#man I want to work on my fics and everything else. long to-do list but I promise I'll get a bunch done pretty soon!

[ai-the-broccoli]

just started watching Spy x Family while doing laundry. it's pretty good so far!

so anyway I get the feeling that the 3 other people who are invested in Shelly de Killer from a thematic perspective might be interested in checking it out

[formula-ghost]

Read Your Diary (FC43 x fem!reader)

Chapter 3: Gossip

CHAPTER SUMMARY: You’ve always felt like you belonged right at Franco’s side, but as he begins to grow in popularity, you begin to wonder if his world has any place for you. 

WORD COUNT: 7.7k

WARNINGS: Hurt/comfort. Use of YN, mentions of anxiety disorders/therapy, reader has major self esteem issues and panic attacks. Appearance of Christian Horner (that man needs his own CW). There is a “manager” character that is not a reference to any of Franco’s IRL managers!

TAGLIST: @scopeiguess @storyteller-le @htpssgavi @wierdflowerpower @justsisse @xivilivix

A/N: I can’t thank you all enough for all the love you’ve shown on this fic 💙 It’s been incredible. I do want to sincerely apologize for leaving you with all this cliffhanger before I have to take a small hiatus with the holidays haha. I played around a bit with perspective in this chapter, so I hope it still reads clearly! Also, if you want to be added to the tag list, make sure your blog isn’t set to hidden and that you allow tags or else I’ll be unable to do that on my end. As always I hope you enjoy it :)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

Sip the gossip, drink ‘til you choke

Sip the gossip, burn down your throat

You’re not iconic, you are just like them all

Don’t act like you don’t know 

Austin had been beautiful, and you had written down every word you could describing it. Mexico, however, was a race you wouldn’t exactly want to document.

It started out okay. Franco’s Forbes cover shoot was released, and, as predicted, it blew up the internet. Of course, you were happy for him. But to see the entire world want him almost as much as you wanted him was…disheartening.

For a long time, it had just been you and Franco. He had clawed his way up and earned everything he had achieved through hard work and unmatchable determination. You were his biggest fan and supporter. And it was just you and him against the odds.

You had been so happy for him to make it to F1 after all he’d worked for. And to see the world embrace him so wholeheartedly was beautiful. But you were scared, deep down, that you’d lose him in the glitz and glamor of pilot stardom. 

His place at Williams was only temporary, of course, but you knew that when he did eventually get a secure seat, your friendship would have to change. After all, you couldn’t fly around the world with him forever. But you figured you’d adapt, like you always did. It would all be okay in the end. Franco never gave you any reason to believe that you’d get left behind. 

That is, until Mexico. 

You barely saw him at the beginning of the week, with him being so busy filming for brand sponsorships. Come the weekend, a phone call from home had soured his mood. You let it be, knowing that now was the time to just support him in any way you could, even if that was just giving him space.

But on Saturday he had woken up feeling better, and you were happy, thinking that he’d turn this weekend around for the better. Mexico was full of Argentine fans, and again, you were both ecstatic for him and feeling a bit left behind. You weren’t from Argentina. You didn’t really speak Spanish. These random fans had that connection with him that you’d never have. 

You pushed it down—for now. You’d write about it later. 

But now you were on your way to Williams hospitality to meet Franco. He was beaming when you’d seen him at breakfast that morning. Some big Argentine musicians were coming to the paddock.

You would have been happier for him if he had introduced you to them. But now you sat in hospitality with Franco and the group, and they all completely ignored you. Franco hadn’t even introduced you.

Yes, you were naturally on the quieter side. Yes, you didn’t speak Spanish, which they now all excitedly talked in, laughing about something you’d never know. But did that really mean that you deserved to sit there, awkwardly glancing at your phone as your best friend ignored you?

And all the while, he was glancing over to the female singer sat opposite him. God, she was beautiful. And from Franco’s tone, you could tell he thought so too. He was flirting with her right in front of you.

Yes, you were just friends. But you had slept in his bed with him curled up into your side. He had celebrated every win with you since you were teenagers. But right now, you were nothing.

You just kind of stared off into the distance until you saw a familiar face. Lily to the rescue! She came over and waved to Franco and the group, who stopped their conversation for a brief second to wave back. 

“Hey YN, wanna come help us film a video?” she asked. Clearly this was just an out to help you escape the torture of being ignored. 

“Sure,” you agreed. When you got up to leave, Franco didn’t even acknowledge you. 

You and Lily walked into the garage. “Thank you for helping me out there.”

“Yeah, you looked like you were going through it. Were they that bad?”

“Well, I don’t know. Franco never even introduced me and I don’t speak Spanish.”

“So he just ignored you? That’s so rude,” he said, her face grimacing, “I’m sorry.”

You just shrugged and offered her a weak smile. There was that unspoken recognition from both of you; Franco had ignored you to flirt with the singer. She was everything you weren’t: beautiful, popular, confident. 

“Well, come hang with me and Alex. I’ll teach you how to make a tiktok,” she said.

You were surprised that her excuse hadn’t been an excuse at all—she actually wanted your company, unlike someone else. 

You went out to the pit lane to meet Alex. Fans were cheering from the sidelines. They were all screaming for Alex, of course, but a few yelled for Lily too. And one yelled for you. 

“YN! YN!” the girl yelled, Argentine flag in her grasp. Your head turned.  “YN! Can I get a picture with you?” she asked. 

You paused. “You want a picture with me?” 

She smiled. “Yes, if that’s okay.” You laughed, not mocking her, but just unsure to do with the absurdity of it all. 

“Of course,” you said, smiling for the camera. “I wasn’t trying to be rude,” you explained, “I’m just surprised you knew me.”

“Oh, we all know you. Everyone’s seen the videos of you and Franco. You all are so cute!” You knew what she meant—your friendship with him was endearing, you had to admit. But the reminder of him felt like a sharp dagger to the heart. Lily called you over, so you bid goodbye to the fan, an odd feeling settling in your chest. That could be unpacked later.

But later was sooner than you anticipated. You had a great time making videos with Lily and Alex, but they had gone to get lunch before qualifying, and you couldn’t find Franco anywhere. So you went to his driver’s room, and finding that even empty, you just gave up and stayed there. He had told you that his room was fair game to hide in if you ever felt overwhelmed, and you definitely did. Now that you were alone, all the emotions were rushing to the surface. 

So you opened your notebook to write.

I can’t believe Franco didn’t even introduce me to anyone this morning. I get it, I’m not like them. I’m not talented or famous or as beautiful as that girl is. God, she’s perfect. She’s everything a man could want. Why would Franco ever want someone like me? I’m just an anxious, dependent mess. I don’t blame him for flirting with her. I just wish he wouldn’t do it in front of me. 

You were spiraling, and soon enough tears came to your eyes. You tried to blink them away but it was futile. You felt like you were losing your best friend.

But, speak of the devil, he was at the door. 

“Oh, YN, I was looking for you,” he said absentmindedly as he walked in the room and fiddled with his helmet. “You left your phone in the garage, Lily has it.”

“Oh, shit,” you muttered. It seemed like you were developing a habit of losing things. You got up to meet Lily in the garage, making a mental note to stop at the bathroom to take a breather. You prayed that Franco wouldn't look at you, but today was your unlucky day, it seemed. As you walked out, he looked up and his eyes met yours, and you saw the concern dawn in his eyes. He moved to say something, but you just quickened your pace, and ignored him when you did hear him call after you. 

You found the nearest bathroom and broke down, allowing yourself to just cry it out for a few minutes. Your thoughts kept spiraling. You were ridiculous, you thought, breaking down over something so small. You were pathetic. No wonder he didn’t want you. Why would anyone? 

After a few minutes, you took a few deep breaths and steadied yourself and tried to make it look as if you hadn’t been crying. Qualifying would be starting soon. You quickly grabbed your phone from Lily, who thankfully didn’t say anything about your clearly post-sobbing session face, and you found a comfortable spot in the back of the garage to watch qualifying. 

He qualified 15th. Not great. Nothing to elicit a celebratory hug, though, God, you needed one right now. 

You were exhausted and wanted nothing more than to go back to the hotel and sleep away the weariness. So that’s what you did, skillfully avoiding Franco’s eye scanning the paddock for you.

When you got back to the hotel, you could barely change into your pajamas and get in the bed. You felt heavy like a block of lead. You checked your phone before bed, seeing that Franco had taken a photo with the musicians and posted it to Instagram. 

It was taken after you left, of course. As if you were never there at all.

The sight brought another wave of tears. You sighed in frustration and cried until the weight of it all lulled you to sleep.

The next morning, you didn’t even want to go to the grand prix. As you got up and tidied where you had gotten back and just thrown things around last night, you contemplated what to do.

On one hand, you wanted to support Franco even if you were upset. On the other hand, you thought you might burst into tears if you saw him again.

You just needed to write it out, and then you’d be able to face him. You grabbed your bag and fished around for your journal.

It was gone.

Shit.

Then you remembered, you had left it in his driver’s room yesterday. You groaned.

You checked your phone, intending to text him about it, only to find that he had already texted you last night while you were asleep. Just a simple, You okay? but you hadn’t answered. 

Frantic, you called him. He answered immediately. 

“Hey YN, you—”

“Have you seen my journal?”

“What?”

“My journal. I accidentally left it in your driver’s room yesterday.”

“No? I don’t remember seeing it.”

“Shit…” you whispered. Tears pricked in your eyes yet again. 

“I’m on my way to the track, I’ll check when I get there and ask the team about it,” he assured. “We’ll find it.”

“Thanks,” you said, your voice dry. 

“Look, are you okay? You just disappeared yesterday—”

“I’m fine,” you lied. He knew you were lying. 

“YN, talk to me. Please.” His voice was soft with genuine concern, but it pissed you off. There was no way he could know he was the cause of your upset if you didn’t tell him. But you just couldn’t. Not now, at least.

“Can I just meet you at your driver’s room to look for it?”

He sighed. “Yeah. I’ll be there in ten.” You hung up the call.

You had calmed yourself down a bit before you reached the track, but it was no use when you met Franco at his room and found it empty. The desk where you had set yesterday to write looked strangely devoid of life. 

You all wordlessly continued to look for a while, and even went around asking the Williams employees about it, but it was no use. It was gone. 

When you returned back to the room, defeated, you couldn’t help but cry. 

For fear of embarrassment, you'd never cried in front of Franco before, but you didn’t even have the capacity to try and hide it anymore. At first he looked startled, like he didn’t know what to do. But as you crumpled onto the small couch and he saw your body wracked with sobs, he knew all he could do was hold you.

So that’s what he did. 

His touch was warm and comforting, but it just made you weep all the more. He just held you tighter, and you were enveloped in the smell of his cologne. “It’s okay,” he whispered gently to you, “I’m here.”

When the sobs finally left you, he looked in your tear-stained eyes and asked, “Will you talk to me?”

You had never wanted to do anything less. But you knew that these were the moments that counted. Your journal had become a crutch rather than a tool—now was the time to actually do the hard work to get better. 

You began, “It’s stupid—” 

“I want to know anyway,” he assured.

You paused, then resumed, “It just really hurt me yesterday when you didn’t introduce me to anyone.”

He made a confused face at you. “I didn’t?” 

“No, Franco, you didn’t,” you said, your tone getting angrier. “You were too busy flirting with that singer to notice that I was sitting there alone.”

“She asked about you, though. I told her you were just a friend.”

Ouch. Just a friend. 

“I thought I was your best friend.”

“You are,” he assured, but it felt hollow. 

“It doesn’t feel like it when Lily has to come rescue me from being ignored all day.”

“I’m sorry, YN. I didn’t even realize it, I was just caught up in the conversation. Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“Because I just felt like an intruder. I mean… I’m not a famous musician or anyone important in Formula 1. I’m not from Argentina, I don’t speak Spanish—”

He cut you off, “So? And you know my mother would adopt you in a heartbeat.”

You were unamused by his attempt at banter. “So, it just hurts because I don’t belong here. And when you ignore me, I’m just alone.”

He paused. “YN, I’m so sorry.”

You didn’t know what to say.

He continued, “But for the record, I was not flirting with anyone. You know the main reason I spend time with all these people is for the brand, right?”

You looked confused. “The brand? Since when do you care about your brand?” Franco was known for being impossible to media train. Why was he suddenly so concerned with his public reputation?

Even though you were alone in his driver’s room, he looked over his shoulder, listening out for any approaching footsteps. But you all were truly alone in the quiet morning at the paddock. “You have to promise to keep it quiet,” he said.

“I promise,” you whispered.

He leaned in closer. “There’s a chance, a very small chance, but a chance…that I could get a contract with Redbull next year.”

Your eyes widened. He continued, “Checo has been driving so bad that they want him out. But he brings in a lot of money and it’ll cost a lot to break my Williams contract. I need to show them that I can have just as much backing in Argentina as Checo has in Mexico.”

You were practically speechless. “Oh my God, Franco, that’s…”

But Franco was more worried about you. “The people are all nice enough, but I’d prefer your company over theirs any day. You’re still my best friend.”

The tears that threatened to fall now were happy ones, from pride in your best friend and the love you felt for him. 

You confessed, “I hope you get it. But I’m so scared that I’ll be left behind and forgotten.”

He reached to hold you again and you let him. “Never,” he said, “never. You’ve been here since the beginning, you’re not getting rid of me any time soon.”

You both broke the embrace and he wiped a tear from your cheek. The soft touch sent shivers down your spine.

“Thank you,” you said. 

He smiled at you. “No, thank you for opening up to me. You ready for the race today?”

You nodded, “Always.”

He didn’t score any points, but the points weren’t the point anymore. Your conversation earlier had made you feel so close to him in a way you never had before. You watched the screens in the garage with a religious reverence, looking into his eyes when the camera switched to face him. They were focused, like the only things in the world were him, the car, and the track ahead. And for you, that was all there was in the world, too.

Your celebration after the race was more subdued, but nonetheless supportive. As he walked to the media tent, you all glanced at each other and you mouthed to him proud of you. He winked back.

You all had fallen into a familiar routine of dinner together and winding down in his hotel room, and tonight was no different. Again you all found yourselves in the same positions: him, cross legged on the bed, and you in the chair near him. 

The atmosphere was a bit tense though. Being back at the hotel, you couldn’t help but remember the horrible morning, and what you had lost—your journal. Who would have thrown away a journal from his driver's room? You had asked around the paddock again after the race and no one had seen it.

Or maybe it hadn’t been thrown away. Maybe someone took it.

Your mind wandered back to the last few conversations with Franco: your “stolen” lipstick, his asking to read the journal…

No. He wouldn’t. That’d cross a line.

But weren’t the contents of the journal crossing a line themselves?

Franco noticed how you’d gone quieter since you got home from the paddock. You all were both exhausted.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked, lazily tracing circles in the comforter.

You responded with your own question. “Franco, will you be honest with me?”

He looked up at you, his face hardened with concern. “Of course.” He looked nervous. 

“Do you have my journal?”

He shifted his gaze away from you. “No,” he said, simple as that. 

“Franco,” you began, “listen to me. I’m not mad, but you understand how this looks, right? I know we joke about this kind of stuff a lot, but you asked to read it and then it suddenly disappears after I left it in your driver’s room.”

“I didn’t even go back to the room after you left,” he said.

“Maybe not. But you got there this morning before I did. And now it’s gone.”

He paused. “You really think I’d steal your diary?”

The situation had become too tense for your liking. “I’m not trying to accuse you of anything,” you explained, “and I promise, I’m not mad. I just… there’s some things in there that are too personal for me to share with anyone, even you.”

“YN, I don’t have it.”

“Okay. I’m just saying, if you happen to find it, please promise me that you won’t read it. Please,” you quite literally begged. 

“I wouldn’t do that to you, YN. You know I was joking when I asked to read it, right?”

He wasn’t joking. Both of you knew that. And both of you knew that he had taken the diary.

You hoped that he would understand what you asked and respect your wishes. In a few days he’d text you saying that a Williams employee had randomly found it—another lie—and he would give it back to you, unread. And your friendship would go on like nothing had ever happened.

But what if it didn’t? What if he read every filthy word you had written about him?

You thought it through over and over later that night, back in your own room but unable to sleep. So you made a plan.

You and Franco, thankfully, would be on the same flight to Brazil. When you landed and went to the hotel, you’d swap out your room keys and go to his room while he did his media duties. Then, you’d find the journal in his room and take it back.

A few problems with the plan. One, It gave him the first 3 days of the week to read it, and two, it was fucking unhinged of you to go through your best friend’s stuff. 

You rolled over and angrily groaned into the pillow. 

Brazil was going to be an interesting time. 

Well, interesting was the understatement of the century.

It began on the flight, a flight that was way too fucking long. Thankfully, Franco had arranged for you to take this one together, so at least you had his company. 

You could never sleep on planes, they were too loud and uncomfortable. Franco usually did, but today it seemed he couldn’t; he bounced his legs and darted his eyes around the plane.

“Nervous?” you asked.

“Very,” he answered honestly. “There’s just so much going on this weekend.”

“I know,” you said reassuringly rather than condescendingly. “You really should try to get some rest though. It’s been a long few weeks for you.”

“I can’t. I’m too wired up.”

You felt an unexpected boldness come over you. “Close your eyes,” you directed, “and take a few deep breaths. Stay still.” 

He obeyed, and you grabbed his hand from the armrest between you and held it in yours. You felt him tense at the unexpected touch, but you slowly began to trace circles into his palm with your thumb, and he relaxed into it. With his own boldness, he placed his head on your shoulder and exhaled. Within minutes, he was fast asleep. You knew from experience that he’d be asleep for the rest of the flight, so you let yourself get comfortable with the familiar weight of your sleeping best friend pressing into your side.

Slivers of sunlight from the window traced the soft edges of his sleeping form. Even when unconscious, he was beautiful. If you truly wanted to, you could have turned ever so slightly and kissed his forehead without waking him. And God, you truly wanted to.

So you did, gently pressing your lips to the smooth surface of his skin. Maybe this was crossing a line, but it seemed like, at this point, all lines had been crossed between you two.

His presence calmed you enough that you were able to fall asleep, too. When you woke a few hours later, he was still fast asleep by your side, and you savored the moment.

But deep down you wondered how long this would last. You were head over heels in love with him. He was… well, you didn’t know how he felt. But he was your best friend in the entire world. He knew almost everything there was to know about you. 

He had four races left in F1. Four races until you would go back to your day to day lives; still intertwined, but not this close. And if he did get the seat, that you so desperately wanted for him? He’d be gone even more than he already was. You couldn’t follow him around the world forever. He’d go from city to city, race to race, club to club, woman to woman.

You felt your stomach drop at the thought of him with another woman. You remembered the singer in Austin, how he said he wasn’t flirting with her, it was for the brand, whatever excuse he could come up with. You guessed it was true. Or maybe he meant that it didn’t really mean anything to him. Just playing up that side of him that the media absolutely loved. His Argentine charm was undeniable. 

Okay, then maybe it was true. Everyone knew Franco was a flirt, you especially. But it made it so much harder to determine, then, what was truly meaningful to him and what wasn’t. 

But your friendship meant something to him, right? He had asked you to come along to all his races. He made time for you in the midst of the paddock’s chaos. You had slept in the same bed. He held you when you cried. And now, he slept peacefully on your shoulder, hands still intertwined. How could that not mean something?

You didn’t want your fears of the future to make you miss out on the present. At some point you’d have to open up to him. But that moment wasn’t right now. 

And you were determined that you’d be the one in control, so when you landed and made it to the hotel, you enacted your plan you’d concocted earlier. When the receptionist handed you the keys, you waited until Franco was fiddling with your luggage to switch out two, making sure to hand him the correct key. He would never need to know that the other key in the little paper pocket was the key to your room, and if he did, he’d just assume there was an issue. A natural cover.

Okay, maybe you were smart and smooth with it. 

You knew you wouldn’t see much of Franco in Brazil. With stakes this high, he had an overwhelming amount of team meetings and media duties. Still, as usual, you all made your way to the paddock together. 

The energy was electric—in good ways and bad. Good: there were so many Argentine fans that you often found yourself questioning what country you were in. The amount of support was unreal. And each one of them were proud of Franco—but not as proud as you were.

Bad: Literally everything else.

But that was yet to come. You entered the paddock to a flurry of camera shots and a cacophony of voices yelling for Franco. 

Usually you liked to stay out of the shot of cameras, but it was impossible here. Franco did his best to draw their attention towards him and away from you, but it was overwhelming nonetheless.

As you all passed a group of fans, one in particular caught your eye. She was holding out two bracelets. “Franco, YN!” she called out. 

You both stopped to speak to her. “I made you all bracelets,” she said, handing one to you and the other to Franco. You read the beads: it had Franco’s name, number, and blue hearts. You smiled at the adorable gesture. 

“Oh,” Franco said, looking at you, “This one has your name on it. Let’s switch.”

As he moved his hand to do so, the fan said, “No, they’re supposed to be like that. They’re friendship bracelets for you all!”

“Thank you,” you said, unsure if the warmth of your cheeks was a soft blush forming or from the chaos around you. The fan had wanted you to wear each other’s names.

You kept walking, but when you were out of eyeshot, you offered to switch the bracelets around again, thinking the implication was a little too much for him. He refused, keeping your name around his wrist.

He went off to wherever he needed to be, and you went to William’s hospitality to find Lily, but unfortunately, she wasn’t in Brazil at all.

Maybe, in hindsight, what you did next was a terrible decision. But you did it anyway. 

You made your way to Franco’s drivers room for some privacy and pulled up your social media, looking to see what people were saying about him. 

Ever since he had confided about his potential for a seat next year, you had also cared about his brand, too. And, officially or unofficially, you were a part of that. Like Lily had told you, people were speculating. You just hoped that what she said about the people loving you was true. 

Fortunately, it was. 

Franco and YN being obliviously in love with each other; a thread

You tapped on the post, reading your way through the comments.

Does YN know that she’s living our dream?

Oh to be YN, being loved by Franco like that.

Need someone to look at me the way YN and Franco look at each other.

Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love YN, but Franco should be with an Argentine girl. They’d be a power couple. 

The comment soured your mood. You kept reading anyway.

Guys, I met YN in Austin and she was so sweet! Our girl is chronically offline because she was so surprised that I even knew who she was and like, girl, WHAT DO YOU MEAN? WE ARE ALL ROOTING FOR YOU!!

You smiled, the memory of the girl in Austin coming back to your mind. 

I love how we have all collectively decided to adopt YN as the newest wag even though her and Franco aren’t even dating 

You laughed to yourself, remembering how Lily had mistaken you for a wag when you first talked. Maybe that was the reason why.

You read the replies: 

To be fair, you don’t look at someone like that unless you LOVE LOVE them

Does anyone else think this is weird tho? I mean, they're just friends but the entire internet wants them to get together, must make things so awkward…

Honestly I’m glad they’re not together because if my bf flirted with other women the way Franco flirts with reporters, I’d throw the whole man away

You snorted. Of course, these random people on the internet didn’t know you, but they seemed to get inside your head a little too much for comfort. Or maybe you just weren’t as good at hiding your emotions as you always thought you were. 

Speaking of hiding your emotions, you had a job to do. Checking your clock, you knew that Franco was going to be busy for the next 3 hours before you all had planned to meet up again. He had a very important meeting with Christian Horner. Your heart skipped a beat and you said a silent prayer for your friend.

But now, you have a mission. You were going to get your journal back.

It would have been an easy task, if not for the fans. Thankfully you got out and into an uber undetected, but upon opening the door to his room, you cursed them in your head.

Gifts were everywhere. His team must have been gathering them all week, and Franco clearly wasn’t organizing them. 

You thought 3 hours would be more than enough to leave, find your journal, return it to your room, and get back to the paddock unnoticed. Maybe, you thought wrong. This was going to be a long 3 hours. 

As you searched, back at the paddock, Franco sat in the meeting that would decide the course of the rest of his life. His leg bounced uncontrollably, his mouth was dry, and he felt like he was going to throw up his breakfast. 

He wished you were here. Your presence always calmed him in moments like these; he had no idea where you were, and the intimidating presence of Christian Horner across the table did nothing to ease his nerves. 

“I’ve got to admit,” Horner said, “he’s exceeded everyone’s expectations. But a couple good races doesn’t tell us much.”

Franco’s manager replied, “Of course, we understand. But he’s got more than enough of a fanbase to rival any driver. I mean, just look outside and it’s a sea of Argentine flags!”

“Fans are good, but does that translate to sponsors? I mean, you’ve got to compete with Disney here. Not every driver can bring in that level of support.”

“We’ve gotten some strong sponsors recently, and a lot more in the works currently. Franco’s future is promising.”

“What about his PR? Any disasters there?” Horner laughed.  

Franco’s manager, however, did not. “He’s good. The fans love him, and he knows when to shut up.”

Franco suppressed a laugh. Anyone who had been around him for more than 5 minutes knew that he was a PR nightmare. And it seemed Horner knew it too.

“Now, that’s not what I’ve heard,” he said. “I’ve seen the videos. You strike the balance well for the most part, but you can’t be telling people not to buy Redbull merch.” They all laughed. “And you can’t be bringing your girlfriend to every race.”

Franco’s manager began to speak, but not before Franco cut her off. “My girlfriend?” 

“Yeah, YN isn’t it? As far as I’ve seen, the fans like her, but if she’s constantly around they’ll get fatigued. Again, it’s a delicate balance.”

“YN isn’t my girlfriend.” The sentence felt…odd, as Franco said it with a matter of fact tone.

“Oh, even better. We can get you with an Argentinian woman, then. Maximize that market.”

“A PR relationship? Those are real?” Franco questioned, and Horner laughed, as if Franco was the dumbest one in the room, and he certainly felt like it. 

“Not really. Just be seen a few times, like some posts, maybe go to events together if you wanna really get serious about it. Generate talk, you know.”

“Isn’t that what happens with YN now anyway? I mean, everyone already thinks we’re dating.”

“Yeah, but she’s nobody. No offense,” Horner said, as if his comment held no weight. “But with a celebrity or model? That really gets people talking. A little controversy is good.”

Franco felt sick to his stomach. She’s nobody. But she was somebody, to him. She was his best friend. 

“Look, kid,” Horner began, “I agree that you’ve got promise, but it’s too early to make any decisions right now. Show us what you’ve got in these last few races, and maybe we can work something out.”

Everyone rose to exchange polite goodbyes and handshakes. Franco felt like he was in a totally different plane of existence.

His manager came over to him afterwards. “You did well, Franco. We’ll just do as he said—keep focused, get results, and keep your head down. Seriously, watch it with the media.”

Franco nodded absentmindedly, but his manager wasn’t happy with that response. “What’s wrong?” she asked. 

Franco began, “Look, a PR relationship, seriously? And he’s telling me I can’t have my best friend in the paddock?”

“I think YN will survive if she doesn’t come to every single race.”

“But I want her here with me. I don’t want to hurt her.” He remembered Austin, holding you while you cried, afraid that he’d leave you behind. And here push had come to shove. 

His manager looked at him, incredulous. “Seriously, Franco, this is what you're focused on? You have a shot at a seat with Redbull, and you’re more focused on not hurting YN’s feelings? How do you expect to achieve this with that attitude?” 

Franco was upset now. “Don’t say that. Even Horner said I’ve been exceeding expectations.”

“I know you have, and we’re all proud of you. But you need to stay focused. Leave the women alone.”

“YN is not just a random woman, she’s my best friend.”

His manager’s frustration was growing by the second. “I know Franco. I know you love her, we all love her. But she is not your priority right now. Your future is, okay?” 

Hearing those words felt like a rollercoaster, complete with the euphoric highs and stomach churning lows. I know you love her—well, it was true, you were his best friend. But what kind of love? He didn’t know, and besides, the low—she is not your priority right now—he didn’t have the time or space to find out. 

He had a job to do.

All the while, you also had a job to do, but you were failing spectacularly. You had searched every square inch of that fucking room. You looked in every nook and cranny, every pocket and pouch, under the covers and even in the bathroom. Your journal wasn’t there. 

There was no way Franco was this good at hiding anything (other than emotions, maybe). You now had to entertain the possibility that you had been wrong all along.

Maybe he didn’t have the journal. Maybe you had just accused him of lying and shown that you don’t really trust your best friend. 

You let out a frustrated groan as you put everything back in place. You couldn’t believe it. 

If he didn’t have the journal, then where was it?

It was a question you’d have to answer later, because right now you were racing to reconfigure his room and get back to the paddock before anyone noticed that you were gone. 

You barely made it in time, arriving at the Williams garage with your body in fight or flight mode. You spotted Franco instantly.

“YN! There you are,” he said. “I thought I lost you.”

“Oh yeah, I was with some fans.” The lie just slipped out without you having to think about it. You’d never done that before—who were you becoming?

Franco looked confused. “You were? Since when do you willingly leave the paddock?” he questioned, clearly joking.

“Since I have to help the brand,” you smiled. “By the way, how did the meeting go?”

He just replied, “Good.” 

Franco was never a man of few words, so his hesitancy to speak was a red flag.

“Top secret?” you asked, thankfully giving him an out.

“Yeah, it’s… complicated.” 

“Well, you know I’m always here rooting for you,” you said, reaching out to gently squeeze his hand. The gesture sent shivers down your spine.

Seriously, who were you becoming?

The next day didn’t make the situation any easier. The morning sprint had granted Franco another 12th place finish—no points, but still respectable. At least, it was to you. You could tell that he wasn’t happy. You knew that he pushed himself too hard, because how else would he be able to achieve, but it still broke your heart. You assumed that the meeting yesterday hadn’t been the greatest, and you wished that Franco would talk to you about it. But he didn’t. That was okay, you’d done the same to him before. You just wanted to be there to support him, even if it meant being on the sidelines, in the dark both physically and metaphorically.

And the darkness was looming over Interlagos. The forecast was horrific. The reality was even more horrific. 

As the rain poured down in sheets, you silently said a prayer for all the poor souls with General Admission tickets who must be swimming right now. You were nice and dry under the paddock, thankfully, but outside it was practically a monsoon.

Everyone knew qualifying would get postponed, it was just a matter of time until a final decision would be made. The atmosphere was tense—a championship battle loomed in the distance between Max and Lando, and Franco would be driving for his life. 

But as the hours passed and the rain continued, the energy around the paddock loosened up. You saw Lando and Oscar at the gates waving to fans, George jumping in puddles, Ollie taking naps against the warm tires. 

So, of course, Franco would enjoy his time too.

His manager stood in the back corner of the garage, talking with one of the media interns. Looking at her, Franco felt his frustration return. He had never been the stubborn type. But since making it to Formula 1, he had been told what to do left and right. Go here, say this, don’t do that. It pissed him off. 

He was going to do what he wanted to, at least this once. 

Of course, you were oblivious to all of this. You didn’t know what to make of it when he walked onto the pit lane, exposing himself to the elements. Within seconds his fluffy curls were flattened and he would be dripping in rainwater when he came back into the garage. 

“YN!” he called into the garage. “Come dance with me!” 

You looked up from your phone, and the garage around you was still buzzing, but you could feel everyone’s necks craning to listen and look upon whatever antics Franco was up to.

You just laughed and shook your head. You weren’t getting out in that mess.

But you didn’t have a choice. Franco marched his way up to the garage and yanked you out. 

You yelped his name playfully as he dragged you to the middle of the pitlane and put his arms around your waist. 

“What are you doing?” you asked him through your widening smile.

“Dancing. Having fun,” he answered. His arms stayed around your waist, too close to be platonic.

You turned to the crowd of fans in the grandstand in the distance. “We have an audience. Is this good for the brand?” 

It would seem ‘the brand’ was becoming a running bit, until Franco shut it down. “Fuck the brand. Dance with me.”

He pulled you closer, the only thing separating you being the layers of clothes that were thinning with the rain. He spun you and you all danced back and forth, giggling when you splashed in the  puddles swiftly gathering around you. 

And then he dipped you. The world felt like it stopped for a moment. You were suspended in air, an electric warmth between you and your best friend, the only two people in the world.

He brought you back up and you both stopped. Your eyes met for what must have only been a split second. It was like all at once, all the love you had for him flooded your heart, stronger than the unrelenting rain. 

Everything about him was beautiful. His arms wrapped around your waist, his eyes now looking at your lips—

He was going to kiss you.

That is, until his manager yelled at you both from inside the garage. “Franco! Quit fucking around and get in here!”

The moment was ruined.

You both sheepishly returned to the garage. Your anxiety had faded in that perfect moment with him, but had now returned with a vengeance upon hearing the frustration of his manager. Luckily, everyone else in the garage seemed to not care. But Franco looked like a kid getting called to the principal’s office at school.

Before you even got back in the garage, you turned to him and said, “Franco, I’m sorry for getting you in trouble, I—”

He cut you off. “You didn’t get me in trouble,” he joked, “I got myself in trouble. Don’t worry about it. You can shower in my driver’s room, I should have a spare sweater in there. I’ll try to meet you there.”

You nodded as you went your separate ways.

You did as Franco said, having a quick shower and doing your best to dry your hair in his driver’s room. You grabbed the spare Williams quarter zip he had and slid it on, relishing in the warmth and the smell of his cologne. You felt safe here, quiet and alone, knowing that he’d come meet you when he could. You scrolled on your phone to pass the time.

Of course, it had only been minutes and you all had already gone viral.  

You tapped on the post of a gossip page.

Williams driver Franco Colapinto and friend YN seen in Interlagos having a sweet moment dancing in the rain! Although the pair are quoted calling each other just friends, fans continue to speculate about the true nature of their relationship. What do you think? Sound off below!

You scrolled to the comments.

Might as well just make out with her in parc ferme smh

Why are they actually the main characters of a rom com

Sooooooo when is he proposing

YN the woman that you are. I’d ask what we are after being held like that

You smiled. Maybe the internet was starting to grow on you. 

Back in the paddock, Franco was soaked to the bone, shivering, and being scolded by his manager.

“I told you to keep a low profile. What was that stunt?”

“I was just having fun—”

“I know. That’s the problem. You are not here to have fun. You are here to compete.”

“Having fun doesn’t impact my ability to drive,” he said, his voice sharp with anger. “Look, I get that you want what is best for me. But I’m not stupid. Fans love this kind of stuff, they eat it up. And I’m improving every day with my driving. Just let me do what I do best.”

“And you’re doing this purely for the fans?” she asked. They both knew the answer. Franco was silent. She continued, “Franco, she’ll be here at the end of the season no matter what. But this opportunity won't if you don’t focus. You’re distracted.”

“This will be good publicity. The fans like it when I’m flirty.”

“You’re not here to be flirty. You’re here to drive,” she said with a forceful and final tone. She sighed. “The FIA just announced that quali is postponed until tomorrow morning. Go back to the hotel, get some rest, and come back tomorrow ready to perform, okay?”

“Okay,” he agreed. 

When he finally made it back to his driver’s room, he found you asleep on the small couch. He thought his heart would burst.

Quietly, he took a shower and changed into dry clothes. He sat down and just watched your sleeping frame, taking in how beautiful you were.

But you couldn’t stay here all night. He woke you up by gently brushing your hair out of your face, and you stirred at his touch.

“YN,” he whispered. “Quali is postponed. Time to go.” You sleepily rose and followed him out of the paddock, only fully waking up on the Uber ride back to the hotel.

The drive was quiet, but peaceful. It was dark out, and the rain scattered the light from the street lamps of Sao Paulo. Franco looked out the window, contemplative. It was a side of him you'd never seen before.

You placed your hand in the middle between you two, and wordlessly, he held it in his own.

It was unspoken, this new…thing, between you two. You both knew that something had fundamentally changed. It was a question of who would crack first. 

Franco knew, though, that his manager was right. He needed to focus. He needed to deliver. And you’d be here at the end.

But when he laid in his bed alone later that night, he couldn’t rest. All he could think about was that moment you both had felt, and his eyes that had focused on the soft skin of your lips. How badly he had wanted you in that moment. 

A line had been crossed, yes, but that wasn’t the only one. 

In his backpack, there had been a weight that had hung over him the past few days. A metaphorical one. He had kept it on his person at all times for safekeeping, not wanting to risk anyone finding out what he’d done.

He told himself he wouldn’t do it. But he needed more of you that he couldn’t have—not now, at least. 

But he could have this, right now.

So he sat up in bed, grabbing the small leather diary from the bag, and opened the first page.  

[quantum1mmortality]

hii idk if this wld be too vague but could u do househusband curly hcs? sfw or nsfw is ok🙂

Omg guys more husband curly x reader I REPEAT MORE HUSBAND CURLY X READER!!!!! You guys absolutely DEVOURED my other husband curly hcs so uh.. here's more. Because I seek validation or whatever

Tw/cw; submissive Curly, EXTREMELY submissive Curly, dominant reader, Afab!reader, Curly being a very good boy

Not proofread

Sfw

Honestly, Curly would be the best househusband ever. He literally has all of the traits that a housewife would have, but it's 10x better because it's Curly.

Tired after a long day of work? He made you your favorite meal, PLUS dessert. Your body is hurting after work? Curly may or may not be the best at massages..

I feel like he'd spend hours in the kitchen each day making sure every part of your dinner is PERFECT for when you get home. The flavor, texture, presentation, everything is to your liking, and it's all thanks to him.

Curly and Anya have a group chat where they just send each other Pinterest recipes and I won't elaborate on that

On the same note, the house is constantly clean. I think Curly would be a neat freak, so either way it would be clean, but he takes it to an entity new level. He's home all day, so every single surface is getting cleaned. Every. Single. One.

He can't have the house that his beloved wife so graciously provides him with be dirty, so he HAS to clean it. He HAS to make you know he appreciates you, and one of the ways he does that is by keeping everything clean. Every floor is getting mopped, every counter is getting wiped down, all of the shelves are getting dusted, everything that could be cleaned, will be cleaned. Daily.

Okay enough of the cleaning, I think Curly would wake up extra early every day so he could make you breakfast. Pancakes, waffles, eggs, oatmeal, anything you wanted that day, he'd make it. He'd go to the grocery store at 5 in the morning to get something for your breakfast if he needed to. This man is DEDICATED to serving you, and he isnt ashamed to admit it.

Nsfw

Might be a hot take but idc these are MY hcs, househusband Curly would be MUCH more submissive than normal Curly.

Normal Curly is.. just that, normal. He isn't particularly dominant, but he takes on the role of a dominant partner in bed. He likes having a sense of power over you while still letting you know through each step how much he cares about you. Your safety and comfort come before anything else to him, no matter how far gone in pleasure he is.

Househusband Curly is the opposite of dominant. Literally. Every other trait I went over he still has, except the dominant parts. You provide him with everything he's ever wanted, he is completely at your disposal, and he loves it.

This man literally wants you to use him. It doesn't matter what you do, if you're in the mood, he's in the mood. Push him to his limits, take out your frustration on him(sexually and consensually, don't hit him please), use him like a fucking toy, he doesn't care. To him, his only purpose is to please you, and he's dedicated to it.

Now, obviously this means you're going to be topping most of the time. It's what he prefers. But occasionally, he'll want to top. But it's the exact same as you topping, just in a different position.

A harsh grip on your hips, heavy breathing, loud whimper and moaning, shallow thrusts and a hard climax.. everything is the same, the only difference is you're underneath him this time.

Even still, the pleasure he gets from watching you ride him will never be topped. Literally. He just can't get enough of the view.. your face contorting in pleasure, your breasts bouncing up and down with each thrust, watching his cock go in and out of your pretty little pussy.. it's everything to him. And so, so much more.

A/N; I'm starting to think I should make a master list for all of my curly fics ngl

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

All In 17

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power imbalance, low self esteem, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you meet a mysterious man on a night out with your sister. (petite!reader)

based on the winning option for this poll

Characters: casino owner!Bucky Barnes

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You fidget again, fingers clamped around the short hem of the dress. It's nice. Pink roses on cream, a sheer layer over a thicker base; Loose long sleeves to balance out the lack of length. It both feels like too much and not enough.

"You look good. I said so. Whatcha squirming for?" Bucky reaches over to touch your hand. You let go of the skirt.

"I'm okay. Anxious. Meeting new people."

"It's just Ma." He pets your knuckles then reluctantly puts his hand back on the steering wheel. "She's excited to meet you."

"She is?"

"Oh yeah. I told her all about you. I'm kind of a dope like that," he chuckles.

You nod and look at him. He's opted for lighter colours. A muted shade of green and a white shirt patterned with leaves. Very summery.

"Then I just... don't want to let her down," you say.

"I know, baby. No way you can. I chose you," he growls. "You know that. All the girls in the world but you're the one I need."

You're breathless. Anyone would want those words said to them. They're both enlivening and defeating. You want to live up to all his expectations but the weight of them is overbearing.

"I know. I... I'm trying."

"Don't even gotta try, doll." He hums and his tongue pokes out. His cheeks dimple and his lips curl. "Like this morning. You just... you're everything."

Your cheeks tinge and you touch the side of your neck. You wince. It's tender there. You think it might bruise. Right where his thumb poked into you. As nice as everything else was, the memory of his hand on your neck has you uneasy.

"Here we are," he slows along the suburban avenue. "Ma keeps a nice house. Everything's got its place. Even me."

"Yeah? Okay," you murmur.

"And you now. I'm sure she's got everything set. Table, an extra seat." He scoffs and shakes his head. "Steve's a nice guy but he's not really brought home and girls. She'll adore you."

"He is nice," you agree, thinking of the skinny man from the day before.

"Always has my back so I got his," he kills the engine. "All you gotta do is smile and be you. It's what got me, doll." He unbuckles his seat belt and pauses, He taps the steering wheel with his index and sucks his teeth. "Better be careful with that."

"Careful?"

"I don't mind fighting off a few suitors, mind you. But you gotta realise what you do to a guy." He reaches over and rubs your shoulder. You watch him sheepishly as he leans in. You meet his lips with yours. His kiss is nice, soft but firm, and yet he squeezes so hard you twitch. "All mine."

He pulls back and opens his door. He gets out as you untangle yourself from your own seat belt. He's at your door before you can open it yourself. He offers his hand and helps you out.

The cream heels are nice but a touch high for you. They give you a few inches but not close to enough to match him. He lifts your hand high and hums.

"Doll, you look good. Tasty." He winks and licks his lip. "I gotta remember to behave. Ma isn't one for it."

He keeps a hold of your hand and leads you away from the car. He shuts the door and guides you along the front walkway. Pebbles are placed deliberately in a spiraling pattern to form a path between tall crocuses and tulips.

You get to the steps but your toe hits the first. You stumble and clutch Bucky tighter as he steadies you. You giggle, embarrassed, and keep going.

"Buck," the voice startles you. It's only then you see Steve sitting on the bench near the bay window. His hair is parted and combed neatly. He wears a plain white shirt and khakis.

"Hey, pal," Bucky says. Good to see you.

"Yeah, you too," he stands and dawdles across the porch. "Hi," he looks at you. "Glad you could make it. Sorry I couldn't find a friend for ya."

"Ah, too bad, buddy," Bucky reaches over and musses his hair. Steve grimaces and recoils, tidying his hair with his skinny fingers. "We'll find you someone. Any girl would be lucky. And I know luck."

"Ha, yeah," Steve smooths his blonde strands. "Ma's waiting. She didn't know if she needed to worry about too much meat so... she made lots of veggies."

"Always so thoughtful," Bucky preens.

He lets go of you and goes to the front door. He opens it and beckons you both inside. Steve gestures you politely ahead of him.

You enter meekly and look around. The front mat is decorated in flowers. You slip out of your shoes and put them with the rest, shuffling out of the way of the men. You look at the pictures on the wall. A cross stitch of a garden, then a collage of photos; Bucky and Steve, from boys, to teens, to fresh out of college. Steve doesn't look much different but Bucky definitely filled out.

"Aw, she's here!" She voice startles you. You jump and look around. You expect a large woman given the buoyancy of the tone but instead, you find yourself accosted by a spindly woman with greying blonde hair.She grabs your arms and kisses both your cheeks. "And she's gorgeous. Ooh!" She drags her hands down your sleeves. "This is beautiful. Stunning, like you."

"Oh, hello, uh, thanks," you flutter your lashes.

"Oh my, forgive me. I do get--" she stops and takes a step back. She puts her hand on her chest then balls it and covers her mouth. She rattles as she coughs.

Steve sidles past you, "ma." He takes a canister out of his pocket and shakes it. He puts the inhaler to her mouth as she drops her hand.

She inhales deeply several times as he rubs her back. Her cheeks are flush as she smiles at you. "Forgive me. Promise, I'm not contagious."

"They know, ma," Steve puts the cap back on the inhaler.

"It's alright. Are you?" You ask.

She tilts her head, "of course I am. You're so sweet. Come here."

You cautiously move forward, resisting the urge to look back. She takes your hand gently and pulls you with her. Her hand is frail in hers.

"You better be careful with Bucky," she tuts. "He's a rebel, that one."

"Sarah," he calls after her.

"This is a lady's chat, sir," she juts her finger into the air. "Now, he's a whole lotta bluster, let me tell you. So you're going to need to give him a firm swat now and again."

You hear a sigh and a snort. You can guess who issued which noise. Mrs. Rogers takes you down the hall and through the kitchen.

"Such a lovely day, I set us up outside. Oh, you should sit in the shade, dear. Wouldn't want you to burn." She hooks your arm through hers then opens the door, angling you through with her. "You're too pretty for him. Don't let him forget it."

"Oh, thanks, Mrs--"

"Missus? I'm Sarah, dear." She rebukes. "Tell me all about you."

She brings you to a cushioned wicker sofa and sits with you. You can hear the men come through the door as you blink against the bright sunlight. You nervously smile.

"Me?"

"Sure, dear. You know, I see Bucky on the television. He's got those pretty women hanging off of him but he never brings them home. Never. But you, I heard all about you. From him, and I know better than to believe everything he says."

Bucky sits in one of the wicker chairs on the other side of the table. You glance over. There are platters of fruits and veggies and artisinal crackers and cheese. The rest is hidden under lids.

"I... I like to read. He got me some books. I like the older stories. Um. Jane Eyre?" You explain.

"Smart, oh yes, he needs a smart one." She praises.

"Well, not... really. I didn't... Didn't get to go to school."

"What's school?" She cooes. "You don't need all that." She pats your hand gently. "Family?"

"My mom and sister," you answer as you twiddle your fingers on the bench.

"Oh, how lovely. You'll have to bring them next time."

"Good idea," Bucky intones.

She hisses and snaps her hand like a crocodile mouth in his direction. His brows arch. "I've seen the others. I'm certain they are all lovely but it's all too showy. You have to temper him."

You nod, sweltering in self-awareness and the gaze of the man she speaks of.

"You can. I see it." She cups your cheek. "You have a witch's eyes."

You tweak your head. You've never been told that before. She cackles.

"I know it because you bewitched him!" She lets you go and guffaws as she claps. "And he's the biggest ox I've ever known."

"Ma," Bucky crosses his arms.

She laughs and rocks until she is one more out of breath. Steve offers the inhaler and she takes it. Sucking on it as she keeps a grin fixed on her lips.

"Well, I went to all this trouble," she waves her hands to the table, "don't you go wasting it."

🃏

The smell of pollen pervades as Sarah touches your ear. You look at her in surprise as she puts a flower behind your ear. The pink petals are a blur in your peripheral.

"Oh, thanks," you fold your hands.

"It suits you," she smiles. "Now, Bucky," she curls her finger at him. "Come."

He gets up obediently. He approaches and she reaches for his hand. It's giant compared to hers. She takes yours too.

"You take her away before I try to keep her," she says as she puts your hand in his. "I've got lots of cleaning up to do."

"Let us help," Bucky insists.

"No, no. I will not have it. You came and brightened my morning." She squeezes his hand around yours. "Now go. Stevie will help clean up."

Plates clink and you look over. Her son is already stacking up the porcelain. He shows his teeth.

"Oh, well, it was nice to meet you, Sarah." You stand. "Thank you for having me."

"Thank you for coming. I know old women aren't great company."

"I had a good time," you assure her.

"I'd say you're too nice but I can tell you're honest." She turns her sights on Bucky. "Don't mess it up."

"Yes, ma," he bands and kisses her cheek.

He stands and gently tugs you up. She rubs her cheek as she makes a face.

"And get rid of that beard. It's scratchy." She reprimands.

He laughs. You dip your chin down. "Thanks again. Uh, bye then."

"You'll be back," she winks.

Bucky draws you away to the back door. You go inside and down the hall. You stop to step into your shoes. His hand rests on your lower back to steady you.

"She's right. Flower's pretty on you," he swirls his fingertips against your dress.

"Thanks," you look at him.

"And what do you think?" He flicks a long strand of his hair behind his ear then brushes his fingers over his beard. "You want me to get rid of it?"

"Hm?" You turn to him fully and his hand drags to your hip.

"The beard? You like it?"

"I... I don't mind it. It's nice," you shrug.

"Oh, it looks nice but..." he leans down. "Does it feel nice?"

You squeak as your eyes round. "Bucky."

"Those noises you were making, I think so." He purrs.

"Please, I..." you try to see past him.

"Mm, what do you wanna do now? More fun? Can I get on my knees again?"

You put your hand on his arm. "Bucky," your face washes with heat. "I... I have to go see my mom. She'll be worried."

"Mmmm," he hums. "I know, doll, but I need you."

His pelvis twitches and you chew your lip. He watches your mouth and you dig your toe into the floor.

"Let me go home and I'll come back tonight."

"Tonight?" He asks.

"Yes. But I do need to see her."

"Alright," he relents. "But what about tonight? What are we going to do?"

You look side to side, "whatever you want."

He snickers, "don't say that... I said I'd be patient."

You nod and smile nervously.

"How about we go gambling?" He suggests. "We'll sit at a few tables, have some drinks, and then... we can cuddle again."

You rub your neck, once more touching the bruise he left. "Okay, yeah. Um. That's cool."

"Sounds like a plan," he frames your face and leans in. "I'll try to keep my clothes on."

[hungermakesmonsters]

The Red Ribbon

Chapter Two

Plot Summary : By day you’re Billy Russo’s clumsy PA, but by night you’re a host at New York City’s most exclusive gentlemen's club. At The Red Ribbon everyone is anonymous and masks conceal the identities of patrons and hosts alike. But your two lives are about to collide and Billy Russo is about to see a whole new side of you without even realising it..

Pairing : Billy Russo x Reader

Story Rating : R 

Warnings : [This is a fic for 18+ only, minors DNI] Smutty behaviour. All chapters will deal with smutty themes and include mentions/suggestions of sex work/work at a gentlemen's club (don't like, don't read). Please check the warnings on each chapter if you choose to follow this story. 

Word Count : 6.1k

A/N : I was feeling well enough to finally get this chapter finished!

CHAPTER ONE

Master List

Chapter Two

The morning after, it felt like it had all been part of some weird, misremembered dream. The kind of dream that you’d wake from with a sense of longing, wishing that a man like that could be real. But it hadn’t been real. That was the point of The Red Ribbon; nothing that happened there was real.

Still, you found yourself thinking about those dark eyes, about your little game and the things he’d let slip about himself.

Not to mention the way he’d promised to find you again. 

You laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling, thinking about how things might be if your life was just a little bit different, if you’d met him somewhere else.

But that was stupid. If you’d met him outside of The Red Ribbon, it would have been you and not Bunny that he’d met, and you were certain that he wouldn’t like who you were behind the mask.

Reluctantly, you pulled yourself from your warm bed and got ready for your day. As you stepped into the foyer of Anvil, you hoped that Mr Russo wouldn’t be there and that he’d been lying about turning up at 5am. All you wanted was a nice, quiet morning where you could get things done without him making you feel like crap.

But you weren’t that lucky. 

As you reached your desk, you could hear him on the phone - you only caught snatched words, but it sounded like he was trying to describe someone - but you thought nothing of it as you sat down and opened your laptop.

You were gifted ten wonderful minutes before his office door opened.

“I need everything we have on the Harris deal and I want my lunch at one,” he instructed.

“Yes, Mr Russo,” you said automatically, reaching for a pen. “What would you like for lunch?”

“Fettuccine Alfredo,” he said, “But get it from that place on 53rd, not the place on 38th.”

“Okay. And do you want your morning coffee yet?”

“Yes. In fact, get it as soon as you’ve pulled those files for me,” he continued before pausing a beat, “and don’t make a mess of them.”

“Okay.”

Then he was gone, leaving you to diligently set about your tasks for the day. 

Getting his coffee went without a hitch, and so did his lunch order, but the files he requested weren’t so easy. 

You managed to get almost all of them ready for him, but there was one - an important financial document, that was giving you problems.

You stared at the screen, trying every way you knew to open the files, only to be met by the same Corrupted File message. You called down to IT, desperately begging someone to come and have a look.

You’d met Ryan on your first day with Anvil, he’d help set up your laptop and give you access to everything you’d need to do the job and, since then, you’d struck up something of a work-friendship with him. 

He leaned over you, looking at your laptop, clicking the file and going through - whatever tech magic it was that he thought might salvage the file. Eventually, he managed to find the file and you quickly sent it to print.

“There you go, nothing to it,” he said, smiling down at you, still leaning ever-so close to you.

“You’re a lifesaver, Ryan. Honestly, you have no idea how much shit I’d be in if -”

Ryan pulled back at the sound of a door opening and you both turned to find Billy Russo standing there.

“I was about to ask why my lunch was late, but I guess I don’t have to,” he said in that cold tone he seemed to reserve just for you.

Your eyes widened as you looked at the clock - fuck-fuck-fuck, you were supposed to have picked up his lunch twenty minutes ago.

Ryan muttered something of an apology and hastily made his way towards the door, seeing himself out.

Quickly, you got to your feet, knocking your desk and causing your water bottle to topple, soaking the desk as it rolled off and onto the carpet. You cringed, watching as water dripped off the desk and started to create a puddle on the floor.

“Jesus Christ, can’t you do anything without fucking up?” Russo sighed.

“I’m sorry, Mr Russo - there was an issue with one of the files so -”

“So you had to call someone from IT to come and flirt with you?” He said harshly. “Look, I don’t care about excuses, I just want you to do your fucking job, okay? It’s not fucking hard.”

“Yes, Mr Russo.”

“Now, clean up this fucking mess, and go get me my lunch. If you don’t have it on my desk before my meeting at two, don’t bother coming in tomorrow.”

You managed to hold back tears until his office door was shut, but you didn’t have time to wallow and cry, no matter how much you felt like you needed to. You threw yourself onto hands and knees and quickly mopped up the spillage before racing out of the building to hail a taxi.

He barely even bothered to look at you when you returned with his lunch with only fifteen minutes to spare, and you were almost certain that he’d wanted you to fail. He wanted a reason to fire you.

Dread followed you for the rest of the day, filling your chest like a weight that dragged you down the depths of despair. You weren’t sure what you’d do if you lost your job at Anvil, especially since you were certain that Mr Russo wouldn’t exactly offer you a glowing reference.

On your way home, you checked your bank account and realised that, once again, you were reaching the end of your overdraft. If you lost your job you were going to run out of money and then...

You didn’t want to think about then...

The next day followed the same pattern; the barista at Starbucks managed to fuck up Mr Russo’s coffee order, so he took it out on you, sending you back to get him fresh cup, despite the freezing cold rain.

By the time you were at home preparing for your next shift at The Red Ribbon, you knew what you were going to have to do.

You got there early, before the club even opened and, instead of getting changed straight away, you headed to the manager’s office. Fortunately, unlike your boss at Anvil, Val who ran The Red Ribbon was a lot more... approachable.

You went in with a whole speech prepared, about how you wanted to change your limits, but it wasn’t really needed.

Negotiated touching, meaning that physical touch wasn’t entirely off the table but patrons shouldn’t expect it. They would need to ask or, if the situation called for it, you would need to ask. And, still, you got to set your own limits, you got to say no and have Rocky deal with anyone who pushed your boundaries.

“Are you sure?” Val asked, looking for any sign of doubt. You gave a nod, not trusting your voice to not betray you. “And just what brought on this change of heart?”

You couldn’t tell her about Anvil, about the day job you were certain you were going to lose; it was too high profile, too dangerous, she’d see it as a conflict of interest, and the last thing you needed was for her to fire you.

You managed a shrug. “I just figured it was time. My rent is going up next month and I’m sick of scraping to get by.”

By rights you shouldn’t have been scraping by at all, even with just the money that you made from working at The Red Ribbon. Val shot you a questioning look, but she didn’t say anything, didn’t ask how you managed to burn through so much money so quickly. Everyone at The Red Ribbon had their own stories, you supposed, and you were no different and, while Val always did what she could to make sure everyone was safe and content, ultimately, she was there to make money too.

“Okay, as long as you’re sure you’re happy doing this.”

“I am. Really. I’ll be fine.”

And, that was that.

As you stepped out onto the club floor that night, wearing the fox mask, you were greeted by Rocky. It quickly became clear he knew that you’d changed your limits and, as he fitted your security bracelet for the evening, he was very clear about what you should do if you felt uncomfortable even for a second. Then, he followed you to the fox room and told you he’d be right outside all night.

Everything was fine.

It was shocking just how fine everything was. While touching was allowed, all you got was the occasional pat on the shoulder, a gesture that you returned in kind, but even with just that, you saw an increase in your tips by the end of the night.

Over the next few days, you found yourself almost forgetting about Tall, Dark and Handsome, as you lost yourself in trying to keep your head above water at Anvil, and making more money at The Red Ribbon.

It was a week to the day that you stood in front of the board, checking your room assignment for the night when you noticed that you were in the cat room, one of the smaller rooms in The Red Ribbon, usually only used when there were one or two patrons that wanted private service. There was a note beside your name in brackets; by request. 

Some of the hosts had repeat customers, people who were so impressed by their skills that they requested the same host every time, but it was the first time that it had ever happened to you.

It was him.

It had to be him.

Your heart stuttered as you made your way to the cat room, saying a quick hello to Rocky as you got your bracelet fitted. He must have sensed your nervousness because he asked you if you were alright, if you needed him outside the door just in case. You shrugged him off, told him it was fine.

You’d never hosted in the cat room before, so you took a few minutes to familiarise yourself with it and to make sure everything was clean and comfortable.

Then the door opened and your heart threatened to stop completely.

“Bunny.”

His voice sent a shiver down your spine and brought a smile to your lips.

You tapped the cat mask on your face. “Not tonight.”

“You can put on any mask you want but you’ll still be my Bunny,” he said without a second of hesitation.

(His Bunny?)

Your breath caught as he stepped towards you, your head tilting back slightly the closer he got so that you could see his dark eyes.

“I told you I’d find you again,” he said.

“You did,” you said, trying desperately to calm your racing heart. “Though, I’m not sure if it counts as cheating to pay to find me.”

You smirked at him and watched as he considered the comment.

“I play to my strengths,” he said, shrugging.

“Money is a strength?”

“It is if you have it,” he answered.

He took another step, until there was no space left between you.

“Can I -” he started to ask but then seemed uncertain of something, “- am I allowed to touch you?”

His hand flexed as his side, his fingers seemed to itch and strain, wanting nothing more than to reach for you.

“Yes,” you answered softly, breathlessly.

Slowly, cautiously even, he reached for you, placing his hand on your cheek, just below the mask. Your eyes closed and you leaned into the warmth of his hand.

“What changed?” He asked, still sounding uncertain.

It took you a couple of seconds to figure out what he meant; when you’d last seen him a week ago, you’d been strictly hands off but, now, you were letting him touch you. You shrugged and shook your head a little.

“Doesn’t matter.”

Your hand rose to hold his, keeping it pressed against your cheek for a few more seconds before pulling it away and using it to lead him towards the sofa.

With a playful smile, you pushed him down onto the sofa and reached down to frame his face with your hands. As he looked up at you, it struck you just how tired he looked, and it brought about a strange want inside of you; the desire to take care of him.

“Let me get you a drink,” you said softly, lingering for a few more seconds before pulling away from him.

The bar was a lot smaller in this private room than the one you’d met him in, mostly meant for solo patrons and mostly those that wanted to do a lot more than just touch. Still, the bar was well stocked, and it took you no time at all to fill a glass with some ice and pour him a healthy measure of scotch.

When you returned to him, he took the glass from your hand and looked at you with some confusion as you sat beside him, your leg pulled up onto the sofa so you could face him better.

“Seriously, what changed?” He asked again.

“Maybe I was just optimistic that you’d find me again,” you answered with a shrug.

“So you’re... you’re okay?”

Of course, you knew where the thought had to have come from; he couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that you were willing to let masked strangers touch you for money, and that there had to be some terrible reason behind it.

“I’m fine,” you told him, reaching to cup his cheek, “so stop worrying about me and drink your drink.”

As if taking your words as a challenge, he lifted his glass and knocked it back in one go. Then, he seemed to settle a little, sitting back and fixing his dark eyes on you. You relieved him of the empty glass and placed it on the table, quickly returning your full attention to him.

“You look tired,” you said, the hand on his cheek moving, slipping your fingers into his hair.

“It’s been a long week.”

His eyes flickered shut and you heard him let out a soft sigh.

“Want to talk about it?”

His head shook, eyes still closed. “Just work stuff I’d rather not think about.”

“Then what do you want to think about?” You asked playfully, hoping to lighten his mood.

“You.”

“What about me?” You prompted, still running your fingers through his hair.

“You kissed me.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to,” you said, letting your fingers still for a moment.

Your breath caught as his eyes opened and he looked at you again. There was something so unreadable in his dark eyes and you couldn’t tell if it was a warning or a promise. He didn’t say anything so you continued.

“And, I think you wanted me to kiss you,” you said before pausing for a beat. “Didn’t you?”

That got a smile from him, that same little smirk that had been stuck in your mind since the last time you’d seen him.

“Wanted to do more than kiss you, Bunny.”

“Yeah, you did,” you said, barely holding back a smirk.

He laughed, daring to reach for you again, his hand on your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lips.

“What is it about you?” He asked softly. “How is it that I feel so at ease when I'm with you?”

Your heart stuttered in your chest and you felt heat creep across your cheeks. It took every ounce of common sense at your disposal to remind yourself that the moment wasn't real and that, if he was face to face with the real you, he probably wouldn't be interested.

“The mask,” you offered, “or the fact that there's no expectations beyond this moment. We can be whoever we want to be right now and no one can say that we can't.”

“And who do you want to be right now, Bunny?”

“I want to be your Bunny.”

He seemed almost taken aback by your answer, shifting in his seat, leaning closer to you.

“You want to be mine?”

“For the night.”

“Just for the night?”

Your expression softened and turned into something a little sadder, knowing that you couldn't indulge him even though some part of you desperately wanted to.

“Let's not ruin it by thinking about later,” you said, forcing a smile to your lips. “Let's just enjoy now. Do you want another drink?”

“No, I want another kiss,” he said with all the confidence of a man who usually got exactly what he wanted.

“Oh, you do, do you?” You asked playfully.

Your fingers stilled and, instead, lightly gripped his hair as you lost yourself in his gaze. You knew that you were playing a dangerous game and, while you might have wanted to tell yourself that it was just the job and that all of this was just because he had paid for your time,  there was more to it than that. It was silly but, some part of you wanted it to be real.

After the week you’d had, you wanted a moment where you didn’t feel useless, a moment where you felt wanted, even if the whole thing was just some ridiculous fantasy.

And, maybe, that was exactly what he wanted too, some escape from reality for an evening.

“I do,” he said, but made no attempt to close the distance between you.

He was giving you the choice. He wasn’t demanding or forcing it just because he was paying for your time.

With a smile on your lips, you leaned towards him and kissed him. It was nothing special, just a light peck on the lips, but it felt like so much more. It felt like a promise, an offer of something wonderful, but only for the next few hours.

His hand slipped to your neck, fingers resting above your racing pulse, and you could tell from the slight narrowing of his eyes he could tell that your heart was beating for him in that moment.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

“Don’t thank me. I wanted to kiss you.”

Reluctantly, you let your fingers slip from his hair and you sat back beside him, creating a little bit of space between you. As much as you wanted to keep kissing him, you didn’t want to rush or put yourself in a situation that you’d regret.

“So, should I ask how much money you had to spend to make this happen?” You asked, smiling playfully.

“Oh, an obscene amount,” he said, grinning straight back at you.

“Obscene?”

“A truly disgusting amount.”

“You rich guys, you think you can throw your money around and get whatever you want, don’t you?” You asked with mock indignation. 

“I told you, Bunny; I always get what I want.”

You burst out laughing, amused by how serious he managed to sound. Though, in all honesty, you were trying not to actually think about how much he must have paid to make this happen. It was both unsettling and exhilarating to think that anyone might want to spend that sort of money just to be around you.

“You might always get what you want, but I’m starting to think you rarely get what you need,” you told him before getting to your feet.

You grabbed his glass from the table and headed back to the bar, this time bringing the scotch bottle back alone with a fresh glass of ice.

“You think this is what I need?” He asked as you refiled the glass and set the bottle down.

“No, I think what you need is a good night’s sleep,” you told him softly, sinking back onto the sofa beside me. “When was the last time you slept more than a couple of hours?” 

A subtle shift in things followed, a clumsy sort of tension, as if you’d shattered the illusion that you’d both been trying to hide in. For a moment he looked at you and you almost braced yourself to be told it was none of your fucking business. After all, who were you to say such things to him?

“It’s been a rough couple of months,” he said, giving an uncomfortable shrug and you noticed an awkward sort of tension in his shoulder.

Without thinking, you reached for him again and began to softly massage where his shoulder and neck met. He let out what could only be described as a relieved sigh and, for a few seconds, he let his eyes close.

“Are you always so tense, or is this just the effect that I have on you?” You teased.

“I’d be lying if I said you didn’t inspire a certain sort of tension... well, it’s more of a stiffness really...”

Your fingers squeezed a little tighter on his shoulder. “Oh, really? Sounds uncomfortable.”

“I’ll survive.”

You managed to hold your composure for all of two seconds before bursting into laughter. He joined you and you couldn’t help but wonder how often he got to laugh like that. Not often, if you had to hazard a guess.

“I guess I should be flattered,” you said once you managed to stop laughing.

“Is that your way of telling me that you haven’t given me a second thought since the other night?” He asked, almost pouting.

You bit your lip, torn between brutal honesty and the safer option.

“I might have briefly considered you, once or twice,” you confessed.

It was a dangerous game, and a silly one considering you knew nothing about him. In fact, the whole thing was a little ridiculous; both of you were acting like your first meeting had been more than a couple of hours of silly comments made across a bar. Both of you were acting like it had meant something.

But it was hard to deny that there had been some spark of connection and, as childish as you felt for indulging it, you wanted more.

You watched as he took another drink and, again, drained his glass.

“Tell me, when you were considering me, were you considering anything in particular?” He asked.

“Hmm,” you hummed, appearing lost in thought for a moment, “I can’t really remember.”

Before he could answer, you leaned forward, reaching for the bottle on the table when, suddenly, you felt his arms around you, pulling you onto his lap. Fingers cold from gripping his glass found your chin and he angled your face towards his so he could kiss you. 

This time it wasn’t just some chaste peck on the lips. His tongue pressed against the seam of your mouth and your lips parted for him, letting him deepen the kiss while your fingers fisted the fabric of his jacket. His lips tasted of scotch and desire, and it was easy to lose yourself in the moment.

When the kiss finally broke, you let out a contented hum, your eyes remaining shut for a few long seconds. 

“That’s what I was considering,” you said, lips pulling into a smirk again.

“Then maybe I should do it again.”

Before you could even think, his lips were on yours again. You fingers ended up back in his hair, gripping the dark strands and pulling him closer, keeping him against your lips as you kissed.

No one had ever kissed you the way he did; hungrily, needily, like he thought he might die if he didn’t have just one more taste of your lips.

And that was how the evening went from there; teasing playful comments interspersed with kisses that seemed to demand more and more.

You felt like your grip on your sanity was slowly loosening and it wouldn’t be long until it was gone entirely. Here was a man you didn’t know, a man whose face you’d never seen, but you were more than willing to spend the whole night on his lap making out with him as if he was your true love.

Every time you caught yourself thinking about it, you tried to rationalise it; he was a customer and this was what he wanted. 

You were both adults who understood the situation.

(Right?)

Eventually you moved from his lap to refill his glass, wanting to at least make a show of being a good host, even though he pouted and complained that you weren’t allowed to drink with him. And, when you moved back towards him, you were quickly pulled back onto his lap, this time straddling him - so he could see you better, he explained with a smirk that tied your insides in knots.

You ran your fingers through his hair again, smiling at him as he sipped his scotch and stared right back.

“Tell me something real, something about you that no one else knows,” he said, still staring into your eyes.

“I like to go to the Rockefeller Center to watch the ice skaters in the winter,” you confessed as if it was some great and terrible thing.

“You just go to watch? You don’t skate?”

You shook your head and bit back a laugh. “No. I’m not... uh, I’m not very good at ice skating. I'm kinda clumsy, I'd spend all my time falling over...”

“I don't believe that, I've seen you balancing trays or drinks and walking around just fine.”

It was strange that you'd never stopped to think about it like that; you couldn't remember ever dropping anything while you were working at The Red Ribbon, while you were hiding behind the mask, but you could barely get through a day at Anvil without tripping over your own feet or making a mess of something. Maybe that was another benefit of spending your nights as someone else.

“Can you ice skate?” You ask, deciding to redirect the conversation.

“A little, but it's been years since I last tried.”

“You should go some time, have some fun,” you suggested. “You look like you need more fun in your life.”

“I've got all the fun I need right here, Bunny,” he answered back without hesitation. 

“I mean real fun, not…”

It struck you that you didn't even have a word for what this was. A fantasy. A pipe dream. A waste of his time - if you wanted to be brutally honest about it.

“Not what?” He asked, picking up on your moment of hesitation.

“I just mean that when you get bored of this - of me - you should do something fun for yourself, something that makes you smile,” you said with a shrug.

His head shook and you could see the confusion on his face despite the mask.

“Who says I'm going to get bored of this?”

“Come on, handsome, we both know how this goes...” you answered as gently as you could. “You can't just spend the rest of your life coming here to see me.”

“Why? Is someone gonna stop me?”

He gave your thigh a gentle squeeze and, realistically, you knew that you should be at least a little bit concerned. He was a customer, this was your job. It wasn’t like you’d just met each other in some bar or coffee shop, and there was really only one sort of person who wanted to come to a place like The Red Ribbon to see the same host every night. But he didn’t seem like that, it didn’t act like some lonely weirdo who thought it was something more than it was.

“You’ll run out of money,” you joked.

“I can always make more.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Impossible to refuse,” he countered.

That had you laughing again, resting your hand above his heart, and shaking your head. You leaned forwards, your masked forehead against his, eyes closing tight.

“Carry on like this and I might actually start believing you,” you said softly.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he answered just as quietly.

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours again and his arm was pulling you closer. The kiss seemed more desperate as he tried to prove what he was telling you was true, and the longer it went on, the more you believed him.

Your chest pressed against his and he groaned into the kiss. A moment later you felt him between your thighs, a hard ridge tenting his pants. His hand moved to your hip, pulling you against him as he pressed upwards, grinding himself against you. You let out a soft moan into the kiss that only got louder as he took your bottom lip between his teeth.

Fuck.

You knew that you should stop but you couldn’t, so you did the next best thing and tried to take control of the situation, making sure he was at your mercy and not the other way around. 

You pulled back a fraction and let your hands glide down the front of his shirt, all the way down to his waistband. Ignoring the trembling in your fingers, you quickly unbuckled his belt and made a strat on the fastenings of his pants. His breath caught as you tugged down the zipper and you hesitated, offering him a brief split-second to tell you to stop. When he didn’t, you slipped your hand into his pants and beneath his boxers to pull out his cock.

Your eyes widened as they travelled down his body to look at him, hard and growing harder still in your grasp. Thick, long and perfect, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. For you. He was hard for you.

“Fuck,” you muttered before you could think to stop yourself.

And he just laughed.

“See something you like, Bunny?”

Instead of answering you bit your lip and started to stroke him, slowly running your hand up and down his shaft. His mouth went slack and his head dropped back, and you paid attention to every little sound and flicker of pleasure on his face, learning exactly how he liked to be touched. Your grip tightened and your hand twisted ever so slightly, and the groan that left him sent a bolt of pleasure straight to your core.

He leaned forward, pressing his lips to your neck, trailing wet kisses along the column of your throat until you almost forgot that you were the one giving him pleasure.

You didn’t snap back to reality until you felt his lips start to suck the skin just above where the red ribbon sat around your neck. Quickly, your free hand gripped his hair and gave a gentle tug.

“You can’t mark me,” you told him quietly but firmly.

The disappointed grunt he gave was almost enough to have you reconsidering, but he was quickly distracted by your hand.

His cock throbbed in your grasp, veins pulsing in time with his racing heart.

“You like that?” You muttered in a soft and sultry tone. “You like me stroking your cock?”

“Yes - fuck, Bunny - yes,” he groaned.

“Are you gonna come for me?” 

There was no telling where your new found confidence had come from, you’d never been the sort to engage in dirty talk before but something about the moment made you feel powerful. That you, of all people, could have some powerful, wealthy man trembling beneath your touch was an intoxicating feeling.

“Come for me, handsome. Show me how much you like me.”

You watched as his jaw set and his teeth gritted, like he was trying to hold back, like he wanted the moment to go on and on. It only made your hand move faster, fingers twisting around his shaft.

When he continued to deny you, your fingers in his hair tightened their hold again, pulling his head up and forcing him to look you in the eye.

And that was all it took.

His cock started to twitch and you felt warm cum running over your hand, but all the while you held his gaze, enjoying the desperate little sounds that were escaping him.

“Fuck, Bunny,” he groaned, breathless and boneless as he sank back against the sofa.

You gave him a triumphant smirk, your hand still gripping his cock as it started to soften. When you finally pulled it away, you lifted it to your mouth and made a show of slowly licking his cum from one of your fingers.

After a moment more, you slowly stood, ignoring your shaking legs as you headed towards the bar to grab a towel to clean up with. You quickly rinsed your hand before returning to him, kneeling between his legs and tenderly wiping him clean.

When you were about to pull away again, you were stopped by his hand on your chin, tilting your head up.

“Tell me it’s not just about the money,” he said.

Your heart almost stopped at the request.

As much as you’d been trying to tell yourself that you were playing the part of Bunny, it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true, not with him.

“It’s not about the money,” you answered, feeling your cheeks start to heat, “I wouldn’t’ve done that with you for money.”

It felt like the most honest thing you’d said to him so far. If he’d asked, if he’d thrown money at you like so many men had since you started hosting at The Red Ribbon, you would have told him no. 

No, you’d done it because you wanted to because, regardless of how strange and fucked up the circumstances were, you enjoyed his company, even if you were both hiding behind your masks.

But, it seemed that he wasn’t willing to hide behind masks anymore.

You recoiled the second you felt his fingers nudging the cat mask upwards, your fingers tugging it back into place.

“Don’t,” you said, begged. “Don’t ruin this.”

“I - I’m sorry. I just - fuck, Bunny - I just want to see you.”

He sat forward and his hand found your shoulder, offering a gentle and reassuring squeeze that really didn’t help matters.

“We can’t. That’s not how this works,” you told him, trying to keep the regret from spilling into your voice.

He nodded and started to tuck himself back into his pants. You took the opportunity to pull back and get to your feet.

Then he was standing, pulling his jacket back on. He reached for you and pulled your body to his, holding you tight as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. 

“I told you, Bunny. I always get what I want. And I want you.”

Despite his playful tone, there was a gravity to his words, something that caused your heart to stutter. When you looked up, he caught your lips in another eager kiss, and you let him. You kissed him back, once again losing yourself in the fantasy that this could be something more than what it was, that this could be real.

Then, he was gone, leaving you with the unspoken promise that this thing between you was far from over.

You didn’t sleep that night, laying in bed, tossing and turning, trying to get the thought of him from your mind. The only thing that helped was your vibrator, though once you’d made yourself come, you were right back at square one, trying to figure out what the fuck you were going to do.

Fortunately, when you turned up at Anvil the next morning, you were happy to find an email from Mr Russo telling you that he’d be out of office all day, meaning that you could work in peace.

On your way home, you found yourself heading towards the Rockefeller Center, stopping on the way to grab a coffee. You snuggled into your thick coat, occasionally glancing up at the sky, idly wondering if it was going to snow over Christmas.

When you reached the rink, you slowly made your way through the crowd, enjoying getting lost in the hustle and bustle until you saw a familiar face across the ice.

Billy Russo.

It didn’t click straight away - all you could think about was why would you boss be there - but when he reached up to brush back his hair and covered the top half of his face for a split second, the familiarity hit you like a brick.

It was him.

Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome was Billy Russo.

A/N : I hate being ill so much... 0/10 do not recommend (though it did give me time to finally start playing Black Ops 6 which I do recommend). Anyway hopefully I managed to get most of the dumb typos in this one. I know this story probably seems a bit faster than most of my fics but since this is only going to be three parts (or four if I get carried away) I didn't want to spend a lot of time on slow burn or b-plots. Plus it's a Christmas story and I want to finish it while it's still seasonal . Any way, I hope you're all having fun with this one because I certainly am.

Thanks for reading, hope you all have a great week (enjoy new years and stay safe!!)

Let me know if you want to be tagged!

Tag List : @lincerad @xxxsweetcarolinexxx @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @dreadfulxives18 @shwnirwin

@ladyblacky @spitecrow @oliviaewl @snowkestrel @benbarnesprettygurl

[venus-haze]

Reach Out, Touch Faith (Father Charlie Mayhew x Reader)

Summary: Day 22 - Thigh Riding. Someone to hear your prayers, someone who cares.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. No spoilers for the show in this fic. I finally caught up on Grotesquerie and had to write something for Father Charlie! Shoutout to @leopard-skin-pillbox-hat-ok for even putting this show on my radar. Title comes from Personal Jesus by Depeche Mode.

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings: Sexually explicit content involving a member of the clergy, thigh riding, some degradation.

Only Father Charlie could walk the line between a wet dream and a saint. You found this out rather quickly after becoming a parishioner. It’d been years since you went to church, but moving to the small town offered little in the way of a social life outside of work, so you swallowed your pride and began showing up to mass, and then getting involved in everything from the soup kitchen to movie nights. He didn’t judge you when you admitted you were there to make friends. In fact, he encouraged it.

“People feel increasingly isolated these days,” he had told you. “The church used to be a place for people to meet and make connections, I’m glad it’s serving you that way. Gives me hope for the future of our parish.”

After just a few weeks, people actually got to know you, to the point where you were invited to get coffee with some or join others for dinner. But in your heart, you knew you were mostly showing up for Father Charlie. Especially since he followed you on Instagram, and you almost considered softblocking him so he couldn’t see what you were up to. Morbid curiosity got the better of you, and you followed him back, dragged to the depths your desire by the videos of him exercising on his feed—his toned muscles flexing, skin glimmering with sweat. Your hand flew to your mouth when he squirted water from a bottle on himself. What the fuck kind of priest even did that?

You could hardly look him in the eye the next time you saw him. When he cornered you after a book club meeting, it was almost like he knew.

“You know, for everything you’re involved in, all of the meetings and events you show up to, I’ve never had you for confession,” he said.

It was the way he said it—had you—that made you take pause. As if his being a priest obscured something close to lust, almost implied consummation.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to know who’s confessing,” you said.

“I’d know your voice.”

“I guess I’m just scared, Father.”

“Of what? God’s judgment?” he asked. “He’s merciful if you bring your sins to Him.”

“More along the lines of what you’ll think of me.”

He smiled. “You haven’t killed anyone, have you?”

“God, no!”

“Well, there’s blasphemy,” he joked. “Come by tomorrow at seven. No one else will be here. No pressure.”

Sitting in the confessional almost made you feel claustrophobic. You didn’t know what to do with your hands, so you folded them across your lap, waiting for Father Charlie to speak from the other side of the screen.

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

You paused, trying to remember an exact date, but nothing came to mind. “A few years, probably.”

“That’s alright. What sins do you bring forward today?”

“I don’t know,” you lied.

“You don’t know?” he repeated incredulously.

“No. I can’t think of anything.”

He scoffed. You could practically see the sneer on his face through the screen. “I can list off some. Pride, selfishness, leading others into temptation—do you have any idea what you’re capable of doing? The depths you can cause a man to sink to? The sins of the flesh proliferate every aspect of our modern lives and you—you just—”

“Father?”

After a few moments of tense silence, he spoke your name softly. “I want you to leave the confessional. If there’s no one around, come over to my side.”

“What?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Against your better judgment, you left the confessional and rounded it to the other side. When you opened the door, he looked at you expectantly, curling his pointer and index fingers to beckon you inside.

You hesitated. Almost took a step back, except he reached for you, pulling you in with him. If you thought it was claustrophobic before, your body, cramped in so closely with his, would have been enough to make you anxious on its own, but the proximity, his body heat, his dark brown eyes blazing with a vengeful lust, drew a whine from you when you were maneuvered onto his lap, one of his thick thighs between your legs. You suddenly wished you hadn’t worn a skirt—knee-length, modest enough when you picked it out, but woefully inadequate for the way his hand slipped up it, his fingers brushing your pussy through your panties.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, dripping with arousal in the house of the Lord.”

Rage filled your chest at his taunt. “You have some fucking nerve to accuse me,” you hissed. “Your socials are shameless. I almost thought I was on OnlyFans, the way you flaunt yourself.”

“But you liked what you saw, didn’t you?” he pressed. “Why else would you have come to confession if not for your guilty conscience?” He flexed his muscular thigh beneath you, a pathetic sounding whimper echoing from your lips in the confessional. “Unless you’re only chasing lust, that fleeting, deadly sin.”

“For the love of God, put up or shut up,” you snapped.

He was at a loss for words, then, and letting your pride get the better of you, you kissed him—claiming him was more like it, sinking your teeth into his bottom lip until he shivered beneath you. 

Steadying yourself on his shoulders, you rocked your hips back and forth against his thigh, the friction from the fabric teasing your clit so perfectly, you couldn’t help the cry that tore from your throat until he silenced you with his mouth on yours. Sweat rolled down your back at your exertion, making your blouse stick to your skin, the confessional almost suffocatingly hot.

“Is this what you had in mind, Father?” you mocked, your voice husky and almost cruel, though you knew if anyone walked in, they’d be able to hear. Wouldn’t take very long for a keen listener to figure out what was going on. “Is this my penance?”

“God, yes,” he groaned, his strong hands kneading your ass.

You chased your orgasm, finally finding it when he moaned your name in your ear like a prayer. Rode out your ecstasy on his thigh, a sick thrill rushing through you at the thought of the wet spot you’d leave on his pants, the physical evidence of your debauchery, if the only witness to it was the ever-silent, omnipresent, judging eyes of God.

“Is that all, Father?” you asked breathlessly, glancing down at the prominent tent in his pants.

With a shaky sigh, he leaned his head back, palming his crotch. “Go—go say ten Hail Marys.” 

When you knelt down at the pew just outside of the confessional, you began the first of your penitent prayers with the sound of his groans and soft curses echoing in your ears.

[darsynia]

Adversarial 1/? (Bucky/Mechanic!Reader)

MCU MASTERLIST | RO ROLL MASTERLIST | gif by @dailybuckybarnes

Summary: The textbooks all say that finding your soulmate feels like figuring out your place in the world, something you’ve always thought was utter bullshit, but--

…but your soulmate has a mechanical arm

Word Count/Warnings: 4,000 | explicit sex

As 2/7 of my birthday fics for @ronearoundblindly, adVERsarial is a Soulmate AU 'enemies to lovers' with a brash, outspoken f!reader. Stay tuned for more, and feel free to drop a comment if you'd like to be on the tag list!

Excerpt:

“Are you the lead mechanic? Stark said I could find them here.”

“I am, and I’ll be honest, I’m more than a little bummed out that those aren’t the words written all over my mitt, here,” you tell Captain America, holding up your (grime-covered, unreadable) left hand.

A ripple of… something tugs his eyebrow upward for a few seconds, and he smiles politely. “I get that a lot.”

You feel the burn of triumph in your chest and move in for the killing blow. “Oh really? I wish you’d kept a list, Rogers, because I’d love to meet more female mechanics.”

Adversarial

Your soulmate can go straight to hell.

First of all, your Words are written on your fucking hand, and it almost takes up the whole thing! Who the fuck thought that was okay?

Schools don’t let you cover your hands, did your jerkface soulmate ever think of that? No? Classic.

Oh, and then there are the bullies. So. Many. Bullies. Telling the new kids to come up and say the words to greet you was predictable, but exploiting teachers’ inherent laziness-- ‘but Mrs. DoNothing, I was just reading the words off her hand!’ --was icing on the shit sundae.

You graduated from that hellhole, moved as far away as possible, and got a job that would cover you in gunk so you wouldn’t have to think about your Words every single day.

Now it’s seven years later and your boss asks you to come along on his fancy-ass job at the Avenger Hideout in upstate New York. You’re sure you’ll be kicked to the curb when you meet Stark himself, though. The man is snark incarnate, and you can rarely pass up an opportunity to mouth off.

“‘Sit down and shut up if you want to stay alive,’” he quotes, right after the handshake. The smug look on his face is warranted, because working with the Avengers is one of the few times your soulmate words apply to regular life.

“Yeah I’ll stay standing if it’s all the same to you,” you smile, with too many teeth and everything. You usually choose something more spicy, but you really want this job. Besides, Stark’s soulmark words are well known, so you don’t have to speak to history here.

“As long as you keep your death wish to yourself like everyone else in the asylum, we’re cool. Welcome aboard.”

The Avengers Compound is pretty sweet, actually, and your coworkers don’t seem like the typical stooges. It takes almost a month to persuade them that you really do enjoy the dirtiest, toughest jobs, and after that everything is smooth, filthy sailing. It’s always a good day if you end it needing a long, hot shower and half a bottle of degreasing soap.

There’s an iPad mounted within floor-view for people to text you if they need something. It doubles as your personal DJ, so when the sound cuts out, you slide your ass out from underneath the Quinjet you were servicing to find a pair of boots standing next to it. As you rise gracefully (read: clamber) to your feet, their owner speaks.

“Are you the lead mechanic? Stark said I could find them here.”

“I am, and I’ll be honest, I’m more than a little bummed out that those aren’t the words written all over my mitt, here,” you tell Captain America, holding up your (grime-covered, unreadable) left hand.

A ripple of… something tugs his eyebrow upward for a few seconds, and he smiles politely. “I get that a lot.”

You feel the burn of triumph in your chest and move in for the killing blow. “Oh really? I wish you’d kept a list, Rogers, because I’d love to meet more female mechanics.”

Until this point, he’d been holding himself like the soldier that he is, with the same stiff courtesy you’d seen from his rare television appearances. That all falls away, now. Rogers clears his throat, hitting his fisted hand on his chest as though knocking loose his initial impression of you, then extends that hand out for you to shake.

Your eyebrows skyrocket at just how much grease he’ll end up with if he goes through it, but Captain America’s outstretched hand doesn’t waver.

It’s time for you to knock loose your first impression. You give him a respectful nod and grasp his hand firmly. The grip slips as you shake, but you don’t offer any apology, and Rogers doesn’t seem to need one, not even when there’s a squishing sound as you both disengage. You take pity on the man and snag him a blue towel from your workbench.

“So, what do you need that Stark couldn’t Lord it down here and ask for himself?”

The towel is doing nothing. “We’ve got a mission coming up that will involve some repair work mid-way. Refugee camp in the middle of a regional conflict, with aggressors who like to send self-destructive drones to ruin our day. Army thinks it’s cheaper if it’s us, and not them.” He gestures towards your large tool bag. “We’d like to get in, get fixed back up, and get out in a hurry, and Stark says you’re the…” he pauses.

“Say it.”

“‘Gremlin’ for the job,” he says, apologetically offering back the newly-soiled towel with his still-soiled hand.

“Sounds about right. Have his Jeeves give me the details, yeah?” You start whistling as you scooch back down to finish up the job you’d been working on when Rogers had come in. It takes a not-inconsiderable amount of time for him to walk back out, and you count that as a win.

They were… not kidding about the danger of the mission.

The trip out had been unpleasant as hell, gaining you some unwanted on-the-job experience with what it’s like being motion-sick under fire. As expected, the vehicle is hit by two diligent little destructo-bots, but you take care of the first one handily. Getting the second off and its damage mitigated is made more difficult by the urgency in the comms.

The team is on the way with the refugees in tow, and they want to take off as soon as they get back. Doing that with unknown damage is a terrible idea.

“All right, you heat-seeking little bot-barnacle, you ARE coming off, even if I have to pry off a panel of the ship to do it!” you snap, five minutes later. You're bluffing, since can’t even tell if the damned thing’s done any damage or if the sum total of its effect is ‘skewering the hull and sitting there smug as hell about it.’ The team is getting closer and closer, and the pounding of your heart is so loud you can hear it like a drumbeat in your ears.

They turn out to be footfalls, not your heartbeat.

A metal hand appears out of utterly nowhere and grabs the attack drone, ripping it out of the hull and throwing it with enough force to send it a half mile away. You’re left with your mouth hanging open as the owner of the hand (the arm. It’s an arm, and it’s the most gorgeous piece of machinery you’ve ever, ever seen) turns to face you. He’s wearing tactical gear and a sour expression, and every one of your blood vessels have converted themselves to gasoline at the very sight of him.

“That’s quite an arm you’ve got, soldier,” you quip.

His face twists into fierce fury as he points to the ramp leading into the Quinjet. “Sit down and shut up if you want to stay alive.”

For once in your life, you do what you’re told without complaint or combativeness. The phrase ‘internal combustion’ has never been so apt. The textbooks all say that finding your soulmate feels like figuring out your place in the world, something you’ve always thought was utter bullshit, but--

…but your soulmate has a mechanical arm.

The rest of the team shows up mere seconds later, and from there you’re caught up in the whirlwind of weight balancing, choosing what to ditch to fit every last person in the vehicle. For a few crazy minutes, it seems your grouchy soulmate might be left behind to fend for himself (you have no idea who he is, but you’re completely certain this man could wipe out the entire platoon that Rogers says is heading their way), but you and Stark figure out an overspeed hack that can work for just long enough to get somewhere safe.

You’re too busy keeping your ride in the air to think about anything else, and once you’re all back on solid ground, disembarking is a madhouse. You and Stark are the last two off the thing. He flips up his helmet and gives you one of his thousand-watt smiles.

“Great job today. Forgot to tell you Barnes was with us for this one.”

“Barnes?” you ask, distractedly running your calloused fingers over the rift where the perfect man had pulled out the drone. It looks like a patch might work, rather than having to get a piece machined. 

“James 'Bucky' Barnes. The Vodka Popsicle?” Stark comes over and makes a show of frowning at the way you’re just shrugging. “See, if you were fun, you’d be pretending you have no idea so you can milk me of all the good nicknames.”

The soulmate thing is burning a fuse in the back of your mind, and you don’t have enough left in your tank to banter. “I really don’t know, Motor Mouth. I just kept my head down and did my job.”

You smack the hull of the Quinjet and start toward the elevator bank, secretly pleased with your own stupid nickname. ‘Barnes’ sounds familiar, but you can’t place the name.

“Come on, CS, you had to have seen his arm!”

This stops you in your tracks so quickly you can almost hear the record scratch sound. Right at that moment, you realize where you heard the name Bucky Barnes: in your high school history class! This has to be fake, some stupid Superhero hazing or something.

You spin on your heel, about to accuse Stark of only remembering the name because he had a hot teacher that day, but at the very last minute you remember his father was a WWII war hero. Fine, you can go with 'snark overload' instead. “Friend of your dad’s, then? What happened? Time machine?”

“Fascist Russian trauma, actually,” he says, herding you into the elevator. “JARVIS, can you take over? I need to fly home to the Missus.”

“Wait, Stark--” He’s in the air before you can finish objecting.

One enlightening elevator ride later, you make your way to your workshop in a trance. This whole thing is a coincidence. It has to be. The man has gone through hell, vanquished hell, joined its army only to claw his way out... and his reward is what?

You?

“Took you long enough,” a voice says from the darkest corner of the space. You don’t have to guess who it is. There’s only one person it could be.

“That’s funny as hell in context, you know that?” Shit. Even to your own ears, you sound defensive. “Look,” you rush to add. “I picked this job to keep my Words to myself as much as possible, and I’ll keep doing that. I don’t want anything from you.”

You’re lying. You want a look at his arm like you want coffee in the morning, like you want air in your lungs after a brutal run. If he were anyone else you’d be planning a charm offensive, and you’re not what most people would describe as charming.

“One problem,” Barnes says, stepping out of the shadows with his flesh hand outstretched toward you. It’s so cinematic you forget he’s basically danger incarnate-- and then he makes contact.

Pleasure sizzles up from his grip on your wrist, skin to skin, soul to soul. It’s mind-numbing in the same way as the aftermath of an orgasm, so similar that you stumble a little bit when he lets go only seconds later. You’ve only read about Sensitivity or seen it depicted in movies, and neither did the full glory of it justice.

“Holy fuck,” you whisper. 

He doesn’t look affected at all. “Yeah. One hell of a weakness.” 

You go from shaken to pissed faster than the Quinjet hits cruise speed. “Get the fuck out, then! My workshop is invite only.”

“Is that right?” Barnes asks, insultingly unphased. Your arms are crossed, and he just glares right into your eyes and taps one perfectly articulated metal finger on the newly silver Words on your hand. “Stark’s AI updated our medical files. If you’re unconscious, this gets me into your hospital room. That’s invitation enough.”

Fucking great. “Well, either knock me out or fuck off, then, Barnes. I have work left to do.” Your gut is twisted metal right now, jagged and raw from disappointment and desperation. This man is a legend, a warrior with a marvel of machinery for an arm and a past that would make the devil blush. He doesn't want you, and he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t. With misery staining your heart black as old oil, you stalk over to the nearest workbench before he can tell how upset you are. 

“It’s not personal,” he says flatly.

Soulmate words are as personal as it gets, which means he’s saying it to fire you up. You won’t rise to the bait. Most people are uncomfortable with silence, but you use it as a weapon. The minutes tick by as you clean off the work table, with no other sound than the clink of metal on metal and the slide of heavy tools on the hard, solid surface. 

Soon, all that’s left is a bucket half full of sand. At least this is simple and easy to understand; a cheap, abundant material used for friction, stability, and sometimes even a mold to pour hot metal into. As you burn away your fury with your impossible soulmate staring silent holes into your back, you wonder whether you’re half as valuable to him as this.

“Look. I don’t want or need--”

You shove the bucket off the side of the work table and spin around, your next words practically exploding out of your chest. “You think I don’t know that? I get it. I’m nobody. Neither of us want--” He’s advancing on you and you hop up onto the surface of the workbench, primed to kick, scratch, and scream if he tries to melt your brain again with your goddamned soulmate connection. 

“Jesus. Just-- stay inside, will you?”

With those cryptic words, Bucky Barnes walks out.

You’re speechless, and the worst part is how much your body is craving the glorious, drugging feeling of his touch on your skin.

JARVIS calls out your name just as you force yourself to assess the sand mess you’ve tantrumed everywhere. Your ‘what?’ is as short and annoyed as you can make it.

I thought you ought to know that Sergeant Barnes spent his time after leaving the Quinjet checking on your safety. He requested I adjust the camera angle to more fully catch the doorway to your room, requested the visitor logs--

“Which you denied, yes? Yes?” you snap, gripping the broom handle like it’s your soulmate’s neck.

Of course. Despite his assertion, mutual consent is required for such things, barring a formal, legal relationship.

“For the record, it’s bullshit that it took until 1973 for that.”

I heartily agree. As I was saying, Sgt. Barnes took it upon himself to--

“Blah blah safety, you win the award for meddling, JARVIS, but what I really need from you is a magical ability to clean up this mess.”

Deepest apologies, but there is a purpose to this endeavor. The door to your suite did not meet Sgt. Barnes expectations, regarding your safety on-site.

“What the hell are you-- Wait.” You drop the broom and head out, speaking angrily up at the ceiling as you stalk down the hallway. “Tell me there’s still a door there, JARVIS.”

I’m afraid I cannot.

“Yeah, you should be afraid!” you hiss. “Tell me where he is or I’ll take a blowtorch to the wiring in the server room.”

Stark’s damned AI doesn’t even have the grace to sound concerned. 

I see why some say you have a fiery temper. Sgt. Barnes is in one of the basement sparring rooms. Shall I arrange for an elevator?

“I’ll walk, thanks.”

The bank of exercise rooms is open to everyone on campus, and the doors only close when there’s someone in there. That makes it easy to figure out where to knock.

The door swings open, and your mouth runs dry.

Barnes is sweaty, wearing only a black tank and tight pants, and the harsh hallway light glistens on the metal of his arm. You’re completely certain that touching it will feel just as good as the skin-to-skin contact earlier. You drift forward, captivated, and the door shuts behind you. The clicking sound brings you back to furious reality.

Through gritted teeth, you say, “You. Owe. Me. A. Door.”

He scoffs silently, looking you up and down as if gauging how little effort he’d have to expend against you in a fight. “Stark owes you a door. I just proved that.”

“What the fuck gives you the right--”

Barnes interrupts not with words, but with quick, jerky movements at his waist, unbuckling, unzipping, and shoving. He slaps the flat of his palm against the Words on his bare thigh and says, “This. Every single woman I came in contact with was in danger. You’re not secure here.” He strips the pants off completely and throws them into the corner of the room before advancing on you, somehow just as menacing in briefs and a tank. “Not until we get this out of our systems.”

He’s lithe as a cat, and you’re only able to stumble back a few inches and scrunch your eyes shut before he encircles your wrist with one hand. 

The cool metal is soothing despite being inexorable. You suck in a surprised breath and open your eyes just in time to watch the clever shit that is your soulmate dip his head to kiss you.

The pleasure is sudden and devastating. Your heart seizes up, stutters, and starts sending napalm through your veins as he walks you back against the wall and presses the full length of his body against yours. If each touch is a contact high, these kisses are full-throttle erotic warfare, with your brain offline and your hindbrain keening. You 'fight back' with everything you have, fingernails scratching at the back of his neck, teeth grazing his inner lip, all with your Words pulsing encouragement on the back of your hand.

If you’re not careful, this soulmate bond will acid-etch the narcotic joy of this moment right into your heart.

As if he can hear your thoughts, Barnes lets out a deep groan and pulls back to look you directly in the eyes. “This is a strategy, not a relationship.”

You’re touch-drunk, but you’re not in love. “Look, Deathsquad, I only want you for your arm.”

Barnes’ smile is like the sun coming up, damn him. “Fuck me enough to get past Sensitivity and I’ll let you have a whole afternoon with it.” As if to emphasize how much you’d both enjoy that plan, he slides his flesh hand past your waistband and grabs your ass, holding you steady for the twist of his hips.

Your smarts are offline, your lungs are at half capacity, your cunt is criminally empty, and you fully understand how people end up falling for stranger soulmates, if this is what Sensitivity does to a person. 

“Fine,” you snap, hoping to hell you sound less needy than you feel.

The two of you glare at each other for a charged second, and then there’s a race to strip the rest of your clothes off. Not even sixty whole seconds later you’re kneeling on a thick floor mat, more nervous and excited than you’ve ever been in your life, damn him. Barnes comes up behind to set a warm, drugging hand on your hip, and then it’s bliss, sexual rapture from the very first thrust.

“Fuck, that’s insane,” he rasps into your ear, his right hand coming down hard on the mat beside you as he curls over and into you. “Perfect,” Barnes breathes, the word almost a whine, like he’d tried to hold it back and couldn’t. 

You’re almost at white-out, already seconds away from the kind of orgasm that rearranges a girl’s blood chemistry, but you can’t let this one go. Arching your back and leaning to the side, you rock your hips in a cadence that unbalances the two of you just enough to force him to brace with his left, instead. You’re moaning insult-adjacent nonsense syllables now, but you gather enough willpower to clutch his metal hand with your marked one.

“Now it’s perfect,” you grit out.

Barnes’ sexy chuckle in your ear sends you into a black-out orgasm for the ages.

You wake up alone, which feels like a statement, but you notice when you roll over that you’re not sticky. The clothes you’d torn off and thrown in wild abandon are folded next to you, too. You scramble to put them on, stepping curiously into the shared adjoining bathroom to find a wet washcloth draped over the towel rack and a sticky note marked with a large B on the mirror.

“Don’t get sentimental on me, asshole,” you mutter as you snatch it off.

Crankshaft:  Don’t get sentimental on me.  Wednesday at 4? B

The words are printed, even the B, meaning that while you laid there naked and insensate, he’d gone and printed something out instead of just waking you up. On top of that outrage, someone’s told him your nickname, which for some stupid reason feels more intimate than anything that just happened. It’s something that’s just yours, not influenced by stupid-ass destiny genetics, and if he tries to use it verbally, you’ll… you’ll… You sigh. There’s not one thing you can do to influence this guy, except possibly make him angry that you exist at all.

One big Sensitivity-struck security risk, that’s what you are.

You’re about to crumple up the note when you see it’s got something else hand drawn on the back, a sequence of numbers and letters in a jagged sort of rectangle. The shape looks familiar, but you’re sated and stupid after however long without caffeine. You gather up your things and make the walk of shame back to your apartment, realizing when you’re almost there that the fucking door is probably still missing.

It’s not. There’s already a brand-new door there, and on it is another sticky note. This one’s just the hand drawn shape and accompanying symbols. You snatch it up and go inside, vindictively locking the door with both locks until you remember Barnes’ whole thing about safety.

With a sour feeling in your stomach from doing exactly what he’d want you to, you lay both notes down to examine the shapes, finally sketching them out on a third piece of paper.

The numbers and letters work out to be a room and floor number, probably for his rooms here at the compound

Combined, the shapes look just like the plating for his metal arm

You refuse to be taken in by this, even if it is right up your alley.

“JARVIS?”

At your service, Miss.

“Will you locate a small, neutral space for a… meeting between myself and Sgt. Barnes tomorrow at four, and let both of us know the location once you’re finished?” There’s no way in hell you’re doing anything that even hints at girlfriend behavior with this guy, so no bedrooms. What’s between you is literally just biology, nothing more.

If you insist.

“I do. And don’t use my nickname with him. He doesn’t deserve it.”

The singing in your veins makes a good opposing argument, but that’s just biology again, and you won’t be swayed by it. The only thing you’ll be swayed by is his marvel of arm engineering. Everything else is just window dressing to help get you through the absurd pleasure-bond shit that comes with soulmate biology.

You skip dinner and go to bed early, dreaming all night of the purr of Barnes’ muscles over and against you, the gravel-drag of his stubble on your skin, and the hum of an engine starting to rev.

to be continued...

[xhoneygirlxx]

We’re Not Friends

Best Friend!Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

summary: Eddie is just trying to help when he offers to be your date to your sister's wedding, but with all the love in the air will you and Eddie be able to stay friends?

warnings: lots of angst. reader's family sucks. reader's mom makes a comment about her weight. anxiety attacks. reader has low self esteem. fluff. best friends to lovers. fake dating. modern au. (this is titled after an Ed Sheeran song and I also use another one of his songs in the fic, sue me). slight smut. allusions to sex. alcohol consumption. swearing. minors dni!!!!!!!!!! reader and Eddie are both in their 20's. no y/n used, reader is referred to as Birdie. skin color/ethnicity/body type is not mentioned. spelling errors/shitting writing, just pretend you don't notice lmao. also the venue is completely made up and so is the location if you couldn’t tell, im not that creative.

*if I miss anything plz lmk*

a/n: hi my loves!!!! this is one of the last fics on my birthday fic list!!! I want to thank all of you for being patient and being so so supportive of my work. I love you all so much!!! also I do go back to work on Monday so I'm going to try to get as many fics pumped out by the end of the weekend.

And that's why friends should sleep in other beds

And friends shouldn't kiss me like you do

And I know that there's a limit to everything

But my friends won't love me like you do

The turning color of the leaves create the prettiest backdrop, tall trees blooming with orange, red, and a pinch of brown. The ones that have already fallen to the ground get swept up under the wheels of Eddie's car, lifting up and swirling around in a pretty dance, and falling right back into place waiting for the next car.

Although the crisp fall morning is peaceful you can't help but feel like you're living a nightmare. As he soft hum of Eddie's playlist flows through the speakers, you're coming up with a plan to turn the whole car around.

So far you thought about faking an illness, one that would stop the whole journey in it's tracks, only to dismiss it because you couldn't put your best friend through that stress. The idea of pulling the steering wheel also came to mind but you quickly threw that out of the window, not wanting to cause injury to the innocent man next to you or anyone else. Your final idea was one you're sure you could pull off as long as you used all the power within your being. If you pushed your feet on the floorboard hard enough, you could poke them out like the Flintstones and stop the car that way.

Between science and logic, you knew that wasn't possible no matter how hard you wished it would. Instead you'll stare out the window, watching all the pretty trees dance in the wind while you push down the rising anxiety that's forming in the pit of your stomach.

"You good over there, Birdie?" The deep voice next to you shakes you from your thoughts.

Turning your head Eddie's already looking at you with a lopsided grin. His demeanor matches the landscape outside, relaxed and serene. As you look at him you wish you could trade places, be as pleasant as he is.

"Yeah I'm just tired." Trying to sell him your answer, you smile lazily at him even though your response holds more tension than a game of tug of war.

Turning his attention back on the road, you watch as the pavement moves on the darkened lenses of his sunglasses. Eddie looks pretty like this, even though you always thinks he looks pretty. Usually he would be a grump having to be up this early, but today he wears his smile like a badge of honor. The dark curls of his hair cascade down his back, while some falls over his shoulders.

He's wearing the same red and black checkered flannel he always does this time of year, the same one you said was your favorite three years ago and it still holds that title. Underneath is a plain black tee shirt, the only one he has that's free of any band name, and a dark blue pair of jeans that have no holes.

He's still the same Eddie, his rings still sit on his fingers and his pick still hangs from the chain around his neck, but it seems that he only gets prettier and prettier as time passes by - like the turning leaves that still hang on the branches of the trees that you drive by.

"I think you're worried about this whole wedding thing," His voice is unwavering, screaming "I'm right" like it always does. "I don't get what's so bad about an open bar and free food."

Although his point is valid, Eddie couldn't be more wrong than that. This wasn't just an event to get drunk for free and stuffed to the gills at no charge. This was your older sister's wedding, the same sister that was the apple of your parents' eyes. Veronica was your arch nemesis since birth, a rival that you had no option but to defeat in order to survive.

You were the outcast of the family, the black sheep if you will, and you had to endure eighteen years of nonstop torture because of it. Your parents, Christine and Tim, were nothing but successful. The doctor and his trophy wife, the star couple in your small community, that had two beautiful and healthy children.

However you were the hardheaded child, the daughter that didn't have a bright future, you didn't carry as much promise as Vee, and your parents made sure to remind you of that every day. So when you moved out three years ago, you made sure to distance yourself as much as you could. But when you received a pristine white envelope with a glamorous invite on the inside, you were roped right back into the hell hole you worked so hard to leave behind.

You could've just ignore it, faked that you were on a trip and couldn't make it but your mother pretty much threatened you into showing up. So that's how you ended up in the countryside right outside of Chicago, driving in Eddie's Toyota Corolla to the Jefferson Manner on a Friday at eight am.

"You're right, Eddie, I should be so thrilled by that. Thank you so much for pointing it out to me." It's snippy with a hint of malice, and your eye roll held enough venom to injure an army of men.

Whistling loudly, Eddie chuckles lightly. "Woah, killer. Relax, I was just tryna help." He's still soft despite your outburst, sweet like your pumpkin spice latte that sits in the cupholder.

Hanging your head, you inhale a deep breath and release it slowly. "I'm sorry, Eds. I just really fucking hate my family."

He switches his attention from you and the road, taking in your saddened features. Reaching his right hand over the console, he places his hand searches for yours and laces his fingers through yours, which you gladly except.

"Don't apologize for that, kay? That's a valid reason for you to not want to go, I was just trying to make you laugh." The sincerity in his voice wraps around you, easing the nerves that go haywire in your body.

His palm is warm like the coffee cups that sit in the cup holders, his voice is as calming as the trees in the wind, and his smile is just as pretty as it was the first day you met him. You're safe with him, the safest you've ever been in your life, and here in the front seat of his car he reminds you of that.

"They just make me crazy, s'why I don't like seeing them." You feel shy being vulnerable, refusing to meet his gaze by focusing on tracing the back of his hand with your free one.

Eddie doesn't mind, instead he reassures you with a quick squeeze of your hand. "If it makes you feel any better, Birdie, I like you a little crazy."

Dimples deep as the sea and smile still as delicate as a flower's pedal, Eddie looks like a painting that hangs in the Louvre. You want to capture this moment of him to have for the rest of your life, so no matter what you can always remember him just like this.

"You say that now." You tease and he eats it right up.

Looking back over to you, he shines his smile onto you, filling you up with the light of a million stars. "And I'll say it till the end of time." There's no tease to it, nothing but truth in the way he says it.

It turns you into jelly, the feelings that swim through your blood stream, and now you've become too sheepish to answer. You decided to trust your touch over your words, squeezing his hand the same way he did to yours, trying your best to communicate the feelings you hold secretly in your heart for your best friend.

The cobblestone driveway leading to the entrance of Jefferson Manner is, for a lack of a better word, beautiful. It is a straight drive to the property, but once you get closer, a large fountain sits in the middle where the arch of the circle driveway starts.

Different colored cars are already lined up, some you recognize and the rest you have no clue who they belong to. Either way it's pretty evident that Eddie 2018 Toyota sticks out like a sore thumb.

The same dread that you left 45 miles back, is now running through you again. Unintentionally, you squeeze his hand harder as your heart begins to pound in your ear and if it hurts him he doesn't mention it. Instead, Eddie gives you one, two, three squeezes and then lets you continue your attempt to stop the blood flow to his hand.

Pulling behind the Mercedes Benz S Class, he puts his car into park and then shuts the car off. Reading your expression the way he always does, he sits in the silence of the car with you until your features loosen up.

"You okay, Birdie?" Even though he knows you're not okay, you still appreciate him asking anyway.

Breathe in. This is temporary. Breathe out. This is not forever. Breathe in. I am safe. Breathe out. I am here.

You repeat this to yourself a few times, eyes clamped shut as you focus on your breathing pattern. Once your head is above water and your heart stops racing, you open your eyes back up to the real world.

Relaxing your shoulders, you let go of the grip you're holding Eddie's hand in. "I'm okay. I'll be okay." Despite answering him, it sounds like you're trying to convince yourself of what you're saying.

Another brief pause goes by and Eddie continues to monitor you, sunglasses now removed so not only can he see you but you can see him.

Your gaze is unwavering, the thousand yard stare has fallen over you and you have yet to dig out of it. "Are you prepared for what we're about to walk into?"

The tone of your voice scares Eddie, the emotion being sucked right out of the words that you speak despite the feelings that battle in your mind that he doesn't know about.

"Honey, I'm prepared for anything as long as I have you." For a split second he winces, wondering if that was too cringy but when your face breaks out into a sweet smile he feels better.

The two of you get out of the car, retrieving your suitcases and dress bags from the trunk. When the door shuts you begin to count the steps it takes to get to the big wooden doors of the mansion.

You don't have to ask Eddie for his hand, he's already giving it to you and you gladly except it, gripping on for dear life the closer you get. Despite the beautiful landscape and the soothing sound of the running fountain, you feel like this is the soundtrack that plays before your imminent death.

The tall, thick, wooden doors sit menacingly in front of you, the skeletons of your past standing just right behind it waiting for your arrival. The ghosts that have haunted your dreams, the graveyard of your history, and the phantoms of your family, mingle and laugh right behind this door.

Eddie waits for you, not moving a muscle until you say so, and you silently thank him with a smile. Like a switch, he watches your face change from flight to fight mode. In a flash your looking over your outfit, brushing down the long black sleeved shirt that sits on your torso, and then straightening out the jeans that stick to your legs.

Your hair is the next thing you frantically fix, pushing it behind your ears and out of your face, letting it fall over your shoulders while doing so. Like a buzzing bee, you zone in on Eddie, fixing the collar of his flannel and then smoothing the material of his shirt. With out speaking, you pick off a singular piece of fuzz from his pants and then let it blow away in the wind.

Moving your hands back up to his chest, you center the pick on his chain. Then move his hair, fixing the ringlets that got blown around in the breeze. Once your satisfied, you move back to your spot next to him and sweep his hand right back into your hold. Releasing on more deep breath, you settle your pinched eyebrows and your determined eyes, and let the worst fake smile settle onto your lips.

The smile doesn't reach your eyes the way it usually does, your teeth push against one another so forcibly Eddie wonders if you'll shatter teeth, and you simply look like your in pain. Either way, you push open the big oak door and let yourself inside with him following right behind.

The lobby of the manner is everything you expected, high ceilings, a crystal chandelier, and every single family member of yours gathered around sipping champagne and speaking to each other like a potential client.

Even though it's magnificent inside with the beautiful décor and lively plants, the sight of everyone in their gaudy outfits and cheap laughter makes it feel like an eternal hell.

Eddie must feel the way your shoulders tense because he's quickly leaning into you, his voice just a whisper in the shell of your ear.

"Hey, it's gonna be okay. You have me and I won't let anything happen." He reminds you, his smile is more sympathetic than anything.

Nodding your head you remain smiling, it's awful and it hurts even doing it but if you want to survive the whirlpool of piranhas, then you just have to fake it until you make it.

"If it isn't our lovely Birdie!" The sound of your mother's voice is like silk, smooth and confident, just like she always was. Walking over to you, she holds a champagne flute in her hand and you wonder how much the bubbling spritz cost your father.

The last time you've seen her was last winter, her million dollar smile outshining the Swarovski crystal tree decorations that sit behind her. Your mother has always been beautiful but her insides are rotten, ugly and maggot infested, all hidden behind the mask that she put on for everyone to see.

You gave up a long time ago trying to figure out her brain, finally accepting defeat to the maze that was her mind. Now when you look at your mother all you see is a shell, a hallow covering that has nothing to offer you other than it's pretty design.

Pulling you into a hug, you're hit with her scent. She smells like Dior and cashmere, the Chanel outfit that sits on her body scratches your skin, and the pearl necklace she wears jabs you right in your collarbone.

"Hello mother, thank you for inviting me to such a wonder occasion." You instantly revert back to your old accent, the same one your mother instilled into you from the time you could even under stand the English language.

A faux laugh comes from her bright red lips, "No need for that, darling, you're always welcome." Her manicured hand waves at you in fake genuineness.

The smile on your face continues to show and you hate to think it matches hers. Even with the sweet tone you use and the gentleness of your actions, the blood that runs through your body continues to boil the longer she stands there.

Eddie on the other hand stands next to you completely and utterly amused by your fake performance. The snort he lets out when you continue to use your "eloquent" voice is quickly covered up by a sniffle.

Like a vulture, your mother's eyes are quick to zero in on the curly haired man next to you. "Excuse my daughter for her bad manner of not introducing us, I'm Christine."

The minute her hand reaches out for a handshake, you're heart stops. This is the one thing that could make or break this whole trip and it was the only thing you didn't prepare your best friend for. Many years of your life, you were trained that a handshake is all it takes for someone to learn about you.

Without skipping a beat, Eddie simply picks embraces her hand like a prince out of a Disney movie and places a kiss to the back of her unwrinkled hand.

"What a pleasure to meet you, Christine, I'm Eddie. And might I say how beautiful you are."

He's all dimples and doe eyes staring at your mother, a true prince charming in his red flannel and jeans. His voice is like a cup of hot chocolate on a cold day, it's smooth going down your throat and it warms your belly better than any blanket can.

That warmth is now tingling your body, a frenzy of butterflies flapping around in the walls of your heart. It clearly works on your mother as well but unlike you she doesn't hide it very well.

"You're really the charmer, Eddie." It's flirtatious and alluring, the same voice she put on for every pool boy your father ever hired.

Annoyance and anger floods through you and you know that your eyes would be shining green to anyone with a trained eye.

While she clutches her pearls and eyes Eddie like he's a four course meal, you intervene into the conversation before it can continue.

"Where's daddy? I'd really like for my boyfriend to meet him." You bat your eyelashes like a pageant queen and your arm acts like a python wrapping around Eddie's, making a mark on what is yours.

"Oh you're father's around here somewhere, you know how he is." She dismisses, taking a drink from her glass and swallowing down the golden liquid quickly. "So how long have you and Birdie here been dating?"

"It's going to be two years next month. Isn't that right, honey?" Eddie turns to you and gives you a playful smile.

Looking back at him you hope he can see the misery that hides being your eyes, a white flag of surrender.

Your mother on the other hand doesn't care about your answer, that's why she didn't ask you. She's reading Eddie, trying to see how much she can push your so called boyfriend until she gets what she wants.

"Well that's just wonderful, young love is a beautiful experience. You have to be careful with Birdie here, she's known to leave the nest quickly." It's a jab, a spiteful and mean comment headed right for your gut.

Eddie doesn't miss the way you're lips falter for a second, the flash of hurt in your eyes. It kills him watching you stand there and take all the comments from your mother like stray bullets.

Turning his attention back to your mother, he gives her a smile, one that you would know as a wicked one but to a stranger would seem kind. "I don't think that will be a problem. Birdie knows where her home is."

It's a direct warning, a clear sign to your mother to not mess with you or what is yours. Just him sticking up for you like that makes your stomach twist in excitement, a feeling you've grown so used to over the course of friendship with Eddie.

"Well, I'm glad she finally found her place then." Your mother responds coldly, clearly hearing the bite in his tone. "Why don't you two go find your room and get settled in, rehearsal dinner is in a few."

Before retreating into the large crowd of family, your mother turns back to you in one more attack.

"Oh and Birdie, wear something that will hide that stomach. Don't want anyone to assume you've been knocked up."

Once you've found your room, you all but rush Eddie inside slamming the door behind you. In the quiet safety of your suite, you can relax your shoulders that have been sitting high since you've arrive.

"Jesus Bird, you weren't lying." Eddie says as he flops himself on the queen sized bed.

You don't respond, instead you squeeze your eyes shut and try to calm the heaviness of your breathing. Behind the darkness of your eyes, little twinkles of stars flash from how hard you have them closed, the swooshing of your heart continuing in your ears like angry waves of the sea.

Breathe in. This is temporary. Breathe out. This is not forever. Breathe in. I am safe. Breathe out. I am here.

You repeat this to yourself over and over again, trying to erase the cruel words of your mother and the images of disgusted family member's faces out of your mind. You're not sure how long you've been standing by the door until a hand grasps at your wrist lightly.

"Birdie," Eddie's coax goes unanswered, "Come on, Birdie."

Warm calloused hands travel to the plump of your cheeks, lifting your face up just enough that he can see you. Finally opening your eyes, you're relieved to be looking into the golden whiskey pools of his.

Smoothing his thumb over your cheek he doesn't say anything, just lets your breathing calm down. Here you are, in the nice room behind the shelter of the locked door, and he's here.

Breathe in. It's okay. Breathe out. You're safe. Breathe in. You are here. Breathe out. So is he.

It's enough to let your feet move on the plush white carpeting, while Eddie leads you to the bed with the tug of your arm. Sitting on the plush mattress on crisp linen sheets you're grounded, and with the heat of Eddie sitting next to you and his hand in yours, you're anchored.

The rehearsal dinner goes over well enough, the Irish mule helping with every single speech that's given and every horror story of your childhood that is told. Luckily for you, Vee didn't ask you to be in her bridal party so you didn't have to attend the actual wedding rehearsal, and even better you won't have to deal with her for the real thing tomorrow.

Eddie does great at dinner, he talks to your father who surprisingly likes him, both getting along over their love for vintage cars. Your soon to be brother in law and his groomsmen also get along with Eddie, they laugh and cut up most of the time while clinking beer bottles together. Not to mention every single woman there wanted to get into his pants, swooning at everything he said and giving him the 'fuck me' eyes while doing it.

You hated it, every single minute of it. Like always you were ignored, simply looked over until some story was being told where you were ultimately the joke of. Any time someone asked you what you were doing with your life, you were met with cringing smiles and snickering laughs.

Four separate times your mother commented on your dress, the way it fit, the price value of it, and how it really wasn't a good color on you. All of your sisters friends rolled their eyes and whispered back and forth while staring at you, aunts and uncles acted dumbfounded when you told them that you were a freelance writer for a small music magazine back in Indy, and your cousins made comments about how badly you look since the last time you saw them.

It didn't matter anyway, even if your sister asked how you managed to get a stand up guy like Eddie to agree to be with you, in front of all of the guests. You had to remind yourself that you were there for the free booze and food or whatever the hell Eddie said in the car on the way here.

This wasn't a popularity contest for you, it was simply you being forced to do something against your wishes because your mother said so. You asked yourself why you even listened to her in the first place while letting the brown liquor burn in your stomach.

Why was it so important that you even showed up here? Why did you have to come to the awarding ceremony of favorite kid when you knew you weren't going to win? Why would you even set yourself up for such failure just because your mom said so?

Well, you're answer came when a flushed faced Eddie was laughing with your grandparents at one of the round tables in the corner. His eyes crinkled at the sides and his head was leaned back so you had a clear view of the neck you loved so much.

Then you looked over at your sweet looking grandparents who laughed loudly at whatever was said. Your grandmother had her hands on her cheeks, shaking her head back and forth, and beaming brightly. Your grandfather smiled around his cigar, big round belly jumping with laugher, and his cheeks smooshing up against the frames of his big glasses.

You didn't come here to win a competition. You didn't come here because your mother threatened you within an inch of your life if you didn't. You didn't come here because you thought it would be fun.

You showed up because you wanted to prove to the people who doubted you for so long just how happy you were. You wanted to prove that happiness doesn't come from the amount of money in your account or how many rooms sit in your house. You came here because you wanted to prove that they were wrong, that the grass on the other side of the fence could be green too, and that someone who grew up differently that you could still do amazing things.

Eddie was someone that your father would've had you kicked out over bringing him home in high school. Eddie was the boy your mother would tell you to stay far away from. Eddie was the kind of guy that your sister wouldn't look twice at because of who he was.

But right now, during the beautiful dinner the night before your sister's wedding, your best friend/fake boyfriend has them all wrapped around his guitar calloused finger.

-

Not much has been said between you and him, especially when he was the man of the hour. You're not really complaining though, you're happy that he made a good impression with them. When the night began to settle into your bones and the alcohol started to make you tipsy, you slyly walked up to Eddie and tugged on his sleeve to let him know it was time to go.

On the walk back to the room, you sway slightly with every step you take, balancing on the walls with one hand while the other holds your strappy heels. When Eddie stops and turns to the door of your room, you all but smack into him with clumsy steps.

While he fumbles with key, you're in blissful content with your eyes closed. The kick of the lock and the turn of the handle doesn't even pull you out of your daze, instead you hold your arms out like a mummy and feel around until you find Eddie's clothed back.

You can tell Eddie is laughing by the large breath that passes through his nose and the tell tale sign of him kissing his teeth. Large hands wrap around your wrists, guiding you into the doorway that you can't see.

Your cheeks are warm, the smile on your face is permanent, and the buzzing in your heart makes you feel light on your feet.

"Alright mummy, lets get you into bed." Letting go of his hold on you, you feel him slightly brush past you to close the door. His voice sounds like the way stars look, sparkling and bright, twinkling all around.

You giggle, eyes still shut and your nose scrunched up. "M'not a mummy but I could be if ya want."

Putting your arms out, you lean back and forth on your feet to mimicking what you think is a mummy but looks more like a zombie.

"Baaaaahhhhh, I'm a mummy. Be very afraid." You deepen your voice, dragging the syllables of every word to make them come out slower.

Eddie must be entertained because the sound of a loud raspberry comes from where he stands, the clear sign of him losing the grip on the laugh he'd been holding in.

Cracking one of your eyes open, you hope to find him with rose cheeks and dimples flashing, the look you love so much. Instead you see him, beaming at you without the shine of his canines. It's an admiring smile, one where your eyes go all gooey and your smile is simple yet dipped with so much love.

Opening your eyes all the way, you let your arms down slowly to rest by your sides, a meek look painting your face.

"Did I do good?" You ask, even though you didn't really want his opinion.

"I think you're perfect." It comes out even, smooth like the hilltops in December covered in a layer of the purest snow.

The two of you sit there for a while, soaking up the glow of each other and letting it sink into your souls. For a moment you wonder if he feels it too, the spark that you feel whenever he's around. You wonder if he feels like crying simply because he loves you that much. You wonder if he wishes this whole dating thing wasn't just a lie and that it was true, the same way you wish it was.

Once the moment ends for him, he's clearing his throat to clear any lovesick daze that's left. "I guess we better head to bed, huh?"

Scratching at the back of his neck, you try with everything in your power to not look down where his turtle neck rode up, where the patch of mouth watering hair trails from his belly button to underneath the waist of his pants.

A part of you wishes you stuck it out longer, stayed in your seat at the dinner table just to see him in his outfit longer. He asked you to help him pick it out this morning and when you think back to it, you get flustered with thinking how domesticated it felt. Making him try on different shirts and jumping for joy when he walked out of the bathroom wearing a turtleneck he swore he'd never wear. The khakis you pulled out of his suitcase was the cause of so much laughter and the pink tinge that sat on the rounds of his cheeks.

God, he looked so good, especially with his hair pulled back and the dangled earring that sat in his ear, but now it would all be a memory for you to file away in the back of your brain.

Eddie had already started taking off his dress shoes, sitting on the edge of the bed bent over and messing with the knots that kept the laces together.

The smile that once held your lips high and proud, now weigh down in a sad frown. Even after the success of the dinner and proving everyone wrong, you are now brought back to the reality of what you and Eddie were. Just friends.

"Since I'm a gentleman and I can't see to get these shoes untied, I'll let you shower first." His voice comes out strained from how hard he pulls on the knotted strings.

You don't say anything, quietly nodding your head before shuffling over to your suitcase that sits by the closet. Grabbing a sleepshirt and some shorts, you go to move around the lanky man that can't get his shoes off no matter how hard he tries.

Without a sound, you kneel in front of him, placing your clothes somewhere off to the side. Taking his calf in your hand, you place his foot on your thigh. Delicately, you remove the first shoe and then the next.

"Y'didn't have to do that." It's quiet but not enough to be a whisper, still you shrug.

"I didn't but I wanted to." It seems so simple when you say it, even though deep down inside you wanted that last piece of your fantasy before it goes away for the rest of the night.

"Will you help me with my dress?" You ask him, standing on your feet and turning so that the golden zipper is facing him.

In the mirrored closet door you can see him and how he hesitates for a moment, shaky hands lingering in the air before they close in on the gold slider.

The sound of the metal teeth unlatching from one another fills the room, clouding the unrhythmic beat of your heart. You try to remember the feeling of him on the sacred part of your skin, the way his light touch tickles you and makes goosebumps rise. You want to memorize it like your favorite song, so that when you leave this place and the fake nature of this whole thing goes away, you still have something to think about on those bad days.

It ends too soon for your liking, his hands retracting right back to the sides of his body like a measuring tape. With the fuzz of your tipsy has now wore off but the sting of everything still remains.

Giving him a small smile and muttering a thank you, you hide in the bathroom where the sound of running water hides the muffled cries that leave your throat.

Waking up felt more painful than any hangover you've ever had. The pain of Eddie's bare back facing you was heartbreaking. You force yourself not connect the freckles that litter his skin or trace your fingers along his spine and shoulder blades.

It's a sight you've seen plenty of times and sharing a bed is something you've done more than enough that you're not uncomfortable. Yet your heart squeezes, wrapping itself up in the tightest loop so that it hurts to even breathe.

The sound of his soft snores only makes it worse, imagining what he dreams about and if it's you.

You use all of the willpower that's left in your body, marching over to the small kitchenette that sits in the corner of the giant room. Pouring yourself a cup of coffee, you try to focus on the swirl of dark liquid mixing with the coffee creamer and how they mix together so perfectly. Without much of a peep, you slide the glass doors that lead out to the balcony and sit down in one of the plush chairs.

You look out over the mountains of colors, tracing over the lines of trees that go on for miles. Although pretentious, you think Veronica did an excellent job and choosing this location.

Sipping on the hot beverage, you watch the clouds in the blue sky go by, wondering what it would've been like if your sister asked you to be a bridesmaid. You imagine that the two of you would've actually gotten along and maybe even laughed together. You envision what it would've been like to have your mother compliment you in your gown and how it would feel to take a picture with your family where all the smiles were real.

Tears begin to burn the back of your eyes, falling rapidly like a fall rainstorm. The skin of your cheeks burn slightly from the heated trails of water that fall. You're sad and incredibly so. Within the first twenty four hours of being here, you remember how much of an outsider you really are to these people.

Even with the company of Eddie, someone that truly loves you, you still can't help but feel so fucking lonely. To put on the mask you wore for many year back on and pretend that the man standing next to you is yours to claim is harder than any other time you had to do it.

This time you weren't really faking it, the love that you showed to him, the happiness you felt with him was real, just the titles weren't. With the cool fall chill, your coffee has gone cold but your tears keep coming.

"You made yourself a cup of coffee but not one for me, and this is how I find out? That's just mean." Eddie's curly hair pokes out from the small gap in the sliding back door that he's created.

His eyes are squinted from the harshness of the morning sun but his cheeky smile is forever unwavering. Sliding a space big enough for him to go through, he stalks out onto the small space in his plaid pajama pants and a hoodie he must've thrown on.

Trying your best to cover up that you've been crying, you wipe the back of your hand across your cheeks, but Eddie still catches your movements.

Instead of embarrassing you, he sits down in the chair across from you and looks out over the balcony.

"You okay?" It's a simple enough question, one that you can answer with one word and he wouldn't pry for more information to not overwhelm you.

Sniffling, you shake your head yes and then move your gaze to where his is. "No, yeah, m'good. The view really does something for me." You say, chuckling just a bit at your own joke.

Eddie also laughs, only this time it's not as genuine as it usually is, just a hard exhale through his nose.

"Yeah, sure does." He agrees, letting his eyes follow the red and orange of the tree tops.

A calm silence falls over you two, only the sounds of the birds that fly and the ruffle of the leaves can be heard from where you sit. It's peaceful.

"You know, I really thought this weekend would be different." It comes out of your mouth as easy as the breeze that blows. Still your eyes stay trained out in front of you and past the mountains of trees.

Eddie doesn't respond but the hole that he burns through the side of your head with his eyes tell you he's listening.

"When I was little, I used to imagine the day Vee got married. I would fantasize that maybe one day we could be close enough that I could enjoy this day with her and we could be sisters for once." You exhale an uneven breath, moving your sights to the cup that still sits in your hand.

"I just wanted all of us to be a family for once. I wanted my mom to actually act like she liked me, for my dad to say that for once he was proud of who I was, and for Veronica, I just wanted her to say she's happy that I'm her little sister."

Just like that, every single thing you've carried since you were little is now out in the open, whipping around in the wind like the dead leaves. Even with the amount of burden that's been lifted, the pain still remains the same. It all hurts, stabbing you over and over again in the scars that you worked so hard to patch up.

Eddie doesn't say anything and for a moment you don't think he'll say anything at all. You watch him pull out the pack of cigarettes he had nestled in his pocket and place one in between his pretty pink lips.

Another second goes by and he's flicking the wheel of his lighter, shielding the flame away from the wind so he can light it. When the end of the smoke burns red, he takes a big inhale and then lets the cloud of smoke out.

"I know what I say won't matter," He starts before taking another drag of his smoke, "But these people don't fucking mean anything."

"They're you're family and I get that but they don't fucking deserve you, they never have. A fake boyfriend, a new haircut, or a cool job shouldn't define their love for you. They're shitty people who were blessed with an amazing person and they didn't even realize it."

Eddie looks at you the same way he speaks, with nothing but truth. You let the words settle in your mind, letting them soak in, in case you forget.

The tears that once ceased start to flow again, except this time it's from relief. It feels good that someone else sees your worth, to know someone actually holds value to you.

"It kills me that they treat you the way they do, that they can say all those things without batting an eye. I know why you asked me to come here and I know I have a job to do, but man do I want to rip them all a new asshole."

Although he speaks with fire behind the words, you have to laugh from the thought of the actions. The moment you giggle, his own smile forms.

"I hope you know that I love you and when everything is done and over with, we'll give them the bird." To make his point, Eddie raises his middle finger high into the sky.

Repeating his actions, you hold your own finger to the sky and smile happily while doing it.

Letting his arm fall back down into place, he pats the tops of your thighs and stands from the chair.

"That's my girl, now let's get ready for an open bar and free booze." Holding his open palm to you, he helps you up.

The wedding reception was what you thought it would be, drawn out and boring. The only saving grace of the whole thing was Eddie's commentary, the scruff on his face tickling you every time he leaned close to your ear.

A lot of the things he was saying was probably just to make you feel better but you did have to agree, the dress Veronica picked out was a bad rip off of Princess Diana's and it shouldn't have seen broad daylight.

You did however get choked up when the vowels started, not because you were happy with your sister but because you wish that were you and Eddie up there instead.

All and all it was okay, even though one of your brother in law's aunt's wore a hat so big you couldn't see past it most of the time.

The wedding reception though was beautiful. The décor of the manner looked exquisite against the maroon coloring of all the bridesmaids dresses. The tables had beautiful bouquets sitting in the middle and you can't help but laugh imagining your father cutting a check for all of them.

To much of yours and Eddie's delight, there is an open bar that is stacked high with pricey alcohol. Again you laugh thinking about your father having to pay the tab, which you and Eddie will be happy to run up.

So far this is the most the two of you had fun, both laughing and enjoying the company that's around you. The table you've been stuck at is also occupied by other family rejects that enjoy the titles they've been given.

Eddie's hand hasn't left your thigh, which you're more than happy about, and every so often he flexes his fingers squeezing the meaty flesh.

You feel good, the boost from the drinks and the feeling of your best friend makes you bloom like a flower in the spring. You watch as he talks to the people at your table and how his hand moves with enthusiasm. You trace the muscles in his neck and watch his adam's apple bob up and down when he speaks. Your chin sits in the palm of your hand as you watch him be himself like he always is.

He's so beautiful, he always has been, and in this moment he gets to be yours. You don't have to think about what anyone else thinks, you don't have to question how the two of you look from another's perception, because you know that your heart bleeds for him and it always will.

Eddie's your home, he's your best friend, and he's your person. You think back to what he said to you this morning and how he called you a blessing but you think he's wrong. Eddie is the true blessing. He's sweet, he's smart, and he's so fucking caring it's disgusting. Behind all the jagged features and dark clothes, he's nothing but a giant teddy bear that wears his heart on his sleeve.

"Birdie." He smiles at you, all goo and mush it makes your heart skip.

You hum in response, still sitting in the same position, looking at him as if he were a painting.

"You wanna dance?" He blushes, embarrassed by the request and you feel like you're back in junior high.

"You, Eddie Munson hate dancing." You say, scrunching your nose cutely.

Laughing loudly, he nods, "Yeah, I know, but I'd dance with you."

That breaks you out of your daze, breath catching in your throat. "O-oh, yeah. I'll um dance."

Again he stands, holding a palm out to you so he can help you up. Leaning you to the dance floor, you can't help but feel jittery despite the wine that you've consumed.

Once out on the floor, he pulls you into his chest. Strong hands grip your waist through the silk fabric of your red dress and you desperately try to fight the need that rises in your guy.

You stand stiff, unsure of what to do with yourself and Eddie's quick to help you, placing your hands around his neck where they lay contently.

He looks good tonight, even better than last night, and you hate how it makes butterflies flap around in your stomach. The black button up shirt sits nicely on his torso, wrapping his arms so deliciously you want to take a bite out of them. The black slacks he wears fit nicely and you wonder if he had them tailored and you have to ignore the want to undo the sleek black belt with a bright golden buckle that holds them up. Again his hair sits in a low bun and that silver chain peeks out at you from underneath his collar.

"I can't believe you asked me to dance to Ed Sheeran." You say breathlessly, still nervous with being this close to him.

Eddie snorts, lopsided smile forming on his lips. "What, a guy can't like Ed Sheeran and metal? That's gatekeeping, sweetheart." He teases.

Rolling your eyes, you try to ignore that tingle that settles in your cheeks. "Whatever you say, Munson."

"I'm serious, Thinking Out Loud was in my top ten last year." The two of you hold eye contact until you can't take it anymore, both bursting into laughter at his admission.

"That's something you shouldn’t repeat." You sputter at him and he laughs even harder.

"Hey, I like this song, okay?" He defends, still swaying back and forth with you.

Raising your hands in defense, you pull back on your clowning for the sake of your friend. Placing your arms back around his neck, you lean your head on his chest and try to hear the beat of his heart.

The scent of him floods your nose, cologne and smoke, whiskey and linen, and you wish you could bottle it to keep forever.

"Why do you like this song anyway? It's kind of basic." You mutter at him.

His shoulders lift in a shrug, and he takes a moment to respond. "Honestly, I like it cause it reminds me of you."

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion and you remove your head to look up at him.

"Wha'do you mean?" You mumble, eyes searching his for some sort of answer.

Looking bashful again, red tints his cheeks and ears in a blush. Sticking his tongue out to wet his lips, he hesitantly answers.

"I always felt like he said everything I couldn't, ya know? Everything I ever wanted to say to you, he put in a song."

It feels like the whole world stops, that time freezes and it's just the two of you. You're in shock and for some reason you can't wrap your head around anything he's saying.

"What?" You say harshly and again he shrugs, shying away from your burning focus on him.

"Reminds me of you and everything I ever felt about you. I always wanted to call you mine but if you hadn't noticed, I'm a chicken shit."

You don't say anything, instead you stare at him with your mouth wide open. Eddie starts to loose his cool, frantically flexing his fingers against the material of your dress, looking around at anything but you.

"Sorry, I - shit, I really fucked this up," He doesn't get to finish his sputtering apology because you quickly smash your lips into his.

His lips taste like brown liquor and chapstick, like love and forever, and you can't believe you waited this long to experience it. Two heart sync as one, two people fall together like the leaves outside, and anxieties are finally laid to rest.

You hate that you pull away first but the need for air is too much. Eddie bends enough so that his forehead leans on yours, both looking into each other eyes living in the moment of your blissed out hearts.

"Tell me if I'm being too forward but do you wanna get out of here?" He flirts and you respond simply by pecking his lips once more.

"Thought you'd never ask."

thank you all for reading!!! love you guys <3

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[tofics]

TOFICS FAVORITES

Below I have listed a collection of my favorite works of fanfiction that I have read in the past year. All of the creators on this list are absolutely incredible and a gift to the writing community. Thank you for doing all that you do and sharing the results with us. 💓

All stories are listed in alphabetical order. Please heed the warnings on the respective posts. 💘 - a special favorite 💭 - extra thoughts

Dean Winchester

How Dean, Beau and Soldier Boy would act while you're in labor by @zepskies Summary: How different Jensen characters would react to you being in labor.

If You Want It To Be by @zepskies Summary: When your car breaks down after a hunt, Sam and Dean tow you back to the bunker for Christmas. This time of year gives you and Dean a little courage to be honest about what you both want. And what you want, is for him to see you.

Imagine: Dean gives you an impossible choice by @zepskies Summary: Even though you're Sam's girlfriend, Dean is in love with you.

Ladies With Experience by @hintsofhoney 💘 Summary: When Dean makes an off-handed comment about "preferring ladies with experience", you try (and fail) to not let it get under your skin. You're a virgin, but you've done just about everything else, and when you talk to Dean about it, he offers to be your first. He's your best friend, and you've been in love with him forever... who are you to deny him?

Maine Coon by @artyandink 💘 Summary: Dean initially hated your small touches. He used to feel weird with them on his skin. But now he craves them. He craves the high of feeling like a human, and you’re the best hit he’s ever had.

Smoke Eater by @zepskies 💘💘 Summary: Dean Winchester is the cocky, but well-respected Lieutenant at Firehouse 25. He leads by example, but he's also known to break a few hearts. He's starting to crave something he's never had, though. Something stable. Something real. That's when he meets you, on a truly terrible day, trapped in a rickety old elevator.

Stitches by @dewwinchester Summary: Dean texts you for help, and you drop everything for him.

Too Many Beds by @mind-empty-just-fictional-people 💘 Summary: You want nothing more than an excuse to sleep next to Dean again.

Joel Miller

A Deeper Purpose by @punkshort Summary: Living in Jackson during the apocalypse doesn't do anything to curb your desire to have a child. The problem is, most of the men in town are unavailable... except one.

Bedridden by @strang3lov3 💘 Summary: Joel is sick and refuses to rest, so you knock him out the best way you know how.

Christmas After All by @mrsmando Summary: The holiday spirit has evaded you since the world ended. Now, you have a chance to enjoy it again - in Jackson - with Joel by your side.

Crave by @razrbladekiss Summary: There's only one thing that Joel craves, and it isn't the mental fucking torture of an overly stubborn twenty-something teasing him 'til he's blue in the face. And balls.

Dark Daddy!Joel by @strang3lov3 Summary: A dark and twisted version of Joel. 💭(My personal toxic guilty pleasure.)💭

Enough by @criticallyacclaimedstranger Summary: You daydream about what your relationship with Joel could be like. 💭(This is the fic that inspired Broken!)💭

Gimme What I Want: A Fic in Texts by @atticrissfinch ⁉️ Summary: The wrong number that texts you ends up being a man much hotter than you'd ever expect... 💭(I know the author changed blogs, but I can't find them anymore. If anyone knows their current @, please let me know so I can link the story accordingly!)💭

Have A Good Night by @punkshort 💘 Summary: Every week like clockwork, the same devastatingly handsome man comes into the grocery store where you work to buy flowers. It's not until he asks you out when you realize the flowers aren't for his wife or girlfriend.

Heavenly Bound by @ozarkthedog 💘💘 Summary: The world crumbled before you could experience the touch of another. Joel does his best to keep you innocent for as long as he can. 💭(I seriously think about this fic like at least once a week.)💭

Me On You by @luxurychristmaspudding 💘💘💘 Summary: After a night out dancing and a lift home turns into something more, you learn something about your dad's buddy. Joel Miller fucks. 💭(Quite literally one of the best literary pieces of fanfiction I have ever read in my entire life.)💭

older!boyfriend Joel Miller by @cavillscurls Summary: A collection of stories/imagines about older!boyfriendJoel & younger!girlfriend reader.

Phonophilia by @ozarkthedog Summary: Joel Miller loves how responsive you are.

Seeing Red by @strang3lov3 Summary: Joel's sorry that your period sucks, but he's reached the end of his rope with your attitude.

Sensational by @sinsofsummers 💘 Summary: You've tasked Joel with teaching you about all of the things you missed.

Stay Awhile by @mrsmando 💘 Summary: You & Joel are travelling to Jackson, and make the most of a well-needed rest stop along the way.

Roommates by @punkshort 💘 Summary: Your roomate, Maria, introduces you to her boyfriend's brother. You hit it off immediately, but when you find out the true nature of his profession, you both decide to remain just friends. But once the four of you eventually move in together, things get... complicated. 💭(Favorite AU!Joel!)💭

Texas Heat by @skbeaumont Summary: You've just finished a Masters back home in England, and, with little idea of what you want to do next, decide to spend the summer in Texas, staying with your mum's cousins, the Adlers. What you didn't bank on was living next door to Joel. The two of you strike up a friendship, and then something more, as the Texan summer heats up.

Weaved Around Your Finger Like Yarn by @moonlight-prose 💘💘 Summary: He never made space in his life for love in the aftermath of destruction. The after of his life he once thought would extend past decades of gray hair, smile lines carved in around his mouth now set in frowns and sneers. But snowfall and alcohol blur the lines for both of you when winter comes to Jackson.

Bucky Barnes

All the Apple Cider and No More Haunted Houses by @witchywithwhiskey Summary: You and Bucky Barnes have a love-hate relationship - you love him and you believe he hates you - but when your friends insist on going to the scariest haunted house attraction in the area, the experience ends up forcing your real feelings for each other out into light.

Only For Him by @witchywithwhiskey 💘 Summary: When you crash your brother and his friends' beach vacation, things get a little messy, but your brother's best friend Bucky Barnes is determined to take—and keep—what's his.

Wedded Bliss by @gutsby Summary: The marriage was arranged, and the sex is deranged. Bucky is so obsessed with your pussy that he almost forgets he’s meant to be faking this whole thing—and hating it, like sworn enemies are supposed to do.

[bucksangel]

(some of) my favorite fics from (some of) my favorite authors

Hello Angels!! As much as this site can be a hellscape, it can also be a beautiful place to meet wonderful people. I’ve met so many amazing people because of tumblr, and I’ve read so many amazing fics from amazing authors, and I want to spread the word of how utterly fantastic they are. So! Here is a list of some of my favorite authors and my favorite fic(s) from them!

In no particular order, here we go!

@witchywithwhiskey - babe, I know I’ve told you this multiple times, but I will say it one hundred million more times: you are just so fucking good at writing. It’s actually insane, I think, how well your stories flow. When you post a 10k+ fic I know I’m going to be able to finish it all in one sitting because of the way you write, it doesn’t even feel that long. Your characterization, your descriptions, your writing style, they all add up to make fics that I just ache to read a million times.

a personal favorite fic is all the apple cider and no more haunted houses 

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: you and bucky barnes have a love-hate relationship—you love him and you believe he hates you—but when your friends insist on going to the scariest haunted house attraction in the area, the experience ends up forcing your real feelings for each other out into light.

thoughts: no thoughts, head empty. I wish I could experience reading this for the first time again, because I remember the anxiety I felt at how real all the angst and hurt felt, and the sigh of relief when those two idiots (affectionate) finally got their shit together. Cue that Lady Gaga gif of her saying “beautiful, amazing, talented”.

(another fav is room for one more because I am such a slutty whore for stucky)

@navybrat817 - ummmm, is it cheating if I want to put all of your fics here?? Just link your masterlist because everything you write is incredible?? I want to take a peak inside your brain just to see how it works so I can finally understand how you’re able to write so many amazing fics that just scratch an itch in me I didn’t even know I had. I am in love with you. I will marry you.

one of my fav fics (because, again, everything you write is my favorite) is play well with others

pairings: mob!bucky barnes x reader, mob!steve rogers x reader

summary: Steve has a thing for his best friend’s girl...and he knows it.

thoughts: i. am. in. love. with. you. I want to wrap you in a warm blanket and give you warm tea and a kiss on your forehead for this fic. Not only am I a WHORE for stucky, but for your writing in general. This is so amazing and steamy and I just akjsdfhsjkafh. I hope you understand what i’m trying to say.

(also, read part two play by the rules for even more steam)

@buckets-and-trees - LISTEN!!! Aspen, you are truly incredible. I am actually in love with you and your fics, my head is all fuzzy trying to think of how to describe my adoration for your writing. Just like all the other authors on this list, your fics brighten my day no matter what they are about (as do you in general, you’re just such an amazing person).

one of my fav fics is poison blood from the wound of the pricked hand

pairing: post tfatws!bucky x curvy!millenial female!reader

summary: You've made a life-altering decision, and even though it feels like the only choice you could have made, you hope it's the right one, and you hope the man you're being forced to rely on tonight will help you accomplish what you need to, or else your life could be at stake - not to mention the safety of so many others.

thoughts: a million thoughts are running through my mind, and I can barely put them into coherent words other than askjdfhsdjkdsfhj. This makes my brain go brrrrr in the best way, I love the complex relationships and circumstances, as well as the intimacy. It just fits the story so well.

(y’all should also check out her i’m your man andy series please and thank you)

@groublerts - I haven’t read much of your work, but oh my god what I have read is just. Oh my fucking god. You are so so talented and incredible and I am sending you all of my love and warmth!

my fav fic is definitely stuck on you

pairing: soft!dark!beefy!alpha!bucky barnes x omega!female reader

summary: a mechanical error leads bucky to something he’s been missing

thoughts: literally, i’m so fucking insane over this fic. I am a feral raccoon. I am gnawing at the bars of my enclosure. I will read this fic a thousand times and never get bored. This is the perfect soft!dark!bucky fic to ever exist, I just love the premise and how you explain the characters’ emotions. I will give you my kidney as thanks. 

@myfictionaldreams - i don’t even know if I can put into words how obsessed I am over every single one of your stucky fics. I go through your masterlist regularly to re read your mafia!stucky fics because they’re all just so amazing. I love you with my whole entire being.

it’s hard to decide, but one of my fav fics would have to be steve’s birthday wish

pairing: mafia!steve x reader, mafia!bucky x reader

summary: It was approaching Steve’s birthday and you had no idea what to get him. Bucky suggests just asking the Mafia boss what he would like, but would you regret your decision when you hear what Steve truly wants.

thoughts: imagine a dog that’s running around and barking and jumping on people to get their attention. that’s me with other people trying to get them to read this. I live in the States but my panties have been blown off to Ireland. I sometimes lie in bed thinking about this fic, thanking the universe for gracing us with your writing. I love you.

(here is the mafia!stucky masterlist in case anyone else wants to binge this series too!)

@veltana - I haven’t read a lot of your fics, but holy shit you are an amazing writer based on what I have read. I am in awe, actually, and I hope you know that you are incredible!!

my fav fic is unleashed

pairing: avengers!bucky x fem!reader

summary: During a mission, Bucky is exposed to something that removes his inhibitions and all he wants is you. 

thoughts: I am. HORNY. Incredibly so. Thank you for gracing us with this masterpiece. I’ve read a lot of sex pollen fics, but this is definitely one of my favorites just because I love feral Bucky so much and you did this so well!! Spiritually, I am with you, giving you love and energy and the motivation to complete whatever tasks you have to do.

I just threw this together so I most definitely forgot some people/fics, so if you have any you would like me to include in my next post then please lmk!!

[hwangjoanna]

‘The Collector’

Haunted House AU | Dark Romance | Hyunjin/Dominant Immortal X Reader/Willing Human | Gothic Horror | Slow-burn Possession | Cursed Immortality | Soft Obsession | Erotic Ruin

When Y/N inherits a crumbling old estate from a great-aunt she barely knew, she discovers dozens of portraits in the attic. Each depicting the same impossibly beautiful man. As she begins to uncover her aunt’s obsession, Y/N starts to dream of him too. Whispered words. Eyes in mirrors. The sensation of being watched.

Hyunjin is everything the paintings promised. Elegant, possessive, devastating. He’s not a ghost. Not quite human. He’s something else. Something that feeds not on blood, but on devotion. Surrender.

As Y/N falls deeper under his spell, the house becomes a trap. The paintings breathe. Time unravels and love begins to taste like ruin.

Word count - 13k (both parts)

Warnings - MDNI 18+, Horror themes, Mentions of death, Nightmares, Dreams, Smut, Mean Dom Hyunjin/Sub Reader, Power dynamics, Orgasm denial, Petnames - darling, little thing, Hyunjin is mean, possessive but also loving, Reader is an absolute simp, Hyunjin likes reader to say ‘she belongs to him’ repetitively.

A/N - This is my apology for how long it’s taking me to write my squid game au fic, I appreciate all of your patience. This idea popped into my head a few days ago and I just had to write it. Don’t worry the next chapter of ‘Red Light, Green Light’ is almost ready! I know this isn’t on my teaser list but the idea came so I ran with it. The other fics in the teasers are also in the works, plus I have some surprise fics on their way too. ;) I hope you enjoy this little one shot about our lovely Hyunjin. For this fic I wanted Y/n to be extremely receptive to him, not anything like she is in my other fic. So apologies if you’re not a fan of a simp y/n.

^ The song above is the song that plays in the house and the one the reader sings to herself. Just imagine it a little slower, played on a vintage phonograph.

━━━━━━━━━━☽༓☾━━━━━━━━━━━━

September 1995

The key sticks in the lock as you turn it, your fingers trembling from the cold. The door finally groans open, revealing the dim interior of the old house your great-aunt left you. Dust coats every surface, thick as frost. The air is musty, tinged with something sweet and decaying, like old roses rotting beneath floorboards.

The house is a Victorian mansion just north of Maine, it towers over a small town in the hills and the forests.

You don’t remember her. No one really does. Your great aunt, Elena. They said she’d been strange, a recluse who spoke to paintings and locked her doors, mail left in the mailbox for weeks on end. But now her house is yours, she’d given it to you in her will, randomly so you thought. Every creaking wall and faded floorboard. You tell yourself it’s just a place. That you’ll stay long enough to sort through her things, sell what you can, and leave.

You spend your first day trying to sort out some form of internet, maybe get the electrics going and unpacking the groceries you’d bought to tide you over for the month. You liked to be prepared, even if it seemed over the top.

After calling an electrician, you soon found that the house would ultimately need to be rewired. Something you hadn’t really factored in but you accepted it nonetheless. They couldn’t book it in for you until January, and it was currently September. Great. You enquired at a few places but all said the same thing. ‘It’s a small town, we can’t do everything at the same time.’

You admit defeat, you can always check into a local hotel if it gets too much. You continue to explore the house, the peeling damask wallpaper, the loose floorboards and you find your aunts' old diaries scattered in random cabinets and drawers. You make a mental note to give them a read later, you’d need some entertainment, with no TV or any of your true crime books.

But then you find the attic.

It’s behind a narrow door at the end of the hallway, hidden behind an old armoire you push aside on instinct. Dust explodes into the air. The moment you touch the attic handle, your skin prickles, as if someone were watching. As if something were waiting.

You open it anyway. Using your full side profile with a push to get into it, the hinges are stiff and rusted. The door finally swings and you step inside. The attic is vast, the roof slanted and beams exposed. Covered furniture sits like forgotten monuments under yellowed sheets. But it’s the far wall that draws your attention. Portraits. Dozens of them.

All of the same man.

Different poses, different styles some oil, watercolour, charcoal but always him. His face is elegant, hauntingly beautiful. Long dark hair. A sculpted mouth. Eyes that seem to look through the canvas, through time. Even when painted in abstract, his features are unmistakable. There’s something intimate about them, something… wrong.

You don’t know why your chest tightens.

One painting in particular pulls you closer. It’s larger than the rest, nearly life-sized. He’s lying back on a velvet chaise, white shirt half-unbuttoned, gaze directed outward but it’s the expression that gets to you, amusement laced with sorrow. Like he knows something you don’t. Like he’s waiting.

You reach out. Your fingertips hover just above the surface.

And that’s when you hear it.

A whisper.

So faint, it might be the house settling. Or wind against the roof. But it sounds like your name.

“…Y/N…”

You snatch your hand back, pulse thudding.

You’re alone.

A beat of silence.

Then a soft creak, wood shifting under weight.m but the attic is still. You turn, eyes searching the corners, breath caught halfway between fear and something else. Curiosity. Something more dangerous.

You look back at the painting.

The man’s eyes are different now.

Wider.

Focused.

On you.

━━━━━━━━━━☽༓☾━━━━━━━━━━━━

You don’t sleep in the bedroom upstairs. Not yet, the bed is dusty and old. You haven’t bothered to put your new bedding on there yet. Staring at all the paintings earlier you had lost track of time and suddenly night fell.

You settle instead on the worn velvet sofa in the sitting room. It smells like mothballs and fire ash, but at least it feels less haunted than the rest of the house. You light a single candle, since there’s no electricity yet and the flame flickers violently, like it resents being brought here.

Outside, the wind claws at the single-glazed windows, and the trees cast shifting shadows across the faded wallpaper.

You should feel tired, but your body refuses to rest. The house is too quiet. Not peaceful. Watchful.

You reach onto the coffee table where the stack of your aunts' journals sits and pull the old leather-bound book and place it on your lap, You still can’t stop thinking about the paintings. The journal, with your great-aunt’s name scrawled on the first page in ornate, spidery ink. You flip past yellowing pages until one entry catches your eye.

October 17th, 1989

He was in my dream again. The same eyes. The same mouth, painted in oil and silk and hunger. I awoke with the weight of him still on my chest, as though he had been there watching. Waiting.

I locked the attic but I still hear the frame creak when I sleep. I still feel the warmth in the paint.

He is beautiful. Terribly so.

You pause. A chill runs down your spine, not from the cold.

There’s another entry, dated two weeks later:

October 30th, 1989

I found the new canvas had moved. It was not where I left it. The brushstrokes on his lips have changed. More smirk than smile. The man is constant, but he is not still.

I should burn it but I cannot bear to.

You close the book and something groans above you.

The attic again.

You grip the blanket tighter around your shoulders. You tell yourself it’s just the wind… until you hear it again. A creak, deliberate. One slow footstep.

Your throat dries.

You glance toward the hallway. It’s swallowed by shadows.

Nothing moves and yet you see a flutter in your peripheral vision. Like something just stepped out of frame. You spin toward it. Just the bookshelf but when you cast your eyes down, a book has fallen to the floor.

You didn’t hear it fall and when you kneel to pick it up, your candle flickers violently once more and then, goes out.

You sit in the darkness for what feels like hours. Listening. The whisper never comes again but you feel it now.

That you’re not alone in the house.

You never were.

━━━━━━━━━━☽༓☾━━━━━━━━━━━━

You slept very little that night. If you slept at all.

By morning, the candle you relit is nothing but a puddle of wax, the journal is still open beside you. The entries haunt you more than the creaking floorboards or the way your breath fogs in certain corners of the house but not others. You blame your imagination. The cold. Your exhaustion.

You tell yourself you’ll spend the day cleaning.

Get a routine. A rhythm. Make the house feel more like yours.

So you begin in the hallway. The wallpaper there is stained and peeling at the corners, curling like old petals. You set to work stripping it away, humming softly to fill the silence. A song you’ve never heard but fills your head anyway. Beneath the paper, the walls are marked by time, water damage and faint cracks.

But then, you pause. Narrow your eyes.

There’s something carved into the plaster underneath. It’s deep, rough etchings in jagged lines. You pull more of the paper down, heart slowly sinking.

There it is, a name. Hyunjin.

You freeze.

It’s not written once. Not twice. It’s scratched into the wall over and over again, some deeper than others, some nearly illegible, as if whoever carved it kept repeating it until their fingers bled.

Hyunjin. Hyunjin. Hyunjin.

The name dances across the wall like a ritual, a plea, a curse.

You don’t know why, but your hands tremble as you touch one of the carvings. The edges are sharp. Still fresh, somehow.

You whisper the name out loud before you can stop yourself.

“Hyunjin.”

A gust of wind slams against the window down the hall. The floor creaks.

You spin around, but nothing’s there. It’s like the air shifts. Like someone just walked through the room. It’s breath on your neck. You back away from the wall slowly, the hairs rising on your arms. Your eyes catch something just before you turn fully.

Another mark.

A date, 1994 scratched in smaller letters below one of the names. Your stomach turns. Your aunt died in 1993.

You go back upstairs. You don’t want to, but you do. Like it’s calling to you.

The attic door is closed, but not locked. You open it again, candle in hand this time. The paintings are where you left them, except one.

The large portrait. The one you couldn’t stop looking at. It’s still there but something is different. There’s a new painting propped beside it, one you don’t remember seeing before.

It’s unfinished. The brushstrokes are broad, urgent, and messy.

It’s… a woman.

You.

Your face.

Painted in the corner of the canvas, as if just beginning to emerge from shadow. Your eyes are wide mirroring your own. Frightened and beside you, only half visible, him.

Long hair. A bare throat. That same gaze.

He’s reaching for you.

You don’t remember deciding to touch it.

One moment, you’re staring at the new, unfinished portrait. Your own half-formed face staring back at you in pale, ghostly brushstrokes and the next, your hands are gripping the heavy wooden frame of the larger painting. Your favourite.

The original one. Him.

The weight surprises you, solid and cold like stone. You manage to lift it, arms trembling slightly as you descend the attic stairs. The old wood groans beneath your steps, like it disapproves.

You bring him into the sitting room.

Place him gently above the fireplace, where a cracked mirror used to hang. The dustless patch on the wall is still there, like a ghost of what used to be. You prop the frame up, stepping back to examine your own absurdity.

He stares at you from the canvas.

The same expression. That faint smirk. That devastating gaze. You tell yourself it’s just a painting. Oil on canvas. You need it to be just that but the room feels warmer now. Not cosy, it’s something subtler. Like breath. Like body heat. The kind of warmth that fogs glass when you exhale against it.

You sit back on the couch, eyes never leaving his. The silence settles differently now, less empty. More attentive. You feel watched. You feel… kept.

“Hyunjin,” you whisper. Like you already know that’s his name. The ones carved into the wall.

The candle beside you flickers. You don’t sleep that night, either. You lie curled on the couch under a heavy blanket, staring at the fireless hearth beneath his portrait. Every time your eyelids grow heavy, a noise snaps them open, whispers behind the walls, footsteps upstairs, the soft drag of something across the floor. You think you hear your name. Once. Maybe twice.

By 3 a.m., you’re shivering, but your skin is damp. When you finally do fall asleep, it’s shallow, strange. You feel groggy. You dream of velvet and a white silk shirt. Of long fingers. Of a voice you almost recognise whispering in your ear.

“You brought me closer.”

━━━━━━━━━━☽༓☾━━━━━━━━━━━━

When you wake, the fire’s still dead, but the room feels too warm again. Sweat clings to your back, your skin flushed as though touched in sleep. Your dream evaporates too quickly to recall but his name lingers on your tongue.

Hyunjin.

You sit up slowly. The blanket you fell asleep under has been pulled up neatly around your shoulders. Tucked in. You don’t remember ending up sleeping with a blanket last night. You had been too hot.

Your eyes flick to the painting above the fireplace. His face hasn’t changed. Not obviously. But there’s something new in it. The smirk a little more knowing. The gaze a little lower.

No longer looking out. Now looking at you. Your thighs press together and your pussy clenches around nothing. You don’t know what it is about the man in the painting that makes you so aroused.

You try to shake it off. You go about your morning in silence, making tea on the old stove, watching the steam curl up like breath from unseen lips. You talk out loud to yourself, just to fill the air but the silence answers you anyway.

A creak above your head.

A soft whisper. Like the beginning of a song, just out of reach.

You freeze.

The cup trembles slightly in your hand. You glance toward the staircase, but there’s nothing there. Just shadows coiled at the top of the landing like smoke. You set the cup down. Decide to clean again. The hallway feels tighter today, the corners darker. As you pass the spot where the name Hyunjin is carved into the wall, your eyes catch something new.

A handprint. It’s faint but it’s there.

Just below the letters, as if someone had pressed their palm there while scratching out the name. You reach to touch it. The plaster is ice cold. You shiver and turn away quickly but you can feel it now.

That thing they never taught you how to name, the feeling of being watched, not with malice… but with intent. Like you’re no longer a guest in the house.

You’re the prize.

━━━━━━━━━━☽༓☾━━━━━━━━━━━━

By late afternoon, you return to the attic again.

You don’t know why, but you’re longing to be near them. The paintings.

The unfinished portrait is still there. Still of you but it’s different now. The brushstrokes are sharper, the shadows deeper. Your eyes in the painting are more complete. Wide, startled like you’ve just realised something and next to you, in the shadows, the faintest outline of a hand now emerges from the dark space near your shoulder. Long lithe fingers. Just reaching.

You didn’t paint this and you haven’t let anyone else inside.

You back away slowly, heart pounding, and as you turn to leave, the old phonograph in the corner creaks to life without warning. The record spins. No one touched it. The needle drags.

Then the music begins soft, slow, haunting. Like a waltz half-remembered from childhood dreams. It’s the song. That song. The one you were humming to yourself.

You freeze on the spot and a gasp falls from your lips. In that moment. There’s no electricity, how is it playing? In the dusty reflection of a mirror propped in the corner, you swear you see him. Only a glimpse. Standing just behind you. Not quite smiling. Before the mirror goes still again.

━━━━━━━━━━☽༓☾━━━━━━━━━━━━

After the mirror incident, you don’t return to the attic for the rest of the day. You crave it but you resist.

You spend the evening with every candle you can light, even though only half of them stay lit. The static from upstairs still plays. The windows stay shut. You don’t eat. Your appetite drowned in the echo of that phantom music.

Instead, you return to the leather-bound journal. The same one you found in the cabinet.

You flip to the middle, where pages curl like dried leaves. Some have stains on them, water? Ink? You can’t tell. But the handwriting is shakier now. More urgent.

You land on an entry marked,

November 6th, 1989

I heard him again last night.

No…

I felt him.

The bed dipped as though someone sat beside me and then… the air moved against my throat like a sigh. Not cold. Not warm either. Just there.

I said his name out loud. Only once. I didn’t mean to but it made the silence pulse. Like the house held its breath.

I asked him to show me. Just once. I begged. I don’t know why I did it. Or maybe I do.

I want him to look at me like he does in the paintings. I want to know if I still exist when he sees me. If I am anything more than dust to him.

He answered me but not with words.

The candle by my bed burned out the moment I closed my eyes and I saw him. In the dark behind my eyelids. That long face. That mouth was made for both cruelty and worship. Plump and pink.

He said my name but it was my voice that spoke it.

You read the entry three times.

Your fingers tighten around the page until it crinkles. You can’t help but look up, slowly, toward the sitting room fireplace where his portrait still hangs.

He hasn’t moved.

Of course, he hasn’t.

You feel something in the room has changed. The air has that same tension you feel before lightning splits the sky. A pressure, subtle but deep, like you’re being pulled forward by a string threaded through your chest.

Your gaze lingers on the painted man’s eyes. You whisper it, just like she did.

“Hyunjin…”

The candles flicker and you swear, just barely, that you hear it again.

A voice. Yours.

“Come to me.”

━━━━━━━━━━☽༓☾━━━━━━━━━━━━

You fall asleep with the journal open across your chest, a single candle still burning on the mantel.

The flame dances for hours.

Then stills.

You’re dreaming.

The room is the same, your same blanket draped over your legs, the same armchair in the corner, the same low hum of silence wrapped around you like a second skin but the painting above the fireplace is missing.

In its place is a velvet curtain. Deep crimson. Heavy.

Then, you hear it.

Music again. That same song from the attic phonograph, slower now, like a heartbeat underwater.

You rise, barefoot, drawn forward by something warm pulsing behind the curtain. The room smells like candle wax and cedarwood. Like skin.

When you pull back the velvet drape, he’s there. Not painted. Alive.

Standing in the centre of the room like he’s always belonged to it. The same face you’ve memorised from canvas after canvas, only now he’s moving, breathing.

His dark hair falls in loose waves over his cheekbones in a half-up up half-down ponytail. His pillowy lips are parted, just barely. His cat-like eyes. God, his eyes are molten shadow, thick with knowing. With hunger. He wears a soft white shirt, half-unbuttoned, exposing the smooth line of his collarbones, the delicate notch of his throat.

You know it’s a dream.

You know it.

When he steps toward you, slow and sure, you forget your name.

He says yours.

Not out loud. Not exactly. You feel it inside you, like a thought someone else whispered into your skull. “Y/N.” You shudder. He walks closer. Doesn’t touch you, he just studies you. Like you’re the art now.

“I’ve waited so long,” he says. His voice is velvet soaked in wine, deep and patient, with something trembling beneath it. It’s the most gorgeous sound you’ve ever heard. “I watched them all. But you… You came to me willingly.”

You part your lips, but no sound comes out. You’re not afraid. Or maybe you are. But it’s beautiful and that makes it worse.

“Do you know what it means,” he murmurs, “to bring the portrait down from the attic?” His eyes hold yours, unwavering. “It means you want to be seen.” He raises a hand slowly. You don’t move away.

His Fingertips trail just above your cheek, not touching, but close enough to make your skin burn.

“You dream of me because I dream of you too, darling.”

The candlelight flickers violently behind him and then the room begins to peel away. The dream collapsing in on itself like silk slipping from skin.

He leans in, his breath ghosting over your mouth, and in the final moment before waking, he whispers.

“Soon.”

You wake with a gasp.

The candle is out. Your neck is damp with sweat.

In your lap, the journal has been turned to a new page. One that wasn’t there before. The ink is still drying and it reads:

You brought me closer once. Will you let me in now?

━━━━━━━━━━☽༓☾━━━━━━━━━━━━

You avoid mirrors that morning.

You catch yourself doing it.

Not deliberately, at first, just a feeling. A tug behind your ribs. An awareness. As if your reflection might not behave. As if you’d look up and he’d be there, standing just over your shoulder, still and watching.

You shower with the curtain half-drawn, wipe the steamed mirror without meeting your own gaze. You get dressed slowly, distractedly. Your hands tremble when you button your blouse. The fabric brushes your skin and feels… too much. Too heavy.

Every sensation has been louder since the dream. You keep touching the spot on your neck where you felt him breathe. It lingers like perfume, like ghostfire.

You make tea to keep your hands busy but you don’t drink it. You wander through the house instead, pretending to organise, dusting shelves that don’t need dusting. Moving books. Not looking at the reflection in the hallway frame. Not looking at the portrait over the fireplace.

It’s there, that feeling. He is there.

Always watching, always waiting and you feel it. More than ever before.

Not just in the painting. Not just in the attic. He’s… everywhere now. Like he’s under your skin, in your blood. In the groan of the floorboards. In the hush of the house when you walk by. In the faint brush of wind against the back of your thigh when no window is open.

You see movement in your periphery at least three times before noon.

Once in the reflection of the cracked hallway glass. Just a silhouette, long and dark, gliding behind you like a shadow with intention.

The second time in the kitchen window. He’s standing in the garden for less than a heartbeat before he’s gone but you definitely saw him. Didn’t you? Pale skin. Bare, delicate throat. Hair pushed back like in the painting’s earliest strokes.

The third time, you see him more clearly and you don’t look away. His smile curves into a maniacal grin like he knows he’s winning.

Later you’re in the drawing room, picking through old boxes, pretending the pounding in your chest is just exertion. The window beside you is fogged by the rain outside. You don’t remember it starting.

Lightning flashes once, briefly illuminating the garden.

This time he doesn’t vanish. He’s standing just beyond the window.

Hyunjin.

You freeze.

He’s not moving. He isn’t trying to come closer. His head is slightly tilted, like he’s studying you, the same way he did in the dream. Like you’re the portrait now. His masterpiece.

You raise your hand, fingers lifting as if drawn on strings but before you can touch the glass, He smiles again.

Just slightly. Just enough to make your stomach twist. You hear him through the glass like his lips are pressed against your ear. “If you knew what I dream of doing to you, you’d run. Or maybe… you’d crawl.”

Then, the thunder rolls in, and when the light flickers again, he’s gone.

You don’t run. You don’t scream. You don’t even cry but your heart is pounding under your blouse, your blood pumping incessantly. Instead, you walk to the sitting room. To the fireplace.

To him.

The portrait.

You sink down onto your knees in front of it. The fire beneath has long since turned to embers, the room cold enough to make your breath mist but you’re sweating, trembling.

You reach up, pressing your palm gently to the frame. The wood is warm. Not from heat.

From presence.

Your eyes trace his features again, and again, and again. The way the line of his collarbones disappears into the shadow of the canvas. The tilt of his mouth. That expression, curious, smug, indulgent.

You exhale shakily. “You’re real, aren’t you?” You whisper to him.

You expect silence. Instead, a soft gust of air moves across your face, as though the painting has exhaled too. Your breath catches.

“I see you,” you say, quietly. “Even when I tell myself I shouldn’t.” Your fingers trail lower, brushing the bottom of the frame. You bite your lip. “I should be afraid of you. I think I was, at first.” The candle beside the portrait flickers. “But now…” You swallow. “Now I think I want you to look at me the way you did in that dream.”

Silence. Then something shifts in the room. The scent changes.

Gone is the must of the old house and in its place, a soft sweetness, rich and heady, like amber and something warmer. Skin warmed by candlelight. Silk clinging to damp flesh. The smell of night, and want. You close your eyes.“Did you make them fall in love with you?” you ask, your voice just above a whisper. “All of them? Did they all go mad for you?” Your voice is shaking now, but it doesn’t matter. No one’s listening. Except for him. “Is that what’s happening to me?” You open your eyes.

The portrait is the same and yet… his lips. They’re parted now. Only slightly. Like he’s going to respond.

You lean in, breath brushing the paint.

“What would you do to me,” you whisper, “if I said I didn’t want to run anymore?”

The silence holds you like arms and in the stillness, you hear it. Not out loud.

But inside you.

A voice like a promise, velvet and ruin.

“Then come to me, little thing. I’ll show you what it means to belong.”

━━━━━━━━━━☽༓☾━━━━━━━━━━━━

That night, you lit every candle in the house.

You open the windows to let in the wind and then close them again because it smells like him. Because it makes your breath catch, like fingers grazing your spine. Like silk draped over bare skin. You tell yourself it’s foolish.

You leave the painting uncovered.

You stare at him until your eyes burn. Until you feel that soft tug behind your breastbone again, that thread connecting you to something deeper, older, unknowable.

You curl up on the sofa with the blanket and this time, you ask for him.

You close your eyes and say his name aloud like a prayer. “Hyunjin. Come to me.” And the world tilts.

The dream begins in darkness.

Then candlelight flickers, thousands of tiny flames floating midair. No walls. No floor. Just velvet shadows beneath your feet and golden heat pressed against your skin.

You’re dressed differently here.

Something soft and sheer, a slip of fabric barely covering you. Your bare legs, your collarbone, the delicate curve of your shoulder, all visible. You know it’s a dream, but you feel exposed.

Wanted.

Then, you feel it.

Him.

A presence before the voice.

“Darling,” he murmurs behind you. “You keep calling for me. Do you even know what you’re asking for?”

You turn and there he is. Hyunjin. Closer than before. Closer than you’ve ever seen him. Not a painting. Not a phantom. Real and breathtaking.

His skin glows in the candlelight, the pale gold sheen of it like something carved from marble and silk. His hair falls loose around his face, strands grazing his lips. His eyes, black fire, endless, wanting.

He steps toward you.

You don’t move.

He lifts a hand, delicate, ringed fingers and brushes them down your arm. You shiver. It’s not cold. It’s too warm. Like his touch seeps under your skin.

“You brought me down from the attic,” he says softly. “That was your invitation.”

You swallow, lips parting. “I didn’t mean-”

He cuts you off with a smile. A beautiful, devastating smile.

“You did.” He says.

His fingers trail to your wrist, holding it gently against your pulse point.

“I’ve watched you since the moment you stepped into my house. Do you know how long I’ve waited to be looked at the way you look at me?” He says against your neck.

You try to speak but you can’t.

“You dream of me,” he whispers, leaning closer, voice velvet and threat and reverence all at once. “But I was dreaming of you first. I asked for you, waited for you.”

You feel him, everywhere.

His other hand slides to your waist, pulling you against him. The slip of fabric you wear clings to your skin. His chest is warm against yours. You feel the curve of his mouth near your ear.

“Do you want to know what I’ll do to you?” His words come out through gritted teeth, like it’s taking every effort for him to hold back.

You nod before you can stop yourself. You ache. You burn.

“I’ll ruin you slowly,” he breathes. “I’ll make you forget your name, beautiful. You’ll sleep with my voice in your throat and my hands burned into your skin. You’ll beg me to stay even as you break for me.”

He brushes his lips over your jaw. Doesn’t kiss you. Just brands you with the promise of it.

“But you’ll be mine, darling. You already are.”

You gasp as his hand tightens around your wrist, his grip firm now, commanding.

“Say it,” he hisses. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m-” Your voice catches when you attempt to speak.

He squeezes harder. Your breath shakes.

“Say it, little thing.” His voice comes out harshly. So much that it shakes you.

“I’m yours, Hyunjin.” You whimper.

The moment you say it, the candles flare so brightly they blind you.

He grips your hip and then…

You wake.

You sit up on the couch, heart hammering, throat dry as your hands claw at it, like something is inside you. The fire is out again. The house is quiet.

Too quiet, then you feel it.

A throb in your skin, on your wrist.

You pull back the sleeve of your blouse, trembling fingers fumbling at the cuff. Your breath hitches. On your pale skin, a perfect outline of a hand. Long fingers. Splayed.

Pressed too hard. Bruised.

Exactly where he held you in the dream. You stare at it, chest rising and falling too fast. Tears start to fall down your cheeks and a small sob escapes your mouth.

It’s real. It’s impossible. He’s real.

You bring the wrist to your chest, hold it like a wound, like a gift. Like something sacred.

Slowly, shamefully, your thighs press together. You can feel your arousal soaking through the delicate fabric of your panties. You’re aching for someone who doesn’t exist.

Except… he does and he left his mark on you.

━━━━━━━━━━☽༓☾━━━━━━━━━━━━

You stop answering the door to the postman or neighbours. The outside world dulls in your mind. It feels irrelevant. You leave unopened mail that’s now overloading the post box at the front of the house. The electrician knocks but you don’t answer. You ignore the calendar, ignore the window, ignore the time of day.

Your life narrows down to candlelight, silence, and him. Hyunjin.

You say his name out loud now, without shame. You whisper it when you pass his portrait. When you lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. When your hands are shaking and your skin burns with the memory of his dream-touch.

The bruise on your wrist has darkened into deep indigo and yellowed at the edges.

You run your thumb over it every few hours, pressing until it hurts, until your eyes flutter shut with the ghost of pleasure.

━━━━━━━━━━☽༓☾━━━━━━━━━━━━

Three days pass like this.

Maybe more.

On the fourth, if it even is the fourth, you go into the attic again. Something compels you. Something soft and undeniable. You climb the steps barefoot, your nightgown whispering around your ankles, hair unbrushed and loose.

You pass the unfinished painting of yourself without looking at it.

You know he’s in it now, you can feel his eyes on you. You carry a new canvas under your arm.

You set it down in the centre of the attic floor. Light spills through the stained-glass window at the far end, painting the space in muted red and gold, like the inside of a wound.

You kneel and begin. You don’t know why you paint. You’ve never been trained. Never done more than sketch absentmindedly in notebooks during meetings but your hand moves like it remembers something your body forgot. Like it belongs to someone else.

The first stroke is his jawline.

Then his mouth, plump and smirking, as always.

You dip your fingers into the paint instead of using a brush. The way the oil clings to your skin feels like sin. Like blood.

You paint until your shoulders ache and your knees are sore against the wooden floor. You paint until the candle beside you burns low, until the red light from the window fades into black.

By the time you stop, his face is there.

Not perfect but it’s close.

Too close.

Later, you wake up on the attic floor.

You don’t remember falling asleep. Your fingers are stained with paint, red, black, a strange bruised plum. It’s dried under your nails, in the crease of your knuckles, like something living.

The painting stares back at you and he’s beautiful.

He looks younger in this one. Softer, perhaps. His lips slightly parted. His throat is bare again under the collar of his white shirt. One side of his mouth lifted in a secret smile, the kind lovers share when no one else is watching.

You realise what you’ve done.

His chest is exposed. Smooth, pale, ethereal. You painted him how he looked in your dream.

Worshipful. You painted desire. Then, you carry it downstairs. This time, you hang it in your bedroom. Opposite the bed. You’ve started sleeping in there now.

You stare at it for a long time, standing in your nightgown, arms wrapped around yourself. You feel flushed. Like you’ve been caught naked by someone who sees everything.

Your breath shallows. “Is this what you wanted?” you ask quietly. “Me like this?” The painting doesn’t move but it’s like the room shifts. The temperature climbs. The air thickens. Your nipples harden under the cotton fabric. You squeeze your thighs together without thinking.

The candle on your bedside table flickers violently, then steadies. Your heart pounds. You know what’s happening. You know this is madness but, it’s a madness that feels like coming home.

You lie down on your bed, the sheets cool against your overheated skin. You turn your head toward the painting.

Hyunjin looks down at you.

Not the way a man looks at a stranger but the way a man looks at someone he’s already claimed.

You reach down slowly, one hand drifting beneath the blanket, under the hem of your nightgown.

Your eyes stay on his as your fingers slide lower.

You shouldn’t but your body hums with need, and there’s no one to stop you now.

No one to save you from him and worst of all, you don’t want to be saved.

Your fingers trace your folds lightly, as you imagine his would. Your slick coating them, you circle your clit lazily, moaning under your breath. Your under hand joins and you pull apart your pussy, like you’re displaying it. For him.

You pull the sheets away, now fully exposed towards the painting where you meet his lustful gaze through the canvas.

Your lips part and you sigh, pushing two of your fingers into your tight opening. Your cunt clenches around them at the thought of your indecency. You curl your fingers upwards finding your g-spot, your hips rock to meet them and you whimper his name like a curse. Like you’re begging. You know he sees you and you want him to.

You come quickly then, imagining his palm against your throat and his fingers buried inside you. His voice whispering, “Darling.” Your pussy pulsating as you climax.

By the time you drift into sleep, you feel warm, spent, glowing. Your hand rests loosely on your chest, rising and falling with each soft breath but before your eyes flutter closed, just for a moment, you think you see the painting blink.

The candle burns out while you sleep.

The room is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that waits.

You dream again.

This time, there is no gentle darkness, no soft invitation. The space is harsh and shadowed, the air sharp as bitten lips. The candles that usually float like stars now flicker erratically, angry. The air hums with static, with fury.

He’s there before you can turn. Hyunjin, but he’s not like before.

His beauty is the same, still impossible, still so lovely it hurts, but his expression is different. Not amused. Not worshipful.

He looks betrayed. His jaw clenched and his eyes are black with fire.

You blink, your breath already catching in your throat. You try to speak, but he’s already closing the space between you. His steps are slow, deliberate.

He’s furious and yet, you ache for him.

“Do you think this is a game?” he asks, voice low and sharp like a blade, you wince at his harsh tone. “Do you think I don’t see you?”

He circles you, the air thick with him. The scent of spice and storm.

“Touching yourself,” he hisses, just behind your ear. “Under my gaze.”

You flush. “I-”

“Without asking.” He’s in front of you again, gaze burning. His lip curls. There’s hurt beneath the anger. Real, wounded.

“You think you can use me like a mirror,” he murmurs. “Look at me and take what you want, and leave me wanting?”

Your chest rises and falls too quickly. Shame curls hot in your belly and underneath it, something worse. Desire.

“It wasn’t like that,” you whisper. A tear falls and his thumb presses against it, holding it on your skin like he wants to keep it there. Make you feel it. The wet. The shame.

He tilts his head. “No?” He steps closer.

You try to move back, but the room shifts with you, keeping you trapped in his orbit. Your shoulder brushes a floating candle, and the flame licks your skin without burning.

“You think this is about lust?” he breathes. “You think I wanted to watch you fall apart while I stood here with nothing?”

Your throat dries.

“You begged for me,” he says. “You called me to you. You painted me. You spoke to me. You offered yourself and now you act like I’m not the one who decides how this goes?”

You can’t answer. Your hands are shaking and he notices. His voice softens, just slightly, and that’s what makes it worse. “I would’ve touched you,” he says, low and raw. “If you’d waited. If you’d asked me.”

You close your eyes.

“I would’ve undone you slowly,” he murmurs, stepping closer again. “Kissed your thighs. Worshipped you, made that ache you can still feel between your legs go away.” He pauses, his mouth so close to yours. “But only if you were mine.”

You open your eyes. “I am,” you breathe.

“Say it again.” He demands, his hand on your cheek now bruising.

“I’m yours.” You sob.

His expression flickers, something cracks. Something breaks open. He moves and grabs your chin, tilting your head up. Not rough, but not gentle either.

His thumb brushes your lower lip.

“No more touching yourself without permission,” he says, voice thick. “You want release? You ask. You wait. You earn it.”

You nod slowly, lips parting. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

His jaw tenses.

“I think you did.” He spits. He leans in, so close you can feel the heat of his breath.

“But I forgive you,” he whispers, so softly, so gently, like his anger flipped like a light switch. “Because you’re my little thing. Because I’ll teach you better.”

Your knees nearly give.

He leans forward like he’s going to kiss you. But he stops, just an inch away. His voice lowers to a growl. “And next time you touch yourself without my permission…” he pauses. “I won’t be so merciful.”

The dream begins to unravel around you like smoke but his hand stays on your jaw, holding you in place. His lips against the corner of your mouth teasing with a faux kiss.

“Now wake up.”

You jolt awake in the dark. You’re sweating and the sheets are tangled between your legs. Your lips feel kissed, but they weren’t. Your core throbs with unspent ache. Your hands are empty. Your wrists are bare but your skin still tingles where he held you and you know now, for sure. He’s not just a ghost in the walls.

He’s real.

He’s watching and next time, you ask.

You’ll beg.

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You’re interrupted by a knock, sharp and repeated three times. It echoes down the hallway like a sound not meant to be here. You flinch, nearly dropping the brush in your hand. You’d been painting again, your fifth attempt this week, all them of him. Each more beautiful, each more wrong. None of them is enough.

You haven’t had a visitor in days. Weeks, maybe.

No one should be knocking.

You hesitate, brush still dripping crimson onto the floorboards. Another knock. Firmer. More human than anything you’ve felt in days.

You finally peel yourself away from the bedroom and pad toward the front door, vision slightly blurred from hours of staring at the canvas. When you open it, blinking into the afternoon light as you gaze upon a man.

Not Hyunjin.

Someone else.

He’s handsome in a way that feels solid, real. Like a person who eats hot meals and lifts heavy things and doesn’t whisper through walls. Tan skin, strong arms crossed over a thick jacket, concern in his eyes before you even say hello.

“Y/N?” His voice is deep, grounding.

“Sorry to just show up. I’m Changbin, uh, your neighbour, sort of. Down by the hill.” He pauses. “Your aunt used to talk about you. I helped her around the place, fixed the shutters after that storm years back. I didn’t know she’d passed until recently as I hadn’t heard from her for a while.”

You open your mouth. No sound comes. Then, he looks at you, really looks and his expression changes. “You look like you haven’t been sleeping.” He steps forward instinctively, hand brushing your arm. His touch is warm. Earthly. Unwelcome.

The second he touches you, the house responds.

A deep, guttural groan rolls through the floorboards like an animal rousing from its den. The overhead light flickers. A sudden draft snakes up from beneath the door to the basement. The air grows heavy.

Changbin steps back. “Shit,” he mutters. “It’s still here.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks at you then, serious. No flirtation. No pretence. “You shouldn’t be here alone.”

“I’m fine.” You say, a bit too bluntly.

“No, you’re not. I know this house. I know what it does.” He whispers as if he knows it hears him.

You laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because it’s too late. “You have no idea-”

“He lives in the paint,” Changbin interrupts you.

Your blood runs cold at his words. “What did you say?” You ask, in disbelief.

He stares at you.

“Don’t say his name. Don’t let him in and for God’s sake, don’t paint him.” He says, breathless. His eyes glazed over in what seemed like fear.

The air thickens like molasses.

“I already did,” you whisper.

Changbin’s face pales.

“You need to leave. Now. Pack what you can. Go to a hotel. Call someone.” He says, he’s shaking now but you don’t move.

Because the hallway behind you is darker now than it was a minute ago. Because the door to the sitting room has slowly creaked shut on its own and because you can feel eyes on the back of your neck.

“He won’t let me,” you say.

Changbin grips your shoulders. “Listen to me. You’re not possessed. Not yet but you’re under his influence. This house, it makes you love him. Makes you want to stay.”

“I do want to stay.” You answer, too quickly.

He shakes his head. “No. That’s not you talking.”

Something crashes behind you.

A framed photo drops from the wall and shatters on the floor, glass exploding outward, like something pushed it. Changbin flinches and looks up at the ceiling.

“You’re scaring him,” you say, voice strange and hollow.

“Good.” He says, but it doesn’t come out confidently.

Changbin looks at you again, gentler this time and for a moment, just a second, you feel like someone’s reaching a hand through the fog. “I can help you, Y/N. You don’t have to do this alone.” He says, gently.

Then, all the candles blow out at once. The air howls. The hallway stretches unnaturally long behind you and a voice you recognise, too close, too deep, curls into your ear from nowhere.

“Mine.”

You gasp and stumble, nearly falling into Changbin.

He catches you.

The house roars again, louder this time. A low, guttural thrum that vibrates the floorboards, makes the windows tremble in their frames. A wind slams against the door from inside the house.

Changbin’s jaw tightens. He pulls you toward him.

“He’s stronger now. Feeding off you. Off what you’ve done. Every stroke of paint, every time you said his name, it gave him form.” He speaks through small gasps of breath.

“I didn’t know-” you start.

“You do now.” He says.

Changbin observes you, his gaze pleading “Don’t let him take the rest.”

You’re shaking. “He already has.”

He leaves you with his home number. He writes it on your palm, presses your fingers closed over it. “If he manifests, really manifests, don’t speak to him. Don’t touch him. Don’t look him in the eyes. Do you understand?” He pleads.

You nod but you’re lying because later that night, you go to your bedroom.

You shut the door and you stand before the painting again. You trace his collarbones with your fingertip. “I missed you.” You whisper, with eyes glazed over with longing.

The house sighs around you. Pleased. Purring.

You look at Hyunjin’s features in the canvas and they’re darker than before.

Alive.

You feel him before you see him. A soft shift in the air. The flicker of candlelight is slowing.

He steps from the shadows. Not from a doorway. Not from behind you. From nowhere. From the space between breath and silence. From the place you painted him into.

Hyunjin.

He’s real, solid. Undeniable.

The same face you’ve seen in dreams of oil paints and smoke, now with skin that gleams in the candlelight. His chest was rising and falling. Bare feet soundless against the floor. Hair falling in dark sheets around his face and his eyes. They’re the first thing you try not to look at but they pull. They always pull.

You look anyway. You can’t not. They’re furious.

“He touched you.” His voice is colder than you’ve ever heard it. “That… man.”

You part your lips, try to speak, make an excuse but no sound comes.

“You let him put his hands on you.” He says. You shake your head. “I didn’t want him to-”

He’s across the room before you can finish, towering over you at the foot of the bed. His presence makes the candlelight shiver.

“You should’ve stopped him.” He curses, jaw clenched. The muscles in his neck shift. He looks almost… wounded and then something flickers in his expression.

A softness. A restraint pulled tight. “But you didn’t go with him.” He says, gently. Like he’s speaking to an innocent child.

You nod, slowly.

“You stayed,” he says, quieter now. “You stayed with me.” He kneels in front of you.

Your breath catches.

He lifts your hands in his, pale, cool fingers ghosting over your knuckles, your wrists. His touch is reverent. Gentle. Possessive. His thumb brushes the inside of your palm.

The place where Changbin’s number is still written. He looks down at it, then up at you. “Open it, give me your hand.” He says. You hesitate, then you do.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to your palm. Then he wipes the number away with his thumb. The ink smears and disappears.

“There,” he whispers. “That’s better.” He looks up at you again and this time you try to look away. You turn your head, breathing shallow, remembering what Changbin said. ‘Don’t look him in the eyes’ but Hyunjin’s fingers claim your jaw and they tighten. “No,” he says gently. “Don’t deny me now.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

His voice dips, low and velvet-smooth. “You already gave me everything. I watched you in the dark, desperate, wet and shaking just from my name.”

You shiver. Goosebumps trail your skin.

“You paint me with trembling hands. You sleep beneath me. You whisper to me like I’m your god.” His grip tilts your face back toward him.

“Open your eyes, darling.” He says.

You can’t, so he leans in, mouth brushing your cheek. “Look at me.” His voice, startling. It echoes off the walls.

You obey and you fall.

It’s not just his gaze, it’s gravity. It’s a void wrapped in beauty. His eyes are endless, sharp and soft all at once. They strip you bare. They know you.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

A whimper catches in your throat.

“You disobeyed me,” he says. “You touched yourself without asking but today, you stayed and for that…” He trails his hands up your thighs, barely grazing fabric, like a promise you haven’t earned yet. “You deserve to be rewarded.” He says, his pupils are blown. Smirk on his lips like he knows you’re already aching for him.

You tremble under his touch, under his eyes. There’s fear there but deeper still, there’s hunger. For him. For the darkness in him. For the way he sees you.

“You belong to me now, darling,” he says.

“I know.” You reply, almost on instinct.

“Say it.” He growls.

“I belong to you.” You whimper and at that, he smiles and this time it’s not cruel. It’s possessive. Triumphant.

“Then come here, little thing,” he whispers. “Let me show you what devotion earns.”

Hyunjin doesn’t rush. He never does.

You sit on the edge of the bed, barely breathing, trembling under the weight of his gaze. His hands cool, beautiful, steady, slide up your thighs, parting them with the patience of someone who already knows he’ll be obeyed.

You’ve never felt so bare. Not just physically, utterly stripped but also seen in a way that should shame you. Instead, it sets your nerves alight.

“Lie back for me, darling,” he says softly.

You obey without hesitation, sinking into the sheets, breath hitching. Your nightgown rides up your hips, and he doesn’t fix it. He just watches you.

“You’ve been so good,” Hyunjin murmurs, running a single finger up the inside of your thigh. “Even after your little disobedience.”

You whimper as he presses your legs wider.

“You stayed for me,” he continues, as if in reverence. “You looked at me when I asked. You let me in.” His lips brush your knee and your hips lift instinctively, needing him closer.

He chuckles against your skin. “Hungry little thing…” He kisses higher. Each press of his mouth was deliberate, claiming. His hands pin your thighs open. You can feel your slickness against the air now, humiliating in how ready you are.

“Look at you,” he purrs. “Already ruined, and I haven’t even touched you where you need me.”

Your voice is gone. You can’t form words.

Only shallow gasps.

Then his mouth finds you. The moment his tongue touches your clit, your hips buck violently.

Hyunjin groans against you, satisfied. “That’s it, sweet girl,” he murmurs, breath warm against your folds. “Let me taste how much you need me.” he says and then he devours you. There’s no other word for it. It isn’t slow or romantic, it’s worshipful in hunger, the way a starving god would claim an offering. His mouth is firm and sure and relentless, tongue flicking and curling with obscene skill, dragging whimpers and moans from you so raw they embarrass you.

He loves it.

You can feel the satisfaction radiating off him, feel his pride in the way your body responds, trembling, gasping for more.

You try to reach down, try to grab his hair, something, but he growls against your cunt. “No.” He pins your hands to the mattress with one strong palm. Bringing his face up to yours, his teeth are bared in an animalistic manner. “You don’t get to touch. You just take what I give you.” Your walls clench around nothing, the ache growing unbearable.

He releases your wrists but you keep them there, fearing he’ll stop if you move. His mouth presses to your wet cunt and he laps at you, lazily now, dragging it out. Teasing. Controlling.

“You’re so wet, darling.” he groans. “I could drink from you.” You cry out, legs quaking. You’re so close. So close but just before the wave crashes, just before you break… he stops.

You sob, lifting your hips, but he holds you down firmly. “No,” he says again, gaze dark and serious now. “Not yet.”

“Hyunjin… please-” Your voice is wrecked. You’re crying.

He rises from between your legs, lips and chin glistening with your arousal, the candlelight casting him in a gold and soft glow. His hair falls around his face like ink.

He doesn’t kiss your mouth and doesn’t hold you. Just watches you, flushed and gasping, undone. “This was your reward,” he says quietly. “For being mine. For staying but I never said anything about your punishment, for your disobedience.” He growls the last word.

Your body shakes from need. You don’t understand why he’s leaving but you know better than to beg again.

“Next time,” he murmurs, brushing a knuckle down your throat, licking at his lips. Tasting your arousal. “If you’re very good… maybe I’ll let you come.”

You choke on a soft moan, pressing your thighs together as your hips grind into the empty air.

He steps back into the shadows. His form begins to blur. The candlelight dims but before he vanishes entirely, you hear his voice one last time. Right against your ear.

“I’ll be watching.”

You’re left trembling. Empty and marked with his mouth. You know it’s too late to leave now. You don’t want to. You want him to finish what he started but Hyunjin never gives you what you want. Only what he thinks you deserve.

The house is quiet after he disappears. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that rings in your ears.

You lie in bed for a long time, legs sticky with your own arousal, heart still thudding like it hasn’t caught up to the fact that he’s gone. You stare at the ceiling and imagine his weight still on top of you. His lips are still between your thighs. His breath still claims the air you breathe but he’s not there. He left you aching. Again.

Part 2

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Tumblr wouldn’t let me post it all as a one shot so the link to part 2 is above.

Disclaimer - Stray Kids are not owned by me and are just used as inspiration for fiction. This story does not represent them or Hyunjin in real life. Images in the header are not owned by me.

Feel free to like, comment and reblog.

Do not repost, translate or copy my work.

Taglist - @fairylix @hoes4minho @lilileen25 @akindaflora @tirena1 @stayjinnie @jehhskz

@alittlebitofeverything04 @chloe-elise-2000

[lostinlads]

Meet The Leader Of Onychinus

Synopsis: After days of being locked up in the base of the man wo had taken you from your home, you finally are summoned to meet him. Little do you know it is so much worse than you imagined. You're in the base of the criminal organization, Onychinus.

Tags: sylus x femme!reader, MDNI IF YOU ARE A MINOR YOU WILL BE BLOCKED, mc is really going through it, mentions of guns, mentions of kidnapping, your first few days at onychinus, sylus is rough with you, angst, hurt no comfort

Words: 2.7k

an: Firstly i want to thank all of you for how much love this fic has gotten so far, i honestly didnt expect any of this so im kinda in shock??? But really, thank you. Ive been sitting on this idea for a little over a month now and im finally getting around to working it out for all of you!! but i hope you enjoy this chapter! its a tad longer than the first, once i find my footing in writing again maybe ill make them longer but this is what i worked up for now!! Also as always if you see any mistakes please let me know!

ao3 | Chapter List | kofi

The N109 Zone has kept you in near complete darkness for days. You didn't know how long you spent in this room, door locked from the outside, no way to leave; but it felt like a lifetime already. You were grateful for the ensuite bathroom, the sink enough to satisfy your thirst, but the small amount of food left for you on the desk was a reminder that it was just enough to keep you alive. A small box of crackers and a handful of granola bars didn't satisfy the hunger in your stomach. 

Sleep has eluded you, no matter how much you tried, it barely came. When it did, you were restless - tossing and turning for a few hours until you rose again. Dreams filled with terrifying crimson eyes and vast darkness. The constant blackness didn't help, not knowing the time of day or how long you had been here made your unease crawl under your skin. Your time spent by laying around and watching out the window for any signs of anything, but everything stayed still.

The house had been quiet, soft shuffling of the maid could be heard through the door at times, but other than that there was nothing. Were you the only one here? Where did the twins and that man go? Maybe the thought of leaving you here to starve to death hadn't been too extreme, seeing that no one had come to check on you since the moment you arrived. Kieran and his twin tossing your bag in the room and shutting it tight behind you, the unmistakable sound of the lock latching closed.

You often found yourself imagining what would've happened if you were strong enough to fight back, strong enough to get away from the entire situation. How could this have happened? Your father? The only family you have, selling you off to a criminal for payment. It didn't feel real. If things had been different, if you had gotten away, maybe you'd be somewhere else by now. Hiding out in the depths of Linkon, or maybe at the beach. 

A single sharp knock brought your mind back, your heart speeding up in your chest as you stand from the plush bed. The door unlocked and opened; familiar crow masks meet your gaze as they both stand in the doorway.

"Boss wants to see you now," One spoke, stepping forward into the room. The wide space receding at his presence, shrinking the room by tenfold as your hands shake. Reluctantly, you step forward, surrendering yourself to them to take you to their boss. His hand curls around your arm as he leads you out, his twin mirroring his actions. They lead you through the massive house, warm, dim light illuminating the halls as you pass. The thought occurs, that it wouldn't matter if they held you, you wouldn't make it out of this maze of a building alone. 

Rounding a corner, you are pulled down a long hallway. A brilliant, massive door stands before you, intricate wood carvings dance up the length like vines. Two brass door handles twinkle in the dim light, glistening like a prize. But beyond that door, whatever was waiting for you, is anything but. 

With each step, you could feel his presence looming - his power consuming. If only you could run, save yourself from the torture you were about to endure. The anticipation eating you alive, steeling you for any abuse about to come.

The twins reach out, hands curling around both handles before swinging the wide, heavy doors open.

If it hadn't been a few sconces on the wall, barely illuminating the room, you would've guessed it had been abandoned. But at the far end, a chair sat, large enough to be called a throne. And perched on it, with crossed legs and his head in his hand, the man who had taken you from your home. From your life. 

Candlelight flickered over his strong features; you couldn't make out if he was pissed or simply bored. You didn't want to find out. But caught like his prey, you were immobilized, arms wrapped in two strong hands holding them firmly at your sides. Is this what it feels like to be a hare, staring down the throat of a looming wolf, about to be consumed? You wouldn't doubt if he could hear your beating heart from across the room, the way his eyes stayed glued to your form. 

"You can go," You flinch, the deep voice echoing in the large space. Within a second the hands drop from you, the twins turning and leaving. You didn't watch them, couldn't even lift your head from the floor. Stay still, stay quiet. Stay complicit and maybe you would survive this.

Silence so deafening as the room settles around the two of you, his eyes burning holes into your flesh as neither of you move. Was he waiting for you? Were you supposed to speak? You ball your fists at your side, closing your eyes as you take a deep breath. The feeling of dread never leaving, maybe this is where you die? He had his fun, leaving you to go insane as you stayed locked away, now this is his real show. Ripping you apart, shooting you, stabbing you. Anything. 

"Apologies for my lack of manners," He finally spoke, his words feeling like a blow to your stomach as you breathe out. You don't meet his gaze, eyes still screwed shut. "I had some... business to attend to for a few days. But now that I have returned," He pauses, something touches you and you jump, eyes flinging open as you see tendrils of red and black mist curl around you before locking around your wrists, drawing them together in a bruising grip. You cry out, a soft mewl as you try to pull away. "We have some business to attend to ourselves."

"I... Please, I'll do anything just don't hurt me," You whimper out, tears already threatening to leave your tired eyes. You look at him, finally. Seeing those blood red eyes on you again brought a chill down your spine. 

"Then don't make me," His words matter of fact. He dropped his hand from his head as his other rose up, more mist shooting across the room before it tightened around your waist. Next thing you know you're being pulled across the room at lightning speed, your hair flying behind you as the air gets knocked from your lungs. You prepare for impact, maybe a wall or a floor, but it never comes. You're delicately placed on his lap, strong thighs under yours as you blink, trying to understand what happened. Your wrists are still bound, the grip of the mist never wavering. 

"Please..." You whisper again, wanting this cat and mouse game to end. Just get it over with, for him to stop toying with you. You almost don't see it, a small tick of his lips upward in a smirk for just a second. 

"I need to make sure you won't disobey me," He leans back, resting in his throne as if this is the most normal situation in the world. "I know your power; how strong it can be. How strong you can make me." A crease forms between his brows.

"Y-yes," You stutter out, a tear slipping from your eye. 

"I have got to say, Kitten," He smirks again at the nickname, your gut turning in response. "If I train you right, you will be my most powerful weapon." His hand comes up, you flinch away, eyes closing as you turn your head waiting for a blow. But his long fingers brush against your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear. 

"But," He speaks again. "I don't know if I can trust you yet." His words lower to a whisper, the closeness and how quiet his voice became felt like this whole scene was more intimate than you wanted. He was toying with you, you knew this. Kneading you like dough before tossing you in the oven to bake you alive. Trust? You? He could kill you without thought and he is worried about trusting you? Maybe he is planning on whipping you to submission, breaking you to the point you can no longer do anything but be used by him. The though made you want to puke. You needed to think, work a plan to lessen your sentence in this hell so the pain wouldn't be so bad.

"Maybe you could trust me if I can trust you in return," You try your hardest to speak with confidence. He cocks an eyebrow at you, tilting his head slightly. "I mean," Your words rush out, grasping at anything to delay the inevitable. "I don't even know your name..." You whisper out. He laughs, his hot breath fanning over your face.

"You can call me Sylus."

"Sylus," You repeat, nodding your head once.

"And I'm the leader of Onychinus," He watched in amusement as the realization washed over you, the candlelight flickering off of his features making his face look like some kind of monster. Face dropping as your pulse quickened at that one word. Onychinus. The most dangerous criminal organization in the N109 Zone. And here you were, caught in the trap of the leader, sitting on his lap at his base. The nausea returned, your stomach turning as your mouth flooded with saliva. There really was no hope for you, you were royally fucked. 

"O-Onychinus," You breathe out, your vision tunneling as your pulse pounded in your veins. Sylus's lips curled up in an evil smile, his eyes dancing between yours.

"That's right, Kitten. That Onychinus." You try to swallow, the lump in your throat so large you almost choke. "Your - lovely - father had been playing too many games down in The N109 Zone and found himself in the palm of my hand." He held out his large hand, as if to demonstrate. "Having the right-hand man to the mayor of Linkon as your client is only as useful as any lowlife is. But the more money he owed the more I got fed up with is useless promises and his pathetic excuses. But luckily, he offered me you." His fingers curl into his palm, except his index which he pointed at your chest. "And that ticking little bomb in your chest." Almost as if on cue, your heart sped impossibly faster as he tapped on it twice. 

"So," He pulled away, leisurely resting back in the chair. "I don't really care if you trust me. I just need to make sure that you don't get any silly ideas of escaping or trying to take me down from the inside out. I own you now, there's no where you can run to, Kitten." He looked away, boredom coating his features again as his eyes trailed past you. You couldn't do anything other than stare at his haunting face. How could you run? The leader of Onychinus surely had more surveillance than you could ever imagine. And taking him down? You barely had enough energy to even sit here.

"I won't," You promise weakly, your words a breathless whisper as your eyes stay trained on his face. Your fists ball, muscles tensing against the tight ring of mist. The pressure straining against your pulse.

His eyes drift back to yours, a hand lifting from the arm of the chair. You watch more of the black and red smoke flow from thin air. It grazes your arm; you fight against a wince as it trails down to your still conjoined wrists. The link holding them together snaps as the tendril loops around one, firm but not suffocating like before. It lifts it, hand facing the ceiling as it continues to coil around your skin like a snake. Even though you wanted to, you couldn't deny how sensual the act felt. 

"Let's try something, then," Sylus purrs, sending a shiver down your spine and drawing your eyes back to his face. His intense gaze flickering between your eyes as the corner of his lips draw up into a smirk. The confused heart in your chest sped faster, at the anticipation or how intimate the setting has become? You weren't sure. 

His long fingers traced up your inner forearm, gliding up to your wrist in a delicate touch as goosebumps rose in its wake, drawing a gasp from your lips. You watch as Sylus's fingers push yours open, splayed wide before his thread through yours. 

HIs words ring in your ears from days prior. He doesn't do that. But here he is now, you nestled on his large thighs as his hand intwines with yours. Maybe it had been a front, a shoe so no one knows what he really does with his toys.

But to your surprise his hand tightens, an almost crushing grip before you feel the all too familiar pull of your evol. Power being pulled from deep inside your core as he tries to draw it out. But your head swirled, blood rushing as you cry out.

"Stop, please," You cry, trying to pull your hand from his. The grip only tightened as the crease between his brows returned with a scowl. 

"Not so fast," He gritted between his teeth. Sylus pushes harder, eyes closing in an attempt to focus on waking your evol. White, hot pain bloomed in your throbbing head, making a sob rip from your chest.

"I c-can't! Please, Sylus, I can't!" You plead out again, your free hand coming to cradle your skull. His eyes snap open, washing over your features before letting your hand fall with a scoff. 

"You're lucky I don't like picking on the weak, Kitten," He seethed. Your eyes screw shut, other hand coming to your head as you try your hardest to will the pain away. Your body weak with hunger and exhaustion, you didn't care if he killed you for not resonating with him, you almost hoped he would, anything to stop this burning pain.

Sylus shifted under you, but you didn't care, praying he was reaching for a gun to end this never-ending nightmare. But a minute later the tendrils enveloped you again. The feeling of Sylus's thighs left you as your body was placed onto the hard, cold floor. 

He didn't speak, you don't know if he was sitting and watching you writhe in pain or focused on another point in the room. Wishing you were a stronger person, you'd curse him out, spit in his face and scream at him for causing you so much pain. But the only thing you could manage was a weak sob.

The twin heavy doors sounded behind you; two boot clad footsteps grew louder until they stopped next to you.

 "Take her to her room. We're done here," Sylus spoke, his voice cold as stone.

"Yes, Boss," The twins obeyed, their hands returning around your arms slowly lifting you from the floor to your feet. you couldn't help but note that their touch was cautious, almost caring, as they paused to help you figure out your footing.

Once steady, they lead you down the winding, confusing maze that was the base of Onychinus in silence until you reach the door that contained your prison cell. Kieran releases your arm as he steps forward, clasping the knob before opening the door.

If his twin hadn't been holding onto you, you would've collapsed at the sight before you. Large boxes lined the room, a few smaller ones resting on the plush bed. If it hadn't been for the dove plush sitting atop of one, you wouldn't know what the contents would be. But you remember that same dove sitting on your bed at home. These were your things, your beloved belongings. A splash of color against the dim, dark area you had spent your last days. A sense of familiarity, a sense of home. Safety.

Kieran's twin lets you go, your feet wasting no time to move beneath you, drawing you further into the room. Your shaking hands reach out, reaching or the dove, almost needing to confirm that this is real. Your hands grasp it, not wasting any time to pull it to your heaving chest as a soft, relieved sob slips past your lips. You turn around and face the two masked men watching from the doorway.

"Thank you," Two simple words fall from your mouth, but they nod, understanding before they shut the door, leaving you some peace. 

Knees hitting the wooden floor beneath you as you collapse. Uncontrollable sobs shaking out of your weak body.

[regency-monster-love]

Grumpy orc and sunshine human, part 12

Male orc x female human | Regency era | SFW but references to sex, racism, and injury

Master list for this fic

Chapter starts immediately after part 11. Garek and Esther just fucked in an empty countryside chapel.

~ 😈🎩 ~

While cleaning themselves up, Garek remarked that it was lucky that the wet spots of his seed on their clothing would simply blend in with all the other water spots from the rain, and Esther started to feel that little trickle of unease that came now every time he talked about hiding their relationship.

Garek peeked out the door. “It's stopped raining. Good. We have to get you to my house for a bath quickly.”

Nausea started to swirl in her belly. “To get your scent off me?”

“Yes.”

“And you'll do the same to get my scent off you?”

“Of course.”

“Garek, are you ashamed of me?”

The orc jerked as if struck. “What? Why would you ask that?”

“You don’t want anyone to know about us. Not just the sex—you never spend time with me openly; never once have you called on me at my house.”

His face contorted in a mix of confusion, anger, and disgust. “That’s what you wanted, so your suitor wouldn’t find out.” He spoke the word “suitor” like it tasted bad.

“What on earth are you talking about? What suitor?”

“You have more than one now?” he snarled.

“My God, what kind of person do you think I am? There's no one but you!”

“Don't lie to me. The first time I walked you home, you said some other man was courting you and you wanted that.”

Esther stared at him silently for several breaths as she worked through what Garek was referring to, and as she realized what he meant, was nearly dumbstruck by the enormity of Garek’s misunderstanding and twisting of her words.

“First of all,” she said with calm precision, “what I said was that I thought one person might be courting me, and that I wasn't opposed to it. Secondly, I was talking about you, Garek.”

Now it was Garek’s turn to stare while he tried to make sense of things. “The suitor was—me? From the start?”

“Yes, you simpleton.”

“Then why didn't you say so outright?”

“I was smiling right at your face when I said what I did, and I let you ravish me immediately afterwards—I was very clear it was you.”

He shook his head. “No, I'm certain you didn't say ‘you,’ you said ‘he,’ like it was some other person.”

“I was being playful with my manner of speaking! It was obvious what I meant!”

“Obviously it wasn't!”

Esther released her breath in a frustrated sort of huff. “Sakes alive—did you ever see me close with any other males, Garek? Smell any other males on me?”

“No,” he growled.

“Shouldn’t that have made it obvious then?” Esther huffed out with an expectant raise of her eyebrows.

He stared back. His stomach dropped. Ohhh fuck. Fuck. Of course there was no one else. He had been such a colossal fool. He dropped his head into his hands.

“You really thought I would just lead some other suitor along while I was secretly carrying on an intimate relationship with you?” Esther asked after a moment, the hurt thick in her voice. How could he think so little of her?

Garek’s cheeks burned in shame, but he forced himself to drop his hands and look at her. “I didn’t really let myself think about it at all, not lately.” His love for her had made it too painful to think about, so he simply hadn’t, and in doing so, had missed all the obvious and logical signs of what was truly happening.

The ache in Esther’s throat had spread down into her chest, squeezing around her heart. She thought Garek was better than her former lover Frank, but it seemed like Garek had just been using her for sex after all. He hadn’t cared what it said about Esther’s character or the feelings of this other suitor as long as he was getting to use her body.

“I’m going home,” she told him, and turned toward the chapel door.

“Wait!” He grabbed her hand and stared at her with wild, desperate eyes. “I was a fool, but now I know the truth. Everything can be all right between us now.”

She pulled her hand back from him. “You can’t just say things are all right and make it so! Nothing has changed. Nothing is ever going to change with you.”

She stepped toward the door, and he grabbed for her again—she pushed him off her, just like that first time he’d kissed her, then jabbed a finger at him. “You leave me alone! I’m going!”

He obeyed. No running after her, no calling her back. He just let her go, his chest heaving as he watched her solitary figure walk quickly away from the chapel.

— — —

Four days. Four days since he had seen Esther, heard her laugh, touched her, been inside her. Four days without his mate.

Just a month ago, four days without her would have been nothing. Well, not nothing—it wouldn’t have been pleasant, but it was bearable, and nothing out of the ordinary. He would masturbate to the thought of her and be all right. Now, four days was torture.

He didn’t know if he ought to try to end it. He had made a tremendous mess of everything, and he feared that it was irreparable. Esther would probably turn down any attempt he made to reconcile—nothing is ever going to change with you, that’s what she’d told him. She’d given up on him. People are allowed to change their minds about what they want, that was another thing she’d told him once. Now he knew that she’d wanted him as a suitor from the beginning, but it seemed likely that she’d changed her mind on that now, and no longer wanted him as a suitor or a lover. But this was too horrifying a possibility to confirm. Knowing for certain that they were done would be far worse than the uncertainty he was living under now.

His mother wasn’t helping matters. She kept asking him what was wrong with him and how Miss Dayton was doing and why he was moping at home all the time. And his home smelled like Esther, especially in his bedroom, no matter how much he washed everything. 

He finally had to escape the house, and went for a walk into the village. He hadn’t gone very far when his minotaur friend came running straight down the main street at him. “Garek!” he shouted.

Garek rushed toward him. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Miss Dayton!” the minotaur said, and every fiber in Garek’s body snapped into focus. “Her carriage, there was an accident, I saw them dragging it to the wheelwright’s across from my office—”

“What happened to her? Where is she?” Garek demanded.

“They said the lady inside was hurt, took her to the nearest cottage to await the surgeon—”

“Where!”

“Other side of the village, nearly to the mill—”

Garek took off running, panic making him move faster than perhaps he ever had before. He reached the row of cottages that he thought the minotaur meant and started pounding on every door, frantically asking after the human lady who was injured in a carriage accident. The third one finally told him that she had seen her taken inside the next one over, and Garek rushed to that door to hammer his fist on it. It felt like an eternity before anyone answered, though it was probably less than 10 seconds.

A female dragon opened the door, standing at least a head taller than Garek and filling its entire width with her bulk.

Garek didn’t bother with any greeting. “I need to see Miss Dayton!”

The dragon gave him a disgruntled look. “Who are you?”

“I’m her mate, now let me in,” he growled. It was the first time he had said it out loud, but he hadn’t hesitated—he wasn’t scared of that word anymore, just needed to see Esther without delay.

The dragon gestured to his right tusk. “You’ve no ring, and she’s a ‘miss.’”

“We haven’t had our ceremony yet—get out of the way,” he snarled.

But the dragon didn’t budge; Garek was furious that she was bigger than him. “Well.” She sniffed, looking him up and down. “You’re certainly acting like a mate.” From her tone, it was clear that she did not consider that a good thing. “All right, you can see her, but if she wants you to go, you go.”

She cleared out of the way, and Garek barreled right past her, not needing her to show him the way to Esther’s room—he could smell exactly where she was, and he could smell that she was unwell.

“Wait!” the dragon hissed behind him, right as he reached her door. “You can’t go barging in when she’s resting.”

“I know that,” he hissed back. “I would never hurt Esther.” Not anymore, at least.

He put his hand to the doorknob and very slowly opened it. Esther lay unconscious in a huge dragon-size bed, looking so tiny and frail it made something sharp twist painfully in his chest. Her hair was covered by a large bandage. He crept over to her side. “Esther,” he whispered.

The dragon had come in too. “Don’t touch her head or neck; the surgeon isn’t sure yet if there was any damage to her spine.” More pain stabbed through Garek’s chest at that.

After telling Garek to fetch her when Esther woke, and warning him again not to bother her, the dragon finally left them alone. Garek carefully climbed up on the bed to lay beside Esther, facing her but not touching her, except for stroking his fingers over the top of her hand that rested on the blanket.

He ached with the desire for Esther to be all right, and to be with him. He’d been such a stubborn, cowardly fool to try to deny and fight against their mating bond. If they had been mated and married, he might have been in the carriage with her and could have prevented her from getting hurt so badly, protecting her in the strong cocoon of his arms. That’s what he wanted—to be with her all the time, at her side to protect and please her, no more hiding.

Despite his fretful thoughts, he must have eventually fallen asleep, because the next thing he was aware of was the feel of someone petting his hair. He opened his eyes and saw Esther looking at him with a serious expression as she caressed his head.

“You’re awake!” He sat up abruptly. “I have to tell—um, I don’t know her name, actually, but the surgeon needs to see you!” He jumped out of bed.

“Wait, Garek. What happened?” Esther said in a weak voice.

He leaned over her and reached for her face, but stopped himself before touching her. “You got hurt in an accident, and they carried you here,” he said, as gently as he could, to not scare her, but it still came out rather rough, because having to speak the words “you got hurt” made him angry. “I’ll tell you more soon, but let me fetch the surgeon first.”

It was agony to wait for him, then wait all through his examination of Esther, but when he said that her spine was fine and that her head would probably be healed enough to move her in a couple days, with no lasting damage, Garek’s relief was immense. And then the surgeon and dragon left them alone again.

Esther gestured for Garek to get on the bed with her again, assuring him that the surgeon said she shouldn’t move her head much, but the rest of her was fine. She opened her arms, and Garek laid his head on her chest with a relieved sigh.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Esther told him, petting his hair again.

“You are?”

“I missed you.”

His heart twisted and throbbed. “I’m sorry, Esther. I’ve been stubborn and unkind to you from the start, and it was never because of you, it was always because of me. Me being a coward.” In the interest of not being cowardly, he sat up so he could look into her eyes as he said this. “I’m sorry I insulted humans and made you feel like I was ashamed of you. The truth is…I did feel guilty about getting intimately involved with a human. It had nothing to do with you personally, it’s just…” He huffed out a ragged sigh, wishing he could explain this better.

“Look,” he tried again. “My father wanted to be a writer when he was young, got laughed at by every human publisher he went to, until one day he found his book for sale with some human’s name slapped on it. One of those bastard publishers had stolen his manuscript and published it as his own. Father couldn’t even get the courts to take his case seriously, because they were all run by corrupt humans too. That’s how everything was for monsters back then. That’s why I only print books by monsters—because human presses rarely did it, until recently.”

Esther was looking at him teary-eyed, but she made no attempt to speak, so he just let it all keep pouring out. “My father taught me to hate humans, so I felt like I was betraying him by caring for one, even betraying myself, what I stood for. I think that’s why I stupidly didn’t understand your hint about me being your suitor: the idea of courting a human myself was just so foreign to me at the time, that it had to be someone else you meant.

“But it was never actually about you—I’ve never been ashamed of you. The only one I’m ashamed of is me. You’re perfect. I’m lucky and proud that you’re with me—or, were with me. I don’t care that you’re human, or that my father would be ashamed of me, not anymore. I was such a fool to ever think that any of that mattered. And I’m so sorry for not trusting you to be committed to one male at a time, to think that you might be involved with someone else at the same time as me. I know you’re too good for that. It made no sense.”

Esther finally spoke up. “I’m sorry too. I didn’t know about what happened to your father, and in the chapel, I didn’t exactly let you explain yourself or give you a chance to try to fix things—I just stormed off. And I shouldn’t have said you can never change. That was unfair of me. I should have been more open with you about my own feelings and wants. I was a coward too, because of what happened with Frank.”

Garek shook his head fiercely. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I did.”

“No.”

“Are you arguing with me about apologizing?”

He ducked his head to rub at his neck. “Sorry,” he muttered.

She huffed out a weak laugh, then winced. “I don’t think my body approves of that right now.”

“No more talking, just rest,” he declared, and laid his head back on her chest again. She immediately set about stroking his hair again, and warmth spread through him at the affectionate touch of his mate that he had been starved for.

They laid quietly together for some minutes. Then Esther asked, “How’d you convince them to let you see me?”

Garek’s heart started to race, but he wasn’t going to be a coward about this. He sat up again. “I told her that you’re my mate—which is true, Esther.” The rest of the words tumbled out of him in a rush, now that he’d said it. “You’re my mate, and I’m yours. But only if you want to be. You can reject the mating bond, it’s your choice, but, oh, Esther!” He grabbed her hand and kissed it. “I hope you don’t, because I love you, and I want us to be together always. Mated and married.”

Well, so much for no more talking, just rest.

She stared at him with her mouth opened, before she said, “How dare you”—his heart sunk to his stomach—“say this to me when I can't spring up and kiss you.”

Now he was the one staring at her open-mouthed. “You, you mean…”

“I love you too.”

Excitement was starting to bubble up inside him. “And you’ll marry me?”

“I will, if you’ll give me a kiss right now.”

“I don’t think I ought to, with your head…”

“Kiss me,” she said firmly, and just like every time she gave that order, he obeyed. But he tempered the wild joy rioting inside him to make it a gentle kiss, at least. No more hurting his mate, ever again.

His mate! She was really going to be his mate, completely, no more of this halfway business where only he knew and there was no ceremony. He couldn’t stop grinning. It kept making Esther laugh to see it, which hurt her head, so he finally had to hide his face in the sheets.

The smile finally got wiped off his face when he asked her to tell him what happened in the carriage, because it made him angry to picture his mate getting hurt and being scared, but he had to know. She related how they had been going around a sharp turn when a wheel came off, throwing the whole carriage onto its side, and she flew against the inside wall with quite some force when it hit the ground.

She had to pet his hair again and remind him that the surgeon said she’d be well soon to get him to stop growling in anger.

Once he was calmed down, he couldn’t resist saying, in a soft, teasing rumble, “I told you that your carriage is no good.”

Her eyes crinkled up in amusement. “You did. You were right. Though I think I agreed with you even then, you may remember. You were the one being contrary; I was being agreeable.”

He smiled and lifted her hand to kiss her palm. “Of course.”

“Now I have the opportunity to purchase a better carriage, that meets your approval.”

“Big enough for both of us?”

“Exactly.”

“But I’m not as opposed to being squeezed into a tiny carriage with you anymore.”

~ 😈🎩 ~

End of part 12 | Read next chapter | Master list for this fic

Hooray! I tortured them some more, but they finally got everything in the open for their happily ever after!

One more chapter—spicy of course—and then their story is finished!

Art of them coming soon, too!

Read all of my Regency monster ficlets and snippets at the tag #my writing or my master list.

Taglist: @apuddleonthelivingroomfloor, @slightly-knot-insane, @99goosebumps, @decaffeinatedtreewitch, @curiousmons, @cinnabbxx, @dreamerl0v3, @iamsamuraisword, @flippinsweettots, @not-nana-ly, @eclaire-and-pocky, @iluvzayne, @blushycadaver, @vurelliex, @graveblanketgreen, @xxfeelmylovexx (comment if you want to be added to the list)

[falling-star-cygnus]

omg well if you are taking prompts im obsessed with the idea of a post-finale fic of them being cute and dating at the ballet national (i think that’s what is called???) idk the image of the other dancers/Genevieve/other characters etc witnessing them is so endearing to me

oh beautiful timing, i was actually plotting an idea for something like this!!! but it was missing a detail... -> now, with this added prompt.. muehehe

also, i love tropes like this: where everyone finds out and are just like- in shock

SUMMARY:  Gabin is not a freely loving person- he doesn't know how to be. He is brash and he is self-centered and cocky, and above all else he is proud. So when he loves something, truly, it is done with just as much intensity. How lucky is he, then, to find someone who loves him back just as fiercely?

ao3 fic: here please leave a comment or reblog if you enjoyed!!!

+=+=+

"Do you think we would work long distance?"

It's barely a mumble, muffled against Gabin's chest in the sleepy hour. The dancer keeps running his fingers through the short strands of hair, with his other hand behind his head.

"mm..? Why are you asking?" this comes out sleepy too, because it is late and he is comfortable cuddled with his lover on his bed.

"I have to go back to New York at some point," Tobias quietly points out, and now he's picking at the seam of Gabin's sleep shirt.

He's nervous. Worried.

The dancer takes a deep breath, just to feel the way the man using him as a pillow moves up, and slides his hand down to the back of his lover's neck.

It's tense there, the muscle, and resistant to the way Gabin tries to thumb it loose again. Hm.

"Do you want us to work long distance, Tobias?"

Because he has to know, he has to know if chasing for so long was worth it- if he was worth it in turn to the choreographer.

Please say yes, he thinks, please let me stay.

"Of course I do."

Gabin releases the air in his chest, and sinks under the weight on it.

"Then we will." he'll make sure of it.

"But what if we don't?"

"Tobias," the dancer has never heard his lover take this tone before, not one so- so.. small. He doesn't like it.

And it's not an easy thing, coaxing his lover to look at him, but this is clearly a converation they need to have face to face. So, Gabin takes his hand from behind his head, and he takes the one on tense muscle, and he places them both on his lover's waist.

Tobias moves as the dancer guides him, until he's left sitting up on Gabin's stomach.

The dancer slides his hands down to his lover's knees, snugly pressed to either side of his ribs, and then back up to his sides to thumb hopefully comforting circles, "Talk to me, Top G- Tobias."

Nicknames didn't feel right at the moment.

Not with the way his choreographer's hands shake atop Gabin's chest. Not with the way he's curling into himself.

"Where is the coming from, hm?" the dancer asks again, trying to catch his eye.

"Nothing, nowhere, I'm fine," and that is so unbelievably untrue that it's almost laughable, "We're fine."

That is more true. But-

"Well how do I know that? Here we are lying in bed-"

"Gabin-"

"Cuddling before sleep, being cute-"

"Gabin-"

"And then my partner asks me out of the blue-"

"What does that saying even mean-?"

"-if we would work long distance."

"We could go back to cuddling-"

"Tobias," Gabin can't help but laugh, worried as he is, as he jostles his lover forward to press a kiss to his forehead, "Would you just-"

"My ex and I were long distance," he blurts out, in a rush of words, "At least I thought we were? But apparently hadn't talked in a year, and he got engaged. We're invited to that wedding, by the way, I didn't know how to tell you."

He blinks. Opens his mouth-

"I broke up with him, officially, a few days before the show.."

He closes his mouth.

That is... a lot. Okay. Out of everything Tobias could've said, everything the dancer could've predicted, that.. that was not high on the list. None of that was.

Wow.

Anger sparks hot in his chest. Sharp and familiar like a knife digging into the soft bone of his sternum and carving it clean open.

"Your ex got engaged while he was still dating you?" Who does that?

Assholes, assholes who don't deserve brilliant choreographers.

"Well, he thought-"

"Ah- ah- ah, I do not care what he thought," Gabin huffs, furious on his lover's behalf, "You were together, yes?"

"...yes." Tobias nods once, his brow furrowing.

"And he not only dated- but got engaged to another man?"

With his head hung towards his chest, like he's finally hearing it, he answers, "...yeah. But-"

"Your ex is an asshole."

Gentling his words, or himself, has never been one of Gabin's specialties. Everything he did, everything he loved, had always been with his full heart- regardless if it smothered everything else.

Ballet, dance, boxing. The stage.

Anger, in the same vein it seems, came just as easily. Hatred. But Gabin was already well aware of that.

How could someone who had Tobias, just- just-

The weight on his stomach shifts forward the smallest bit. And it seems appreciation is something Gabin can feel just as deeply as anything else.

It's a wonder he found someone like this man, who takes everything Gabin can give him and only adds to it. A beautiful wonder.

Tobias sits back up, leaving only the warmth of his lips lingering on the dancer's cheek and nearly unbearable adoration swelling in his chest.

"In Kevin's defense, we hadn't talked in a year. He thought we had broken up." his lover says, like it'd sway him in any way.

"Bullshit," Gabin scoffs, "So you did not reach out. Did he?"

And Kevin was a stupid name. For the record.

"..No."

"Then he is an asshole, who cheated on you. And we would absolutely work long distance- your phone would be going off constantly."

The anxious edges surrounding Tobias soften slightly, and melt completely as Gabin slides his hand up to the back of his neck again and brushes his thumb over the dip of his jaw.

Softness suits him, the dancer thinks.

"It would?"

Gabin is helpless to the besotted smile that he knows curls over his face- helpless to the love he feels for this man.

"It would," he says, reeling his lover in close enough that their noses start to slot together, "You would be sick of me."

"Mm.."

And the sound conveys everything Tobias himself cannot- skeptical and low in his throat and full of love.

Impossible, it says.

Gabin loves him. So much that it hurts, so much that he needs to-

"Kevin is a boring name, by the way."

"Is it?" it's Tobias that bumps their foreheads together.

So much that he needs to...

"Mhm, you shouldn't say it anymore."

He needs to-

"That's fine." his lover says, sighing from somewhere deep in his chest, "I prefer yours anyway."

Gabin kisses him with a breathless laugh between their lips. He loves this man, loves the way his weight feels over him, loves even more how it feels to flip them around and press the choreographer into the mattress.

Loves how he's allowed to. And how his skin tastes. And the softness of his hair between his fingers.

Tobias' hands smooth firmly up Gabin's back, all the way up to his shoulders to pull him closer. To connect their lips again and again.

Kevin's name isn't mentioned anymore that night.

But Gabin's?

Well...

That's mentioned plenty.

+=+=+

"Tobias, what is that? On your neck?"

Geneviève's voice breaks into his thoughts- confusingly abrupt and agitating as it shatters his concentration. Goddamnit.. he had just gotten a new idea for a piece..

"It looks like a bruise?" the director's assistent muses to her, R- R something. Raph? Whatever. Who knows.

Wait, bruise?

"What?" Tobias turns towards them, his hand inching up towards his neck.

"Ah, he speaks!"

...he really did not like this guy.. why couldn't Geneviève walk around with Lucien attached to her hip? Lucien was cool. Interesting.

Very under appreciated though. And loud.

They thought the same way, on some scale. And he was a much better conversation partner. For- you know- speaking mostly french.

Anyway-

Tobias feels around his neck, presses his fingers to the tender skin that should be covered by the soft collar of- wait.

Okay he's wearing his own jacket.

Only- no, no he's not, because the only black jacket he owns is a sort of faded out jean one with studs on the colllar that he always wears over long sleeves and this one is a cozy sort of cotton that feels nice against his arms.

Soft.

And warm, like his bed was last night. Like his chest when Gabin said they’d make this thing between them work, even if they did it kicking and screaming.

Like his face, when his fingers find the still there indent of teeth just to the side of the nape of his neck.

“I got bit by a dog.”

And that dog would be sleeping on the couch the next time he came over. Every work night for the forseeable future.

Geneviève blinks at him, with that weird little head lurch she does when she thinks she's heard something wrong, "I'm- sorry, a dog? Bit... your neck?"

What was her obsession with his neck all of a sudden?

But also this was not a conversation he wanted to have with his... well, she wasn't his boss. Jack was his boss. Surrogate boss..? Stand-in?

Whatever-

"Why are you in my rehearsal room?"

He hadn't done anything, he thinks. Now that he's familiar with the dancers, he doesn't have to call everybody in all at the same time. So it can't be that.

Either way, the french director drops the subject. At least for now. Judging by the look Raph-something and her share, though, it would be probably brought up later.

Probably in their office or wherever.

That thought settles somewhere uncomfortable in him, a dull spike atop his stomach pushing into his diaphragm.

"One of the speakers blew out- in here," Geneviève explains, finally, and- what?

What.

"It'll be fixed by tomorrow, at the absolute latest, so there's no need to worry about it disrupting rehearsals."

Except-

Dancers start filtering into the room, and apparently Geneviève [plus her assistant, good riddance] takes that as her cue to start leaving instead of explaining any further. What happened to the speaker?

What was he supposed to do? Have them dance in silence?

Cancel rehearsal?

Tobias goes to follow her, because how is he supposed to operate in these conditions[?] but Gabin walks in right as Geneviève gets to leave.

And then it all goes to shit.

"Ah- bonjour, chien." she says, slowly and purposefully dictated- like her words were meant purely for the one American in the room with his very limited understanding of french.

Good morning, dog.

Dog. Chien.

"I got bit by a dog." "Bonjour, chien."

Oh.. okay.

So this is what hell felt like.

The dancer tells her good morning in turn, in that ridiculously endearing high voice- the one he only uses when he's confused about something.

"...why did Geneviève just call me a dog?"

He can't do this.

Tobias puts his headphones on and powerwalks out the still swinging doors.

+=+=+

"Is he... is he coming back?" one of the dancers asks, a girl with a constant smile- the one Tobias first let stay.

He's not jealous. Shush.

"...no," Gabin says to her.

And he follows his lover into Paris.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A Man Called Danger 3

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You avoid drama, you avoid confrontation, and overall, you avoid men. But some men can’t be denied. ~ short!late 30s reader

Characters: biker!Bucky Barnes

Note: I didn't think I'd be writing rn but I had a pretty restless night despite my best efforts. Mostly just me fixating on noises and not being able to sleep.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You idle outside the corporate facade, fidgeting, looking side to side, mirror to mirror, listening for the thunderous engine. Your grip and ungrip the wheel, unable to slacken your jaw as you huff through your nose. Your heart hammers on your tender ribs and your foot wiggles incessantly. 

You replay the calamitous scene over and over in your head. Your mind sticks to the last vision; that grin. That's a promise. A man like that only smiles with good reason and you don't expect he gets his jollies from fuzzy kittens and butterflies. 

A tap on the window makes you jump. You look over as Eva waves through the glass. You check the clock. You've been there for half an hour. 

You unlock the door and she falls in with a sigh. "Hey, hey," she chimes. “What happened to your car?” 

“Huh, oh--” you sniff and look in the rear view again. Your little act of panicked defiance must have earned a few extra scratches. “Wasn’t paying attention backing out. Just hit a fence.” 

She cackles, “really? Well, not that it makes a difference with this old shitheap.” 

You give her a long look. “You're in a good mood. How was your first day?" 

"Pretty damn great," she snaps her seat belt into place. "Pretty chill job. I just kinda mess with the printer between endless lattes." 

You nod, "sounds like heaven." 

"Boss is super cool. He's really chatty," she preens. 

Right, you're sure that has nothing to do with her looks. You want to caution her but you also don't want to spoil this for her. You're sure it's nothing. Not that you could offer her much advice. You were never the type to draw any sort of office scandal. 

"Just make sure you do your work," you pull away from the curb, shifting in your seat. 

You teethe your lip and let it flick out. You keep up the nervous tick as you hunch behind the wheel. You focus on the road, trying not to think of everything else; that man and his motorcycle, the length of Eva's skirt, Mr. Walker's reminders. 

"I take it your day wasn't great," she scoffs. 

You squeeze the wheel, "huh?" 

"You gonna tear that thing off?" She asks. 

You exhale and push your shoulders down before they can touch your ears. You swallow, "usual, you know..." 

What do you do? You're not stupid, that man isn't going to play around. He's not going to be anything less than blunt. He had the gall to show up at your work. How he knew where to find you... well, you can't be certain he isn't waiting at your front door. 

You stop at the red sign and check the rear view, ears perked for any rumble. You tut and hiss out another breath.  

"Right, well, I know you're not really a fan but you need a glass of wine," she says. 

You shrug, "probably." 

She hums, "seriously, what the hell is wrong with you?" 

"Nothing, nothing," you lie. "Just... you wanna get dinner somewhere?" 

"Uh, what? Am I hearing you right? You want to eat out?" She chuckles, "alright, something's gotta be wrong." 

"No, I'm... you got through your first day, it'll be a celebration," the lie rolls out all too easy. You've never been challenged at that, but you found it easier to be quiet than deceitful. Lies are shields, not weapons. "Your choice." 

The car behind you honks. You turn just to get out of their way. 

"Oh, you like ramen? There's a place that does spicy noodles just right," she makes a ridiculous gesture with her hand, kissing her fingertips. 

"I can try it," you trawl down the street slowly, "is it down town?" 

"Yeah, back a few streets," she wiggles and claps her hands, "oh, I'm so excited." 

"Really?" You wonder. 

"Well, yeah! When's the last time we did anything fun? Together?" 

"Ha, yeah," you agree hollowly. 

She sits up, and you can see her smile in the mirror. You sense her brightness dim just a little. "Um, last night..." 

"Eva, we agreed to move past it," you scratch your cheek, keeping your other hand firmly on the wheel. You don't want to think about last night or that man. You're hoping the restaurant will be an escape from that. If he has found his way to your house, he might not want to wait around that long. "Let's start over. This job will help with that." 

"Sure," she agrees softly. "It's just... I do feel bad. That he pushed you like that." 

"Well, it's not the worst I've dealt with," you say without thinking. 

She wallows, "it's not?" 

She didn't know your dad. You're happy for that. You shrug. 

"It's nothing," you assure her. "Really." 

"Mom mentioned... you know, that he wasn't very nice--" 

"I can barely remember," you assure her as your skull itches. You remember the bad times; the blunt force, the stinging slaps, the screaming. Even after all those years. "So let's just not think about yesterday, let's enjoy tonight." 

She nods, "yeah, sure... I... I can do that." 

"Oh, you've always been much better at having fun than me," you snort. 

💀

The restaurant is nice enough but not too fancy to make you feel a slob. Eva fits anywhere she goes. She’s just that pretty.

You wonder if it’s just your own insecurity speaking. You’ve aged out of the years where clothes and makeup were your sole concern. You never really worried too much about the latter, you did just enough to be presentable. 

You look at the menu, mulling chicken or shrimp. Eva takes the smaller menu from the middle of the table. 

“They’ve got saki. You should try some. I’ll drive home,” she offers. 

You look at her. She grins and giggles. You tilt your head. 

“I love that look,” she chimes. “You do it really good. It’s scary.” 

“What look?” 

“Oh, you know, mom called it the murder stare. As much as a mess as she is, you know, she used to say you were like grandma.” 

“Grandma?” You click your tongue and sigh. That old bitter hen. “Well, be glad that you can’t confirm that.” 

“Was she really that bad?” Eva asks. 

You shrug, “I was young for most of our... relationship. To a little girl, she was a villain.” 

Your sister nod and puts the menu down. She looks around. “I really appreciate this. And I did my best not to be too much today. You know? And Mr. Hansen...” she taps her nails on the table. “He’s so cool. I think it’ll be good. And if I stick around, maybe you could switch over. Since your job is so shitty.” 

“It’s not shitty. It’s just... a job,” you sit back as you close the menu and settle on chicken. “Won’t be much different either way. I don’t want you to stick around too long. This is to get you into school, right?” 

“Yeah. I know but... I can work and go to classes.” 

You smile, “I’m glad you’re thinking this out.” 

“Well, I’m still going to have fun. You know, Lindsay wants to get some sushi this weekend so...” 

“Ah, well, don’t spend all your money in one place,” you warn. 

“Yes, ma’am,” she snipes back. You meet her eye as she stares. “How did you ever grow up with mom?” 

You make a face, “I don’t know how i made it through either.” 

“Um, excuse me,” the server steps up to the table, setting down two glasses. “Ginger mojitos for the table.” 

You set the menu down and look at him, “oh, I think you’ve got the wrong one. But we’re ready to order.” 

“Ma’am, they’re from the gentleman.” He nods over his shoulder. You can’t see past him as Eva leans back to glance across. 

“Oh,” you swallow and look at your sister. Is this why she goes out? All the freebies from lecherous strangers? “Right. Well, I’ll have the spicy noodles with chicken dumplings, please.” 

Eva waves past the server. You shift awkwardly. It’s so embarrassing. You’re just the old hanger-on. 

“Shrimp, street-style for me, please and thanks,” Eva says. 

“Water too, if you don’t mind,” you add. You don’t know you’ll finish the cocktail. 

“Wow, that’s so sweet,” Eva sits back as she takes the tall glass and sips from the narrow straw. She hums. “Oh, it’s like... ginger ale-y.” 

She smiles and raises the glass in a gesture across the restaurant. You keep your head down. 

“You should try it,” she chirps. 

“Well, one of us needs to drive.” 

“Oh, one drink with dinner is under the limit.” She goads. “Huh, he looks familiar.” 

“You know more people than me.” 

“Yeah, but I don’t know where I’ve seen him,” she mutters and slurps again. 

The server returns with the water. You feel a pulse in your ears. Whoever it is, is staring. Likely not at you but your sister. Still, you’re ready to wilt. 

Mindlessly, your hand slips down to your blouse and you feel along your ribs. She exhales. 

“Does it hurt still?” 

You shrug and drop your hand. 

“Johnny’s such a dick.” 

“I agree,” you say tritely. “Tell me you’re not going to talk to him again.” 

“Not after that,” she pouts. 

You’re quiet. She traces her fingertips on the table top and she shifts. She looks around and leans forward. 

“So... are you ever going to start dating?” She asks. 

You blink and your lips part. She smirks. 

“The murder look, again,” she taunts. 

You sigh and lift your brows, trying to whittle away the tension in your jaw. “It’s not really a priority.” 

“Well, why not? I’m out of school, I’m grown. And you’re not that old.” 

“Wow, thanks, not that old,” you muse wryly. 

“And cute men are buying you drinks,” she trills. 

“I don’t think he sent them because of me,” you argue. 

“Well, he isn’t looking at me,” she retorts. 

“Eva,” you drawl flatly. 

“I think it’d be cute. I mean, I’ve never seen you with anyone. Mom never mentioned, or you...” 

“Yeah, well, men are more trouble than they’re worth.” 

“Oof, I really want to know who hurt you,” she teases. 

You resist another terse sneer. Aside from your father and the train of your mother’s bad decisions, no one worth thinking about. This dinner isn’t going to be spoiled by bad memories. 

“I’m not a people person,” you intone. 

“Oh, he’s really staring at you. We should send a drink back.” 

“No,” you say sharply. 

“He looks your age. And he’s not bad on the eye. Not exactly who I’d peg as your type. A bit too rough around the edges but oh, it’s cute.” 

“Eva,” you warm. You take the glass of water and dare a peek across. You nearly choke on your gulp of water. Shit. 

You quickly turn back to the table and put the water down. You press the napkin to your lips. The man in leather. His jacket is folded across the seat next to him, the gold medallion shining against his black shirt, his eyes gleaming. How... 

“You okay?” Eva asks. 

“Yes, I just... I forgot to file something at work.” 

“Right,” she squints. “You’re so jumpy tonight.” 

“I didn’t sleep well,” you say. It’s not a lie. 

You repress a shudder and tamp down the panic in your chest. He’s there, watching you. Those drinks were his signal. He’s not going away. He won’t forget what you did. If anything, you sealed your own fate. 

Why couldn’t you keep your head down like always? Why couldn’t you just be the rock they get bored of when you don’t react? Why did you do that to a man like him? 

You don’t know a thing about him but you can see clear enough he isn’t a man to walk away. You can only hope he’s only in need of your insurance information. You’ll take the added fees if it gets him out of your hair. 

[hannibals-grahamcracker]

Hannigram Short Fanfic Review List!

Hey, friends! It's official: I made it through the list of short fics I've been recommended!

As a reminder, the criteria that was voted on for short fanfictions was capped at anything less than 10k words. All works in this review can be found on AO3 and will be linked via the fic title!

Disclaimer: As always, mind the tags and use your best judgement as to whether you want to read the fic. Have fun!

Reviews under the cut. :)

Something Else

Author: HotMolasses ( @hotmolasses @snazzymolasses )

Word count: 2,137

Summary: “Why didn’t you pull away, Will?” he said, genuine curiosity in his voice. “When I was mere inches from you, with a deadly blade in my hand, you leaned toward me. Did you hope I would kill you?”

Will shut his eyes from pain as he was suddenly jerked back to that moment. He tilted his face away from Hannibal and tried to shove the memory away, the betrayal he had felt, even though he had rightly deserved it, after everything he had done.

He didn’t think about Abigail. Hannibal wasn’t talking about that part anyway.

He forced his eyes open but found himself unable to meet Hannibal’s gaze. He stared at the floor and steeled himself. He had promised honesty, and for once, Hannibal had earned it.

“Because I wasn’t thinking you were going to gut me.” he said. “When you put your hand on my face, stroked my cheek I thought…” the room blurred around the edges because Will had kept his eyes fixed to a single spot on the floor for so long. Now he forced them to look into Hannibal’s face. “I thought you were going to do something else.”

h e l p. This fic is short, but it manages to have just the right blend of angst and sweetness that really makes me crave more. I like everything I've read from HotMolasses, but this might have to be my favorite.

First of Many

Author: solarteacup ( @tethered-heartstrings )

Word count: 2,204

Summary: a take on Will and Hannibal's first kiss for valentine's day

Short and sweet, very cute. Exchanging shy smiles always gets to me, and I love the first kiss trope!

Breathe

Author: solarteacup

Word count: 2,501

Summary: Will gives Hannibal a very enthusiastic blowjob

Wait. Wait. Asthmatic Hannibal?! I didn't know I needed this until reading this fic. As someone who has suffered from asthma attacks my entire life, I feel seen, but I was also completely thrown for a loop! It was well written, too, and it wasn't the entire focus, just a detail thrown in for the plot (effects of damage from the fall??) but I ended up really loving it! Bonus points for dominant Will. 🤭

Crave, then Succumb

Author: coffeeinrain ( @coffee-in-rain )

Word count: 2,521

Summary: Hannibal receives a second hug post-fall, while high as a kite on morphine, and ends up unraveling in Will's arms.

This is sweet and fluffy from the get-go, with some good old fashioned hurt-comfort thrown in. I love the domesticity in this fic, Will being gentle with Hannibal after the fall is one of my weaknesses. I adore the vulnerable Hannibal tag, it's another one of my weaknesses; I love to see that big man fall apart, only to be lovingly pieced back together. We love gentle Will Graham and post-fall domesticity!

Silk and Lace

Author: jonnimir

Word count: 3,105

Summary: Kinktober Day 9: Lingerie.

Bedelia leaves Hannibal and Will a gift at the house on the cliff.

Okay, this was sweeter than I expected it to be! I really liked this fic, it has some warm fuzzy feelings, a lot of gentleness, and submissive Hannibal. I love the first-time-since-prison trope tbh, and this fic is actually quite cute despite being smut. It's not graphic, but it still does a good job at describing the scenes. I would read this again.

Fever

Author: solarteacup

Word count: 3,181

Summary: Will is sick and begs Hannibal to take care of him

Honestly, this one wasn't my favorite, but I promised to review every fic recommended to me. In the spirit of honesty, I don't particularly enjoy fics with needy bottom Will, but that's just me. Anyway, not my cup of tea, but it might be yours. Let me know what y'all think if you read it. :)

You May Be a Sinner But Your Innocence is Mine

Author: multifandom_fanfic_writer

Word count: 3,198

Summary: “Hello,” Will said. He wanted to say something else, something to convey his relief at Hannibal being alive, being okay, but he didn’t know what to say.

“Hello,” Hannibal responded. His eyes were bright. “You are very beautiful.”

I've read this one before, so this is a reread for me! I love amnesia fics, there's something about them that I just enjoy. It's another short and sweet one, nothing too plot driven, just a cute little "what if?" fic that ends on a good note.

Revved Up

Author: solarteacup

Word count: 4,814

Summary:Hannibal watches Will fix the car and gets turned on.

I liked this one! There's very few fics by solarteacup I don't enjoy, so it comes as no surprise to me that I did enjoy this one. I love a needy Hannibal and a dominant Will making him beg. One of my favorite tropes is strong characters not knowing how to ask for what they want because they've never had to.

Letter

Author: HotMolasses

Word count: 4,307

Summary: Hannibal,

"I long to be near you. To touch you, to taste you. Desperate, even. I burn with fire whenever you walk into the room...

...At no point in our relationship have you asked anything you wanted from me. You have only taken. And now you had better take the rest. Ask me for nothing. Do not attempt to have a conversation with me about this. I’ll deny even having written this letter. I don’t want to talk about it. I want you to take. Take what you want from me, Hannibal Lecter, or you will never get it." -Will.

This one was partly an attempt for me to branch out and explore the dubcon/cnc tag(s), and I did enjoy this fic. I think it captures Will's mentality around Hannibal taking from him and being put off when Hannibal actually asks instead of just taking more. That being said, I still prefer the sweet fics where both of them are treading lightly post fall, but this one was good for me! I like it.

To Be Seen

Author: solarteacup

Word count: 5,855

Summary: As he closed his eyes, he heard a sharp click of Hannibal’s tongue and a tight grip on his jaw. Hannibal brought Will’s face forward. “Eyes on me.” Hannibal rubbed a little faster and Will’s breath hitched low in his chest. “When you look away, you deny others the privilege of seeing all of you.”

Will goes to Hannibal in distress and gets relief he didn't expect.

While this does have a very dominant Hannibal and hot office sex, it was surprisingly tender! There's not much else I can say other than that I really enjoyed this one.

Compimento

Author: cervviidae ( @cervviidae )

Word count: 9,580

Summary: His day orbits around Will. Every thought, every action is steeped in him. Hannibal waits for him to return from work, the hours stretching long and thin in his absence. He folds Will’s flannels. He organizes Will’s books, running his fingers over their spines as though touching them might bring him closer to Will. He cleans and cooks, each moment filled with the quiet refrain of Will, Will, Will.

- or -

Hannibal learns what it's like to be Will's husband.

I absolutely love the exploration of Hannibal's feelings in this fic. His thoughts surrounding Will and their love are so poetic, yet heartachingly simple. This fic has one of my favorite tropes, which of course is "loving you is the easiest thing I've ever done." I don't see this trope enough in relation to the way Hannibal feels about Will. The simple softness of their relationship and Hannibal being truly content with domesticity instead of the violence and bloodshed he had expected to come of their union. Absolutely wonderful. And the smut? Perfection, exquisite. The ferality of their lovemaking still manages to be tender. I could read this a million times over. This might be my all time favorite as of writing this review.