buckle immediately, with andrew rushing to your side to help you back into bed.

“oh my god. you broke me.”

“i’ll get him. just-just sit down.”

andrew opens the door and picks up your cat like it’s second nature, bringing him to you on the bed before getting in right beside you. your cat is sweet but there’s not many people over at your apartment, and you worry for a moment that he won’t be nice to andrew when he wants your attention. but wardy doesn’t move from his position, staying curled up again andrew’s chest and arm, completely at ease.

“he likes you. that makes sense,” you say, smiling up at him, leaning in to pet wardy’s head.

but andrew doesn’t understand.

“warden. i thought you said his name was wardy?”

“that’s just a nickname.”

“why warden?”

“oh well. it’s silly, um-”

“tell me.”

“well, uh. well, warden is just the letters in andrew. uh, rearranged.”

“oh.”

“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry, is that creepy? i was really projecting, i guess, when i got him. i just loved your letters so much and i’ve never had a boyfriend or anything like that-”

“do you think we should get married?”

thanks for reading! ♡

[munsonify]

drunk call

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader

summary. when you’re in need of a safe way home from the bar, the first person you think of in your drunken haze is bucky, who comes to get you in an instant

content warnings. sm fluff, unestablished relationships, pining, idiots in love, alcohol consumption, r being super drunk lol, thunderbolts era bucky, softie!bucky (my beloved), slightly affectionate&touchy reader (sfw), pet names (sweetheart), r being called pretty, not proofread

word count. 1905

a/n. thunderbolts era bucky and tfatws bucky are rotting my brain away i love him your honor. not proofread

———

admittedly, you’d maybe had one too many drinks tonight.

when you received a text from an old friend of yours saying she was in the city, claiming she had the night free, of course you were going to make some time to see her. it was a night well spent at the bar, too. the drinks were good, you’d caught up on a lot of life with her, jokes were thrown around that had you both doubled over in laughter in the small booth you were cozied up in. the odd glances thrown your way at your giggles only made things worse for the two of you.

your friend called it a night around 11. the only reason she was in the area was for work, and with her luck, they’d scheduled her with a meeting very early the next day. it was time for her to head out, especially now that her boyfriend had arrived, ready to carefully help her to their hotel.

“do you want me to stay?” your friend slurred, grabbing ahold of her boyfriends arm as he guided her up to her feet. “we can stay. wanna make sure you get home safe.”

“i’m okay,” you told her, a genuine, reassuring smile on your face as your words slurred just as bad as yours. “promise i’ll get home safe, i’ll text you when i do.”

the way you rose to your feet wasn’t the most elegant, though you fit right in with the atmosphere. you wrapped each other up in a large hug, bidding each other a giggly goodbye, promising to keep in touch. her boyfriend gave you a small wave before he helped her out of the bar and away from your sight. that’s when you let yourself slide back into the booth, fumbling with your purse in search of your phone. your promise was true to her, you were going to get home safe. while you only stayed a few blocks away from the bar, you weren’t quite comfortable walking home in the state you were in, not like you’d walked there three hours ago.

your mind slipped straight to the thought of bucky as you pulled up your contacts, searching for his name and number. your thoughts often slipped to the man, it was hard for them not to. in the few months you’d known the man, living in the rebuilt avengers tower, you grew quite fond of him. it was a little unexpected.

you weren’t searching for anything romantic when you’d somehow stumbled upon the new team. you were focused on a list of other things - your mental health, your career (though being a now nearly full-time superhero wasn’t exactly what you’d envisioned), your hobbies -, so it caught you off guard when you noticed your growing feelings towards bucky. you began to seek him out in a way you hadn’t with anyone else. despite being a little tough and uptight at times, not really the most talkative person ever, he was kind. he had a nice sense of humor, too. dry, sarcastic, a little playful. at times, you were convinced that playfulness with you bordered flirtation.

that’s why you had found your way to bucky again in your drunken mind. you always felt oddly safe with him, anyways. it was comforting how protective he could be, a subtle sort of thing that you admired about him. you pressed your phone against your ear rather harshly as you listened to your phone ring a handful of times. the noise had you zoned in to the point you barely noticed he’d picked up, a curious ‘hello’ ringing into your ears. your body straightened up at the sound of his voice, a dopey smile finding your lips.

“hey!” you said cheerfully, hand gripping your phone tight as you began rambling to him in an obvious slur. “i’m so sorry if you were asleep or if you’re busy, but i’m kinda really drunk right now, i’m a few blocks away at a bar. is there any chance you’d, i dunno, come get me and walk me home? so i’m not alone? it’s totally okay if not!”

you realized how desperate you must sound calling him like this. you weren’t sure if he’d caught on to your slightly obvious feelings for him yet, but if he had even an idea that you might like him, this call was incriminating. you were calling him of all people, rather than simply calling a cab or an uber, or even just sticking it out and walking anyways.

“of course,” bucky told you as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. his response was immediate, without a second thought. those two words alone made your heart flutter inside of your chest. you passed along the name of the bar, one he’d remembered from passing so many times. he knew his way around the city well, and promised to be there in 10.

the moment you’d hung up the phone, soft giggles slipped from your mouth, the same wide smile on your face still present. you ordered yourself one last drink while you waited, closing your tab while you were up before you left and forgot. you sat in your booth in silence as you waited, gaze settling on to the drink that you sipped on. your body was beginning to feel a little heavy, the alcohol and your sleepiness starting to settle in now that you weren’t so focused on an ongoing conversation.

you were so zoned in, in fact, that you didn’t realize bucky had finally found his way to the bar, beelining to you in a slow, steady strut. his head tilted to the side when he stopped at your table, biting back a smile. you still hadn’t noticed him yet.

“hey there sweetheart,” bucky spoke smoothly, sliding on the opposite side of the booth. he noticed you still had a drink and decided to give you time to finish. your head shot up to look at him, eyes wide and gleaming the moment you recognized his voice. you gave him the same dopey smile you had when you’d called him. “mind if i take you home?”

you giggled at his words, biting your lower lip as you began to put on a show, thinking a little for a response you already had. you gave him a hum, words slurring still as you respond. “well i suppose so.”

you sipped the rest of you drink away after you spoke, quickly wiping away the drop that slipped from your lips clumsily. whether that clumsiness was because you were drunk or because bucky made you nervous, you weren’t quite sure. regardless, your nose scrunched up a little in embarrassment, trying your best to shake it off. he didn’t seem to mind or even notice. bucky had a small, content smile on his face, his blue eyes shining gently as he gazed at you.

the moment you set the glass down, his fingers found their way to it, taking it into his hand. he pushed himself back up from the worn booth, watching as you fumble to grab your purse and phone. the hand bucky offered up was his left. the metal felt nice against your buzzing warm, buzzing skin as you accepted it, letting him assist you to your feet. despite how hard the metal was, he was gentle with the way he held your hand, guiding you towards the bar again to give the bartender your empty glass.

bucky’s hand left yours, only to grasp ahold of your purse and your phone to carry it for you. he helped you towards his right side, wrapping that arm comfortably around you, hand bracing your waist as respectfully as he could. he began walking the two of you out the bar and onto the streets in a comfortable silence neither of you broke. you began leaning into him, still a little unsteady on your feet as you stumble slightly down the street.

your head eventually found comfort in bucky’s shoulder, the weight becoming nearly too much for you to bear on your own. you missed the way he smiled, small and proud as he continues to guide you through the city. that’s when he started to speak in a low mumble, voice deep, his tone sending shivers down your spine.

“you look pretty tonight,” bucky complimented, his head turning to look down at you fondly. it wasn’t often he got to see you like this, a little skirt he’d helped you pull back down into place just a minute or two previously. the shirt you wore was a little low cut, too, just enough to show some cleavage. that’s not why he gave you the sentiment. he rarely got to see you put together. it was usually sweaty work out clothes or bloodied uniforms he saw you in. this was a nice change.

bucky watched the way you smile wide, nose scrunching up again at his words. you tilted your head up to see him, sincerity laced in every inch of his face. while collecting your thoughts, you pressed your cheek into his arm as you stare up into his eyes, clinging to his body for dear life as you try not to fall. his strong arm kept you upright, though, careful not to let you drop to the ground.

“thank you,” was all you could manage out in a small voice, a hand of yours gently grasping at the sleeve of his leather jacket. it was then that you’d finally made it to the rebuilt tower, bucky swiping the both of you in, before holding the door wide open for you. he watched the way you stumbled into the building with an appreciative smile, before looking back at him expectedly. you had your hand extended outwards for him, searching for his touch

bucky took your hand without a second thought, letting his fingers intertwine with yours, before you guys made your long way towards the living quarters. even when you’d entered the elevator, three empty walls and a long railing for you to grasp ahold of to find your footing, you still held onto him. he was already helping you, anyways, so why would you let go now?

he continued to walk you out of the elevator when it’d reached high inside of the tower, helping you all the way to your bedroom door. bucky positioned you in front of him, letting go of your hand only to reach to your hair, tucking pieces behind your ear and out of your face.

“think you can find the rest of your way?” he asked, his hands smoothing down your hair once, before dropping it to his side. you gave him a lazy nod, eyes beginning to droop with exhaustion.

“yeah, i think should be fine,” you answered, offering a small smile. before you could overthink, you took two steps forward, arms reaching up to wrap around bucky’s shoulders. he blinked a few slow times, arms finding their way around your torso carefully as he embraces you. he tugged you a little closer to him, letting his chin rest gently on top of your shoulder. the hand that wasn’t holding your belongings smoothed up your back, a weak attempt to soothe you.

“thanks for walking me home, buck,” you whispered. “it means a lot. you’re a great guy.”

“anytime, sweetheart. just give me a call and i’ll be there.”

[luna-azzurra]

Ways I Write a Woman...

➤ Who’s Tired of Being Talked Over

You ever watch someone hold in a scream behind their teeth? That’s her, constantly.

✧ She starts choosing her words like landmines. Each one is sharp, controlled, and timed like a threat. She’s learned that being polite won’t get her listened to, but sounding like you might flip a table will. ✧ She’s mastered the art of the silence that feels loud. Doesn’t fill awkward gaps. Just lets the discomfort sit in the air like smoke. ✧ She explains things with forced calm, the kind that sounds like a teacher asking a second-grade class why the hamster is missing. ✧  She notices interruptions like bruises. She doesn’t react to them anymore, not out loud. But you can bet she counts them. ✧ She repeats herself less. Not because they understood her the first time. Because they never listened anyway. ✧ She’s learned how to weaponize eye contact. Not in a sexy way. In a “I will set this boardroom on fire with my mind” way. ✧ Her voice only shakes when she’s deciding if it’s worth the explosion.

➤ Who’s Been Called ‘Too Much’ Her Whole Life

She isn’t too much. She’s just tired of shrinking for people who were never going to make room anyway.

✧ She says the thing you’re not supposed to say. Then stares at you to see what you’ll do with it. ✧ She’s loud with her laugh, loud with her grief, loud with her love, because if she’s going to be punished for being “extra,” she might as well be honest about it. ✧ She over-explains. Over-apologizes. Then catches herself and stops halfway through the sentence. ✧  She tries to “tone it down” and ends up sounding like a censored version of herself, bland, miserable, unfinished. ✧ She edits her texts four times, deletes the paragraph, sends “haha ok :)” instead. ✧ She keeps her hands busy because otherwise they’d be doing something reckless. ✧  She overcompensates with sarcasm and then goes home and wonders if everyone hates her. ✧  She’s loved fiercely. Regretted it more fiercely. ✧  She walks into a room like she owns it, and then spends the entire time wondering if she should have stayed home.

➤ Who Wants to Be Soft but Doesn’t Feel Safe

She's gentle, but that gentleness lives under twenty layers of armor. And most people never even get past the first. ✧  She’s careful with her compliments, she knows how people weaponize kindness. ✧  She keeps her vulnerability behind locked doors and guards them with jokes, sarcasm, and “I’m just tired.” ✧ She’ll comfort others like she was born to do it, but flinch if someone offers her the same. ✧ She avoids mirrors on bad days. Eye contact on good ones. ✧ She cries where no one can see. Car bathrooms. Locked bedrooms. Grocery store parking lots at night. ✧ She doesn’t ask for help. Not because she doesn’t need it, but because the last time she did, it came with a price. ✧ She’s soft with animals, with children, with strangers, but not herself. Never herself. ✧ She daydreams about being taken care of, then immediately gets mad at herself for wanting something so “weak.” ✧ She wants love, but she’s terrified of being known. Because if someone really saw her? What if they didn’t stay?

And if you’re sitting there reading all of that thinking, “God, I don’t even know how to write women like this…” Please know: you’re not alone. Like, really not alone.

Writing female characters in a way that feels true, nuanced, and unapologetically real isn’t just about avoiding clichés. It’s about unlearning everything you were taught about what women are “supposed” to be on the page. It’s about getting underneath the polish. Past the performative strength. Past the “she’s not like other girls” and the “strong but broken” tropes. Past the idea that softness is weakness and rage is unlikable.

So many people struggle with this, not because they don’t care, but because no one ever really taught them how to see women as people first.

A lot of us grew up reading female characters written through a lens that flattened us. Made us background noise, love interests, plot devices, or emotionally bulletproof when we weren’t emotionally unstable. It’s no wonder we’re all trying to figure out how to do better now. I write a Book about How to Write Women that feel Alive... For you.

In the chapters ahead, we’re going to unravel that mess, together (Promise). We’ll talk about...

❥ Tropes — the ones worth reclaiming, and the ones you can toss into the fire. ❥ The psychology of a woman — how conditioning, survival, identity, and inner conflict shape her from the inside out. ❥ Female vs. male conflict — not in a “boys suck” way, but in a “our emotional battlegrounds are different and that matters” way. ❥ Expectations — society’s, her own, and how characters shrink or shatter under them. ❥ Emotions as strength — especially the ones she was taught to hide: fear, grief, longing, joy, rage. ❥ Female anger — what happens when she finally stops holding it in. ❥ Archetypes — and how to subvert them without erasing the truths they come from. ❥ Female friendships — no more cardboard “bestie” side characters. ❥ Romantic relationships — what it means when she’s finally seen. Chosen. Or rejected. ❥Mothers, daughters, and sisters — because female relationships deserve more than being backstory. ❥ Dialogue — how she speaks when she’s safe vs. when she’s scared. ❥ Inner conflict and development — her arc isn’t about fixing her. It’s about letting her evolve. ❥ Writing exercises — to help you get past the noise and write from a place that feels real. ❥ A full checklist for writing female OCs — layered, powerful, contradictory, alive.

This isn’t a rulebook. It’s a guide. A toolbox. A comfort blanket. A callout. A reminder that writing women doesn’t have to feel impossible, you just have to be willing to look a little deeper.

So if you’ve ever felt stuck writing a female character… If you’ve defaulted to tropes because you didn’t know how else to make her “interesting”… If you’ve erased her emotions to make her “strong”… Or if you’ve stared at the page wondering why she still doesn’t feel real...This book is for you.

And I promise, by the time you reach the last chapter? You’ll not only know how to write her. You’ll understand her. And maybe even see a little of yourself in the process.

Love u All!!🖤