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galaxywannabe · 3 days ago

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The Miscommunication Trope™

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: After getting into the first real argument of your relationship, some misspoken words from Bucky leave you thinking that he's done. By the time he realizes just how badly he screwed up, will it be too late to correct his mistake?

Warnings: Angst; Hurt/Comfort; Miscommunication; Crying; Arguing between romantic partners; Bucky is mean but he makes up for it; Happy ending; Reader identifies as a woman and uses she/her pronouns, but other than having hair that can be swept behind an ear I don't think there are any other physical descriptors; Please let me know if I missed anything!

Word Count: Almost 9.3k.....I'm sorry lol

A/N: Ummm....so. I'm fairly certain I promised this fic, like...3 months ago? In fact, I actually just went back to look and I first teased this fic on Febuary 19th, so um...lol? I made it! Listen, idk if it's even any good anymore but if I look at it for another second I'll scream, so please take it off my hands. Any and all comments or reblogs would be SO appreciated because this has truly been a labor of love, I didn't know if I had it in me. Also!! I have not forgotten @buckyinmyuniverse - you asked to be tagged in this wayyyy back when I first posted about it and I have FANTASTIC news for you babe: The wait is finally over!! I know you've no doubt been refreshing your feed for months looking for it (/j) but this whole time I was cooking this thing I remembered you asking for a tag. So, this one goes out to you. Hope you all enjoy! <3

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You and Bucky hadn’t ever been in a fight before, not really. You bicker, sure, usually over something lighthearted, usually resulting in an eyeroll and a “whatever you say, honey,” from Buck, but nothing serious, nothing that can’t be worked out through a civilized conversation. That was, until today.

You weren’t even trying to start an argument, you were just expressing your concern. He works too much, he takes more missions than anyone else, and it’s running him ragged, anybody can see that.

Obviously, you miss him when he’s away, but that’s not even the point - the point is that he’s taking on too much because he thinks he owes the world something, and that’s not sustainable, it’s not good for him. All you said was that maybe he’d ought to ask Fury to take him off the rotation for a while, or even just cut down on his assignment load, to give him some room to breathe. And Bucky got…defensive.

Obviously, you knew that was a possibility. Typical male pride of course prohibits silly ideas like “self care” and “burnout,” but on top of that is Bucky’s specific brand of guilt, the kind that makes him work himself into the ground no matter how badly his brain and body beg him to stop.

The defensiveness you were prepared for, but you were only coming from a place of love, your concern that of a devoted girlfriend, and surely he’d understand that, wouldn’t he? Except he hadn’t. He’d immediately dismissed your suggestion, waving a hand and continuing to type up his latest mission report with a laser-like focus.

“I don’t need a break, I’m fine,” he’d muttered, eyes trained on the bluish light of his laptop screen.

Again, you weren’t trying to argue. You certainly weren’t going to force him to take a break, you just wanted him to at least consider it, to remind him that it would be okay for him to rest a little, if he wanted to. The world would go on without his help for a few weeks, and there were other heroes available besides him.

“Honey, I know you might not need one, but it’s okay if you just want one. No one would judge you if-”

And then he did something he’d never done before: he snapped at you. He didn’t even look up from his screen, his fingers still a steady staccato on the keyboard as he barked out harshly.

“I said I don’t need a fucking break. I’m just doing my goddamn job, and I don’t need you breathing down my neck watching my every move the whole time I do it. I can take care of myself.”

You winced. Obviously, that stung, and if he’d bothered to look up from his computer screen, he might have seen that on your face. But you could tell he wasn’t as unbothered by this conversation as he was acting.

Despite his brusque attitude, your words were striking a chord with him, hitting a little too close to home. His shoulders were stiff as a board, bunched up around his ears in a telltale sign of defensiveness, and you understood, really you did.

For Bucky, doing this job is the one way he can even attempt to atone for all the bad shit he’s done. Of course he felt uncomfortable with the idea of a break, he thinks he has to do these missions as some sort of self-imposed penance for the things he’d been made to do as the Winter Soldier.

So you didn’t judge him too harshly for lashing out. You understood the reason he worked so hard, and you knew what motivated him to continue going out there even when he was exhausted. You just wanted him to see that taking a break for his own mental health wasn’t a bad thing, that even if he was making amends he still needed to find time to take care of himself, too.

You took a deep breath and spoke in a calm voice, hoping to express your concern in a nonthreatening manner even as he still refused to look at you.

“Angel. I’m not trying to breathe down your neck or tell you how to do your job. I know it’s important to you, and I love how hard you work! It’s just that, super-soldier or not, if you want to continue to do this job, you’re gonna need to stop and rest at some point, honey. That’s all I’m trying to say. I’m worried about you, love.”

Finally, he looked up at you, and your heart fluttered just seeing those baby blues you love so much. Until you clocked the scowl on his pretty face, and the hope in your gut curdled to dread. He was angry, you knew what that looked like, but in the six months of your relationship so far you’d never once seen that anger directed at you before.

It wasn’t frightening in a physical sense, not like you were scared for your well-being, of course not. But it deeply unsettled you, seeing the man you love looking at you like that. It made you want to apologize, though you weren’t quite sure what for. Before you could do anything at all, he spoke, his voice a cold, steel edge.

“You don’t know anything about what I can handle. I was doing just fine before you came around, and I don’t need you fussing over me at every turn just because I don’t sit around here all day scrolling on my phone or whatever it is you think I should be doing. I don’t need or want your hovering, so just stop, okay?”

There was silence. His shoulders heaved in the wake of his outburst, and you felt almost dazed, like this was some kind of mirage you could will away if you blinked hard enough. He’d never spoken to you like that.

Obviously, you’d hit a nerve, and while logically you understood that, it didn’t lessen the pain in your chest. You were just worried about him, why was he fighting like you were trying to strap him down and force him to quit?

While you tried to regain your bearings, breathing deeply and forcing back the stinging you felt building in your eyes, he slammed his laptop shut, standing and stalking towards your bedroom door. He’d come over to your place to work on his mission reports at your insistence because you’d wanted to keep him company, and now it appeared he was leaving.

“W-where are you going, what are you doing?” you’d squeaked, alarmed, following after him as he made his way to the foyer of your apartment and shoved his feet into his boots.

“I can’t fucking do this, I'm done,” he’d muttered in a gruff, hard voice, lacing his boots efficiently and standing back to his full height as he reached for the doorknob.

You shook your head, panicked, reaching for his arm and trying futilely to drag him back into your apartment. “Baby, please. I’m sorry, don’t go.”

But he just shook off your hold and stalked out the door, leaving you there as your eyes blurred with tears. After standing there in your foyer for several minutes, waiting for him to turn around and come back, you’d simply fallen to your knees and curled up right there on the polished wooden floor, bawling your eyes out.

That’s where you still are a couple hours later when your phone starts to vibrate incessantly in your pocket. You pull it out with trembling fingers and swipe to answer a call from Natasha.

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“H-hello?” you croak into the receiver.

The second Nat hears you pick up the call she’s talking, looking distractedly through her closet as she holds the phone to her ear with her shoulder.

“Hey honey, listen, me and the girls were thinking about running to Target, and we wanted to- wait, what’s wrong?” Natasha’s cheerful voice quickly drops into something soft and concerned as she picks up on the sniffles coming through her tinny cell phone speakers.

For a few seconds all she can hear is you sobbing quietly, the way you struggle to slow your hysterical breathing so you can put together a sentence. “H-he left, Nat. He broke up with me,” you whimper, voice barely audible.

This stops Natasha in her tracks, her brow furrowed in deep confusion as she freezes with one hand reaching for her favorite sweater. What the fuck? Why in the hell would Barnes break up with you? Especially when she knows for a fact that on the last mission she had with him, he stopped into a jewelry shop in Germany ‘just to look’ at engagement rings? This doesn’t make any goddamn sense.

“Honey,” Nat speaks into the phone again, her voice soft and soothing even through the crackly audio coming from your cell phone. “What happened, what did he say?”

You sniffle again, and clear your throat so she can hear your scratchy voice a bit better. “We…there was a fight, a-and I didn’t mean to, Nat, I swear, I was just worried, but…he said he can’t do this anymore, that h-he's done, and then he left. He didn’t take any of his things with him, but maybe he’s gonna come back for them, I don’t know…I don’t know what I’m gonna do, Nat…” As your sentence tapers off, your voice fades out, and a few renewed sobs float over the phone call into Nat’s ear, the sounds soaked in agony.

Oh, okay. Nat thinks she can see what really happened here just from your description, but that doesn’t make the sounds of your misery in her ear any less painful to hear. Likely, when Bucky had said he couldn’t do “this” anymore, that he was done, he’d meant the argument, the conversation, not your relationship.

But Barnes is your first real boyfriend, and you’ve never had a fight with him before. You were probably so confused and upset in the moment that you weren’t thinking about the context of his statement.

All you knew was that Bucky got upset with you for the very first time, and then he left. To you, that must certainly look like a breakup, and when Nat thinks about it from your perspective, she understands how you’d come to that conclusion.

She’d love to explain to you how you may have misunderstood, but as she listens to your hoarse crying over speakerphone, she knows you’re not in the frame of mind to process rational thought right now. Instead, she decides to focus on soothing you for the moment.

“I’m sorry, honey, I don’t know why he’d ever do anything like that to you. I’m gonna get to the bottom of it, alright? In the meantime, I just need you to do something for me,” she coos, her voice comforting and warm.

You don’t answer, just sniffling occasionally as you sit there in silence. Natasha, interpreting your lack of response as an affirmation, continues on.

“Where are you right now?”

There’s more silence for a few seconds, the sound of you pulling deep breaths into your lungs as you regain awareness of your surroundings. Then:

“Uh. The floor. In my apartment,” you mumble, confused, like you’ve just now realized that fact.

Natasha feels an additional lash of anger at Barnes flood her system when you tell her that, but she works to keep her voice calm even has her knuckles go white around her device.

“Okay, well, I need you to get up off the floor and go to your bedroom, okay? I want you to get dressed in your comfiest pajamas and crawl into bed for me, and wait there while I handle this. Can you do that? Just close your eyes and try to rest while I figure everything out?”

More sniffles, a hoarse cough, and then, after a beat of silence, your voice crackles over the line.

“Yeah….okay. I can do that, Nat,” you croak, the sound of shuffling floating over the line as you stagger to your feet after who knows how long on the floor.

She smiles, relieved to hear your voice coming through a bit more calmly, even as her mind races with the next items on her to-do list. “Okay sweetheart, you do that, then. I love you, I’ll call back soon, okay? Go get some rest.”

After hanging up with you, confident that at least you’re not curled up on your apartment floor anymore, she pockets her cell and immediately stalks down the hall towards the elevator, Target trip long forgotten.

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Bucky knows he fucked up. As someone who fucks up just about everything, he’s intimately familiar with the process, and he can say, with 100% certainty, that in this instance he absolutely fucked up. He never should have snapped at you - his sweetheart, his girl. You were just worried about him, and of course you were.

Bucky knows damn well he works too hard, especially lately, and he’s been on the verge of physical and mental collapse pretty much every damn day for the past month, running himself into the ground. He’d even been thinking to himself before your argument that he should slow down, take a break before he gets himself killed. So why did he get so defensive when you’d suggested it?

He doesn’t goddamn know. Because he’s messed up. Because it’s one thing when he decides to take some time off, but another when someone else has the idea, like they think he needs it.

He can’t help it; for decades of his life, the slightest sign of weakness meant pain, meant the frigid blast of a firehouse to wake him up or the wandering scalpel of a Hydra doctor looking to find a defect. Not that that makes his outburst okay, by any means, but it’s an explanation, and hey, he’s working on it, really he is.

Still, he knew the second he walked out of your apartment that he’d fucked up, and so he’s spent the past two hours at his own place a few floors up, licking his wounds and gathering the courage to go apologize.

Because…yes, okay, he’s embarrassed by the way he acted. He’s ashamed of his own behavior, and he’d needed a minute to feel sorry for himself before he inevitably goes back down to your apartment and grovels for your forgiveness.

He figures you’re pissed beyond belief, and if giving you some time to cool off also gives him a little while to stall the complete destruction of his ego, well, then, he’ll take it.

He finished up his mission report, he took a shower, and now he’s preparing his apology speech, debating the merit of walking down the street to a bodega for some flowers, when his doorbell rings. Shit, maybe he’s already out of time and you decided to come to him.

When he opens his door, looking thoroughly contrite, it’s not your expected figure that stands in his entryway, but Natasha’s. And even given all his super-soldier reflexes and military training, he still staggers back a step in shock when she slaps him right across the face.

“Whoa, what the fuck, Nat?” he barks, rubbing at the heat blooming under the skin of this cheek.

Standing there in front of him with her arms crossed, she looks anything but remorseful, her fists clenched as if she has to deny herself the urge to do it again.

“Why the fuck did you break up with her, Barnes? Are you insane?! The one good thing in your life, and you threw it all away, why, because you got a little pissed off? Out of all the stupid, careless decisions you’ve made in your fucked-up life, I really didn’t think you had it in you to top all that, but Jesus…”

As she continues to rant at him, her face pinched with rage, Bucky struggles to make sense of the words she’s already spoken. Broken up with you? Why in God’s name would he ever do that?

What an absolutely absurd thing to accuse him of, given that everybody in this building knows how insanely in love with you he is, especially your own best friend. Why is she here playing some kind of prank on him when he’s supposed to be rehearsing his apology?

“I did no such thing,” he answers bluntly, interrupting her impassioned speech, his expression confused and a little irritated at the accusation.

Nat barely even blinks at this denial. “Oh really? Then why did I just talk to her on the phone, bawling her eyes out on the floor of her apartment, telling me that you did?”

Of course, Nat’s pretty sure that Barnes hadn’t really meant to break up with you by leaving during your argument, but she’s pissed at him either way for not being cognizant enough of your feelings to foresee your interpretation of his behavior.

To Bucky, Natasha’s words might as well have been a bucket of ice water poured over his head, the way they immediately freeze his joints with dread. He feels his stomach churn as if he might be sick, the horrifying mental image of you curled up on your wooden floors driving a stake between his ribs. When he’d left, you’d been standing. Sure, you’d looked upset, but surely not that upset…right?

He tries to think back to your emotional state when he’d stormed out a couple of hours ago, but truthfully he hadn’t turned back to see your face as he’d walked out your door. Had you been crying? He didn’t think so, but now he isn’t so sure, especially given the look of anger on Nat’s face. Why would you tell her that he’d broken up with you? As a joke, some kind of payback for his outburst?

“I….” he pauses, tongue darting out to wet his suddenly dry lips. “You talked to her? What did she say?”

Natasha almost feels sympathy for Bucky in this moment, standing before her looking so confused and slightly horrified. But then she thinks about her best friend sobbing on the floor because he’s an idiot, and that emotion vanishes, replaced with her plentiful anger.

“Well, it was kind of hard to hear her, what with all the sobbing and such. But when I finally was able to get her to speak, she said that there was a fight, and that you broke up with her and then left her there. She said you hadn’t taken any of your stuff with you when you left, and she wasn’t sure when you’d be back for it, but that she didn’t know what she was going to do,” Nat recalls in a hard voice, her gaze sharp and accusatory. “After that she started crying again, so I didn’t ask her any more questions.”

Another bruising blow to the tatters of Bucky Barnes’s heart. What did you mean, he hadn’t taken his stuff? Why would he take his things when he’d left them there on purpose so he had them to use when he was at your place?

Why would he take his belongings out of your apartment just because you got into an argument? This doesn’t make any sense, and the longer Natasha talks, the worse his growing sense of unease becomes.

Why were you crying? Sure, he expected anger, he’d been a huge swinging dick and he deserves some harsh words. But why is Nat saying that you were curled up on your floor sobbing? Why wouldn’t you be on the couch, or in your bed, or even down in the gym punching out your frustrations?

And why were you on the phone with your best friend moments ago talking like you didn’t expect him to come back? Surely you know he’ll be back, he practically lives in your apartment - his wallet and keys are still sitting in the dish by your front door, his favorite jacket hung on the coat rack. He looks at your closest friend desperately, his face drawn in stark lines of horror and regret.

“Natasha, please, I don’t know why she said all that stuff to you, I didn’t break up with her, I would never break up with her. We had an argument. She was only worried about me, but I got defensive like an asshole and said some shit I didn’t mean, so…I just wanted to get out of there, get some space before I lashed out some more, that’s all. I just needed a minute to cool off, I was always fully planning to go back, to explain myself and apologize. I don’t know why she…” he trails off, looking lost.

Nat sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. Her best friend is in hysterics, and it’s all because men are the dumbest creatures on this planet.

“What do you think that looked like to her, Barnes? You guys get in your very first fight, and after saying some mean shit to her you stomp out of there and go ‘I can’t do this, I'm done’. What do you think those words might have sounded like to her ears? You’re her first serious boyfriend, jackass! She’s never been in this situation before! She doesn’t know that it’s relatively normal for couples to argue, even if you definitely shouldn’t have snapped at her. She just knows you’ve never fought before, and the first time you do, you walk out the door. She thinks you’re gone for good, James.”

You could hear a pin drop in Bucky’s apartment right now, the sounds of bustling Manhattan outside his windows muffled by the blood roaring in his ears. He wants to be upset with you, to question how you could ever doubt his love enough to think he’d really just walk out after one disagreement. But in truth, given his actions and your lack of relationship experience, he doesn’t see how you could’ve come to any other conclusion.

Bucky thought he’d been regretful before Nat got here, but after hearing his behavior described in this new light, he’s got a whole list of emotions to add to the pile. Self-loathing, remorse, fear. You’re in your apartment right now, believing yourself to be single. All that time you two spent together, every memory and intimate moment, you think it’s over, just like that, in the blink of an eye.

Obviously, he needs to explain himself immediately, to tell you that he hadn’t meant to end your relationship in the slightest and that this is all just a giant misunderstanding.

But what if you don’t care? What if, after the way he acted towards you today, you’d rather accept his words as you’d thought he meant them and stay broken up, even knowing that wasn’t his intent? He’s shaking, he realizes distantly, noticing the way Natasha looks at him with concern in her eyes now.

He hadn’t ever really let himself consider that you’d turn him down before, when he was rehearsing his apology speech. You’re in a committed relationship of six months, you’re in love. Surely, even if he was a bit of an asshole, one transgression can be forgiven as long as he apologizes sincerely.

But that was back when he thought his only sin was his harsh words, back when he thought you were angry with him for his outburst.

Now that he knows what you’ve really been feeling, that you’ve apparently spent the past two hours sobbing on your wooden apartment floors waiting for him to come back and take his belongings, he’s not so confident that he can grovel hard enough to make up for this.

He hadn’t meant to hurt you, god damn it, that’s the whole reason he left in the first place, to spare you from his undeserved anger. Now he might be about to lose you because of his own childish temper tantrum, and the terror of that thought feels icy in his veins as it travels straight to his heart, freezing it in place.

His body is moving towards his apartment door before he even commands his muscles to do so, single-minded on the only thing that matters anymore: fixing what he’s done. His hand is already turning the doorknob by the time a slightly startled Nat is able to catch up with him, her hand on his shoulder stalling him for only the tiniest moment before he’s barrelling ahead again.

“Don’t fuck this up. You love her, now go make it right,” she commands sternly, and Bucky just grunts his acknowledgment before bursting through his door out into the empty hallway, towards the elevator.

He doesn’t stop to voice his fears to Natasha, that it might be too late to make anything right, that he may have fucked it up beyond repair already. He just keeps moving, hoping beyond hope that he still has a chance.

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When he makes it to your apartment a few floors down from his own, it’s eerily silent as he pushes the door open. He’s never needed a key, FRIDAY has explicit orders to grant him entry, but for the first time ever it feels wrong entering your space unannounced, like maybe he should knock and wait for permission in light of what’s happened. He ignores the impulse.

You’re not crouched on the floor of your entryway like Nat said you’d been, so he supposes that’s a good sign, but it occurs to him then that he’s not even entirely sure you’re home. Bucky pauses to ask FRIDAY where you are, and is relieved to hear that you’re only in your bedroom.

He almost thinks he picks up a hint of annoyance in the AI’s voice when she responds to his inquiry, though, as if even the damn computer program is pissed at him for the way he treated you. It must be his imagination.

“Angel?” he calls out softly, making his way slowly through the apartment to your bedroom, noting the oppressive stillness of the place as he goes deeper. “Honeybun? Sweet pea?” he uses his softest, most gentle voice, disturbed to find your usually lively dwelling so silent.

The TV in the living room - usually playing some youtube video or episode of your favorite show - is powered off, and the lights are all off too, as if the sun had set and you simply hadn’t bothered to flick any of them on to combat the encroaching darkness. The place he’s wandering now is like a ghost of your apartment, no scented candles lit, no steaming mug of tea waiting for you at your usual spot at the coffee table.

It’s unnerving, to have a place usually so full of life be so startlingly empty all of a sudden. His slow steps and his soft voice calling out for you are the only sounds in the entire space, until he finally reaches your bedroom door and pauses to listen. For a moment there’s nothing, and he worries that perhaps you aren’t home after all, until he hears a soft sound coming muffled through the thick wood of your door.

He presses his ear against it to listen closer, brow scrunched as he waits to hear the sound again, and a moment later his heart shatters as it becomes clear that what he’s hearing is your soft sobbing, interspersed with the occasional sniffle.

Bucky pushes your door open ever-so-carefully, cursing under his breath at the slight squeak of the wood on its hinges. It’s hard to see anything in your room, even with his perfect super-soldier eyesight, as the lights are off in here, too, the curtains closed to limit even the soft moonlight coming through the windows.

His instinct is to flick on the light so he can see you better, but he doesn’t want to startle you, and besides, you obviously prefer the lights off or you would’ve turned them on yourself when it got dark. Instead he just steps further into the room, squinting his eyes as he can just barely make out the lump under the covers where you lay, curled in a ball in the center of your mattress, crying quietly.

He knows you must have heard his entrance, must realize he’s standing at the side of your bed right now, but you make no move to acknowledge him, continuing to sob softly as he watches on, heartbroken.

“Oh, darlin’...” he sighs, pulling the covers back a bit to expose your head, kneeling with one knee on the mattress so he can get a closer look at you.

You sniffle pitifully as you feel the cool air of the room on your face, extra cold against your cheeks where they’re wet with tears. Your vision is too blurry for you to actually see him, but you know who it is, know the scent of his cologne and the familiar touch of his fingers on your face as he brushes your hair back to see you better.

Your stupid, traitorous nervous system reacts immediately to his presence, your panicked breaths slowing and your tears subsiding, a warm wash of comfort moving through your chest along with an instinctive sense of safety.

Your body knows nothing of the events of the past few hours, that he isn’t yours anymore, that he isn’t here to comfort you. It just instinctively calms under his attention, unaware that it is fleeting now, sure to be gone in only moments.

As the man you love wipes the tears gently from your face, his touch so sweet and soft it inadvertently causes more of them to fall, you force your hoarse voice to speak, the sound a barely audible croak even in the silence of your room. “Are you here to get your things?”

Bucky’s own eyes sting at your words, at the miserable tone to your voice as you say them, and he shakes his head vehemently, though he’s not sure you’re even really seeing him right now.

“No, baby, of course not. Why would I take my stuff, huh? I left those things here so I could use them when I’m visiting my girl, you know that,” he counters in a painfully soft voice, like he thinks speaking above a murmur will shatter you. Maybe he’s right about that, you do feel awfully close to shattering.

You feel the beginnings of a headache throbbing behind your eyes, and you close them for a moment, struggling to craft a coherent thought through all the heartbreak clouding your brain. Why is he here speaking nonsense when you’re in the middle of trying to mourn him? Does he not see that it’s cruel for him to be here with his comforting touch and his sweet voice, knowing that those things are lost to you forever now?

“I’m not your girl anymore…” you mumble brokenly, the very act of having to speak the words into existence pulling another sob from your chest.

Despite yourself you nuzzle your cheek into his palm as he cradles your face, desperate for his affection. If you’re never going to feel his touch again, you’ll bask in every opportunity while you have it, savoring the familiar warmth even as you question why he’s offering it to you in the first place.

Your face is pinched in concentration, like you’re trying to commit the sensation to memory, and Bucky’s heart might as well be in shards by his feet at this point, the way you seek out his touch like you’re starved for it. Like it hasn’t only been hours since he last gave it to you, like you’ll never have the chance to feel it again.

“Yes you are, baby, you’re always gonna be my girl. You’re mine, honey, just like I’m yours. Forever, haven’t I told you that?” he speaks desperately, like he’s pleading with you to agree with him, and although you’d love to, you have very recent evidence to the contrary.

“B-but, you said…” you trail off in a whisper, unable to repeat the words. You don’t need to anyways, you both know what he’d said. That he can’t do this. Can’t be with you anymore.

Bucky’s quick to interrupt you, needing you to understand that that’s not what he’d said, or, at least, not what he’d meant. “Baby, I didn’t- I’m sorry I said it like that, and I understand why you took those words the way you did. But that’s not what I meant to say, sweetheart, I swear.”

He huffs and slides a frustrated hand through his hair, suddenly unable to bear having this conversation with you while you lie curled up alone in your bed, looking up at him blankly with your shining eyes.

Before you can speak another word he peels back the covers some more, making room for himself as he slides into the bed beside you, pulling you up and onto his chest so he can hold you in his arms. The tears on your cheeks immediately soak through the soft cotton of his T-shirt, but he doesn’t care, cradling you tightly against his chest and rubbing slow, comforting circles onto your back.

You want to say something, to express your confusion at his incongruent behavior, but you can’t, not with his arms around you and his scent in your nose. You open your mouth to speak but all that comes out are more shuddering sobs, your body limp in his hold, completely helpless against the comfort he offers.

Even if he shouldn’t be, he’s here. He’s here, and he’s holding you like you’re something precious again, and even if you know that there must be some mistake you can’t stop yourself from completely melting into his embrace, any semblance of your remaining composure crumbling completely.

Bucky just coos softly, murmuring gentle assurances in your ear and holding you, solid and steady as you weather the storm of your heartbreak. Despite having spent the better part of the past two hours bawling your eyes out, the crying starts anew with him here, his comforting presence both a relief and a reminder of what you’ve lost, what you’ll be missing when he walks out that door again.

You two lie like that for a while, though whether it’s for a few minutes or several hours you can’t say, time stretching into infinity as you cry into his chest. As the tears finally subside once again, your body exhausted and your throat sore, your mind belatedly registers his words from before. He’d been saying something, hadn’t he?

“What…” your voice comes out scratchy, so you clear your throat to be heard better - though Bucky couldn’t have missed a word out of your mouth if he tried, focused on you as he is. “What do you mean, that’s not what you meant? You broke up with me.”

Bucky shakes his head immediately, bringing his mismatched palms up to cradle your face, sweeping your hair back behind your ears so he can see his beautiful girl. God, it’s torture watching you cry, but he seems to have broken through to you somehow, and he’s not going to squander this opportunity to explain himself.

He can’t suppress the urge to lean down and drop a tender kiss to your forehead, though, your tear-stained face so pitiful he could cry right along with you if he didn��t have something more important to be doing at the moment.

“I mean, that’s not what I meant, sweetheart. I never intended to break up with you. How could I? Leave my girl, my princess? Don’t you know you mean more to me than every other person on this planet put together?” He speaks calmly but firmly, his gaze steady on yours as he practically begs you to believe him. You have to believe him.

You frown, confusion pulling your brows together as you take in his desperate expression. His words make your heart flutter with hope, but you don’t understand, can’t make sense of the reality he’s trying to assert when you know you heard otherwise only a couple of hours ago. It’s all a bit much for your heartbroken brain to handle, and you just blink at him blankly, completely lost.

“I don’t understand, Buck. Y-you were so upset, and then you left, and you said ‘I can’t do this, I'm done.’ I thought you meant we were done, that you can’t do us anymore.” you recall in a miserable voice, searching his eyes for answers as you desperately try to understand.

He nods empathetically, his thumbs brushing at the tears on your cheeks even as more continue to fall to take their place. “I know that’s what I said, sweet girl, and I know how it sounded to you, but that’s not at all how I meant it, I swear. I just…” Bucky sighs, his features plastered with remorse, his eyes falling from yours in shame.

“I was being an asshole. I knew, even as I was doing it, that I was being an asshole, that I couldn’t stop being an asshole, so I just…I wanted to get away from you before I lashed out any more, that’s all. I knew if I kept trying to discuss things with you right then I was only going to say more shit I didn’t mean, so I tried to put some space between us, just until I could cool off and be rational again.”

Bucky pauses, sighing deeply and stroking your cheeks. His eyes are swimming with guilt so deep it hurts your chest just to look at it. He looks almost as torn up about this whole ordeal as you do, which, although his pain isn’t something you revel in, does make your heart beat a little faster with hope. Would a man who doesn’t want to be with you anymore still look at you with that much guilt over having caused you pain?

When he speaks again his voice is low and strained with emotion, apologetic. “Darlin’, I…I am so sorry for the things I said to you today. I didn’t mean a single damn one of them. I love that you look after me, I love that I have someone waiting for me when I come home, making sure I’m not pushing myself too hard. I need you there to do that for me, because we both know I’m too proud and stubborn to take a break on my own. I got defensive, and I lashed out because I felt threatened, and that is not okay or fair to you. If you can’t forgive me for those things I said, I understand.”

He swallows thickly, his eyes closing as hot tears sting the backs of them, fighting to escape. “But you need to know that when I told you I couldn’t ‘do this,’ I sure as hell didn’t mean you, or us. All I meant was that I couldn’t keep having that conversation with you, that I needed to get away before I hurt you worse. That’s all it was. When I left your apartment today, it was to get some space because I knew I was throwing a temper tantrum. In no way, shape, or form was I breaking up with you, or trying to end what we have. I couldn’t do that, it’s not in my DNA to do that. I’m simply not capable of it, and you have to know that. Even if you decide you’re better off without me, I need you to know that. Please.”

You stare down at him in the wake of his speech, watching as he blinks rapidly to keep tears at bay, and you’re so god damn confused in this moment that you wish he would give you a timeout, let you process everything he just said before you have to respond to it.

Could it possibly be true? That he’d never meant to break up with you, that he still loves and wants you? Could this all just be some massive misunderstanding on your part?

The possibility has hope fluttering warm in your chest, but you suppress it. Better to make absolutely sure first, before you let your heart get obliterated for the second time today. Letting yourself have this hope only to quash it moments later might actually break you for good.

“You weren’t…I mean, you didn’t want to break up with me?” you whisper hesitantly, afraid to let yourself believe it even though you’re desperate to.

Bucky’s heart cracks in his chest as you ask that so timidly, like just voicing the question is opening you up to a whole new potential world of hurt. He shakes his head firmly, his metal hand coming up to cradle the back of your skull, his fingertips massaging your scalp gently.

“No, babygirl, never. Not in a million years. Even though we were arguing, it was the last thing on my mind, trust me. I’ve never wanted to break up with you, not for a second. I love you,” he reassures you smoothly, his voice low and calm, exuding certainty.

You have to sniffle hard to hold back a fresh round of tears at those three simple words, ones you never thought you’d get to hear from him again. Jesus Christ, if you never cry again it’ll be too soon. Your gaze is particularly frail and fragile as it meets Bucky’s, some of that hope you’d been suppressing earlier making itself known in your features, tentative but present.

“So…you’re still my boyfriend?” you ask in a tiny murmur, like maybe this is the part where he pulls the rug out from under you and announces he was kidding about the whole misunderstanding thing.

Bucky’s features tighten a little at your question, and dread pools in your stomach rapidly, fearing the worst. But his words aren’t quite the heartbreaking blow you’re expecting, more like a puzzling wrinkle.

“If you want me to be, yeah, baby, I am.”

Your brow furrows, confused. What the hell does that mean? Suddenly, you recall a few other parts of his speech just now, parts that had been immediately overshadowed when he’d said that he still wanted to be with you. Now that you think about it, he’d also said a bunch of stuff along the lines of ‘If you can forgive me,’ and ‘If you decide you’re better off without me,’ hadn’t he?

What the hell was that all about? Why’s he talking about whether you want to be with him? Like you haven’t been literally bawling your eyes out for the past two hours at the prospect of having to live without him? How does that make any sense?

“Of course I want you to be. You think I was curled up on the floor sobbing because I was happy to think that our relationship was over?” you ask incredulously, frowning at him.

He chuckles a little at that, the sound vibrating through you as you lay on his chest, but it’s strained, his expression vulnerable. Although you attribute this misunderstanding mostly to your own mind jumping to the worst possible conclusion, Bucky is riddled with guilt for both his abrupt exit from your apartment and the things he’d said leading up to it.

In his eyes you went through a lot of pain today, and every inch of it is his fault. If he’d stopped to explain his meaning, or, hell, if he hadn’t gotten so damn defensive in the first place, none of this would’ve happened. His girl wouldn’t have spent hours of her life sobbing on her hardwood floors if he’d just stopped to breathe like his therapist taught him to. His pale irises swim with shame as he gazes up at you.

“No, no, I just…I said some horrible things to you today, darlin’. And just because you were upset to think that I’d broken up with you doesn’t necessarily mean that all is forgiven, I know that. I understand if you’d rather keep us apart after the way I acted,” he murmurs defeatedly, like he’s already prepared himself for a thorough scolding.

Which is absolutely goddamn ridiculous, in your eyes. You snort, brows raised in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? All is forgiven, Buck, all is so past forgiven. I don’t care about the shit you said. You’re here, you’re still mine, that’s all that matters now. Forget the fight, forget all of it. I’ve got you, that’s all I care about.”

You say it so simply, like it could be so easy. Like his indiscretions are just wiped clean in the face of your pure relief. But he knows that they aren’t, they can’t be. It’s not that easy, as much as he’d like it to be. He fucked up, and he deserves what’s coming to him.

He tries to reason with you, his expression pained. “Baby, you can’t just-”

“I absolutely can, actually,” you interrupt, looking unamused, stern. “I’m the one you said those things to, so I think I have the right to determine how I feel about them, don’t you?” You keep your eyebrows raised, challenging.

You watch as he mulls those words over a bit, licking his lips anxiously. It takes him a moment to decide how to respond, and when he does his words are slow, strained. Like maybe he doesn’t want to say them, but he feels like he has to.

“Yes, you do. It’s ultimately your decision, of course it is. I just…before you decide to blindly forgive me for this, I want you to really consider how you feel, okay? I know your instinct is to forget all about it because you’re just relieved to have me at all right now, but…I messed up. I hurt you, I said hurtful things even if I didn’t mean them. You didn’t deserve that, least of all from me, the man who’s supposed to love and protect you. You’re allowed to be upset about it, and if my actions made you realize that you don’t want to be with me anymore, then…you’re allowed to feel that way, too.”

His voice cracks on that last word, and your heart aches painfully in your chest at the sound. In this moment, you’re realizing with horror that Bucky truly believes he deserves to be broken up with tonight. With the unshed tears clinging to his lashline and the devastated look on his face, it’s clear that he doesn’t want to be dumped, that in fact that’s the last thing he wants.

But it’s obviously what he thinks should happen, the punishment he thinks he’s earned for the inadvertent heartbreak he put you through tonight, and that’s just…unacceptable, to be honest.

The man would forgive you if you literally drove a stake through his chest, for Christ’s sake, yet he’s expecting you to kick him to the curb? What, because he got a little snippy with you? Because you jumped to the wrong conclusion and convinced yourself he left you? You would almost be insulted that he could think such a thing of you if you didn't know where the fear comes from.

You've seen them firsthand: the deep layers of self-loathing that have bogged him down since long before your relationship started, the inherent belief he carries that he is irreparably flawed and unworthy of love. He doesn't feel like he deserves you on his best day, so when he screws up, no matter the size of the infraction, he expects to be cast aside.

You reach out with one hand to cradle his cheek, his stubble gently scraping against your thumb as you caress his skin. Your expression is caring but firm, your eyes holding his as you speak in an even voice.

“I need you to understand that I don't expect you to be perfect, James. I don’t expect that you will always say the right thing, or have a perfectly even temperament in every situation because hell, none of us do. You’re allowed to fuck up sometimes, sweetheart, and you still deserve to be loved even when you do.”

His brow furrows as you speak, his instinct to reflexively deny the forgiveness you’re offering. “But I hurt you,” he interjects, the look on his face so miserable it tugs at your chest.

You nod your agreement, though your expression is still full of compassion and love. “Yes, you did. I won’t even begin to address the break-up fiasco because that was a complete misunderstanding on my part, but yes, the things you said before you left really stung me. Do you know why I’m going to forgive you anyways, though? Why, even if this happens again, I’ll probably forgive you a hundred times over?”

You pause for effect, giving him the opportunity to respond. Honestly, as upset as you’ve been these past few hours, it’s all begun to fade in the face of this man you love trying to convince you he’s not worth it. When he just looks at you helplessly, his eyes tracking your speech with rapt attention, you smile and continue.

“It’s because I know you’d never hurt me on purpose, Bucky. Let me ask you something: when you snapped at me today, did you do it because you were trying to find the absolute meanest thing you could say at that moment? Did you say it because you wanted me to feel bad?”

Looking a bit startled at the suggestion, Bucky shakes his head mutely. He hadn’t really even been conscious of the words at all until after they’d already blurted from his mouth, and even then it didn’t fully sink in until after he’d calmed down. You smile, satisfied by his immediate denial.

“No, of course you didn’t. You didn’t say that stuff to be mean, to hurt just for hurting’s sake. You were feeling ambushed and defensive, and you lashed out. Is it ideally how you’ll always react when I try to express my concern for your wellbeing? No, of course not. But is it a realistic thing for a person to do who’s not used to being cared for? Absolutely, it is. And it’s just something we’re gonna have to work on, baby. I’ve never done this whole relationship thing before, and you’re trying to do it for the first time in 80 years with a hell of a lot of additional trauma thrown into the mix.

“We’re learning, and it’s not always gonna be perfect or easy. Maybe before this becomes an issue again, we’ll think up some ways for you to politely tell me ‘I’m feeling overwhelmed by this conversation, please back off and we can come back to it later.’ Or maybe we’ll discuss how I can voice my concerns to you in the future without triggering your defensive response, how I can come off as less accusatory and make the discussion feel more safe for you.

“We’ve only been doing this for six months, and as real as it is, as much as I love you more than anything, we’re gonna face a hell of a lot more than this one hurdle if we want to keep doing this thing in the long term. So, yeah, tonight has sucked, pretty much every minute of it was a disaster, but you know what? It’s over now. You apologized, we’re gonna try and do better next time, and…that’s the end of it. Clean slate. All I want to do with the rest of my night is finally stop fucking crying, and eat a burger the size of my head. Preferably, with my boyfriend next to me the whole time, trying to steal my fries when I’m not looking. Do you think you could help me make that happen, Buck? Please?”

He looks stunned in the wake of your speech, silent for several moments as his brain struggles to grapple with the reality of your easy forgiveness. He blinks at you hard, like he truly can’t believe that you’re not running in the opposite direction right now, burning every trace of your life together and cursing his name the whole way.

But the truth is, you’d already made up your mind to forgive him the second you realized he hadn’t meant to break up with you in the first place, and Bucky must see that, too, because the fight in his eyes is slowly dimming into something more fragile, vulnerable.

His gaze fixes on yours in the dark, searching for some hidden shard of resentment or anger that you may be holding back for his sake, but he doesn’t find it, there is no such thing for him to find. You just smile weakly up at him, exhausted from the emotional turmoil of the day but no less sincere, and when he blows out a slow breath through his nose, you know you’ve got him.

He’s definitely not done badgering himself about the mistakes he made today, not by a long shot, but he must see your weariness on your face, your desperate need to move on from this at least for the moment, so he nods slowly, his flesh hand rising to gently tuck some of your hair behind your ear.

“Yeah, sweetheart, we can make that happen. Whatever you want.”

Your smile brightens, the relief so stark in your features that it brings a lump to his throat, and when you press your lips against his he makes a silent promise to never put you in a position like this again, to never let his bullshit drag you down or put your relationship at risk like he did today.

He’ll go to therapy twice a damn week if he has to, you deserve better than his temper tantrums, than cruel words spoken out of a defensiveness he doesn’t need anymore. Not with you.

Half an hour later finds you perched in his lap, draped in one of his hoodies and talking and laughing at your favorite diner like there never was an argument, like not a single tear was shed today. He hates that the joy on your face is most likely motivated by your sheer relief that he’s still yours, but he can’t complain about the sparkle in your eyes, nor the way you lean back against his chest as you sip your shake.

Obliging your request, he steals some fries off your plate while you gesticulate wildly through a story, a warm flutter going off in his chest when you pretend to squawk in protest. He soaks in every second, every twitch of your lips and brush of your hand against his, reminding himself what he could have lost, what he perhaps deserved to lose after his actions today.

He’ll make this up to you, he knows he will - he’s sure Natasha will have plenty of suggestions for how he can start. He thinks back to that little velvet box he’s got buried deep in the back of his sock drawer, a sharp pull tugging at his heart as he realizes he almost lost his chance to give it to you at all. He resolves right here and now, basking in the warm light of your infinite patience for him, that he won’t take that box out until he’s earned it.

He hates to wait even a second longer, itches to lock you down with every passing moment, but he won’t ask you to make that kind of commitment to him until he’s sure he’s the man that you need him to be. As he presses a firm kiss to your temple, swiping another morsel from the edge of your plate with a smile, he swears up to his Ma that he will work hard to deserve you, even if you seem to think he already does.

#marvel #mcu #bucky barnes #sebastian stan #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky fanfic

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menelausblues · 3 days ago

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𖥔 ݁ you try to break things off with xavier.

mdni.

you suggest to xavier that perhaps you should both take a step back from the relationship so he can focus more on his work and you’re met with the most pained expression you’ve ever seen on his face. he cups your cheeks, trying his best not to let the words you’ve uttered ruin him, but it’s hard when the one he loves tries to break his heart so casually. “there’s no taking steps back.” he murmurs, and it’s said as a claim but the fragility in his voice folds into a plea. “we can't take any steps back, okay? please.” it’s the love in his eyes, glistening with unshed tears. it’s the hurt in his voice, the way his heart is stuffed into his cheeks and weighing his lips down into a pout. you can’t stand to see him so close to breaking, your golden boy who gives the sun a reason to shine. “i just…you’re so busy, xavi…i don’t want to get in the way of things for you.” even more than discarding him and all the fondness he can’t help but hold for you, it hurts him most to hear you speak of yourself as a burden in his life, as if he didn’t choose you. choose this. as if he doesn’t revolve around you and your smile. as if he doesn’t wake just to see your eyes. as if he doesn’t love you more than life itself. it’s insulting. it’s ache-inducing. “things for me?” he repeats, dizzy with disbelief as he blinks repeatedly, trying to understand. “you can’t be in the way of things that are just as much for you as they are for the rest of us. we’re a family. you do know that, yeah? you’re not in the way. we’re in this together. i need you by my side with me. that’s the only way.” that’s the only way. you feel a little silly, of course you do.

you see a man with the world on his shoulders telling you he wants to love you and it feels like all it would do is make his atlas fate emboldened. like it would all become heavier for him to hold out of spite. and you don’t want to be a kiss that curses him. you don’t want to be the one that erodes his strength. you see a man that shines like the northern star and you don’t want to be the one to make his light burn out. but it wouldn’t, would it? it could never. “no steps back, okay? whatever you need for reassurance just tell me. it’s not a problem.” you sigh, looking up into his eyes as your hands reach to curl around his. “i don’t want to be another problem you always have to solve.” “well, it’s a good thing you’re the love of my life and not a problem then.” even despite his aching, he offers you a playful smile. “now say it with me: xavier is my favorite boy and i won’t break his heart and spirit by worrying about useless things like leaving him.” a groan. “c'mon, xavi. not this.” “xavier is my favorite boy and i won’t break his heart and spirit by worrying about useless things like leaving him.” he repeats, eyes expectant as he squishes your cheeks together. “come on, baby. don’t be bratty after you almost killed me.” you roll your eyes, but your heart soars. “fine, xavier is my favorite boy and i won’t break his heart and spirit by worrying about useless things like leaving him.” and of course, he beams. his boyish smile that always says leave it to me. “see? was that so hard? now let me kiss you.” without waiting for a response, he leans down and kisses your lips, puckered from squeezing your cheeks. he makes a show of it. sloppy wetness and an exaggerated mwah. you scrunch your nose in disgust at the sound. “gross,” you grouse. “i don’t care at all. you’re stuck with me.”

#𖥨 ݁ fics ⋅#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace fluff #xavier x reader #xavier love and deepspace #love and deepspace xavier #xavier fluff #xavier #shen xinghui #shen xinghui x reader #lnds xavier #lnds x reader #lnds

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elleaitch22 · 2 days ago

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Love on Fire

Chapter 2: This is How It Starts

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

A/N: Sorry! I’ve been gone all day. I had cooking class with my little brother! This will be a slow burn btw, probably slower than Terms of Endearment 😬 If you have requests for this story or suggestions, please let me know! I might just put them in 😊 Gotta go work on Chapter 15 now! Hope you love it! Love you, bye!! xx Elle

Warnings: Fertility treatment discussion, mentions of medical procedures and an injection

Word Count: 3.1k words

-----------------------------------

The car swerved a little.

“What do you mean you’re having a baby?” Paige questioned, getting control of her truck.

Azzi gripped the tray of cinnamon rolls in her lap. “Jesus, Paige.” She muttered.

“Don’t ‘Jesus, Paige’ me, Jazlyn. You didn’t even tell me you were dating anyone.” Paige huffed.

She knew Azzi would find someone else eventually. She’d been preparing herself for this moment since Azzi went on her first date junior year. But still, ten years of preparation and Paige still wasn’t ready.

“I’m not seeing anyone!” Azzi exclaimed. “We’re just getting old, P. I don’t want to be an old mom. I want to be the fun mom who races her kids, so I need to get started.”

Paige nodded, her whole body relaxing a little. “So, how’s this gonna work?”

“Well, my doctor already checked all my levels and stuff, so after I pick a donor, I have to take medicine for a couple days, then they’re gonna do an ultrasound, I’ll get a trigger shot the night before they shoot me up, then I’ll take some pill for a couple weeks, then take a test to see if it worked.”

The car swung into the parking spot, but neither woman moved to get out.

“You told Mom and Pops yet?” Paige asked, brow raised.

Tim and Katie Fudd were amazing parents. They supported Azzi in pretty much everything she did, but they never liked when she diverted from the plan. They hated it when she passed on basketball scholarships to pursue studies in culinary and baking arts. They lectured her when she decided to move thirty minutes away to open her bakery. She knew this wouldn’t be any different.

“Not yet. You know she’s gonna lecture me about doing this by myself.” Azzi sighed. “I know they’re going to be excited eventually, but I don’t want them to try to talk me out of it, especially because it might not even work.”

Paige cupped her knee, “You’re gonna be a mom, Az. Besides, you won’t be doing it by yourself. You know I’m always here.” She swallowed. “I’ll help you pick a donor if you want. You know how indecisive you are.”

The pair giggled.

“I’ll come with you to your appointments. I’ll go get your weird ass cravings in the middle of the night. And you know you can tell my dad and Katie, if you want.” Paige finished.

“You’re my favorite person, Paige Madison.” Azzi smiled.

She climbed out of the car, leaving her tray of baked goods. “Biscoff cinnamon rolls this time. Let me know what they think.”

-----------------------------------

Paige carried the warm tray of cinnamon rolls to the kitchen, seeing some of her crew sitting around the table.

“Bucky is here!” Cameron, the EMT called happily.

Her partner, Rickea scrambled over to the blonde, “Whatchu got for us today?”

“I don’t got shit for you, Kea. I’m still pissed.” Paige glared at the woman playfully.

“It was an accident! I didn’t know that was your pasta salad!” She whined, talking about Paige’s lunch she’d stolen the week before.

The tray of cinnamon rolls was plucked from Paige’s hands before she could respond. “What’d your wife make use today, Rook?”

The chief is already removing the foil from the top of the pan. “Biscoff cinnamon rolls today, D. Make sure Rickea gets nothing.” It’s pointless to correct Chief Taurasi; she’d been calling Paige and Azzi wives since Paige’s graduation from the fire academy.

Flau’jae and Ant reach into the pan and pull out rolls, while Steph, Phee, and Stewie pull plates from the cabinets.

“Yo, if you ain’t gonna marry that girl, say something. Because I’ll do whatever she wants if she keep making shit like this,” Anthony tossed to Paige, mouth full.

Jalen came behind him, smacking the back of his head. “Azzi’s a lesbian, Edwards. And even if she wasn’t you’re not her type.”

Paige chuckled at the truth in her best friend’s statement.

Until he opened his fatass mouth again. “Seriously though, P, when are you gonna stop playing with my sis?”

The blonde glared at the traitor. “Shut the fuck up, J.”

“I know you’re not talking, Suggs. Didn’t Hailey have to slide into your DMs?” Stewie questioned.

“Aye, bruh. We not talking about me right now. Besides, my girl got a ring on her finger.” Jalen finished with a smirk.

Paige just rolled her eyes, walking to gym. Maybe she’d be able to process whatever she just signed up for with Azzi while she lifted.

She was halfway through her third working set of bench presses when she heard the door open.

“You good, Paige?” A gentle voice called.

Phee.

Napheesa Collier was Engine 22’s engineer, and she’d worked very closely with Paige until the blonde was moved to Squad 5 last month. Paige loved working with Stewie, Jalen, and Ant on Squad, but she missed her mentor.

“Yeah. Azzi just said some shit today. It’s heavy on my mind.” She reracked her weight, and sat up, breath heavy.

“Wanna talk about it?” Phee questioned, sitting on another bench.

Paige shook her head, “Nah. I don’t know if I’m allowed to yet,” she laughed. “It’s personal, and I don’t know if I’m doing what’s best for her, or if I’m being selfish.”

Napheesa giggled, “Paige, my love,’ she started. “I’ve known you for eight years now. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do anything selfish when Azzi’s involved. Your default setting is to make her happy.”

She hadn’t thought about it like that. Obviously, she wanted to be involved with whatever kid Azzi ended up having, but she couldn’t tell if it was to help Azzi or to fulfill her own fantasy of having a family with the brunette.

“You might be wrong this time, Phee. God, I wish I could talk to you about it. You and Stewie always know the right shit to do.” Paige groaned.

Phee laughed against, “Yeah. Because we’re grown ass women who know how to handle our emotions.” She patted Paige on the back, “Just talk to her about it. Whatever it is, I’m sure she’ll understand.”

Before she walked of the gym, Phee turned around again. “Let Azzi know those cinnamon rolls were bomb and ask her if she can do a cookies and cream ones next.”

Once Paige was left alone, her mind started racing. She was so happy for Azzi; she always knew the brunette would be the best mom. But she always assumed she would be the child’s other parent. She thought she would have already had the guts to tell Azzi how much she loved her. But she didn’t. And now, she would have to watch from the sidelines. She was going to miss out on the baby’s first ultrasound. First kick. First smile. First roll over. She was going to miss all of it. And she had no one to blame but herself.

But she couldn’t let Azzi go through all of that on her own.

Azzi didn’t deserve that.

She deserved the best.

And Paige was going to be the best for her, no matter what she was feeling for her best friend.

-----------------------------------

“I told Paige,” Azzi said, piping a shell border around the cake.

“That you’re in love with her?” Caroline spun around from the cupcakes she was dusting with edible glitter.

Azzi fixed her with a look.

“You can’t blame me for having hope that you might follow through. It’s a compliment!” Her co-owner muttered. “What did she say?”

Azzi giggled. “She looked like she was buffering at first. Thought someone had actually gotten me pregnant. But you know Paigey.” She smiled. “She volunteered to do it all with me.”

Caroline stopped mid-sprinkle, hand hovered in the air.

Fingers with pink fingertips shot out over the cake. “I told you, you idiot. Now you owe me twenty bucks.”

“After I finish decorating this cake.” Azzi rolled her eyes. “Who’s out front?”

“KK and Ice, but Sarah’s out there to keep them in line.”

Azzi loved her surrogate sisters, but they (KK) could be a handful at times.

“So, are you going to let her help you?” Caroline asked after a beat.

Azzi still hadn’t made up her mind. “I want to, I really do. But I’m scared it’s gonna make me love her even more than I already do.” She paused, placing the piping bag down and brushing powdered sugar off her apron. Her voice lowered. “I don’t know if I can handle all that, especially when my hormones are going crazy.”

“I know you won’t believe me, but I’ve been around you guys for years. She’s in love with you too; let her help you, sis.” Caroline urged.

Azzi looked up. “But what if you’re wrong, Carol?” Her voice cracked. “It’ll break me; I love her more than anything. I won’t make it if she doesn’t want to stay.”

Caroline didn’t say anything at first. She just picked up one of the extra cupcakes, handed it over, and said, “Eat sugar. Breathe. Everything will fall into place.”

-----------------------------------

The next morning, Paige gets off work, showers, and knocks out. They had six calls over the last 24 hours, and she was exhausted.

On the other side of town, Azzi was waiting on a patient table at Caldwell Fertility.

“Okay, Azzi, you’re going to take Letrozole for the next four days. You might experience some moodiness, headaches, and hot flashes. If you feel like you’re experiencing something out of the normal, go to the emergency room.” Dr. Caldwell stated plainly.

Azzi nodded, cataloging the information in her head.

The doctor droned on. “We will see you back in one week and three days to do an ultrasound to measure the follicle and your uterine lining. If all goes well, you will do your trigger shot the next night, which will be cycle day 12. The next morning, we will inseminate you. You will start progesterone twice daily and test weeks later. Do you have any questions?”

Dr. Caldwell didn’t really give Azzi any time to ask questions. In thirty seconds, she was being ushered to the front to set up her next appointment.

The receptionist gave her a thick notebook. “We’ll see you on Wednesday, July 9 at 10:30. These are the donor profiles. Please make sure your donor is selected by the date of your next appointment.”

Four hours later, Azzi was sitting on the couch, fifty sperm donor profiles spread out around the living room when the front door opened. A tall blonde peeked around the corner, hands toting bags of takeout.

“I brought Hana Hibachi.” She said, raising the bags. “We didn’t really get to finish talking earlier.”

Azzi moved some of the papers off the couch. “Come on. You can help me pick my baby daddy.”

“Woah,” Paige coughed, moving towards the sofa. “I didn’t know you were already that far in the process.”

Azzi picked up the plate that had steak and vegetables, knowing that couldn’t be Paige’s food.

“Yeah, next Wednesday they’re gonna ultrasound me. If everything’s right, I’ll give myself the shot on Thursday night, and they’ll shoot up the club on Friday morning.”

Paige nodded, brows almost touching her hairline. “Okay!” She looked like she was rebooting. “Let’s do it. Have you made any decisions yet?”

“I think I have it narrowed down to ten,” She replied, nodding to the pieces of paper spread out on her coffee table.

“Hmm.” Paige hummed, lowly.

“What?”

“I don’t know, Az.” The tips of her ears reddened. “I just thought…I thought when we had a baby, I’d be more involved.”

Azzi’s breath hitched. “We?”

“You know what I mean,” Paige laughed it off. “Hand me one of those.”

They argue for the next forty five minutes.

“Yeah, he wears glasses, but have you seen toddlers in glasses? They’re so fucking cute!”

“He has a tattoo of his dog, doesn’t seem like he makes the best life choices.”

“And this one has a PhD in astrophysics!”

“Az, he’s 5’4. And you’d probably die if your kid was that much smarter than you.”

“I can’t have a lactose intolerant child, ice cream’s my favorite food, Paige.”

“Yeah, but he has a degree in biochem, his sperm’s probably smart as shit.”

“They can’t have asthma on both sides of the family. The kid’s lungs are gonna be fucked!”

“We can’t have a redheaded baby, Azzi. Can you image your skin tone with red hair?”

After a while, they’d narrowed it down to two.

Donor #53502, or the Golden Retriever as they called him, was a soccer coach with a degree in kinesiology. He was athletic, energetic, and loyal. He was tall, blond, blue eyed, but he had allergies and wore glasses.

Donor #20985, or the Quiet Genius, was going to be a doctor, but he was still in med school. He was also athletic, but he was a thrill seeker. He was soft spoken and gentle. His parents were from India; he had dark hair and eyes.

“I’m thinking the Golden Retriever,” Azzi started. “He just seems right, I guess. What do you think?” She turned to Paige.

Paige read the his profile again and something sour twisted in her gut. He sounded perfect. And completely wrong. He wasn’t her.

Her brows were raised again. “I was thinking the Quiet Genius. He’s quiet; you probably don’t want a child that’s gonna be bouncing off the walls. And he’s really smart, so that can’t hurt.” She paused, “Honestly, I don’t think you can go wrong with either option.”

“Rock, paper, scissors?” Azzi’s fist was already laying on top of her other hand.

Rock and scissors.

“I win,” Azzi said with a grin, leaning her head on Paige’s shoulder. “Thank you, Paige, thank you for everything.”

“Of course, Princess.” She replied, kissing her forehead.

-----------------------------------

The next week passed quickly.

Paige called every morning to make sure Azzi had taken her medicine, apparently, she made a calendar for the month of July and all the fertility-related things.

She went to Azzi’s appointment the afternoon before to make check her uterine lining. Held her hand through all of the discomfort, smile and squeezed her hand when Dr. Caldwell said everything looked great.

“So tonight between 8 and 9, you’ll have to do your trigger shot. You want to aim for an inch or two below your belly button.” Dr. Caldwell said. “Then on Friday morning, you’ll come in a 9 for the insemination.”

“Okay,” Azzi’s voice was high with anxiety. She hated needles. It would definitely be worth it, but she still didn’t want to get a shot.

As they walked out, Azzi’s lips were still turned down.

“Okay, so you’ll come to the firehouse tomorrow night, since I’ll be on shift?” Paige asked, starting her truck.

Azzi turned to her, shocked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I can’t take the rest of the day off; Stewie hardly let me come for the appointment.” She smiled.

Azzi was still confused. “Yeah, I get that. So why am I coming to the station tonight? Are y’all having a dinner or something?”

Paige turned to her, brow raised. “Azzi. You hate getting shots. You’re going to come to the station, and I’ll give it to you.”

Azzi stared at the blonde. The sun was shining behind her head, and she looked exactly like the angel she was.

“You’re the best person I know, P.” She said, cheeks flushed.

Azzi was floaty for the rest of the day. She didn’t even yell at Sarah when she accidentally dropped a tray of cupcakes that she just finished decorating. Not even Carol’s teasing about Paige could bring her mood down.

After the bakery closed and everything was wiped down and mopped, she took the ten-minute walk to the fire station. She smiled, seeing Flau’jae, Anthony, Shai, and Rickea playing basketball out front.

“Bueckers, your girl’s here!” Flau’jae called, as Azzi walked up.

She was met with cool air as she opened the door. “Azzi Ray!” Cam exclaimed. “Come on, I’ll bring you to Paigey.”

“So, have you and Ben finally set a date?” Azzi asked while Cameron dragged her through the firehouse.

“November 22; the Saturday before Thanksgiving. It’ll be cool, but not too cool.” Cam smiled.

The brunette’s smile widened, “I’m so excited for you guys!” She squeezed her friend.

“And here we are!”

Paige was in the weight room doing hammer curls. Azzi giggled. There was a time Paige hated lifting, preferring to play basketball or go running instead.

“I’m here for a shot?” Azzi started. “I prefer vodka or tequila, but I’ll take Pregnyl tonight.”

Paige turned to her beaming. She grabbed the medicine the brunette was holding out to her.

“Let’s go pretty girl.” Paige took her hand, leading her away from the workout space.

They wound up in one of the dorms. Paige dropped to her knees and pushed Azzi’s shirt up. “Hold.”

It wasn’t a request, and Azzi obeyed quickly.

The blonde rolled her leggings down a bit.

She’d held countless needles in her life. On the job, they were just tools.

But tonight?

Her hands shook.

She swallowed, forcing herself to calm down. Azzi was already nervous enough.

She took a deep breath and cleared her mind.

“Okay, I’m gonna wipe and then give the shot. It’s probably gonna burn a little, but remember what you’re getting out of this, okay?” Paige said, looking up at her best friend.

The wipe was cold, and Azzi wasn’t prepared for it.

Paige blew on the spot, drying it.

Azzi’s pulse skittered beneath her skin.

Paige's breath was cool.

Azzi’s hands clenched into fists.

That did irreparable damage to her.

Paige was on her knees.

Paige was looking up through hooded eyes.

Paige blowing just a few inches above her panty line.

Azzi’s thighs clenched involuntarily.

“Okay, on three, alright baby?” Her voice low.

“One. Two.”

“OW!” Azzi gritted through clenched teeth. “You said three!” She whined.

Paige giggled. “It hurts less when you don’t see it coming.”

She bowed her head and whispered into Azzi’s belly.

God, let it work.

Let her be happy.

Let her need me—just enough that I don’t fall apart wanting more.

“Amen.”

A prayer, she was praying.

Tears filled brown eyes.

Caroline was right.

Azzi pulled her shirt back down and stared at the closed dorm door after Paige left.

She wasn’t sure what hurt more — the pinch of the needle or the fact that she wanted to pull Paige back in and ask her to stay. To lie beside her. To press her forehead to her belly again and promise they were a team.

She looked down at her flat stomach, rubbed it softly.

"Please, please work."

#paige bueckers #azzi fudd #pazzi fics #pazzi #paige x azzi #love on fire

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bluehoodiewoozi · 2 days ago

Text

Paper Rings

Lee Seokmin (DK) x fem!Reader

Genre: fluff

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: food mention.

[Kindergarten Teachers AU] Fearing that their two favourite teachers might break up, the kids decide to take your romance into their own tiny hands.

Big thank you to my beloved @haoboutyou for giving me the idea and helping me defeat writer's block (even if just for a day)! idk what I'd do without you, girl

“You know what? Fine! Have it your way!”

The car door was slammed closed with far too much force. A dog froze in the middle of passing by, eyeing you two with caution before continuing on his morning walk with his elderly owner mumbling words of concern under her breath.

“Well, have a good day.” Seokmin sighed and held the gate open for you, ever the gentleman even when he was annoyed and upset. “Please don’t skip lunch today.”

Eyes narrowed into slits, you turned on your heel to glare at him. “Don’t tell me what to do!”

The sound he let out was something of a groan mixed into a wail of despair. “I didn’t mean it like that, baby.”

You rolled your eyes and strolled past him with purpose. There was not a single glance spared his way until you were both well inside the building, surrounded by curious little children who looked like they had heard your argument just fine. One of them looked positively ready to start crying at the sight of you.

Sitting at your desk, you sighed. “What is it, kids?”

“Are you and Mister Minnie breaking up?” a wavering little voice dared to ask. Various noises of protest filled the room before you could even take a breath to prepare to answer the question.

Sparing a quick look at your boyfriend, who was organising the toy shelves and deep in a conversation with one of the more shy kids, you shook your head. “No, we’re not.”

The children let out a collective breath of relief. Some high-fived and cheered in joy. A bitter part of you thought they might just be more invested in your relationship than your boyfriend was. You tried to wave the thought away as fast as it came.

“Because they’re already broken up!” a little boy suddenly declared, standing up and pointing fingers as if he’d been personally betrayed. He was all accusations and none of the ability to listen. You suspected he’d make a great – or at least popular – politician one day.

“We are not,” you argued with all the patience only a kindergarten teacher could possibly muster. “We’re just… having a bad day.”

To your surprise and joy, no more questions were asked. Only curious glances remained. Still you thought it was the end of it. Another crisis averted, another day saved.

Behind your back, the kids exchanged looks of mischief and worry – they had a plan brewing.

Little Misoo toiled away at her desk, hands covered in charcoal smudges and ink. She had tried a big girl pen for the first time, having wanted to emphasise the seriousness of the situation, but quickly realised it was harder to wield than it looked, and so she had resorted back to her trusty coloured pencils to write the invitations. She had just ten more to go.

“I don’t understand why we’re doing this,” Jaemin finally voiced his concerns between clumsily peeling and sticking heart-shaped stickers on every piece of paper. “Everybody already knows. Why do they need invitations?”

Misoo gave him a scathing look. “You can’t have a wedding without invitations! Everybody knows that!”

Jaemin pouted. “Then should we make invitations for Mister Minnie and Miss (Y/n) as well?”

“No.” She looked at him like he’d just suggested unicorns and dragons could be best friends (they obviously couldn’t because all unicorns are vegans and dragons famously hate vegans). “They’re the bride and the groom! They don’t need invitations!”

“But do they even know they’re getting married?”

“They will.” Misoo suspected she had the most patience any woman had ever possessed. She glanced towards the ceiling as if to challenge god for putting her in this situation and then gave Jaemin another glare. “Stop asking stupid questions and get back to work.”

A mysterious chocolate bar had found its way onto your desk. Even more mysteriously it was your favourite brand and flavour. Your boyfriend sat in a circle with the kids, reading their pre-nap fairytale, and snuck glances at you as if he was expecting something.

You fought back a smile and grabbed a sticky note.

When he returned to his seat after getting the kids to sleep, he found the pink piece of paper stuck on his laptop. On it, a little heart and two words: ‘You’re forgiven.’ He almost screamed of joy before remembering that he had to be quiet. He wore a dumb lovestruck smile for the rest of the hour.

Mingyu knew something was wrong the moment the kids stepped into the art room. He couldn’t quite put a finger on it but he just knew. And if the wide-eyed look Minghao gave him was anything to go by, he felt it too.

It was only about 10 minutes in that he realised the problem: the kids were moving like they had a purpose. This was rare. This never happened on free art Fridays – usually the kids would spend the first twenty minutes trying to come up with an idea to execute. Today it took them less than twenty seconds.

Cautiously, he approached tiny Sohyun and Yunho – the first sharpening pencils at a furious pace and the other sorting through the unsharpened ones under her command. It was abundantly clear that Sohyun was working the boy like it was the military. One had to admire her leadership abilities, even if they were a little rough and loud around the edges.

“So what’s today’s project?” he asked, trying his best not to wince when the pencil’s tip snapped in the sharpener.

Sohyun sighed in frustration before skillfully removing the graphite from between the blades and restarting the sharpening process. “Pencil confetti.”

Mingyu blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Pencil. Confetti.” She repeated it slowly as if fearing he was dumb and wouldn’t get it otherwise.

He tried not to take offense. “For…?”

“For the wedding,” she explained like it was obvious before gasping and turning to Misoo. “You need to give him an invitation!”

The other girl facepalmed theatrically before rushing over to him with a surprisingly neatly folded paper card. Before he could ask her about it, she was rushing to the other side of the classroom to hand an identical one to Minghao.

‘INVITAISION’ it read in big bold multicolour letters, a large pink heart-shaped sticker sitting right under the word.

Mingyu opened the card and his jaw just about dropped (granted, it took him about two minutes to decipher the writing and make sense of it; he couldn’t complain because he hadn’t expected any kindergarten kids to know how to write anything at all).

“Seokmin and (Y/n) are getting married?!” He made eye contact with Minghao who gave him an equally shocked look.

“We’re throwing them a marriage!” Hyesoo declared happily and held out a little string tied into a circle. “I’m making rings!”

Mingyu fought a smile. “So, pencil confetti and string rings?”

“We wanted to make flower rings but it’s too early to go outside yet,” Jaemin informed him with a pout.

“And flower confetti,” Sohyun sighed and continued working the pencil sharpener like it was her day job and she was getting paid per shaving.

“... Want me to get you guys some real flowers?” Mingyu asked after a moment of thought. It wasn’t every day that the kids planned a wedding, after all.

The kids’ faces lit up with joy like little Christmas trees. If he hadn’t wanted to do this, he would’ve felt compelled now.

“And we could make them paper rings,” Minghao suggested with a little smile. “They would last longer than flowers.”

The kids screamed in excitement.

You leaned closer to your boyfriend, eyeing the kids suspiciously as you did so. “They’re being weird.”

Too busy to even look up —Seokmin was neck-deep in his emails—, he hummed. “Weird how?”

“Like … quiet weird.”

His attention was fully on you now. “Oh, that’s no good.”

“Look at them!” you whispered and nodded towards where the kids were supposed to be playing on the carpet.

Instead of messing around with little trucks and dolls and teddy bears, they were braiding ribbons into each others’ hair and handing out cards and whispering secrets. You felt like you’d entered an alternate dimension.

Seokmin raised a single brow and nodded. “Okay, this is scary.”

“Should we—” you hesitated, “—do something?”

He shrugged. “But what if we do something and they get noisy and crazy again?”

“Good point.”

The big hour was growing nearer. The kids were buzzing with excitement, ready to see their plan in action. In half an hour, it would be time to go outside to play games and throw the biggest party of their lives.

“Okay, do we have everything?” Minsoo asked, standing in the middle of the circle on the carpet. She glanced towards the teachers’ desks – the married-couple-to-be were still unaware of their plans and working on something on their computer. She was happy with the sight, for now, and turned back to her co-conspirators. “Invitations?”

“All given out,” Jaemin replied.

“Confetti?”

“Pencil or rose petal?” Sohyun wondered. She received no answer. “Well, I have both.”

“Perfect,” Minsoo approved and continued checking her mental wedding list. “Rings?”

Bomin – universally recognised as the resident expert in paper crafts – held two rings out on his palm. The other kids made noises of approval.

“Music?”

Eunji nodded and hummed in confirmation. She was the only kid in the group to have a phone, even if it did only let her call her mom, listen to about fifteen songs and play Candy Crush. By all accounts, she was the coolest kid in town.

“Priest?”

Silence. The kids turned to look at Yunho who let out a whine and slumped backwards until he was lying on the ground. “Why do I have to be the priest?”

“Because it’s a boring people job,” Sohyun told him with utter seriousness and all he could do was sigh in defeat.

Mina held up her hand and asked, “Shouldn’t we get Miss (Y/n) a wedding dress?”

“No, because she’s already pretty,” was the general consensus.

Minsoo looked at her friends, her companions, her co-conspirators, her little minions. She nodded in approval. “People, we have a wedding to do.”

“Kids, don’t wander too far off,” you reminded them gently as they rushed outside in a single file. Somehow it felt like they were even more enthusiastic about playing outside than usual.

Odd, you thought and pushed the thought out of your head. It had, after all, been an overall strange day. Then again, the weather was lovely and you suspected you would’ve been similarly excited if you were in their shoes.

Still, it was weird that they were all heading in the same direction as if led by an invisible tour guide.

Seokmin nudged your side. “You’re right. They are being weird today.”

“Right?” Your brows furrowed. “What is up with them?”

“You know, I think they might have heard our fight this morning.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Honey, they asked me if we were breaking up as soon as I got to the room. I am sure they heard us.”

“Maybe that’s why they’re so weird,” he concluded with a click of his tongue before turning to you. “I’m glad you forgave me though. I’m sorry for being so dumb.”

A sigh forced its way out of your body. “You’re not dumb. You’re just … less hesitant than me.” Your fingers brushed against yours. “You know I want a future with you, I just— It hasn’t been all that long.”

“It’s been two years and eight months,” he supplied with a quiet chuckle but there was no malice behind those words. He leaned forward to kiss your cheek. “But who’s counting? Not me.”

“Right,” you deadpanned and jabbed him in the ribs with all the force of a bumblebee crashing into a human body. Your fingers wrapped around his and gave them a squeeze. “Just give me some time, okay? Soon, but not yet.”

“Soon, but not yet,” he parroted with a smile that said he was more than willing to wait.

The padding of feet pulled you out of the moment. In front of you stood Jaemin, hands politely behind his back, cheeks flushed red from the spring chill. He cleared his throat.

“You need to come with me,” he declared and didn’t bother to wait for an answer before heading right back where he came from.

You shared a look with your boyfriend. “Did he mean the both of us?”

“I think so,” he said and shrugged before following after the boy. You sighed and did the same.

The world came to a standstill for just a moment when you reached the old tree in the middle of the yard. It seemed that all of the kids had gathered exactly there, forming two neat groups with a little path between them leading to Yunho wearing glasses that were certainly not his own and a top hat. Mingyu and Minghao stood on either side of him with wide mischievous grins, in on a scheme that had clearly been created under your nose without you ever suspecting a thing.

“What is this?” you asked no one in particular.

“Your wedding!” Minsoo declared as Jaemin all but dragged your boyfriend to the other end of the makeshift path.

Seokmin wore a puzzled smile as Mingyu started dusting his jacket and fixing his hair like a fuzzy mother. “Our what?”

“Wedding,” the kids repeated in unison like it was the most obvious thing. When you still stared at them with nothing but confusion in your eyes, they let out a collection of little sighs.

Sohyun called out, “You’re getting married!”

“We are?”

“Yes!”

“Why?” Seokmin wondered while dodging Mingyu’s attempts to straighten his collar. “How come?”

“Because you had a fight and then Miss (Y/n) said you two were having a bad day,” Minsoo explained to you like you two were the five-year-old ones and they were the much more experienced adults. “And my mom always says she was the happiest on her wedding day, so now you are getting married so your day can be happy too.”

No one could argue with logic. You admitted defeat and let the girls adjust your clothes and put a little flower into your hair.

When they were done, like the woman on a mission that she was, Minsoo handed you a single red rose – a real one, you noted in astonishment – and held out her hand for you to take. Hesitantly, you did as expected.

The moment your fingers touched hers, you almost burst out laughing when you heard the beginning notes of ‘Love Is an Open Door’.

With a proud grin on her face, she led you down the aisle towards the old tree – towards your boyfriend. You really did start laughing when the kids began throwing flower petals onto your path.

“You guys put a lot of thought into this, huh?” you asked.

She only smiled and led you to the make-shift altar made of an old tree log. You stood next to Seokmin who offered you a matching amused smile and took your hand from hers, giving it an encouraging squeeze.

“We’re getting married,” he whispered as if he couldn’t believe it.

Frankly, you couldn’t either. Especially when just this morning you had been arguing over this very thing. Funny how the universe works, you thought and stepped closer to his side. “We’re getting married.”

“Ladies and gentlemans,” Yunho began in a faux-official tone as soon as the song ended, holding a notebook up like he could read, “we are here to marry Miss (Y/n) and Mister Minnie. Does anybody object?”

Silence filled the yard. You glanced back to find the kids giving each other glares as if to dare the other to make even a squeak. One could rest assured violence would erupt if the smallest sound was heard.

Yunho seemed to breathe out in relief before continuing, “Do you, Mister Minnie, take Miss (Y/n) as your wife?”

“I do,” Seokmin told him, not even bothering to fight his giggles.

“Stop laughing! This is a serious matter!” Sohyun scolded him from the first row.

Seokmin schooled his expression and cleared his throat, standing up straighter as if he was a mere soldier that had just received an order from his commanding officer. With all the seriousness he could muster, he repeated, “I do.”

“Good,” Yunho approved and turned to you. “Do you, Miss (Y/n), take Mister Minnie as your husband?”

You nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“Perfect! Then I announce you–”

“The vows! Don’t forget the vows!” Bomin called out from the crowd.

Jaemin gasped. “And the rings!”

Yunho seemed a little overwhelmed by the demands of the many but quickly gathered himself. “Right. Mister Minnie, do you have any vows?”

Seokmin’s lips twitched. “Sure.”

“You do?” you gasped and turned to him. “Well, come on then.”

“Do you not have vows for me then?” He pressed his free hand to his chest, feigning a wound.

You rolled your eyes. “I didn’t realise I would be getting married today, so…”

“Then you’d better think quick because these kids are ruthless,” Mingyu leaned over to tell you.

Seokmin chuckled and cleared his throat once more. He took your other hand in his as well. “My (Y/n), my beloved, my moon, my stars, my sunshine–”

“This was a mistake,” you heard one of the kids mumble in the crowd, clearly disgusted by the amount of honorifics your boyfriend had decided to bestow upon you. Maybe she wasn’t the romantic type.

“–I love you and I adore you. I didn’t expect to marry you today but, well, here we are, getting married, today, right here. They say that if you find the one you love, you feel like you can live forever. I am glad you’ve chosen me to spend your forever with.”

The kids cooed and awwed and squealed in delight. You would’ve joined them if you didn’t feel so suspiciously close to crying.

“It’s your turn,” Yunho whispered to you after a moment of silence.

You blinked back to reality and squeezed Seokmin’s hands. “Alright, well, I didn’t have anything prepared but… I can’t imagine a life without you in it, Seokmin. I can’t imagine waking up to anything other than your attempts at coffee. I can’t imagine coming to work to the sound of anything other than your singing. You mean everything to me. This wedding came as a surprise but I am so glad it did because it means I can marry the man of my dreams.”

The children erupted into cheers as Minghao held out two rings for you to take. Seokmin slipped one around your ring finger with gentle, nervous grace. You did the same for him and smiled wide when he leaned forward to kiss your lips.

Boys fought grimaces of disgust while girls giggled and squealed in delight. ‘Love Is an Open Door’ commenced playing once again as Yunho ushered you back down the aisle to be showered in flower confetti.

“Not at all what I thought they were planning,” Seokmin leaned towards you to whisper. “I did not expect this.”

“Is it weird that I’m not mad about it?” you asked and rested your head against his shoulder. “I know I said I wasn’t ready for marriage this morning but–”

“As far as I care, this marriage is all that counts,” he told you with a giddy smile and pressed another kiss to your lips. He held his left hand out for you to see, wriggling his fingers to show off his new paper jewellery. “I have a ring to prove it now.”

#seventeen x reader #seventeen scenarios #svt scenarios #svt fanfic #dk scenarios #dk x reader #seokmin scenarios #seokmin x reader #lee seokmin x reader #seventeen fluff

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dismalflo · 3 days ago

Text

summer is for lovers

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ✩ 10k words

summary: on your hunt for a new flatmate you come across Remus. Lovely, handsome Remus. Over the summer months you slowly grow closer to each other.

cw; vague smut (not detailed) but still 18+, strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, tiny bit of angst, miscommunication, both reader and remus are a little emotionally constipated.

✩ May ✩

The harsh glow of your laptop screen, paired with the dwindling list of options, is giving you a headache. The pain pulses behind tired eyes, you’re exhausted. Landlords are pricks. The notice came a few weeks ago: your tiny flat, with its damp-stained walls (despite your investment in a fancy dehumidifier), a temperamental oven, and heating that barely registers in winter, is about to cost far more than you can afford. It’s barely worth what you pay now.

It turns out that most places in your price range are even worse than this, you must've seen upwards of twenty flats. So you’ve resigned yourself to looking for someone, anyone in need of a flatmate. Something entirely out of your comfort zone. A quiet, lonely girl by nature the idea of living with a stranger is alien and uncomfortable. But what other choices do you have?

There's a listing that seems like a good fit. Close to your work in a nice area, walking distance from a Tesco and it’s seemingly a good size. The only thing that puts you off is the fact it's a man, similar in age to you, advertising for a flatmate.

You don’t love the idea. But you’re running out of time. So you grab your phone and hover over the keypad, your mind racing while your fingers tremble as they type in the number.

Each ring after you press call makes your skin crawl with second thoughts. Still, you don’t hang up. And just when you’re about to, he answers. His voice makes you jump.

“Hello?” It’s low and calm.

“Hi,” you manage, your voice thinner than you’d like. At least he sounds nice, you think. “I, um… I saw your ad for a flatmate and I was wondering if you're still looking?”

“Yes–yeah,” he replies, sounding almost relieved. “You’re welcome to come by, have a look around? See how it feels?”

“That would be great, actually,” you say, breathing out slowly. “Would this afternoon work? Or whenever suits you.”

“This afternoon is perfect.”

You confirm the address and end the call, only then realising that you don’t know his name and he doesn’t know yours. Still, something about the tone of his voice settles the panic in your chest. It’s probably foolish, but for now, it’s enough.

The tube ride over is a blur. You're tucked into a corner seat, fingers clenched tight around the handle of your bag, knees bouncing in spite of your best efforts to seem composed. The whole journey, you’re rehearsing what you might say. Hi, I’m here about the flat. Too stiff. Nice to meet you, thanks for having me. Weirdly formal. Please let me live here, I’m very quiet and I won’t use your milk. Pathetic.

The closer you get, the more you regret not backing out. Your stomach’s knotted, heart thudding. It doesn’t help that the sky’s overcast, a flat grey pressing down like it might rain at any moment. You find the building easily – it’s a narrow brick townhouse with peeling paint around the windows but an otherwise respectable facade. Not too posh, not too grotty.

You buzz the number he gave you. A beat, and then the door unlocks with a clunk.

You’re greeted at the top of a narrow stairwell. The man from the listing is already waiting at the threshold of the flat, leaning lightly on the doorframe.

You freeze.

He’s beautiful.

Not in a clean, shiny way like the men in ads. No, he’s something quieter, warm brown eyes, framed by tired lashes and shadows that suggest long nights. His jumper hangs loose on a tall frame, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. There’s a scar that cuts across the bridge of his nose – thin, pale, old – but it fits his face. You’re staring.

He shifts, and you realise you're just standing there like a lemon.

“Hi,” you manage. “I’m Y/N, by the way.”

He smiles. “I’m Remus.”

You nod like that’s normal, like his voice isn’t curling around you in a way that makes your breath catch. Remus. You tuck the name away for safekeeping.

He steps aside to let you in. “Come on, I’ll show you around. It’s not Buckingham Palace or anything, but it’s solid.”

The flat is surprisingly nice. Wooden floors, worn but clean, a big window in the living room that lets in more light than you’d expected. There are bookshelves and a threadbare sofa that looks deeply comfortable. The kitchen is small but tidy, and he opens a cupboard to show you what would be “your half”.

“And the bathroom’s through here–no mould, promise,” he says, glancing at you over his shoulder with a grin that’s too charming to be fair. “And I don’t take forever in the mornings.”

You follow, nodding, your voice still lodged somewhere near your collarbone. “You, um... seem very prepared.”

He chuckles, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I try my best.”

You breathe in through your nose, trying to summon enough courage to sound like a normal person. “Well,” you say, your voice higher than usual, “as long as you don’t kill me in my sleep, I think we should be fine.”

The words are barely out before you regret them. Why would you say that? You flush, gaze snapping to the floor. But then—

Remus laughs.

Not just a polite huff, either. A real, warm laugh that starts low in his chest and melts into something softer.

You blink, stunned.

“Fair enough,” he says, still smiling. “I promise not to kill you. I make a mean cup of tea, though. That help balance it out?”

You nod, trying to hide the way your mouth twitches. “Yeah. That might do it.”

Living with Remus is fine, better than you expected actually. You’ve found him to be a perfectly amenable flatmate and his claims were true, he doesn't take forever in the mornings and he does make lovely cups of tea.

Still, you find yourself hiding away in your bedroom most of the time, listening for when he vacates the living room and kitchen before making some quick food to eat and retreating back. He spends a lot of his time sitting at the dining table working on his manuscript and you'd hate to disturb him.

It's no fault of his that you hide away, you dont think you’ve met a nicer, more gentle boy in your life. It’s more like, you're so worried about imposing on his space and routine, being an annoyance that you avoid him.

So, when you hear the sound of his bedroom door shutting you make a break for the kitchen, stomach rumbling.

You rummage through the fridge, the cold light humming against your skin, illuminating a disappointingly bare shelf. Half a tub of hummus, a sad-looking cucumber, and a block of cheddar that’s luckily mould free. You sigh and close the door with your hip, already drafting a mental shopping list.

Tomorrow, definitely. You’ll go tomorrow.

For now, you settle on a sandwich – cheese and cucumber. The bread’s from the freezer, so you wedge two slices apart and drop them into the toaster, rubbing sleep from your eyes with the back of your hand while you wait. The flat is quiet, save for the low tick of the kitchen clock and the mechanical whirr of the toaster heating up. It’s peaceful like this, when it’s just you and the hum of appliances. You suppose it's always peaceful really though, Remus isn’t very loud.

You’re halfway through slicing the cucumber when you hear it: the soft creak of a door down the hall. Footsteps. Then Remus appears, yawning into the sleeve of his jumper, his hair mussed like he’d been lying down.

“Oh–I’m sorry,” you blurt, stepping back from the counter instinctively, knife still in hand. “I didn’t mean to take over the kitchen.”

He blinks, confused for a half-second before smiling. “You’re fine,” he says gently. “Just need to get in there–” he nods at the cupboard above your head.

You quickly sidestep, hugging the counter as he reaches past you. As he opens the cupboard, his fingers brush your shoulder in passing, a light, friendly touch. You flinch, just barely, but he either doesn’t notice or chooses not to mention it.

From the shelf, he pulls down a small box full of blister packets of painkillers, the label worn from use. He moves to the sink, filling a glass with water as you return to your sandwich-making, quieter now. More self-conscious.

“I, um–didn’t mean to interrupt your rest,” you offer, hoping it doesn’t sound too awkward.

Remus looks over his shoulder at you, then downs the tablets with a quick gulp. “You live here too,” he says easily, setting the glass in the sink. “You don’t have to apologise for being in the kitchen.”

You look at him, a little surprised by the softness in his voice.

“Still,” you murmur, pressing the sandwich together, “you’ve got your routines. I didn’t want to get in the way.”

“You’re not,” he says, and smiles. It's a little crooked, a little tired. “Seriously. Come in here whenever you want. Cook something that stinks. Use the last teabag. The whole kitchen is yours too.”

Your eyes lift to meet his, and there’s something about the way he says it, like he means it, that makes your throat go tight.

“Oh,” you say softly. “Okay.”

Remus excuses himself with a quiet smile and a muttered, “Back in a bit,” before padding back down the hallway.

You catch it just as he turns: a slight shift in his gait. Barely noticeable, the way his weight tips unevenly between steps, like one side of his body isn’t quite cooperating with the other. It slows him, just slightly. Enough that your brows draw together before you even realise you're staring.

You stand in the kitchen for a long moment, sandwich forgotten in your hand. It’s not like you to pry. You hate when people ask about things you haven’t offered up willingly – hate the sharp, intrusive edge of what’s wrong with you?

You take your sandwich to the little dining table where his laptop still sits closed, charger curled beside it. The seat across from you remains warm from where he’d been earlier. You chew in silence, mind gnawing at the image of him walking away with that faint limp. He hadn’t mentioned anything. No sign of injury.

Your chest prickles with quiet unease. Maybe it’s not your place. Maybe he doesn’t want questions.

The sandwich is half-finished when he reappears, this time in fresh pyjama bottoms and a different jumper, a little looser in the sleeves. He walks slower than usual, and now that you’re looking for it, the limp is unmistakable. It’s subtle but deliberate, a kind of favouring of one leg over the other. You feel that pinch again, behind your ribs.

Remus notices your eyes on him, and he offers you a faint smile, tired but open.

“Sorry,” he says, lowering himself gently into the chair opposite you with the kind of care that makes your heart ache. “Was hoping the tablets would kick in faster.”

Your voice is quiet when you speak. “Are you okay?”

He glances up at you, blinking like he hadn’t expected the question. For a moment you think he might brush it off, toss out some polite, yeah, all good lie. But then his expression softens. Honest.

“I will be,” he says. Then he hesitates, eyes flicking down to the grain of the wooden table, fingers brushing over a faint coffee ring like it might help ground him. “It’s just a flare-up. Happens sometimes.”

You nod slowly, waiting. Letting him lead.

“My joints,” he says eventually, voice low but calm. “They’ve been wrecked for years. Doesn’t usually act up like this, but sometimes–weather, overdoing it, not sleeping right–it just hits harder.” He gestures vaguely toward his leg, then his shoulder. “Today’s one of those days.”

You don’t say anything at first. Not because you don’t know what to say, but because your first instinct, that sounds awful, I’m sorry, feels both too much and not enough. You don’t think he’d want the sympathy of it anyway.

Instead, you offer him your full attention. “Is there anything you need? I mean, anything I can do?”

Remus looks at you, properly this time, and something unreadable passes behind his eyes. Gratitude, maybe. Surprise.

“No,” he says gently. “Thanks, though. Just rest, really. Try not to be on my feet more than I have to.”

You nod. Then, quieter, “I didn’t realise you were in pain.”

“I hide it well,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting in something that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Comes with practice.”

“I could make tea?”

He smiles, just barely. “Only if you make it as good as I do.”

✩ June ✩

Downpours in June always catch you off guard. In your mind, the month should be full of sun and warmth even though it never is. Shockingly, the rain does little to dampen your mood on the walk home, too excited with the knowledge that when you get into the flat, Remus will be there, probably writing, ready to talk to you and listen to your day.

You found quite quickly, after you got more comfortable, that you and Remus have a lot in common. You like the same shows and takeaways, both reading copious amounts of books and both of you are quiet and calm a lot of the time. You think he might be your only real friend and maybe that's a bit pathetic but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Your trainers squelch faintly as you step into the building, hair sticking to your forehead and the back of your neck. Still, there’s a smile tugging at your lips. You’re soaked and half-frozen, but the thought of the flat and Remus keeps your spirits high.

You shake the worst of the water from your coat before unlocking the flat door. It swings open, the familiar creak greeting you–

–and then a sound you weren’t expecting.

Laughter. Loud, overlapping voices. And not just Remus’.

Your eyes flick up as you step into the living room and stop short.

There are people in your flat.

Three strangers are sprawled across the sofas, legs thrown over armrests, half-drunk mugs of tea and empty crisp packets scattered across the coffee table.

The girl with striking red hair and green eyes is curled into the far corner of the loveseat, gesturing with a half-eaten biscuit and grinning. Next to her, a tall, dark-haired boy is half-lounging, half-sliding off the cushions, knees spread like he owns the place. His shirt is rumpled, his hair even more so, but it works on him. On the floor, sitting cross-legged and sipping from a mug, is another man, long dark hair, an open leather jacket.

And in the middle of it all, Remus.

He’s leaned forward in his usual seat, elbow braced on his knee, a lazy sort of smile tugging at his mouth. He looks comfortable. At home. The sleeves of his jumper are pushed up, and there’s a small ink smudge on his knuckle. He lifts his head at the sound of the door and lights up when he sees you.

“Oh–hey!” he says, already standing. “You’re back.”

All at once, the three others look up. At you.

You freeze in the doorway, suddenly aware of your rain-slick hair, damp jeans, the drip of water off your coat. Your bag sags heavily at your side.

“Hi,” you manage, blinking.

Remus crosses to take your bag, entirely casual. “Didn’t think you’d be back this early. I’d have warned you.”

You shrug, trying for a smile. “The rain chased me home.”

“Let me get you a towel in a sec–uh, this is Lily, Sirius, and James.” He gestures over his shoulder, and they all wave.

Lily smiles kindly. James does a salute from the couch. Sirius raises his mug.

You nod, stepping a little further into the room, wringing your hands slightly.

Of course Remus would have friends like this, you think. People who look like they stepped out of a film set or an advert or maybe an indie band that never quite went mainstream. If you didn’t know any better, you’d assume they were all built in the same beautiful factory.

Sirius leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes glinting with mischief. “So you’re the one living with Moony. Brave soul.”

James chimes in, grinning. “Yeah, seriously. Does he still snore like a bear, or has he grown out of it?”

You blink, then giggle – actually giggle – which surprises even you.

“I haven’t noticed,” you say, glancing at Remus as he hands you a towel, whose ears have gone slightly pink. “He’s actually… really great to live with.”

You miss the way he straightens slightly at that, how his expression softens. You’re too busy trying to unstick a strand of wet hair from your cheek.

“I’m just gonna–” you gesture vaguely down the hall, “–shower. Before I mildew. I’ll be back.”

You duck into the hallway with a grateful glance toward Remus, clutching the towel he pressed into your hands like a lifeline. You’re still soaked through, jeans sticking to your legs, and your skin feels clammy beneath your shirt. In the bathroom, you peel out of your wet clothes, your cheeks still warm from the shock of unexpected company.

The shower helps. Hot water pounding against your back, steam curling around your face, loosening the tension in your shoulders. You scrub quickly, methodically, trying not to think too hard. You don’t know why their presence made your chest tighten like that – maybe it was the surprise, maybe it was how pretty they all were. Maybe it was the way they all seemed to belong here.

It’s not jealousy, exactly. Just a small ache, like being on the outside of a joke you’d love to be part of.

Back in the living room, as the sound of the bathroom door clicks shut, a shift happens.

Sirius, who had been half-sprawled on the floor with his mug, shoots a look at Remus – slow and smug. “Mate.”

Remus doesn’t look up from where he’s fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “Don’t.”

“Oh, I will.” Sirius grins, wolfish.

Lily lets out a snort, raising her brows at James. “Did you see the way he lit up when she walked in?”

James nudges Remus’s knee with his own. “It was sweet, actually. Like a dog seeing its favourite person.”

Remus groans, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re all insufferable.”

“Not denying it, though,” Lily singsongs.

“There’s nothing to deny,” Remus mutters, flushing down to his collarbones. “She’s just my flatmate.”

James grins. “Flatmate. Right.”

Lily’s voice softens just slightly, teasing but kind. “It’s okay, Remus. We like her. She seems sweet.. And clearly into you, even if she doesn’t know it yet.”

Remus shifts in his seat, pulling his sleeve back down like it might shield him. “She’s not. And even if she were, she deserves... more.”

Sirius tilts his head, tone quieter now. “More than what?”

Remus doesn’t answer.

The conversation lapses just in time for the soft pad of footsteps down the hallway.

You return with damp hair falling to your shoulders, the sleeves of your jumper pulled over your hands. The soft scent of your shampoo trails after you. You hover at the edge of the living room, unsure if you’re intruding again.

Remus looks up first, his face softening instantly. “Feel better?”

You nod, giving him a small smile. “Much.”

There’s a pause – comfortable, this time – before he gestures to the seat beside him. “Come sit?”

You do.

The sofa is warm from where he’d been sitting earlier. Close, but not too close.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, turning slightly toward you. “We’ve got crisps, biscuits. Sirius tried to eat all the digestives but I fought him off–”

“I let him win,” Sirius adds from the floor.

“–or there's your leftovers in the fridge.” He continues, ignoring his friend's input.

You shake your head. “I’m okay, thank you.”

Lily leans forward, her smile easy. “So, how’s it been living with this one?” She jerks her thumb toward Remus.

You glance at him, then back to her. “Honestly? Pretty great. He’s... very considerate.”

“She’s being polite,” Remus mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.

“She’s being nice,” Lily corrects, then turns back to you. “It’s very commendable of you, I’m sure there's something about him that annoys you.”

“Charming, Lils.” Remus says with a fond eye roll.

Lily is wrong, you think, at this point in time you can't think of anything about remus that annoys you. He’s not a perfect person, obviously, but any little annoyances you have with him are forgotten quickly after they happen.

The conversation rolls on from there. They ask about your job, your favourite books, where you went to school. You end up laughing more than you have in weeks, tucked into the corner of the sofa beside Remus, your shoulder just barely brushing his arm.

By the time the clock on the wall nudges past ten, the living room has slipped into a comfortable sprawl of conversation and low laughter. Mugs have been refilled more than once, empty wrappers tucked under cushions, and Sirius has taken to stacking biscuit crumbs on James’s shoulder like a game of Jenga.

Eventually, one of them – Lily, predictably – checks the time and groans. “Alright, we’re off,” she says, pushing herself up with a dramatic sigh. “Some of us have to be adults in the morning.”

“Tragic,” Sirius mutters, already reaching for his jacket.

There’s a flurry of movement – shoes tugged on, bags slung over shoulders, mugs gathered into a clumsy stack for the kitchen. You stand too, a little uncertain, hanging back near the hallway door as the group bunches near the entrance.

Then, unexpectedly, Lily turns to you

“You coming to the pub quiz next week?” she asks, suddenly warm and familiar, like you’ve known each other longer than just a few hours. Her voice is bright but her eyes are kind, like she really means it.

You blink. “Oh. Um—”

“It’s good fun,” she says quickly. “Low-stakes. Mostly an excuse to drink.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “That sounds nice.”

“Perfect,” Lily beams. Then, before you can overthink it, she wraps you into a hug.

You freeze for a second. Her arms are confident and soft around you, her hair brushing your cheek. But after the initial surprise fades, you lean into it.

“See you there,” she murmurs as she pulls back, with a wink

The others say their goodbyes in overlapping waves. Sirius claps Remus on the shoulder with a dramatic flourish, James promises to text him about the weekend, and Lily gives Remus a kiss on the cheek.

Then they’re gone – the flat door swinging closed behind them with a satisfying click, their chatter already fading down the stairs.

You’re still standing in the living room when Remus comes back a few minutes later, having seen them out to the street. He exhales deeply as he toes off his shoes, running a hand through his hair.

You’re already moving, collecting empty mugs from the coffee table and straightening a blanket draped halfway to the floor.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, voice gentle as he returns to the room. “It’s not your mess, love.”

You glance up at him. The endearment settles warm and light in your chest. He says it so naturally you’re not sure he even notices.

“It’ll be faster if we do it together,” you reply simply, heading into the kitchen with a stack of cups.

Remus follows, quiet but not resisting. The two of you move easily in tandem – like you’ve done this before, like you’ve lived together for years instead of just a month. He wipes down the coffee table while you rinse out mugs. You clear the sofa of stray crisp bags while he tucks the blanket back into shape.

It’s domestic, almost absurdly so. The kind of soft, mundane routine you used to dream about without realising it.

When the last mug is tucked into the drying rack and the cushions on the sofa are more or less back in their proper places, you find yourself standing in the middle of the living room, blinking in the stillness. It’s quiet again, but a good kind of quiet.

Remus glances over from where he’s just finished folding the throw blanket across the back of the sofa. “Right,” he says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Mission accomplished.”

You nod, suddenly aware of the ache settling into your limbs – the kind of tired that follows a long day and warm company.

“C’mere,” Remus says, and without really thinking, you follow as he flops down onto the sofa, sprawling into the corner he always claims. He gestures for you to join him, and you do, curling up on the opposite end. Your knees tuck beneath you, your elbow sinking into the cushion. The warmth of the evening clings to your skin, a pleasant, weighty tiredness settling in.

You let out a breath, soft. “Your friends are really nice.”

He hums in agreement, tipping his head back against the cushion to look at the ceiling. “They are.”

Then, quieter, you add, “Sorry if I was... imposing. I didn’t mean to crash your night.”

His head tilts, gaze sliding over to meet yours, brows gently pulled together. “You’d never be imposing.”

You blink at him, something tender sparking behind your ribs.

“They liked you,” he says, like it’s the simplest, most obvious thing in the world.

You smile, small and uncertain. “That’s a relief. I’d have to start hiding away again if they didn’t.”

He huffs a soft laugh, turning more toward you, one leg tucked up beneath the other. “I don’t see how anyone wouldn’t like you.”

The room goes still for a beat.

It’s not even the words that hit you so hard, it’s the way he says them. Quietly, plainly. Like it’s not even a question. Like he believes it.

You swallow. Your fingers twist in the hem of your jumper.

“You’d be surprised,” you murmur.

Remus watches you carefully, eyes soft and steady. “No, I wouldn’t.”

You look away first, heart thudding too loud in your chest. It’s not flirtation, what he’s doing – it’s too sincere for that. It feels heavier somehow, more honest.

He shifts again, this time stretching his legs out, one foot brushing yours beneath the throw blanket. He doesn’t move it away.

You try for something lighter. “You didn’t tell me you had friends that were basically a rock band.”

He chuckles, running a hand over his jaw. “Yeah, they’re a bit much, aren’t they?”

“They’re... great,” you say, and you mean it. “I don’t think I’ve ever met people that easy to talk to.”

His smile is quiet. “They’ll love that. Especially Sirius. He lives for being charming.”

“I could tell.”

Remus’s laugh is low, and it lingers. “I’m glad you stayed. You looked like you were going to bolt.”

You flush, ducking your head. “I was.”

There’s a pause.

“I get it,” he says eventually, voice softer now. “Crowds. Strangers. It’s a lot sometimes.”

You nod. “It’s not that I didn’t want to be there. I just… didn’t think I’d belong.”

Remus’s gaze sharpens slightly, something almost fierce behind his tired eyes. “You do. You absolutely do.”

The words land between you, sure and solid. You feel them take root within you.

You glance over, meeting his eyes. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t look away. “Anytime.”

Your foot is still touching his under the blanket. You don’t move it.

The telly is dark, the flat dim except for the soft glow of the kitchen light and the little lamp in the corner. Everything feels slow. Settled. The way conversations stretch late into the evening when neither person wants to be the one to end it.

Eventually, you yawn. An embarrassingly large one that catches you off guard.

Remus smiles. “Go to bed.”

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” you ask, though your limbs are already heavy.

“I’m older,” he says, mock-stern. “I get to decide.”

“You’re not that much older,” you mumble, rising reluctantly.

As you pass him, he catches your wrist gently. Not to stop you – just a brush of fingers, warm and grounding. You pause, and he looks up at you from where he’s still curled on the sofa.

“Hey,” he says, low. “I meant it, you know. About people liking you.”

You nod, throat tight again. “I know.”

He lets go. You head to bed. And long after the door closes behind you, the warmth of his touch lingers.

✩ July ✩

“Please tell me you didn’t actually do that!” you exclaim, laughing at Sirius’ expense.

“I did,” he responds, having the decency to look ashamed, “I didn’t expect him to cry though.”

“He must’ve been a sensitive soul.”

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, doll?” Sirius shoots back, grinning as he nudges you with his foot under the table.

You move to swat him, but he’s already leaning back, laughing like this is his favourite game. And maybe it is, because you’ve learned Sirius loves nothing more than winding people up, especially the ones he likes.

You can’t be sure when it happened but somewhere between meeting Remus’ friends and now, they became your friends too. The pub quiz is a weekly ritual for you all now. You have silly in jokes with them and you're almost at a point now where you speak with them as freely as you do Remus.

You’re just about to fire back a quip when a familiar hand places a drink in front of you.

“Here,” Remus says softly.

Your eyes lift to find him standing beside you, the warm pub lighting casting a soft glow over his features. He sets down his own glass as well, then, without really thinking, slides into the booth beside you.

As he sits, his hand drifts up and settles between your shoulder blades, thumb brushing idly in a slow arc. It’s not the first time he’s touched you lately – little things, small and familiar. A hand on your lower back when guiding you through a crowd. Fingers brushing your knuckles when you pass him a cup of tea. But this, it still catches your breath a little.

“What have you done to get her attacking you already?” Remus asks, shooting Sirius a look that’s half amused, half exhausted.

Sirius throws his hands up. “I didn’t do anything. She’s just violent–where’s my drink?”

“You didn’t ask for anything,” Remus says with a small shrug, taking a sip of his own pint.

“I didn’t know I had to ask,” Sirius complains, scandalised. “I thought we had a system.”

“You thought wrong.”

You shake your head, trying to hide your smile as you pick up your glass. “Thank you,” you murmur to Remus, your voice quieter than before.

He turns his head toward you just slightly, expression softening, “Anytime.”

You take a sip.

Sirius groans dramatically, flopping back in his seat. “This is blatant favouritism.”

“You’re just mad because she doesn’t threaten to hit me,” Remus replies, entirely deadpan.

“I’ll start,” you offer, raising your eyebrows at Remus in mock challenge.

He grins, a slow, crooked smile. “I’d like to see you try.”

Before you can respond, the door to the pub swings open and a gust of summer air follows James and Lily in. James is grinning, his hand causally linked with Lily’s as she glances around, eyes landing on your table.

James and Lily slide into the booth with the easy comfort of long familiarity – James immediately reaching to swipe a chip from Sirius’ plate, Lily pressing a quick kiss to your cheek as she squeezes in beside you.

“We’re not late, are we?” she asks, already pulling a notepad and pen from her bag.

“Perfect timing,” Remus says, glancing towards the bar where the pub quiz host is fiddling with a mic.

“Brilliant,” James says, cracking his knuckles. “Because I’ve been revising.”

“Revising?” Sirius snorts. “Is this the A-Levels again?”

“Better,” Lily says, shooting a grin across the table. “He made me quiz him on obscure geography facts while I was straightening my hair.”

James winks. “Multitasking, babe.”

You laugh into your drink, heart buoyant with the energy around the table. You’re hemmed in by Lily on one side and Remus on the other, the heat of his thigh brushing yours beneath the table. He’s not moving away, and neither are you.

The quiz kicks off not long after – a crackly voice through the speakers announcing the rules as the pub dims the lights slightly and the host launches into the first round.

It starts out strong. Lily knows every answer in the literature round. Sirius, unsurprisingly, nails the music one, especially anything classic rock or 80s synth. James and Lily dominate the sports and politics sections, passing the pen back and forth like it's a baton in a relay.

You’re good at the random ones. The weird general knowledge stuff no one expects anyone to know. But every time you offer a hesitant guess, Remus is the first to jot it down without hesitation.

“She’s right,” he murmurs after you mutter something about which planet has the longest day. “It’s Venus.”

You glance at him. “Are you sure?”

He taps his pen, smirking. “Positive.”

And he’s right.

Remus is the dark horse of the whole night. Quietly scribbling answers during the history and science rounds, barely even hesitating. Everyone starts deferring to him, especially when it gets harder.

At one point, James throws down his pen and mutters, “Where do you keep all this stuff? Is there a little librarian in your brain with a filing cabinet or something?”

Remus shrugs, barely biting back a smile. “Just... remember things. I read a lot.”

You lean over and murmur, “You know so much weird information. It must be all the books.”

He turns to look at you, eyes crinkling. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No,” you say, grinning. “It’s kind of impressive. Annoying. But impressive.”

Remus nudges your knee with his. “Thanks, I think.”

But when the final scores are tallied, and the host calls out your team’s name as the winners, the entire table erupts.

You blink in disbelief, then burst out laughing as Sirius howls, leaping to his feet and banging on the table like a victory drum.

“We won! We actually won! We’re legends! Immortalised in pub quiz history!”

Lily rolls her eyes fondly and raises her glass. “To Remus, our walking encyclopaedia.”

They present the prize – a bottle of cheap prosecco and a £25 bar tab – and you all decide to split one more round with it. The drinks are sweeter, the laughter looser. There’s music playing now, and you find yourself talking to Lily about your favourite poetry collections while Sirius tries to convince Remus to dance.

Eventually, the evening wanes. The pub thins out, chairs scraping, the air thick with the scent of beer and summer sweat. You and Remus walk home together under a sky lit dimly by street lights and stars.

It’s warm enough now that your jacket’s slung over your arm. Your trainers scuff the pavement in easy rhythm beside his.

The walk home is slow, lazy with the warmth of the evening and the quiet hum of contentment between you. The street is dappled with soft pools of golden light. You and Remus fall into step like always, shoulder to shoulder, the occasional brush of arms sending quiet ripples through the comfortable silence.

You’re still buzzing from the night, from the win and the wine and the lingering warmth of everyone’s laughter. Every time you glance at Remus, he’s smiling, that soft, secret smile that curls at the corner of his mouth when he thinks no one’s looking.

“I still can’t believe you knew the name of the first cloned sheep,” you say, bumping your shoulder into his.

“Dolly,” he replies smugly.

“I know,” you groan. “I’m saying I can’t believe you knew that.”

Remus shrugs, casual. “It’s basic trivia.”

You huff a laugh. “It’s bizarre trivia.”

“It’s useful trivia,” he counters, giving you a sidelong glance that makes something flutter low in your belly. “Won us a bottle of cheap prosecco, didn’t it?”

You grin, and the quiet stretches between you again.

Your hands swing close again, knuckles brushing lightly. Neither of you pull away.

He shifts slightly, just enough that his fingers brush yours again, and this time, they stay. You glance down, heart in your throat, and feel his hand open, tentative but waiting.

You don’t think. You just slide your hand into his.

His fingers curl instantly around yours, warm and certain. You both keep walking, pretending it’s nothing, pretending your heart isn’t hammering so hard it hurts.

You step inside, the familiar hush of the flat wrapping around you both. Remus toes off his boots and hangs his jacket up, and you do the same, suddenly hyper aware of the proximity, the quiet.

He turns to you, lingering just a step closer than he needs to be. The air between you feels too full, your skin thrumming where he’s still holding your hand. His eyes flicker down to your mouth, just for a second. Barely a heartbeat.

Then he leans in.

It’s subtle at first, a shift in weight, his eyes still locked on yours. And then he’s close, close enough to kiss you.

And he almost does.

His breath ghosts over your lips, and you tilt your chin up instinctively, eyes fluttering shut—

But at the last second, he stops. Pulls back.

Just a fraction.

You blink up at him, startled and flushed and blinking hard, heart suddenly thudding in disappointment.

He opens his mouth like he wants to explain, but nothing comes out. You clear your throat, trying to save the moment, to make it feel less heavy.

“Right. Um–goodnight, then,” you murmur, stepping back and turning toward the hall.

You don’t get far.

“Wait–” he says, voice low and rough.

You freeze.

Then you feel it, his hand catching your wrist.

You turn, breath held tight in your lungs, and he’s right there again. Eyes stormy and wide, jaw tense.

“I can’t–” he starts, but the words twist out of him like they’re too slow for what he’s feeling. “I’ve wanted to–”

And then he kisses you.

It’s not gentle.

It’s urgent – a bruising, heated thing that steals the breath from your lungs and sends your hands into the fabric of his shirt, gripping tight. His mouth moves over yours like he’s been holding this back for too long, like he’s starving for it.

You gasp, just slightly, and he swallows the sound with a low groan, his hands sliding up your arms, into your hair, down your back. You’re pressed against the wall before you even realise he’s moved you, his body warm and solid against yours, his mouth insistent.

There’s no space between you anymore. Just warmth, friction, hands fumbling and mouths desperate.

You break for air only to pull back in with even more hunger, his lips on your jaw, your neck, then back to your mouth like he can’t decide what part of you he wants more.

“Remus,” you breathe against him, dizzy.

His hands settle on your waist, gripping tight like he’s anchoring himself. His forehead rests against yours for a breath, and then he murmurs, “Come with me.”

You nod.

He leads you to his room without another word, fingers still laced with yours, and when he closes the door behind you, the air changes again.

Slower, now.

More deliberate.

The urgency is still there, but it softens into something deeper, more consuming. He kisses you again, slower this time, reverent. His hands roam, mapping, remembering. Yours find the hem of his shirt, the warmth of his skin.

You don’t rush.

You undress each other like a secret being unfolded. You climb into his bed like you’ve always belonged there.

And when he finally sinks into you, it’s not rushed, not hurried.

He holds you like he’s afraid to let go. Like he’s wanted this for months and is still struggling to believe it’s real.

And when you come apart beneath him, it’s with his name on your lips and your hands in his hair, and the kind of breathless clarity that tells you nothing will be the same.

The first thing you feel is warmth.

From the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the steady heartbeat you must have drifted off to somewhere between kisses and whispered breaths.

You’re tangled up in Remus Lupin.

The duvet is twisted around your legs, one of his arms is slung heavy and loose around your waist, and his bare chest is the perfect place to rest your cheek. His skin is warm, smooth in some places, scarred in others. You trace a lazy finger over one of the faded marks near his collarbone, remembering where your mouth had been hours earlier.

He’s still asleep, face tilted slightly toward you, lips parted just enough to show the edge of a tooth. His hair’s a mess – curling against his forehead in soft, unruly waves – and he looks younger like this. Softer. The tension that he sometimes carries, that quiet weight he doesn’t talk about, has slipped away entirely in sleep.

You smile without meaning to, letting your eyes wander across his face.

How is this real?

You stay like that for a while, not quite ready to break the spell, watching the soft flutter of his lashes, the faint rise of his chest. You feel safe, grounded, like the world could wait a little longer.

And then–

Your phone buzzes.

You blink, reach for it blindly, and when the screen lights up, your stomach drops.

“8:43 AM – New Message from Manager: Hey! Just checking you’re still coming in?”

You sit bolt upright.

“Shit–shit, shit, shit.”

Remus stirs beside you, brow furrowing slightly, but doesn’t wake. You scramble out of bed, moving towards your own bedroom trying to get ready as quickly as possible.

You do a rushed version of your morning routine in the tiny bathroom – brush teeth, splash water, a swipe of mascara and a spritz of dry shampoo that does absolutely nothing. When you return to his bedroom, Remus hasn’t moved. He’s sprawled diagonally across the bed now, hair mussed, arm half-reaching toward where you’d been.

And then you’re out the door, down the stairs, and into the rush of the day.

The hours drag.

Your body is at work, but your mind is still back in that bed. On the way Remus had looked at you. On the way he’d touched you. You spend the day replaying it in loops, trying not to let it show on your face.

It’s hopeless. You catch your reflection in a window around lunch and see it: the too-bright eyes, the almost-smile that keeps slipping onto your face for no reason.

By the time you get back to the flat, you’re not sure what to expect.

Remus is in the kitchen.

He looks normal.

Hair still messy. Wearing one of his old jumpers – the navy one with sleeves that swallow his hands – and stirring something in a pot on the stove. You hover in the doorway, your bag still slung over one shoulder.

He glances over, smiles. “Hey. How was work?”

It’s his usual voice. Easy, casual. Like it’s any other day.

You blink. “Uh... fine. Busy.”

He nods, turns back to the stove. “You want dinner? I made pasta.”

Your heart sinks a little, stupidly. “I’m not super hungry right now,” you murmur. “Thanks though.”

He doesn’t push. Just shrugs and says, “Alright,” like nothing’s strange.

But it is. You can feel it.

The thing that bloomed between you last night, heavy and breathless and real, has been tucked neatly out of sight.

Maybe he regrets it.

Maybe it was a one-time thing.

Maybe he doesn’t want it to mean what it meant to you.

Eventually, you mumble, “I’m gonna go change,” and head down the hall before he can answer.

You close the door to your room with more force than necessary, leaning back against it with your eyes squeezed shut.

You feel foolish. You’d thought...

Well.

You’d thought it might change things.

Instead, it feels like everything’s gone backwards.

So you do what you always do.

You hide.

You crawl under your duvet and pull your knees up to your chest, pretending you’re tired. Pretending you’re not waiting for a knock on your door that never comes.

✩ August ✩

You’ve fallen back into your routine from when you first moved in. Hiding away in your room, when Remus is in the living room. Retreating into yourself, an act of self-preservation, you think.

You’ve escaped from your room today, Remus away at the doctors. Laying out on the sofa with a glass of cold water to combat against the heat that seeps into the flat, the hottest day of the year. You stare at the tv, staring unseeingly.

You’re halfway through the world’s most pointless reality show when the front door clicks open without warning.

You flinch slightly, half-rising off the sofa, until a familiar voice echoes from the hallway.

“Don’t get up on my account, sweetheart.”

A second later, Sirius is leaning over the back of the couch, sunglasses perched on his head and a takeaway iced coffee in each hand. He pokes you in the shoulder with one long finger, smirking.

You blink up at him, disoriented. “How did you get in?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Still have the spare. You lot never changed the locks after that one time I borrowed the toaster.”

“Stole,” you correct automatically.

He walks around the sofa and flops down beside you like he owns the place, long legs kicked out, one arm draped over the backrest behind your shoulders. He hands you one of the coffees. “Drink this. You look like you’re dying.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, finally slumping back into the sofa, gaze returning to the screen, where someone’s just burst into tears over a ruined meringue.

Sirius watches you for a beat. Then he leans in again, voice pitched low.

“So… what’s going on with you and Moony?”

You blink at him, your brain stuttering.

“What?” You shake your head. “Nothing. I mean, I have no idea. We don’t really… talk.”

Sirius clicks his tongue.

“Ah. Problem found.”

You glance over. “What?”

He gives you a look that’s both amused and just this side of exasperated. “He’s mopey. Has been for like, a couple weeks.”

You try not to let your expression betray you. “I don’t think that’s about me.”

“Yeah,” Sirius says dryly, “and I’m the Pope.”

Sirius watches you steadily, the smirk slipping off his face just a little as the silence stretches. You take a long sip of the iced coffee, letting the condensation chill your fingers, and avoid his gaze.

Finally, you exhale. It’s a slow, reluctant thing. “We slept together,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t… nothing. I mean, it didn’t feel like nothing.”

Sirius’s eyebrows shoot up, but to his credit, he doesn’t interrupt. Just takes a slow sip from his own drink and waits.

You run a hand through your hair, the heat of the day clinging to your skin like guilt. “It was after the quiz. We were walking home and then–god, it just happened. And it was… really good. But I had to go to work the next morning. And then when I came back–he didn’t bring it up.”

You swallow. The words are harder to say than you thought they’d be.

“I figured if he wasn’t talking about it… maybe it was just one of those things. A mistake, even. So I didn’t either.”

Sirius lets out a low whistle, tossing his head back against the cushions. “Bloody hell.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”

There’s a beat of silence. You focus on the way the ice is melting in your cup, the way your pulse hasn’t quite calmed down.

Sirius shifts beside you, his voice quieter now. “Look. Rem’s a smart bloke. But sometimes…” he trails off, shaking his head. “He forgets people can’t read his mind. Thinks if he doesn’t say it out loud, it’s safer. Like he can keep it from meaning too much.”

“And he’s got it in his head,” Sirius continues, nudging your knee with his own, “that you’re far too good and far too pretty for him.”

You snort. “What, so he thinks I pity fucked him? Are you serious?”

Sirius deadpans, “Unfortunately.”

“That’s–” You set your coffee down with a soft thud, sitting up straighter. “That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard. He’s gorgeous.”

Sirius flashes a grin, all teeth. “Preaching to the choir, babe.”

You blink at him. “Wait, you–?”

He waves a hand. “Not the point. The point is, he’s probably thinking he’s ruined everything and you’re here thinking you did. You’re both being daft.”

You sigh again, pressing your fingers to your temples.

“You think I should talk to him.”

“I think,” Sirius says, voice level now, “that you need to. Because he’s not going to. Not unless he’s sure you want him to.”

“Okay,” you say finally, softly. “Okay. I will.”

Sirius reaches over, squeezes your shoulder with surprising gentleness. “Good girl.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t push it.”

He winks. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You feel grosser and grosser as the day goes on, becoming more sweat than girl. Whether it’s because of the heat or nerves you’re not sure. An unhealthy mix of both, probably.

You’ve run through what you want to say a million times in your head.

Maybe more.

Every version sounds wrong. Too much. Too vulnerable. Not enough.

So you sit on the sofa, legs crossed, iced coffee long since gone watery, clutching a cushion to your chest like it’s armor. The fan is humming in the corner but it does nothing to move the heat pressed into the walls of the flat.

When the front door creaks open again, you sit up so fast your spine protests.

Remus walks in slowly, his posture heavy with the weight of the day. He pauses when he sees you sitting there, like he wasn’t expecting it. There’s a split second where his face flickers. He gives you a tight, polite smile. The kind you might offer a stranger you bumped into at the shops.

Then he turns wordlessly toward the hallway.

“Remus.”

You say it before you can talk yourself out of it. Your voice doesn’t shake, but it’s close.

He stops. Still facing away. One hand resting on the edge of the doorframe.

“…Yeah?”

You take a breath that doesn’t help at all. Then another.

“I did want to talk about it.”

His head tilts slightly, just enough that you see the edge of his profile. There’s a pause. Like maybe he’s hoping he misheard.

“About what?” he says finally. Neutral. Careful.

You press your palms against the cushion like it might anchor you.

“About us having sex,” you say plainly. Then, softer: “And the day after.”

He winces.

You see it even from across the room – pain flashing over his face before he schools it away again. But not fast enough. Not before it lands in your chest with a hollow thud.

“I just…” You trail off, shake your head, try again. “I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. Because it did. And it wasn’t nothing to me.”

He turns at that, just enough to look at you properly. His arms are crossed, but not in that closed-off way you sometimes see, more like he’s holding himself together. His brows draw in, mouth set like he’s bracing.

“I know it wasn’t nothing,” he says quietly.

You sit back a little, heart thudding so loudly you’re sure it’s rattling your ribs.

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” It comes out softer than you mean it to, more hurt than accusatory. Your voice dips at the end like you’re hoping he’ll have an answer that makes it all make sense. Something that takes the last few weeks and peels the ache from them.

Remus hesitates. Then he laughs – dry, self-deprecating. Not unkind. Just tired.

“Because you didn’t say anything either.”

Your mouth opens. Closes again. You hadn’t expected that.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck, the gesture tight with nerves. “I thought I’d messed it up. I thought–I don’t know. That maybe I crossed a line. You left so quickly that morning, and then you just–disappeared. And I thought, alright, that’s fair, it was a heat-of-the-moment thing. And I didn’t want to make it harder by pushing.”

“But I didn’t disappear,” you whisper. “Or I didn't mean to, I had to go to work. You acted like nothing happened when I got home.”

He meets your eyes then. And for the first time since that night, he looks open. Vulnerable in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“Because I thought if I let myself believe it meant what I wanted it to mean,” he says, voice low, “and I was wrong… I wouldn’t be able to look you in the eye again.”

You blink. “What did you want it to mean?”

There’s a beat of silence between you. The fan hums on, useless. The world waits.

Remus’s eyes are soft, almost pleading. “Everything.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

He exhales like he’s been holding it for hours. Days. Weeks, maybe.

“I wanted it to mean we’re not just friends who got carried away,” he continues, stepping closer, careful. “I wanted it to mean I get to look at you in the mornings and kiss you before you leave for work. I wanted it to mean you wanted me, too. Not just that night. After.”

Your heart cracks wide open.

“I do want you,” you say, voice trembling now, but sure underneath. “I never stopped. I thought I’d imagined it–that you regretted it. That it was a mistake.”

“It wasn’t,” he says, quickly. Firm. “Not even close.”

You stare at him, all those weeks of doubt pooling like ink in your chest. Slowly, you set the cushion aside, like shedding a shield.

He watches you. Doesn’t move.

“I wanted to tell you,” you say, standing slowly. “I just didn’t know how.”

“You’re telling me now,” Remus says softly. “That’s enough.”

You cross the room in four steps, barefoot and shaky and brave, and then he’s in front of you, warm and real and still yours to choose.

“I missed you,” you whisper, hands coming up to rest against his chest.

His arms come around you immediately, pulling you in like he’s been waiting this whole time. His face presses into your hair, his breath warm against your ear.

“I missed you more than I know how to say.”

You lean back enough to see his face, your hands curling in the hem of his jumper.

“Then say it like this.”

And you kiss him.

This time, it’s not urgent. Not desperate. It’s steady and soft and full of all the things you didn’t say. His lips move slowly over yours, reverent. Familiar. Like a promise.

He smiles into it. And when you pull away just enough to look at him properly, you find his eyes lit up with something you’ve only seen once before.

Hope.

“You’re not getting rid of me now, you know,” you say, resting your forehead against his.

“Good,” he murmurs. “I was hoping you’d stay.”

✩ September ✩

The days stretch a little shorter now, but summer’s warmth still clings stubbornly to the air, trailing behind in the soft buzz of bees and the golden hush of late afternoons. The flat’s windows are thrown open, letting in the scent of sun-warmed pavement and the rustle of dry leaves skittering along the street below.

Remus is barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, humming something low under his breath as he chops herbs with practiced ease. The late light catches in his hair, softens his features into something dreamlike. There’s a faint breeze lifting the curtain near the sink, and the clink of glass as he pours two drinks, glancing toward the living room where you’re curled on the sofa, legs tangled with Sirius’ across the cushions.

Lily and James arrive a few minutes later, the door swinging open with a chorus of greetings and laughter. Lily’s holding a warm loaf of bread wrapped in a tea towel; James has a bottle of wine under his arm and a grin too big for his face.

“Boo! I hate you guys being happy and in love,” Sirius announces, flinging himself into a new position across the armchair.

“You love it,” you say without looking up, one hand reaching blindly for Remus’ as he passes you a glass. He presses a kiss to the top of your head before he settles beside you, his arm slung across the back of the sofa, fingers brushing your shoulder in a quiet rhythm.

He hasn’t stopped touching you since that night.

It’s not overwhelming, not loud. Just soft, consistent reminders that he’s here, that you’re his, that he’s yours. A hand at the small of your back, knuckles brushing your thigh under the table, lips against your temple as he passes. Like he’s still learning how to believe it, but he’s trying every day.

Dinner is chaotic and loud, wine-stained and full of clattering cutlery and overlapping stories. Someone burns the garlic bread, Sirius knocks over a candle, and Lily accidentally flings a piece of tomato into James’ lap.

Later, when the plates are stacked and the last of the wine has been poured, Sirius puts a record on — something old and scratchy and perfect — and Lily pulls James up to dance. They sway messily in the living room, laughing, bumping into the furniture.

You’re half-tucked under Remus’ arm when Sirius offers you his hand.

“Come on, one dance. For your favourite.”

You shake your head, smiling. “No way. You’ll trip me up.”

“Probably,” Sirius concedes cheerfully. “But what a way to go.”

Remus chuckles beside you, warm and low, and you turn your face toward him instinctively. His gaze catches yours, steady and soft. Like everything else has blurred out.

“Go on,” he murmurs. “I’ll be here.”

You kiss him once — quick and fond — before letting Sirius spin you clumsily around the room, both of you laughing like children.

When the night winds down, James and Lily head off with matching yawns and promises to host next time, and Sirius dramatically declares he’s staying the night, already halfway through making the sofa into a makeshift bed despite your offers for him to sleep in your room that goes largely unused.

You and Remus retreat to his room, quiet and content. You curl into bed with the windows still open, letting the night breeze ghost across your skin. He wraps an arm around your waist and kisses your shoulder, murmuring something half-asleep against your skin.

It’s nothing dramatic. Just a slow, steady settling. A feeling in your chest that hums: this is it.

masterlist <3

#flo'sfics #marauders au #marauders fics #marauders fanfiction #marauders era #remus lupin x reader #remus x reader #remus lupin x self insert #remus lupin x fem!reader #remus lupin x y/n #remus lupin x you #remus lupin #remus lupin fanfiction #remus lupin fic #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin smut #remus lupin drabble #remus lupin angst

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taetebebe · 2 days ago

Text

TOO CLOSE (DANGEROUSLY SO)

Pairing: vampire!Jungwon x afab-human!reader

Synopsis: The closer they get, the harder it becomes to hide the truth - and resist the hunger that could destroy them both.

Word Count: 1.2k

Author note: As title suggests, based on Too Close by Enhypen. My brain, body and soul has been consumed by this song. Wrote it very quickly, so please don't expect much.

Enhypen Bookshelf [[]

The rooftop was quiet, the sky blanketed in clouds that hadn't yet decided if they would rain again. You sat near the edge, legs dangling over the side, your sweater pulled tightly around you.

You weren't surprised when he showed up.

Jungwon always found you.

“You always come up here when it rains,” he said softly, stepping up beside you.

You didn’t look at him right away. “You always find me.”

He sat down next to you, close but not touching. That was how it always was - his presence steady, his distance deliberate. It made you wonder if there was something he was holding back. Or someone.

“I didn’t want to be alone tonight,” he said after a pause.

“You never are,” you replied.

He laughed under his breath, a sound like wind slipping through leaves. “That’s what you think.”

You turned toward him then, and in the dim rooftop light, his eyes gleamed, more golden than brown, too sharp to be entirely human.

“Jungwon…” you began, something tugging at the edges of your voice, “you’re not—”

“Not normal?” he finished, tone quiet. He didn’t deny it.

The wind picked up, brushing your hair into your face. He reached out to tuck it behind your ear, and for a second, his fingertips grazed your skin - cold. But not dead.

Just… different.

“You’re too close,” you whispered.

His eyes lingered on you. “And yet, you never run.”

“No,” you admitted. “I don’t.”

Because some part of you already knew, and chose him anyway.

𖤐

You met Jungwon in the library on a rainy Tuesday.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. You were both students, both quiet, both always sitting in the same corner. At first, you just noticed how still he was - like time moved differently around him.

Then one day, the power flickered out. The lights dimmed. Everyone panicked - except for you. And him.

He looked up, calm, unbothered. “You okay?”

You nodded. “You?”

He smiled faintly. “I’ve lived through worse.”

The way he said it made you pause.

From that day on, he started sitting at your table. He asked questions. Listened carefully. Seemed fascinated by the most mundane details of your life - the books you read, the snacks you liked, the dreams you were too shy to share.

He wasn’t learning about you to pass the time.

He was memorizing you.

And slowly, you found yourself falling into something not quite friendship. Not quite romance. Something in between. Something dangerous.

𖤐

You didn’t speak for two days after that night on the rooftop - after he pulled away from your touch like it stung.

The silence felt louder than any argument.

Then, just after midnight, you heard the soft knock at your window.

Jungwon stood outside, hoodie soaked from the rain. Hair clinging to his forehead. Eyes dark and tired.

You opened it without thinking. “You’re crazy.”

“I needed to see you,” he said. “I couldn’t stay away.”

You stepped back, letting him in. He stood in your room like he didn’t belong there. Like being in your world was something he was afraid to ruin.

“You didn’t answer my texts,” you said.

“I didn’t know what to say. Everything between us… I’ve never wanted something this much before. Never felt this human.”

You looked at him. “And that scares you?”

“Yes.” His voice was a whisper now. “Because wanting leads to needing. And needing leads to losing.”

“Then say it,” you said, stepping closer. “Say what this is.”

His gaze burned into yours. “You are what I’m not supposed to have.”

And then he kissed you.

Hungry. Fragile. Like he was both claiming you and asking permission.

And you let him.

Because the danger didn’t matter anymore. Only the feeling of finally, finally being held by someone who knew what it meant to starve for closeness.

𖤐

He stayed, curled on your bed like a shadow that refused to leave. In the soft light of morning, he looked more human than ever - hoodie slipping off one shoulder, lips slightly parted, the faintest hint of vulnerability in his expression.

You sat beside him, heart still pounding from the night before.

“This… whatever this is,” Jungwon murmured, “I don’t know how to protect you from it.”

You looked down at his hand, still resting beside yours.

“You don’t have to protect me from you,” you said. “I made my choice.”

“I can live a thousand years,” he said. “But I’ve never wanted one moment more than this one.”

You squeezed his hand. “Then stay.”

He did.

Because for the first time, the closeness didn’t feel like a curse.

It felt like a cure.

𖤐

He never showed it - not when you were around others. But you’d seen the signs. The way he’d go quiet when you nicked your finger. The way he’d grip his jaw when your pulse sped up.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said one night, sitting cross-legged on the rooftop where it all began.

“You won’t,” you said, certain.

He looked up. “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

You crawled closer, until your knees touched. “You don’t know what I’m willing to give.”

His eyes flashed - hunger and heartbreak wrapped in one expression.

“You don’t have to feed from me,” you said. “But if it’s killing you not to…”

Jungwon reached out, gently cupping the side of your face. “You’re not just blood to me, YN. You’re everything I thought I’d lost when I stopped being human.”

You leaned into his touch. “Then let yourself have it. Just this once.”

And when he did - when he pressed his lips gently to your neck, fangs brushing skin, breath shaking, it wasn’t pain you felt.

It was peace.

A bond deeper than fear. A promise forged in shadow and light.

He drank just enough to steady himself, pulling away before the hunger turned sharp. His forehead rested against your shoulder, trembling slightly.

“You’re too close,” he whispered.

“I always will be,” you whispered back.

A silence settled between you. Not heavy, but full. Like everything had been said without needing more words.

Jungwon pulled away just enough to look at you. His eyes had softened, the gold in them faint now, like the fading edge of a flame. His lips, still red from what he’d taken, trembled as if overwhelmed by the weight of restraint.

“I didn’t mean for it to feel like this,” he said quietly.

“Like what?” you asked, brushing a strand of hair away from his face.

“Like I belong to you now.”

You smiled, slow and gentle. “Maybe you always did.”

A breeze swept across the rooftop, tugging at your clothes, the city lights flickering in the distance like fireflies. Jungwon took your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours — carefully, like he was still afraid you might vanish.

“I’ve lived through centuries of silence,” he murmured, voice almost lost in the wind. “But you… you make everything feel loud again. In the best way.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath you, steady, even if his heart no longer beat like yours.

“I feel human with you,” he whispered.

“Then maybe that’s all that matters.”

And there, on a rooftop that had once held only silence, two hearts - one ancient, one still learning - found something worth staying for.

And for the first time, he didn’t argue. He simply leaned down, kissed your forehead like it was something sacred, and pulled you gently into his arms.

Above you, the moon broke through the clouds.

And for once, the night didn’t feel dangerous.

128 notes · View notes

honeydippedfiction · 2 days ago

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Say Please {JB9}

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Synopsis: Angel senses the weight Joe’s been carrying from Trey’s contract situation and the growing tension in the locker room, so she takes full control for the night—giving him a safe place to unravel, surrender, and breathe. Through gentle dominance, deep intimacy, and soft aftercare, she reminds him that he doesn’t have to carry the world alone.

Warnings: Suggestive/Spicy Scenes, Consensual BDSM/kink themes (light dominance/submission), Sexual content and explicit scenes, Power exchange dynamics (consensual), Teasing and edging, Sensory play (touch, temperature, etc.), Emotional vulnerability, Intimate partner dynamics with care and trust, Some language (mild profanity), Possible depiction of aftercare or emotional processing. MDNI🔞

WC: 4.6k

A/N: am I slowly loving more subby!Joe??

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• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

Joe had been carrying it all week—the weight of headlines, locker room whispers, and the growing frustration of watching one of his best defenders left dangling in uncertainty. The Trey Hendrickson situation wasn’t just some back-office contract shuffle to him. It was personal. The Bengals front office was dragging their feet, slow-walking a player who’d bled for this team, who’d delivered again and again without question. Joe wasn’t a general manager. He didn’t sign checks. But he understood loyalty. He understood leadership. And he knew, without a doubt, what that kind of limbo could do to a man—to a locker room built on trust.

So yeah, he was feeling it.

Every unanswered text. Every vague “we’ll see” from upstairs. Every second Trey had to walk into practice and pretend he didn’t see the writing on the wall. Joe felt all of it.

Because Joe Burrow didn’t just play quarterback—he carried his team. He fought for his guys. Always.

But lately… even he was starting to come apart at the seams.

Angel had noticed the shift before he’d said a single word. She saw it in the way he stared at his phone too long after practice, thumbing through articles and updates that only seemed to drain him more. In the way his jaw flexed when he thought no one was watching. In the silence that followed him home—heavy, brittle, and thick enough to stretch between them like glass. He wasn’t angry. Not exactly. But something inside him was knotted tight, and it was pulling at everything else.

One evening, after another long day and an even longer meeting, Joe finally let it out.

“Angel,” he said, dropping his phone onto the kitchen counter with a sharp clatter. “I swear, it’s like they’re just dragging their feet on purpose. Trey’s been patient, the guy’s been patient, and it’s just—nothing. No progress. No answers. Just… waiting. And it’s tearing the locker room apart.”

Angel watched him carefully as he paced, hands running through his hair. “I get it,” she said softly. “It’s frustrating as hell. But you’re not the one making those calls. You’re not the one signing the checks.”

Joe shook his head, exhaustion clear in his voice. “I know that. But it feels like I’m stuck in the middle, you know? Like I’m supposed to keep everyone calm and focused when I’m losing my own patience. It’s like watching your family get burned and not being able to put the fire out.”

Angel stepped closer, reaching out to grab his hand, grounding him. “You’re not alone in this. You never have to be. You’re their leader, yes, but you’ve got us—me—right here. And I think maybe it’s okay to let yourself lean on that sometimes.”

He looked at her then, the usual sharp intensity softened by weariness. “I don’t want to be the guy who cracks. Who lets the pressure break him.”

“And you won’t be,” Angel said with quiet certainty. “But sometimes strength is knowing when to step back. When to take a breath. When to let someone else take care of you for a little while.”

Joe exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just enough for a small, tired smile. “I’m lucky to have you.”

Angel smiled back, brushing a hand over his cheek. “And I’m not going anywhere. But tonight? Tonight, you’re giving me your whole attention. No contracts. No meetings. Just us.”

Joe nodded, a flicker of relief passing through his eyes. “Okay. I’m ready to forget all that for a while.”

Because Angel had seen firsthand what the world demanded from him. She knew how the pressure sank into his bones, how often he carried it in silence, how rarely he let himself fall apart. But not tonight. Tonight, she wasn’t asking. She was stepping in.

He didn’t need more words. He needed touch. Tenderness. Control handed over, if only for a little while.

She wasn’t just going to soothe the tension from his body.

She was going to quiet the storm in his mind.

Make him forget—just for tonight—that the weight of everyone else’s future sat on his shoulders.

And remind him, with every kiss, every breath, every inch of her presence, that he didn’t have to bear it all alone.

Σ>―🖤→

It started slow.

The soft click of their bedroom door echoed in the quiet, like the first drop of rain before a storm. Angel leaned against it for just a second, watching him. The golden glow of the bedside lamp cast long shadows across Joe’s bare chest as he sat reclined against the headboard, scrolling absently through his phone, completely unaware of the shift that was coming.

She moved like silk. Silent, purposeful. Each step forward was slow and deliberate, her hips swaying with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly the effect she had on him. The only thing she wore was one of his white button-down shirts—unbuttoned, open, loose around her frame and a black cotton thong. It fluttered slightly with her movement, barely concealing the curve of her breasts and the long, smooth lines of her thighs.

Joe didn’t notice her at first. But the second he glanced up, the second their eyes met—he froze mid-scroll, breath catching like he’d forgotten how to exhale.

“Put that down,” Angel said, voice velvet-soft but laced with command.

His fingers twitched. Then, without hesitation, he set the phone face-down on the nightstand. His head tilted, curiosity blooming behind his eyes—but he didn’t speak. Not yet.

“Something on your mind?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light, but the rasp in his voice betrayed him.

Angel didn’t answer.

Instead, she climbed onto the bed, slow and steady—knee by knee—until she straddled his lap. She didn’t sit, didn’t touch him, just hovered above him, her presence a magnetic force he couldn’t tear his eyes from. Her scent curled around him, something warm and floral, and it nearly made him dizzy.

She reached out and traced his jawline with her fingertips, letting her nails drag lightly along the edge of his beard. The touch was electric, delicate, and just enough to make his skin prickle.

“You always take care of me,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

Joe’s eyes flickered, and for a moment, something tender and surprised crossed his face. “Angel…”

“Shh.” She pressed one finger to his lips, soft but firm. “No talking. Not unless I say so.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Joe exhaled, his shoulders slumping in surrender. She felt the shift in him—that quiet, willing submission that only she could pull from him. His arms rested at his sides, hands flexing like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

Angel leaned in and kissed him—slow, deep, coaxing. Not rushed. Not needy. Just firm and full of intent. Her tongue swept past his lips with aching control, mapping him like he was hers to consume. Joe groaned low in his throat, hands twitching, aching to grab her—but he didn’t. He held back.

When she finally pulled away, his lips chased hers, desperate.

“Hands behind your head,” she said.

He froze. Just for a second.

Not in reluctance—just in awe.

“You trust me, don’t you?” she asked, watching him closely.

Joe nodded once, the movement slow and reverent. “Always.”

“Then let go.”

He obeyed.

Arms lifted, elbows wide, fingers laced behind his head. The position made his chest stretch, muscles tense. He looked at her like she held the whole world between her hands—and right now, she did.

Angel shifted her weight forward, settling just barely into his lap, brushing against the hard length of him with nothing but the warm press of her skin and the ghost of her shirt between them. But still—no pressure, no release. Just friction. Just a whisper of touch.

Joe let out a strangled sound, eyes fluttering shut. “Baby—”

“I said,” she whispered, dragging her mouth along the edge of his jaw, “no talking.”

Her teeth grazed his neck, then soothed the sting with her tongue. The dual sensation made his hips jerk involuntarily, but he quickly stilled again, muscles trembling with restraint.

“Be good for me,” she murmured.

His jaw clenched. She could see how hard he was working to obey her. How every instinct in him wanted to take control—wanted to flip her under him and claim her. But he didn’t. Not even when she rocked forward just enough to make them both feel the sharp edge of tension that crackled in the space between breath and contact.

“You’re always in control,” she whispered against his skin. “But not tonight.”

Joe’s lips parted, but no words came out. Only a sharp inhale that shuddered through his chest.

“Look at you…” Her fingers traced down his chest, nails light and teasing, following the line between his abs. “So strong. So disciplined. But you’re mine right now. Just mine.”

“Angel,” he breathed, voice wrecked.

“Color?” she asked, pulling back to study him.

His eyes met hers—glassy, wild, completely gone. “Green. Fucking green.”

She smiled, soft and wicked all at once. “Good boy.”

And then she kissed her way down his body, slow and deliberate, leaving a trail of heat in her wake. She didn’t rush. She wasn’t here to rush. Every inch of him got the same reverent attention—his chest, his stomach, the sharp cut of his hips. Joe trembled beneath her, his knuckles white where his hands were still locked behind his head.

He was unraveling. Slowly. Beautifully.

And Angel had never loved him more than she did in that moment—strong, powerful Joe, offering up his whole self to her with nothing but trust and aching need.

This wasn’t just about control.

It was about care.

About showing him that surrender didn’t mean weakness. That being held could be just as powerful as holding on.

And she would make sure he felt every second of it.

Angel lingered at his waistline, her breath ghosting over his skin, waiting until she felt him twitch beneath her again—impossibly hard, aching, and completely still under her command. She looked up at him, slow and deliberate, and the sight of Joe—head tipped back, jaw clenched, eyes half-lidded with want—made her chest ache with something almost reverent.

She let her fingers dip under the waistband of his boxers, teasing, curling just beneath the elastic. But she didn’t pull them down. Not yet. Instead, she lowered her mouth and pressed a kiss just above the line, maddeningly slow. Her tongue dragged a single, deliberate circle beside the place he needed her most—never quite touching, just enough to make him suffer.

Then she finally gave him a taste of what he wanted.

She reached down, curling her fingers around him, her touch feather-light at first—just enough to make him moan under his breath.

“Angel…” His voice cracked around her name, heavy with desperation.

Her grip tightened slightly, thumb swiping over the head as she stroked him once, slow and firm. She watched his abs contract, the way his whole body arched toward her without even realizing it.

“Keep those hands where they are,” she warned, voice low, sultry.

“I’m trying,” he groaned, the strain thick in his voice.

“I know, baby,” she purred, leaning forward to kiss along his hip. “You’re doing so good for me.”

And he was. Joe was trembling—his thighs tense, breathing shallow, the effort of holding back visible in every flex of his muscles. But he hadn’t moved. Hadn’t reached for her. He gave her everything she asked, and then some.

Angel rewarded him.

Her mouth replaced her hand in one slow, smooth motion. She took her time, savoring him. Letting him feel every flick of her tongue, every drag of her lips. She moaned softly around him, not just to drive him crazy—but because she genuinely loved this. Loved the way he came undone for her. Loved that she had the power to strip him bare like this—his ego, his control, everything.

Joe gasped, his hips bucking once before he forced them still again. He was so close already, she could feel it.

“Angel—fuck, baby, I—” His voice was raw now, like it was being torn from the deepest part of him.

She pulled back just enough to speak, her lips brushing the tip of him.

“Not yet,” she whispered. “You don’t come until I say so.”

Joe whimpered.

That’s right—whimpered.

Angel smiled, proud and wicked, and kissed her way back up his body, unhurried, reverent. Her lips grazed the curve of his hipbone, then traveled upward along the lean stretch of his torso, warm breath skating across each inch she passed. She paused at the hollow just above his waistband, where his abs fluttered beneath her mouth, and dragged her teeth across his skin—not hard, but enough to make him twitch.

Her nails followed, raking lightly up his ribs, leaving behind faint pink trails. She traced the shape of him like he was something she was studying, memorizing—not the Joe the world knew, but her Joe. Her masterpiece. Her man undone.

She pressed her chest against his, the curve of her breasts brushing his bare skin as she slid her lips along his jawline.

“You’re mine tonight,” she whispered. “And I’m not done playing with you yet.”

He nodded helplessly, his fingers twitching behind his head like he was seconds away from losing it.

Joe’s body was already shaking. His chest heaved, muscles tight, veins standing out along his arms where his hands remained locked behind his head. His eyes—blown wide, glassy with heat—tracked her every move like he couldn’t decide whether to beg her or worship her.

“Angel,” he rasped, his voice cracking like it was scraped raw. “I’m gonna lose it.”

A slow smile curled across her lips. “Good.”

Joe’s hips jerked upward before he could stop himself, a soft, broken sound escaping his throat.

Angel pulled back, eyes sharp. “You move again, and I stop.”

The threat landed like a shot. He froze instantly, like someone hit pause on every nerve in his body. Still, trembling, straining.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, the words slipping out like instinct.

Angel’s breath hitched at the sound—God, that tone in his voice, that perfect blend of desperation and devotion. She kissed the center of his chest, where his heart pounded wild beneath her lips, and trailed her way back up until she straddled his hips again.

She was bare beneath the shirt now, the open front draping around them like a curtain—her skin flush against his, heat to heat, need to need.

Reaching up, she unhooked his arms from behind his head, gently guiding them down until his hands lay flat on either side of him.

“Keep them there,” she whispered.

Joe nodded once, lips parted, eyes never leaving hers.

Angel shifted forward, pressing the slick heat of her center against the solid length of him through the fabric. There was no friction, just presence—just the aching tease of what was about to come.

“Do you feel that?” she asked, her voice like velvet wrapping around him as she rolled her hips ever so slightly.

Joe’s eyes fluttered shut, jaw tightening as he groaned. “Fuck—Angel…”

“That’s what you do to me,” she murmured. “Just being in the room. Just breathing. You drive me insane. But tonight…”

She reached for his face, cradling his jaw between both hands, forcing his gaze back to hers. Her thumb swept across his bottom lip.

“Tonight, you’re mine.”

Joe looked like he was seconds away from breaking. From worshiping. From giving her anything she wanted.

“You don’t come until I say,” she said softly.

“I won’t,” he whispered hoarsely. “Baby, I’m not gonna last…”

“Yes, you will,” she said, voice low and sure, her lips brushing his. “Because I said so.”

Then she finally took him.

Slowly.

Exquisitely.

She sank down onto him inch by inch, making sure he felt every agonizing, perfect second of it. His head tipped back against the headboard with a strangled cry, fists clenching at his sides. She didn’t move yet—just let him sit inside her, deep and still, their bodies connected in the most intimate way possible.

“Jesus, Angel…”

She started to move—slow, rolling, deliberate. Her pace was maddening, just enough to push him closer and pull him back in the same breath. Her hands braced against his chest, nails raking lightly as she rocked her hips.

Joe’s eyes devoured her. The way her curls spilled over her shoulders. The soft part of her lips. The way her body moved like she was born for this—like she was made to ruin him.

“You’re doing so good for me,” she praised, dragging her hips deeper, slower. “So fucking good, baby.”

Angel kissed him again—deeper, needier this time. Her hips rolled against his, teasing him with the barest friction. She could feel the tension pulsing through his entire body, and still he didn’t touch her.

“Such a good boy,” she murmured against his lips. “Letting me take everything I want. Letting me have you.”

“Please…” Joe’s voice was broken now. Full of want, full of love. “Please, baby. Let me touch you. Let me feel you.”

Angel pulled back just far enough to look him in the eye.

Her voice was soft, her power absolute. “Only when I say.”

He nodded again, eyes glassy. “Yes. Yes, ma’am.”

That sent a bolt of heat straight through her.

She guided him down flat against the bed, straddling him again, this time fully settling onto him—his hard length pressed directly beneath her, separated by nothing but heat and tension and the slick proof of how much she needed this, too.

She braced her hands on his chest, rolling her hips in a slow, torturous rhythm.

Joe nearly sobbed.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered, leaning down to kiss the sweat from his brow. “Let go for me, baby. Let me do all the work.”

And she did.

She rode him slow, deliberately, with deep, aching control—pulling back every time he got close, drawing it out until his body was vibrating beneath her with restraint. Until he was whispering her name like a prayer, like a plea, like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

Joe was gasping now, chest slick with sweat, muscles locked tight beneath her. His fingers twitched against the sheets, fighting the urge to grab her. To flip her. To take over.

“Can I touch you?” he asked, broken. “Please, Angel—please.”

Angel leaned down, brushing her lips along the shell of his ear. “Say it again.”

“Please,” he whispered, and it wasn’t just lust. It was surrender.

She took his hands, guided them gently to her hips. “Now hold on.”

And she rode him harder.

Not fast. Not rough. Just deeper. Fiercer. Her rhythm picked up heat and purpose, her body moving like a storm building toward its peak. She stayed in control—always in control—but gave him just enough to keep him on the edge of falling apart.

Joe was losing it. His grip on her hips tightened, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts.

“Angel—fuck—I—I can’t—please—can I—?”

When she finally let him come, it was with her hands holding his face, her lips pressed to his temple, her voice murmuring soft praise between each kiss.

She cut him off with a kiss, deep and possessive. Her teeth grazed his bottom lip before she whispered against his mouth, “Now.”

Joe shattered.

He came hard, every inch of him trembling, crying out her name like it was the only word he knew. He clung to her, his arms pulling her down, burying his face against her neck as wave after wave rolled through him.

She held him through all of it, letting her own orgasm crash seconds after—her body locking, trembling against his, their breath becoming one as they unraveled together.

When it was over, they collapsed into a tangled heap of sweat, slick skin, and love. Angel laid against his chest, her cheek pressed to his heart, both of them still shaking, still catching their breath.

Joe’s voice broke the silence, husky and reverent. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Angel smiled sleepily, pressing a kiss to his damp collarbone. “But what a way to go.”

Σ>―🖤→

Joe was still trembling.

Even minutes after it was over—after the heat, the moans, the ache of her body around him and the way she drew him out like he was made only for her—his body hadn’t stopped shaking. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, breath still chasing itself like he’d run miles. His arms, once rigid with restraint, now hung loosely around her waist, fingertips brushing her back in barely-there twitches like he was still grounding himself.

Angel felt it. Every flutter. Every pulse. The slight quiver in his thighs as they rested tangled with hers. The heat still clinging to his skin. His heartbeat thudding against her cheek as she lay sprawled across his chest, her legs slotted around his, sweat drying between them like a second skin. He had given her everything—every last ounce of control—and now, she could feel how much it had drained him.

She leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss just above his heart. “Hey,” she murmured. “You okay?”

Joe nodded faintly, eyes still closed. “Yeah. Just…” He swallowed, trying to even out his breathing. “Still floating.”

A soft smile curved her lips. She kissed his jaw, then the corner of his mouth, then lower—his neck, his collarbone—each touch slower than the last, like she was tucking pieces of herself back into him. “You did so good for me,” she whispered, fingers stroking his ribs.

A low, blissed-out sound rumbled in his chest, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. His arms tightened around her just enough to let her know he was still here. Still trying to process what the hell she’d just done to him.

“That was…” He blinked, finally daring to open his eyes. They were hazy, dazed. Beautifully wrecked. “Fucking insane.”

Angel chuckled softly, nuzzling against his neck. “Too much?”

He shook his head immediately, eyes searching hers. “Not even close. Just…” He paused. “I don’t think I’ve ever let go like that before.”

Her heart tugged at the rawness in his voice. She brought her hand to his face, cupping his jaw as her thumb brushed through the damp curls at his temple. “That’s what I’m here for, baby,” she murmured. “You don’t always have to hold everything together.”

He leaned into her touch like it was the only thing anchoring him. His lashes fluttered shut, jaw relaxing beneath her palm.

Angel kissed his forehead, lingering there for a moment. “Come on,” she said gently. “Let me take care of you.”

He didn’t argue.

When she shifted off him, he groaned softly at the loss of her warmth but let her guide him up. His legs wobbled as his feet touched the floor, knees momentarily forgetting how to hold him. She caught him at the waist with a quiet laugh, steadying him before he could fall.

“Shit,” he muttered with a sheepish grin, his cheeks flushed pink. “You really wore me out.”

“That was the goal,” she said with a wink, pecking his lips. “And I think I nailed it.”

She led him to the bathroom slowly, her hand laced with his. The amber light clicked on with a soft hum, casting a golden glow over the tiled space. Joe sat on the edge of the tub, head tipped back against the cool tile as his chest rose and fell, slower now but still uneven. Angel turned on the faucet, her movements practiced, calm. She adjusted the temperature with care, testing the water with her hand, then reached for the small bottle of eucalyptus bath oil she kept tucked away. A few drops hit the surface, and within seconds, steam and scent filled the room—sharp, soothing, familiar.

She glanced over her shoulder and smiled when she saw him watching her, quiet and soft-eyed.

Angel padded back to him and knelt in front of him. “Arms up.”

He obeyed without a word, raising his arms so she could peel the damp T-shirt from his skin. Her hands were tender, reverent, not teasing anymore—this was no longer about seduction. It was about care. Devotion. She slid the shirt over his head and dropped it to the floor, then hooked her fingers in his waistband and tugged his boxers down, inch by inch, until he stepped out of them. She undressed herself next, slowly, eyes never leaving his.

Then she reached for his hand and helped him into the bath.

The moment Joe’s body sank into the hot water, he exhaled like it was the first real breath he’d taken in hours. His head fell back, lips parting on a groan as the heat enveloped him, loosening the tightness in his limbs.

Angel slid in behind him, her thighs cradling his hips as she pulled him gently against her chest. His head rested beneath her chin. She wrapped her arms around his torso and whispered into his ear, “I got you.”

And Joe—he melted.

His body softened completely, the tension finally bleeding out of him like steam rising from the water. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. He just let her hold him.

Angel reached for the washcloth and soaked it, wringing it out before bringing it to his chest. She moved slowly, deliberately, washing away the sweat and salt, the remnants of everything he’d given her. Her fingers traced the curve of his shoulders, the cut of his arms, the dip of his collarbone. She kissed his shoulder. Then the space behind his ear that always made him shiver.

That’s when he said it, voice barely more than a breath: “I don’t deserve you.”

Angel stilled. Her hand, mid-stroke, froze just above his heart.

“Don’t say that,” she said softly.

“But it’s true.” His voice cracked on the words. “You give and give and I—I just…”

“Joe.” Her arms slid tighter around him, anchoring him to her body. “You give too. You love me with everything you have. You always have. Even when it’s messy. Even when you’re tired.”

He turned slightly, enough to catch her eyes. “But I need you like this,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know how to be without you. Not anymore.”

Angel pressed her cheek to his damp skin, holding him like a promise. “You’ll never have to be.”

Silence settled over them again—thick but comforting. The only sound was the gentle lap of water and the whisper of their breath. She reached for the shampoo and lathered it gently into his curls, massaging his scalp in slow, circular motions. Joe sighed so deeply it shook them both. His shoulders dropped. His head tilted into her hands.

She washed him like a man who had nothing to prove. Like someone she was choosing again and again, even in his stillness. Especially in his stillness.

When they stepped out of the tub, skin flushed from heat, she wrapped him in a towel and dried him off tenderly, like he was fragile. Like he mattered. And he let her.

Back in bed, Joe curled into her like muscle memory. His head on her chest, her fingers laced with his. Angel ran her nails lightly over his scalp, the other hand drawing soft lines along his back.

“You’re safe,” she whispered into his hair. “Loved. Needed.”

Joe kissed her collarbone, lips barely moving. “You’re everything.”

She smiled, her arms circling him tighter.

Tonight, she had taken control—not just of his body, but of the quiet parts of him he rarely gave away. And now, as the storm settled and the world narrowed to the sound of his breathing and her heartbeat, she held him in the afterglow like he was precious.

Because he was.

This—this was love.

Not just the fire.

But the care after the flames.

76 notes · View notes

godricgryffinsnore · 2 days ago

Note

If you’re taking requests can I have a Harry Potter x reader with a pregnancy scare during hogwarts pls? And reader proper freaking out cause they’re so young and not ready so Harry is soft and calming and soothing and turns out not preggo but they both think one day

The Bump That Wasn’t ♡ : A Harry Potter Fan Fiction.

pairing : Harry Potter x fem!reader

summary : When an unexpected situation sends tension rippling through Hogwarts and later the Burrow, Harry and the reader navigate the chaos with love, patience, and a dash of humor. With their friends awkwardly supportive and family more involved than expected, the couple learns that even the scariest moments can lead to the sweetest promises.

warnings : Mild suggestive content, Pregnancy scare (may be triggering for some), Light panic/anxiety themes, Flustered characters and secondhand embarrassment, Over-involved family members (humorous), Lots of emotional fluff and teasing. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della's note : Thank you so so so much for requesting, babe!!!

word count : 1.1k

main master list

banners : @ithemes and @cafekitsune

Setting: Seventh Year, Gryffindor Tower, post-battle era but Hogwarts is rebuilt.

You sat perched on the edge of the Gryffindor girls’ dormitory bathtub, clutching a potion bottle like it was a bomb.

“I’ve ruined my life,” you whispered.

“No, love, you haven’t.” Harry crouched beside you, his green eyes soft but mildly terrified.

“Oh yeah?” you hissed, “You say that now, but wait till McGonagall finds out I might be growing a baby in her castle!”

Harry held up both hands like you were a frightened unicorn. “Okay. Okay. Deep breaths. We don’t know anything yet. Maybe you’re just late—stress, hormones, you know, school, war trauma—remember? We died last year, literally.”

“I didn’t die, Harry.”

“Well, I did, so I win. Now please, sweetheart, drink the potion.”

You stared at the bottle. “What if it turns blue?”

He gently tucked your hair behind your ear. “Then we handle it. Together. Like we always do. I love you.”

“Don’t say sweet things to me right now, I might cry and vomit.”

“Valid.”

── .✦

Two Hours Earlier:

Ron dropped his toast as you sprinted out of the Great Hall, face pale as Nearly Headless Nick’s knees.

“I… I think she’s going to hurl,” he said, alarmed. “Did someone feed her a Fanged Frisbee?”

Harry went after you. Hermione leaned in. “She’s late, Ronald.”

Ron blinked. “Late for what? Oh. OH.”

“Don’t look like you’re about to pass out—you’re not the maybe-father!”

── .✦

Back in the dorm bathroom, you finally drank the damn potion with your eyes squeezed shut.

“…It’s pink,” you breathed, peeking one eye open.

“Pink! That’s good, right?” Harry said, practically hugging the toilet in relief.

“Yes, pink means not pregnant,” you sighed, falling against the wall, limbs limp with dramatic despair. “Thank Merlin.”

He sat beside you, hands laced with yours. “Well. That was… terrifying.”

“Do you think this is karma for all that snogging in the Room of Requirement?”

“No, that was good karma.”

“…Harry.”

“Okay, okay,” he chuckled. “Look, we weren’t ready. You were right to freak out. But I meant it—I’d have done it with you. All of it. Nappies. Sleepless nights. The whole Weasley-nursery package.”

You turned your head toward him. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.” He leaned in and kissed your forehead, then mumbled against your skin, “One day, yeah? I’d like that. With you.”

You sighed, melting into his side. “You’re too sweet. I should marry you before someone else tries.”

“You better,” he said smugly.

── .✦

Later That Night:

The four of you were curled up in the common room. Ron was feeding you sweets like you’d run a marathon. Hermione was watching you like she was ready to knit baby clothes just in case.

“I googled—I mean, researched—baby potion side effects,” Hermione said.

“Yeah?” you asked warily.

“Turns out if you are pregnant, you sometimes taste chocolate like cabbage. You gagged earlier when Ron handed you that cauldron cake.”

“She always gags when I hand her food,” Ron said, wounded.

“You once offered me a Liquorice Wand dipped in ketchup.”

“That was an experiment.”

Harry kissed your cheek and whispered, “Still negative.”

You smiled tiredly, hands curled in his jumper. “Yeah. But someday, yeah?”

“Someday,” he whispered.

Ron, from the couch: “Oi, not too soon though! I’d like to graduate without becoming Uncle Ron the Diaper Master.”

Hermione smacked him.

Harry chuckled, pulling you close.

You whispered, “I think we’d make cute kids.”

“Obviously. You’re the hottest witch in the castle.”

“You’re so full of it.”

“I’m full of love. And panic. But mostly love.”

── .✦

Setting: A week later at The Burrow. Post-Hogwarts. You and Harry are visiting the Weasleys.

The scent of cinnamon and warm bread filled The Burrow as you sat politely at the table, sipping tea and pretending not to see the suspiciously tiny knitted jumper folded neatly beside the biscuits.

You nudged Harry with your foot under the table. He looked at you, then followed your eye line—and promptly choked on his tea.

Ron looked up from buttering his scone. “You alright, mate?”

Harry, wheezing: “M’fine. Died once. This is worse.”

“I knew something was off,” Hermione muttered. “Molly’s been humming lullabies and bought baby booties in Diagon Alley yesterday.”

You leaned forward, voice as casual as you could fake it: “Mrs. Weasley, what’s the jumper for?”

“Oh, this?” Molly beamed, patting the tiny blue thing with golden snitch embroidery. “Well, I heard—and I do apologize if I’m being forward, dear—but I heard you two might be expecting?”

You made a noise that was somewhere between a cough and a mouse being hexed.

Harry’s eyes were wide, hands frozen around his mug like it was a lifeline. “Who told you that?!”

Ron raised his hand slowly like a guilty schoolboy. “I may have mentioned you two were acting weird last week.”

Hermione groaned into her hands. “Ronald, you don’t mention things like that unless there’s an actual baby.”

“I didn’t say there was one! I just said they looked like they were either about to faint or propose!”

You turned to Molly, cheeks burning. “Mrs. Weasley, I swear we’re not pregnant.”

Molly’s smile didn’t fade. “Not yet, dear.”

Harry made another dying noise.

Ginny appeared from the living room with Fred and George’s enchanted baby toy (which farted glitter) and whispered, “You lot know Mum already picked out a nursery theme, right?”

“Murder me,” you muttered, sliding slowly down your chair.

── .✦

Later That Night:

You and Harry lay in the cramped attic room, limbs tangled and faces still crimson from the Dinner of Doom.

“She knitted a jumper, Harry.”

“She said she’d keep it ‘just in case.’”

“Just in case?!” you sat up, exasperated. “Are we cows now? ‘Just in case this one births something in spring, best knit early!’”

Harry tried to stifle a laugh, but you glared. He immediately sobered. “No, no, you’re right. Terrifying. Very traumatic. Please don’t hex me, little one.”

You flopped back down beside him. “…Do you think she’s disappointed?”

He rolled onto his side to face you, tracing your knuckles with his fingers. “Maybe. But she’ll be overjoyed when we are.”

You gave him a side-eye. “You sound very sure of yourself.”

“I mean, I’ve seen your baby pictures. Can you imagine a little version of you with my glasses? Or your eyes and my messy hair?”

“…I’m not crying. Shut up.”

Harry leaned in, kissed your tear-damp cheek. “Someday.”

“Someday,” you whispered, curling into his chest. “But first, please stop letting Ron talk.”

“Deal.”

── .✦

Meanwhile downstairs:

Molly placed the jumper back in the drawer with a soft smile.

Arthur peeked in. “No baby?”

“Not yet,” she said.

Arthur kissed her temple. “Should we tell the twins to stop making that baby toy that sings 'It’s a Boy!' every time someone sneezes?”

Molly grinned. “Let them keep it. I have a feeling we’ll need it soon enough."

#della's inbox 𐙚⋆°🦢｡⋆♡#della answered ⋆˚✿˖°#della 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 #harry potter fan fiction #harry potter x fem!reader #harry potter x y/n #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #harry james potter #harry potter x you #harry potter x reader

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ofbatsandballads · 5 hours ago

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i’m aliiiiiive!!! please have this offering that I started writing last month and finally finished this month (it is literally the only thing keeping me going imagining this rn). anyways, i’ve always thought that jay would be great with periods bc one: he’s a grown ass man who knows it’s perfectly natural, and two: he’s seen way, way worse on a nightly basis. also he’s a yearning lover boy who would take care of his partner like they were precious.

tw: explicit discussion of menstrual cycles (symptoms + treatments + the messes that come with it), moderately suggestive at the end

Thinking about Jason Todd who is so good at handling your period that he ruins you for any other man. You wake up to the telltale ache in your lower belly and the feeling of damp fabric sticking to your thighs and you just know. Your face burns with embarrassment and you foolishly contemplate if there’s some way that you can extricate yourself from his arms and change the sheets without waking him. But Jason has a sixth sense when it comes to you and he’s fluttering his pretty seafoam eyes open the second he feels your breathing shift in rhythm. He smiles sweetly at you and hums as he pulls you closer. Normally you’d snuggle into his chest and savor the warmth he provides, but right now you can feel the blood slowly seep out of you, your back and belly feel like someone is stabbing you, and you’re so frustrated you could cry.

“Good mornin’, baby,” Jason yawns.

“Morning, Jay,” you wince. “I’ve got to get up, angel. Can you let me get up?”

Perhaps your pain drifts into your tone because Jason’s gaze sharpens, all traces of sleep vanishing.

“Are you okay? What’s wrong, ma?” he asks, eyes scanning you like he’s assessing for injuries.

God, he’s going to make you admit it. Your face burns hotter.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you say unconvincingly as a cramp tears right through you. “Just have to get up and change my clothes. And probably our sheets. I’m sorry, Jay, I should’ve known it was coming.”

You hope he gets it without you having to say outright that you’ve gotten blood everywhere. You can’t bring yourself to look at him. You choose to focus on the wall right over his shoulder instead. You’re bracing for some reaction of disgust or annoyance, but Jason is surprising as ever.

“I’ll get the sheets, sweetheart,” he says softly, pausing to press a kiss to your forehead. “You just get yourself a shower and try to relax. I know our water heater is shit, but try to get it as warm as possible for yourself, okay?”

Oh. Oh, he’s perfect. You already knew that, of course. It's just nice to be reminded of it.

“You’re not…upset?” you ask hesitantly.

Jason just laughs low and gentle, soft as the sunlight that filters through your bedroom window.

“Baby, why would I be mad about a bit of blood? It’s natural. Far more natural than all the times I’ve come home bleedin’ over everything,” he reassures you.

He kisses you sweetly and rubs your lower back before ushering you off to the shower. You do as he says and you swear that he’s magic or something, because against all odds your water stays hot the entire time. You get out warm and refreshed and find that Jason was true to his word. Your bloodstained pajama shorts have been removed from the bathroom floor and replaced by a fresh pair of your underwear and a set of Jason’s soft black sweatpants. Beside the fresh clothes sits the dark gray set of towels that you two always use when Jason comes home bloody and bruised. They’re warm to the touch, likely straight from the dryer, and if you loved him any more you think you might combust with the sheer energy of it.

You will explode with it, you realize, when you see him in the kitchen chopping up fresh fruit for your breakfast. Jason sees you and the blend of fondness and concern in his eyes is a testament to how much he loves you.

“I read somethin’ about how fresh fruit helps with period cramps, so I figured it couldn’t hurt to try,” he explains a bit sheepishly as he pours you a glass of orange juice.

You nod and hum softly, your throat suddenly choked with emotion and tears pricking the corners of your eyes. You can’t help it. You literally throw yourself at him. Your hands grasp his sleep-tangled curls and you kiss him desperately, messy and warm and full of love. Jason’s left panting, his lips kissed red and his eyebrows furrowed in confusion when you’re done with him.

“If I knew fresh fruit would get me that, I’d be goin’ to Louie’s produce stand every fuckin’ morning,” he chuckles breathlessly.

“You do know you’re perfect, right? And I can’t possibly live without you, right?” you confess.

You’re holding on to him so tightly that Jason might just be inclined to believe you.

“That’s good, sweetheart, because I’ve got no plan of goin’ anywhere any time soon,” he whispers sweetly. “Now drink your orange juice.”

Jason is true to his word. He stays by your side all day. He lets you cuddle up to him and steal his body heat for your own, only making a few little jabs about how he’s “nothin’ but a personal space heater to you”. He presses his big, warm hands to your tummy when your cramps hit and rubs firm circles that miraculously ease the ache. Your beloved heating pad serves a dual purpose wedged between his stomach, bruised and sore from a few hard hits on last night’s patrol, and your lower back.

When evening comes and you start to drift in and out of consciousness, body exhausted from the pain and hormones ravaging it, Jason cradles you in his arms and carries you to bed. You’re hazy and tired, but you still giggle when he cleverly lays down your fluffy, waterproof blanket. It usually serves to protect your poor sheets from your rather…messy sex life, but it works just as well in this instance.

“You’re a very smart man, Jason Todd,” you say as you make grabby hands at him.

“Hm. I try,” he replies.

The second he’s within reach you’re burrowing into him again. Jason, as always, obliges and wraps your entire body up in his. A sense of peace and pride courses through him at the satisfied sigh you let out.

“Y’know what else helps with period cramps?” you ask through a yawn.

Jason just watches you lovingly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear as he shakes his head.

“Orgasms,” you nod sagely.

Jason snorts loudly, his joyous laughter echoing across your bedroom walls. You smile and think that you’ve never been happier, body actively fighting against you and all.

“Uh huh. Sure. Maybe we can work on that one in the mornin’, ma. Now go to sleep,” he says, his face lit up with a boyish grin and a warmth in his sea green eyes.

You hum in agreement and smoosh your face into his chest. He’s warm and he smells like cedar and something distinctly Jason, and you can barely keep your eyes open a second longer. You idly hope you dream of him when you finally fall asleep.

“I love you more than all the stars in the universe, Jason Todd,” you murmur sleepily.

“I love you more than life itself, sweetheart.”

You drift off to sleep nestled between the warmth of your lover and your electric blanket, content and happy and vaguely looking forward to the promise of trying that one in the morning.

#jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd x you #red hood x you #remy writes 🖋️#I know I haven’t written in ages #writer’s block is a bitch and I have like…50 wips in my Google docs and notes app rn #anyways i NEED jason todd desperately. need that big warm loving man to take care of me please please please.

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partygirlpiastri · 17 hours ago

Text

YOUNG LOVE ; UNIVERSITY!AU.

synopsis: They say that high school are the best years of your life. . .But welcome to YUN, where three love interests are waiting in the wings for you. Freshman!Isack Hadjar, who is assigned as your partner for a physics project. Junior!Oscar Piastri, who is the lead manager of your new workplace. And Senior!Max Verstappen, who is your Dutch tutor.

trigger warnings: Use of Y/N; Use of feminine pronouns from the reader’s perspective; Depiction of a love triangle; Descriptions of romantic acts and behaviors; Suggestive remarks

a message from the author: When I tell you, this took me over a week to make. . . Think of this as a Gossip Girl!AU, but set at a University (Your University Name, or YUN for short). There are three love interests, plus some cameos from extra characters (Yes, Lando and Oscar are dating in this). At the end, you will choose which love interest you want. I am so curious to see who you all like the most! Enough of my yapping, I hope you love this just as much as I do. Have fun reading!

yourusername First year at YUN has officially started!

comments 150

user1 Very excited!

user2 Can’t believe we’re already in uni

user3 Time flies 🥹

user4 What are you majoring in again?

user5 Has anyone downloaded the YUN Gossip app?

user6 OMG yes! Heard it was where everything goes down…

yourbffusername Best roomie 😋

yourusername All set up!

yourbffusername replied to the Instagram story

So aesthetic 😍

user7 replied to the Instagram story

Love the layout!

user8 replied to the Instagram story

What dorm are you in? Your room looks awesome!

user9 replied to the Instagram story

Littt ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

user10 replied to the Instagram story

Miss you already!!

comments 3

isackhadjar Hello Y/N, it is nice to see someone who shares the same major. Programming has always been an interest of mine, though coding does give me a headache sometimes.

user11 Hi Y/N, I am also from England, but I’m native to Oxford. You’re so lucky to be born in London! I visited once and it was super interesting. Have you ever taken a tour inside Buckingham Palace?

user12 Hey Y/N, I’m a freshman as well! Are you nervous at all for the next four years? My sister just graduated last year as a Psychology major, but I’m majoring in Chemistry. I’ve heard some things about how tough college is, but I think we’ll both make it through!

|| [NEW EMAIL]

From: Professor Yates ([email protected])

To: PHY3009

BCC: Physics Project (DUE 08/30)

Dear Class,

For those who missed today’s lecture, a new project has been assigned for this class. Partners were listed on the whiteboard, and a photo is attached to this email. If there are any concerns with these pairings I have selected, please let me know by 08/17.

Thank you all, and have a great day.

Sincerely.

Professor Emelia Yates

🖇️ phy3009partners.png

yourusername

comments 24

isackhadjar WHY THAT PHOTO?? I feel betrayed

user11 Summer I Turned Pretty mention! 💖

user12 HAHAHA 3rd slide

user13 Slayyy

yourbffusername <3

user14 LOL 😭 😭 😭

|| NEW NOTIF: YUN Gossip [08/19] — Looks like Christmas will be coming to YUN early, because Die Hard will be playing at the Wilson Theater on 08/22. Buy tickets now!

|| NEW NOTIF: YUN Gossip [08/22] — Leaked photos attached between Freshman Isack Hadjar and rumored girlfriend at YUN movie night!

|| [NEW EMAIL]

From: Oscar Piastri ([email protected])

To: Y/N L/N ([email protected])

BCC: Interview

Dear Y/N L/N,

Thank you for applying for a position at Mayleaf Books. We appreciate your interest at working at our bookstore. Combined with your previous experience, we would like to offer you a role as sales associate. The starting pay is $12 per hour.

Please respond to this email as soon as possible to ensure that you are accepting this position.

Regards,

Oscar Piastri (Lead Manager)

yourusername Everyone calls him polite cat, but I think he’s really a grumpy cat. Comparison post coming soon.

oscarpiastri replied to the Instagram story

Stop playing around and maybe I’d be nicer to you

user15 replied to the Instagram story

Seeing Oscar Piastri slander on my feed was NOT expected, but I’ll take it!

user16 replied to the Instagram story

I SEE IT 🫢

user17 replied to the Instagram story

Wait because you’re cooking...

yourbffusername replied to the Instagram story

He’s lowkey fineeee 🥵🥵🥵

yourusername God bless Nora Roberts

comments 19

user18 SEND ME BOOK RECS

user19 I love her books too, OMG! 🤯

user20 Cool book haul!

oscarpiastri Looks like those are interesting books. Let me know how they are once you have read them.

user21 Love this 💓💓

|| NEW NOTIF: YUN Gossip [01/02] — Junior Oscar Piastri caught in a passionate makeout session with Junior Lando Norris and unknown girl inside Mayleaf Books!

|| [NEW EMAIL]

From: Fernando Alonso ([email protected])

To: Y/N L/N ([email protected])

BCC: New Classes for the Spring Semester

Dear Students,

New classes will be added to the curriculum starting this spring. A full comprehensive list can be found in the attachment of this email. If there are any concerns, send them forward to [email protected].

Respectfully,

Fernando Alonso (Dean)

🖇️ springclasses.pdf

yourusername Another long day at the library. #I HATE DUTCH.

user22 replied to the Instagram story

Me right now with French 🤝

user23 replied to the Instagram story

Most valid crash out

yourbffusername replied to the Instagram story

Sighh 😥

maxverstappen replied to the Instagram story

Maybe if you listened to me, you would like it more. I’ll be there in ten minutes.

yourusername Guess I have to thank maxverstappen now 😔

user24 replied to the Instagram story

No, his ego will get too big and he will float away 😓

user25 replied to the Instagram story

AWESOME! 🎉

user26 replied to the Instagram story

Yes queen!! Academic weapon 🤓🤓

maxverstappen replied to your Instagram story

See? I knew you could do it. You are very smart when you want to be. Want to celebrate? I know just the spot.

|| NEW NOTIF: YUN Gossip [03/09] — Senior Max Verstappen seen leaving Keeley Bar with mystery woman. Unknown whether it is his girlfriend or not...

Credits: Dividers — @bernardsbendystraws; Graphics — Both Pinterest and self-made

#f1 #formula 1 #formula one #isack hadjar #ih6 #isack hadjar x reader #oscar piastri #op81 #oscar piastri x reader #max verstappen #mv33 #max verstappen x reader #f1 smau #f1 fluff #f1 fic #f1 fics #f1 x reader #f1blr

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outtathisworld-imagines · 2 days ago

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Masterpiece

——⚡️——⚡️——⚡️——⚡️——

Pairing: James Buchanan Barnes x F!Reader

Warning: Fluff, some angst and violence, pregnancy mention, suggestive themes, like two swears, secret marriage trope always has me in a chokehold. Flashbacks are blocks of italic! Not proofread 🥲

A.N: Lol sorry this is a long one and I even cut it down 🥲

Please let me know what else you guys would like! I do have a few other fics on the back-burner (for now!) that I'll start to post soon and just let me know if you'd liked to be tagged in further works too ✨

——⚡️——⚡️——⚡️——⚡️——

“I’m almost thirty years old mother, I don’t need a babysitter.” You grumbled sitting next to her, she was too distracted with her phone to pay attention to you. “I need to get back to my work.”

“Hmm, oh, yes. I know.” She just about managed to shoot you a smile for a second before being engrossed with the screen again. “But I’d rather be safe than sorry, you’ll be under surveillance just until things settle down. The team are trustworthy,” she paused and placed her phone on her lap. “Most of the team are relatively trustworthy.” Your brow almost shot to the roof of the car from your forehead. “Don’t give me that look, dear. There’s reports that your shadow security team has been compromised- that’s a risk I cannot take.” She sounded like she actually cared.

You sighed and sunk into the seat even further, your hand mindlessly going to the chain around your neck with a gold band attached to it. A remedy to soothe your anxious thoughts.

She was right, you had heard rumours but didn’t want to believe it, you thought your drastically different career choice to your mother would distance yourself from trouble. How wrong you were.

Your relationship with her was an odd, distanced one. She barely knew anything about your life since you became virtually estranged from her after your father’s death, both of you engrossing your time in your respective careers to cope with the grief.

She publicly rose to the top in the world of security, you hid away in an art gallery in the lower east side selling and curating pieces. It was in your art gallery you met the love of your life, a love transitioning from getting slices of pizza after he visited the gallery to standing at the end of an aisle as you became husband and wife.

Just the two of you. The world didn’t know about you both- it was the safest option- especially with his past and his evolving future.

You followed her through the building, an unknowing feeling in the pit of your stomach. “How long am I going to be here for?” You asked.

“Until it’s safe.” She sternly replied, not giving you any choice in the matter as she lead you into a living area. “It might be worthwhile staying away from the gallery for a few weeks too-“ you opened your mouth to protest and she held up a finger to silence you. “No, Y/N, no. Not until we have the all clear.” She stubbornly put her foot down and your shoulders fell as well as your face, plastered now with a frown at her words. “I’ve summoned them all here to meet you.”

“How did they even find out who we are to each other?” You asked.

She shrugged “These people, Y/N. They will do anything to find something that is your weakness.” She said and you almost felt touched that you were a weakness of hers, a once frosty demeanour thawing in front of your eyes. “Plus they can access most records for a high enough price- must have done that with mine. Likely my medical records and that’s how they have eventually tracked you down.”

Yelena was walking with Bucky, the others trailing behind them as they went to meet with Valentina. “She’s wanting a security detail on her daughter,” she explained.

Bucky let out a snort “Daughter? I had no idea she had kids?” He replied.

“Just the one apparently.” John added as they approached the doors.

You turned as the door opened, your eyes locking to one person in particular. It had been three months since you saw him in person.

The one person you promised to have and to hold, the person whose hand you held while making that promise, who you shared an unbreakable vow with, for better and for worse.

Till death.

—•—

Three years ago…

It was his therapist that suggested art, he wasn’t quite sure why, but he had found himself one day outside a virtually empty gallery- aside from one person standing inside. He almost attempted going to the Metropolitan museum or another large gallery, but he didn’t want to be amongst the crowds. He opened the door, a bell gently dinging as he stepped through the door.

“Hello, can I help you?”

Bucky politely smiled “I just wanted to look at some of the art of that was okay?”

“Sure! Just let me know if you need a hand with anything.” You got back to typing an email for a client interested in a piece. Bucky took you in for a moment, the well tailored dress and pristine hair and makeup.

Almost as if you were a piece of art on display too.

He slowly wandered around the space, each piece of art as interesting as the next. He just didn’t know how. He cleared his throat to grab your attention, your head raised up with a smile and you walked over to him. “How can I help?”

“What is this supposed to make you feel?” He asked, pointing at a painted scene in front of him.

You smirked and shook your head. “I can’t tell you that, that’s been you and the art.”

Bucky tightly smiled, his head dropping as if to silently say ‘Of course that’s the answer’.

“I can help you try to understand it through something I do if that would help?” You suggested. Bucky agreed, happy enough to try anything if it would assist him, not just with the art but his journey through therapy too. “Okay, I always find it best if you sit,” you pointed to the small seating blocks behind you.

Bucky chortled “I thought that was art too,” you giggled and encouraged him to sit.

“I look at it for at least solid ten seconds, edge to edge and everything in between.” You say focused, Bucky mirrored you. “Then I close my eyes so my vision is not blurring my feelings.” You did just that and Bucky followed suit. “Does this help?”

A new surge of emotion washed over Bucky like the finish on the painting. “It does.” He was beyond amazed.

You opened your eyes again and watched him for a moment, a soft smile dancing over your face. It always brought you such joy seeing someone truly enjoy art for the first time. It was a bonus if they were as cute as he was. “I rotate my pieces on a weekly basis, most things sell but I get new pieces in each Thursday. You can pop by anytime to view them.”

Bucky opened his eyes, pleasantly surprised to find you looking at him. “I’ll do just that.”

“I’m Y/N, by the way.” You extended your hand out to shake his.

“I’m James Barnes, but you can call me-“

—•—

“Bucky?”

Your voice was tight. Surprised and shocked…and feeling very on the spot all of a sudden.

“You know each other?” Valentina asked, her eyes darting between both you and the super solider.

‘I thought I did,’ you both had the same thought running through your mind.

Bucky opened his mouth to reply but you quickly got in there first. “From when I read about him,” you practically vomited your words. “Yanno, online and…stuff.” She slowly nodded, not wanting to address the new tension in the room.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Yelena,” a girl with blonde hair introduced herself to you with a smile “Welcome to your temporary home.”

You bashfully smiled, your stomach feeling like it had the weight of the tower you were standing in pressed on it. “Thank you, I’m Y/N…” you briefly paused, unsure what one of the plethora of surnames you could go by to use. “Y/N Y/L/N,” your father’s surname was a safe, old faithful. You saw the face of your mother droop ever so lightly at the mention of it.

“I’ll show you to your room, Y/N, you’re in good hands here.” Ava smiled and you followed her down the hall, your eyes meeting Bucky’s again and seeing a whirlpool of emotions in them.

“I’ll see you soon, sweetheart! I hope you settle in well!” Val lightheartedly shouted to you before intensely scowling at the thrown together team, shooting them a deadly glare. “Keep. Her. Safe.” She bit out with a pointed finger. “Because I promise you there will be dire consequences none of you will want to face if she’s put in any danger.”

“I didn’t know you had a daughter,” Bucky lowly spoke and Val turned her attention to him. Bucky’s head suddenly spiralling at being thrown this new information.

Val hummed “Yes, well, now you do. I expect her to have someone with her at all times, ideally, she doesn’t leave this tower until everything is sorted. I’ll be in touch.” She turned on her heel and the clipping noise slowly disappeared with her.

The team turned to Bucky. “You okay?” Yelena asked with a tone laced in concern.

Bucky nodded, swallowing thickly with a tight smile. The wedding band hanging from his dog tags suddenly feeling like it was weighing him down.

—•—

Two years ago…

Since the day he stepped through the doors of the gallery, Bucky had visited each week since, every Thursday for new art.

He was becoming a permanent fixture in your gallery.

You were leading him through as you often did, being his personal guide on a weekly basis. Bucky even had bought a few of the specialty curated pieces you sourced for him on visits. “This is a new one from-“

“Do you wanna get dinner?”

He quickly asked, as fast and erratic as the Jackson Pollock hanging in the corner of the gallery space. You blinked, you could see his chest racing almost dangerously fast as he kept facing forward at a painting. You smiled, biting down on your lip at his offer.

“Like actual dinner and not Pizza from Milo’s on the corner?” He reiterated and you giggled.

“I’d love to.”

And that’s how it officially started. Dinners became more frequent, then drinks every now and then afterwards, then one night back to yours and then nights at his and so on.

Months later you found yourself wrapped in his arms, both of you bare and catching your breaths, his most recent painting purchase at the end of the bed. “Do you make your own art?” He asked while looking at it.

You glanced up to him with a small, yet sad smile. “Not really, not often. I don’t have much time to dedicate to that too if I’m being honest.” You admitted. “The gallery is my focus.”

“What got you into art?” He asked, your late night talkings becoming more and more meaningful and deeper as your relationship developed.

You deeply sighed with a lazy smile, appreciative he was so interested in you. “My parents were polar opposites in supporting my passion, my mother was absolutely against it while my dad always pushed me to pursue what I loved. I stayed with my dad most of the time after the divorce, we went to the MET gallery every Sunday morning with pencils and papers and would draw one painting each before going to a diner for pancakes. We did that right up until he died when I was twenty.” Your smile had fallen a little and Bucky gently stroke your cheek to soothe the ache he knew you carried.

“What about your mom?”

—•—

Bucky quietly yet frantically knocked on your bedroom door, you opened it and hastily pulled him in. “She’s your mom?!” He quietly yelped “You didn’t think to bring up that Valentina- the most prolific person tied to this country’s security- is your mother?” He ran a hand through his hair “Jesus, I knew you had a strained relationship with her but now I know why.”

“Do you think it’s that easy to drop into conversation?!” You just as quietly argued back, unsure of the volume tolerance between the walls. “And, hold on just a minute, you work for her?!”

Bucky swallowed “I work adjacent to her,” he calmly replied. “Besides that’s not the point here-“

“All those ‘trips’ to Washington? How many were actually to here? To carry out her dirty work-“ he cut you off, just as you did to him.

“I try to help keep this country safe! It’s above board!” He snapped back and you felt rage surge through your veins.

With a huff you turned and walked to the window “You didn’t answer the first question.” Your voice was faltering. The facade was cracking from the whirlwind of emotions you had faced within the last few hours. “I thought you were still part of congress.”

You heard his footsteps approach you “I was just trying to protect you- protect us!” He said. “I wanted to keep you safe.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” A tear slipped down your cheek and you quickly wiped it away. “I would have understood, I’m your wife, Bucky. I would have supported you.”

“I could ask the same,” your head snapped around. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You shrugged a shoulder “Val- my mom and me- it’s just hard to sometimes wrap my head around, never mind dragging someone else into it. I wanted to protect you too, I didn’t want to draw attention to us incase anyone got to you.” Bucky’s eyes softened and he approached you with open arms. “I was trying to make sure it would always be just us.” A promise you both made the night he proposed.

Both your hearts in the right place.

He pressed a long kiss to your temple. “I missed you,” he admitted. “Everything’s okay. It still is just us.” He pulled back a little and tried to reassure you with a smile “Even if you did read about me online…” he teased and you playfully rolled your eyes before he placed a gentle kiss against your lips.

He felt you smile, his body melting against yours as it always did. “I like what you’ve done with your hair,” you pulled back taking a proper look at him. He smiled, reaching for the engagement and wedding ring kept safe under your top on your chain. He brought them to his lips and kissed them “I missed you too, so much.”

You then took in your room and sighed, he noticed. “You want me to grab some home comforts for you? I can go down to your apartment, get whatever you want.”

Your heart swelled at his thoughtfulness. “I’ve got some stuff with me, but I’d love my blanket actually,” you let out a broken bubble of a laugh “I sleep with it every night because it still smells like you…” you softly spoke. “I know we’ll have to maintain a distance here-“

“Anytime you need me for anything, even if it’s just a minute together, you got all mine.” He said, his hand gently cupping your face. “I’ll head now, you can spend some time with the guys and get to know them if you like? They are actually okay.” Bucky smiled to himself before turning serious. “Expect Walker.” He deadpanned and you laughed.

“I love you.” You called out to him just before he vanished from your line of sight.

Bucky turned with a smile “I love you too.”

—•—

One year ago…

“What’s all this then?”

When you walked into his one evening there was a table set up clad with arts and craft supply’s and lit by candlelight, a bottle of your favourite wine chilling at the end.

“Well I had seen it online and was talking about it with my therapist and Sam, it’s a ‘Paint and sip’ night. I thought you’d enjoy it?” He nervously licked his lips. “Do you?”

You absorbed in the tiny little details you knew Bucky meticulously thought about, a smile forming on your face just as quick as the tears of joy in your eyes. “I love it,” you quietly said and embraced him in a hug.

You sat down on opposite sides of the table and got started. “I thought we could manifest through art?” Bucky had said. “What your thoughts and feelings are and show each other at the end…?”

You nodded and started painting, he nervously picked up a brush and started on his own canvas with a trembling hand. He occasionally glanced up to you, saw your brow creasing in focus at points before you caught his gaze and smiled at him, his worries melting away. “I’m ready if you are.”

“I am,” he said.

“Are we doing a countdown or…?” Your fingers eagerly rested on your canvas.

“You first,” Bucky encouraged and you turned around your painted picture. “Is that us?” He warmly grinned and you nodded with a smile.

“That’s what I manifest. I manifest us.” You confessed. “I love you, I love that you did this for me. It means so much.”

Bucky reached across the table and squeezed your hand too before revealing his masterpiece to you.

It was a picture of a ring.

“This is what I manifest.” Bucky’s voice shook. “I manifest us too.” He stood up, your chest was thumping erratically as he came beside you and got down on one knee, causing your breath to hitch. “You make me feel more than any piece of art ever could. More than anything in this world- period.” He presented a ring to you, just like the one he painted. “Will you marry me?

—•—

“I can help with dinner,” you said, the team’s eyes on you now as you stood awkwardly by the door. “Please, I wanna feel useful.”

Yelena nodded and encouraged you forward “You can help Bob with the table if you like?” You happily accepted, wanting to repay the team for being forced to watch you. You grabbed some plates and took them into the dining room.

Bob was there already sorting out some cutlery. “Oh, hi!” He waved “Thanks for bringing the plates through.”

“That’s okay, I’m happy to help,” you placed them on the table. You knew a little bit about Bob, what your mother was responsible for, it made your heart sink with guilt. “I’m sorry for what she did to you,” you quietly spilled your internal thoughts.

Bob twiddled with his fingers before setting a place “It’s not your fault, besides, I signed up for it.” He told you. “I was in a bad place and I thought it would help.” The sigh that left his lungs reached your ears.

You paused and an idea popped into your head.

“Have you considered art?”

When Bucky reached your apartment, an uneasy feeling suddenly washed over his skin. He glanced over his shoulder not noticing anything out of the ordinary.

He grabbed one of the holdalls from your closet and grabbed things you might need. Blanket of course, some extra clothes and the canvas of the ring he painted for that hung by your bed, he wanted to make your space in the watchtower feel a little more like home.

He did a double check over and that’s when he noticed a little red light, hidden but not hidden well. A camera. He picked it up and squinted at it before unplugging it and placing it in his pocket.

When he went back downstairs and locked up again, he recognised two men from before he entered in the same black car. When they caught him looking they drove away.

But not before he got a photo of the license plate.

—•—

6 months ago…

“I’m hoping to run for congress.” He told you one night over dinner.

Your eyes widened and so did your smile, not letting any of your internal worries for him show as you played with your engagement and wedding ring. “That’s amazing, Buck! I’m so happy for you!” You hoped he would be safe, you needed him to be safe. With Bucky’s past, you knew his future- especially a political one- would be just as dangerous. Maybe you could make a call that would ensure that he would be kept safe.

Your internal pondering was cut short as he continued. “Lots of visits to Washington…” he paused. “Some even say that buying somewhere is ideal.”

You swallowed hard, enough for him to notice. “Washington isn’t that far. We can make it work.”

He nodded, his eyes falling to the table. “I want to keep you safe. I want to make sure you’re safe.” He said and you nodded, understanding that to the world he was still the winter solider and you were a gallery owner but with each other you could and would be husband and wife.

You reached across to him, your hands meeting in the middle. “Then let’s just keep it between us and our two witnesses. The less people know the better. The safer.”

—•—

Bucky watched as you paced on the phone a few days later. Being stuck for four days in the tower was starting to drive you insane. You did have moments of respite, nights being held by Bucky before he snuck back to his own room. You also did some painting with Bob, talking to him about art as you did, it made you feel close to your gallery despite being stuck inside.

“You okay?” He asked as you tossed down your phone and then yourself on the sofa, just the two of you in the living room.

“I need to get to the gallery,” you said and he looked at you with concern.

“Y/N…”

“James…” you used the same tone back at him. “But seriously, I gotta go because my insurance won’t cover me if anything happens with the art on the walls if I close for a period of time. I told them it could be a month and they said I’m not covered unless the artwork is in the safe.” You huffed, running a hand through your hair.

Bucky pulled you to him, pecking your forehead before you rested against his chest. “I can go, get everything put away for you.”

“Has to be me, I have a biometric finger-pad along with the lock on my safe. Only I can access it.” Bucky held you tighter, of course that was the case.

You heard footsteps and pulled away from each other, acting as casually as possible. Bucky looked to you and then his band of misfits. “Guys, there’s something we need to do.”

You were grateful they accompanied you.

All of them.

You appreciated the hands helping you out as you cleared the gallery walls, Bob asking the odd question about a piece, Yelena already picking out something she wanted to buy, Alexei and John trying to understand a contemporary surrealist piece, and Ava taking note of what you had going into the safe. Your heart was striped raw just as much as the space you stood in. “Hey,” Bucky pulled you from your thoughts “That’s everything.” You sharply nodded, Bucky noticing the tears starting to gloss over your eyes. “You’ll back here soon,” he tried to assure, trying to sound certain for your sake before whispering “We’ll be back here together soon.”

“I’m just gonna lock the safe, won’t be a minute.” You went to the back of the gallery and listened for the soft click to confirm the safe had closed. You gathered your things from your desk, your eyes catching the light of your security camera suddenly going off. “Huh..” you muttered to yourself.

Suddenly a barrage of gunfire went off and you fell to the floor of your office screaming. You could hear Bucky yelling and you frantically tried to get to your husband. You were picked up into Alexei’s arms along with Bob. “We need to get you out of here!” You burrowed yourself into him as you were taken back to the car you all came to your gallery in, Alexei practically throwing you in the footwell of the backseat as he pulled out a gun and shot at someone following you. “Guys! Let’s go she’s out!” The team all reconvened in the car as John drove from the scene, Ava carried out another task with Yelena. Bob was in the backseat with you, Bucky was trying not to let his mask slip but his jaw and fists clenched with every sob from your mouth. He was desperate to comfort you.

When you arrived at the watchtower, you remained in the car. Bucky, ignoring the puzzled glares from the team carried you back bridal style to your room as you cried into the crook of his neck and gripped onto your shirt. He shut the door with his foot and placed you down on the bed. “Baby,” he lay you down before he engulfed you in a hug as you brokenly sobbed into him, asking a never ending string of ‘why’s’.

You pulled away from him “I wanna be alone.” Your voice shook “I need to be alone.” You asked in an almost demanding tone. Bucky suddenly understanding where you got certain quips from. Despite you not looking like Valentina, you sure had traits of her personality at times. Bucky nodded in understanding, placing a kiss to your cheek before doing as you asked.

He shut the door as you shut him out.

Bucky remained close however, he sat by your door until you were ready. The sound of clacking heels drew his attention from his feet to his mother-in-law Val. “Where is she? Is she okay?!” He had never seen her look so fearful before.

“She’s in there, wants to be alone.” He replied.

Valentina ignored him and pounded on your door, rattling the handle that you had locked from the other side. “Honey, it’s mom, can I come in?” She called. “Please, sweetie.” She thudded in the door again. Then a little harder.

Bucky sighed as he stood and walked off, Valentina not even glancing twice as she pleaded with the door. He caught up with Ava and Yelena before going out and picking you up something he knew would make you feel a little better. An hour later he arrived back with dumplings, Valentina was on her knees still begging you to open up, dried tears on her face.

Bucky knocked your door this time. “I got you dumplings from the place you like on the outskirts of Chinatown.” Valentina’s brow creased at his words before stiffening at the sound of your door unlocking.

The second she saw you she wrapped her arms around you. “Oh my sweet girl, I’m here. You’re okay.” She peppered kisses on your temples. Bucky saw how drained you were, how you looked like you were on the verge of crying yourself to sleep before he called out to you. Your mother led to your bed, holding onto you tightly, you glanced up to Bucky with heavy eyes as he passed you the takeout box.

He left you with her and sat outside by your door again.

An hour later she emerged. She closed the door, letting you rest after falling asleep while crying. She looked at Bucky who stood as she emerged. “I want every single one of them dead. I don’t care how you do it- just get it done.” Bucky had seen many looks from Valentina- just not this one. A new, cold, darker demeanour that even terrified him. A look of a mother willing to do anything to protect their child.

“Ava and Yelena got one. He’s in the basement.”

Her expression turned to an unreadable one, Bucky feeling ill at the sight. She turned on her heels and made her way to the basement. “Well, why didn’t you tell me about our…guest.” She malignly spat out.

“Woah, Val, are you sure seeing them is a good idea? You’re upset-“

“I’m perfectly fine,” she said calmly. “Or I will be when I watch you and your group of misfits break every single bone in their body for traumatising my girl.” She tightly smiled and walked to the elevator, Bucky followed. “Yanno, I’m glad you care about her, weird that it’s so intense, god, it’s really full on.” She shifted in the spot she stood. “She could have picked anyone,” she started speaking, watching the numbers go down as they approached the basement. “I’m glad she picked you.” The air left Bucky’s lungs and he slowly turned to look at her, a smug smile on her face. “Oh c’mon, you thought I didn’t know?” She snorted while raising her brows. “Just confirmed it for me seeing the rings around her neck tonight.”

“Val-“

“Was she beautiful?” She asked. Her eyes giving her away as a tear slipped down her cheek. Bucky jolted his head, silently prompting her to elaborate. “On the wedding day. I know she would have been but I just-“ she sighed. “Was she beautiful?”

“Beautiful doesn’t even cut it…” he quietly said as he reminisced, mentally picturing you at the end of the aisle and then eating wedding cake in your pyjamas the next morning for breakfast.

The doors opened and Val strode to the interrogation room. “Just wait until I get my hands on his son of a bitch.” She hissed.

“Her apartment was bugged too, they are still getting images from a camera I found there, I think they have tailed her for a while. Got a photo of a licence plate that they are running too.” He kept up with Val’s hastily walk “As soon as we get anything-” the two of them were suddenly brought to a halt. Frozen in place. The door to the room was wide open and the shooter they captured was gone. Val rushed in and found a note on the table that read: ‘You take one of ours, we take yours.’

—•—

Three months ago…

“Out of all of the sights in Washington,” you snaked your arms around Bucky’s waist as you approached him from behind as he made breakfast. “This is the best one.”

You felt the low hum from a laugh under his breath “What you after, gorgeous?” He turned around and captured your lips. “Another round?” He smirked, hands roaming over your bare frame as you wore nothing but his dress shirt. You giggled against his passionate kisses, four months had passed since you took your vows, a month since he left to pursue his political career.

He grabbed your thighs with his strong hands and you jumped, legs wrapped around his waist. He led you back to the bedroom and laid you on the bed, kissing down the valley between your breasts. “Jeez at this rate I’m gonna end up-“ you cut yourself short with a clearing throat. Bucky noticed.

“Gonna end up what?” He kissed your stomach. Then paused, gazing at it before looking up to you. “Oh…” the bedroom suddenly had a conversation hanging in the air that neither of you had intently discussed. His hand unintentionally grazed over your abdomen and you reached for it, holding it in place.

You swallowed hard before smiling and squeezing his hand. The question being silently answered by you first. Bucky responded with a wide grin and kissed the hand that lay atop of your stomach before happily pouncing on you.

—•—

Gunfire filled the building, Yelena’s voice shouting over the system “Four enemies! They have Y/N.”

Val looked at Bucky with wide eyes, he did what any son-in-law dreamt of and shoved her in a storage closet, told her to stay there and keep quiet before closing the door. He rushed to your room, bedsheets askew, streaks of blood on the floor, the painting of the ring thankfully unscathed and the dumpling box empty. He did a sweep, checking under the bed and in the bathroom.

That’s when he saw it, when he saw almost half a dozen.

Poorly concealed pregnancy tests.

He picked one up. Then another. Then another. All with the same conclusion.

“Shit,” he tossed them back and ran. “Where is she?!” He yelled out, his lungs burning and his body filling with adrenaline.

“Bucky!” John called him over “They have a helicopter, she’s the roof!” Bucky and the team all hurried to the roof and saw you with a gun to your back and tears flowing through your face. He stormed out, much to the dismay and chides of disapproval from everyone.

Bucky raised his own gun and held it out “You’re not taking her anywhere! None of this was ever her fault.”

The man that had his grip on you laughed “She’s leverage. The ultimate blackmail.”

Bucky smirked without a hint of amusement. “No she’s not. She’s my wife.”

Within seconds you found yourself in the ground, the piercing sound of two gunshots ringing in your ears as blood pooled around your body. You tapped yourself down, no signs of injury, the same couldn’t be said for the man who captured you or his helicopter pilot. You looked up, Bucky holstering his gun before crouching down to you, the second shot that took out the helicopter pilot coming from your mother who stood at the edge of the building and clearly ignoring Bucky’s requests.

He scooped you up “We need to get you both checked out.” You tensed in his arms at his whispered words. “You did a shit job trying to hide those tests,” he tiredly laughed and kissed your forehead.

“Well, this has been a family get together to remember!” Val called out and Bucky stoped in his tracks, looking at you and your wide eyes. “And remember Bucky, you’re my son-in-law first, winter soldier second. Never tell me what to do again.” The team’s jaws dropped simultaneously at the news. “Art collector third now I guess courtesy of Y/N!” She wildly laughed.

Bucky shook his head and before he knew it, shot a comeback in her direction.

“Actually, I’m now the father of your grandchild.”

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jacksonekennedy · 2 days ago

Text

It's how Alice was feeling, too. It was very nice to hear, but a part of Jack already knew. He'd never felt this connected to another person before. Maybe it was a little presumptuous, but sometimes, Jack swore that he could feel exactly what Alice was feeling.

Alice cautiously removed herself from Jack's lap, and he exhaled in disappointment. Yeah, he'd been the one to suggest that they get ready to leave, but it still didn't make it feel any easier. Within nanoseconds, he missed the weight of her on his lap. The feeling of his face buried into her shoulder.

"Well. For future reference. My neck is ticklish. In a very good way, I think."

Jack wanted to groan! How could she share that piece of information so casually? Jack was sure that was all he'd think about for the foreseeable future.

"I can't wait to find out," he managed to reply, hoping to keep his cool. Alice interlaced their fingers together, and Jack squeezed.

Yeah. This was just the way things were now, and he couldn't have been happier. Jack and Alice, holding hands, making plans together. Alice calling him a good (east coast) boy, warning him about the desert cold.

"I'll be ready for the cold. What about you?"

He didn't expect that she'd packed for that, had she? Neither of them could've anticipated this spontaneous trip, but Jack was home — with all of his coats and beanies and gear.

Jack led the way out of the kitchen, leading them upstairs. He pulled out his phone, texted his assistant a few requests: Sorry for the late text. NM trip is being bumped to rn. Can you babysit Cora? You and your bf can stay at my place. Help yourself to whatever, and I'll pay you OT. Can you also let the pilot know we need him ASAP?

Jack waited a few seconds, before composing another text.

Please don't quit on me.

"Sorry. I'm texting my assistant to make sure we're all good. Just one sec," he told Alice, abruptly stopping on the steps, because apparently — he couldn't text and walk up the stairs at the same time. Not one handed, but he refused to let go of Alice's hand.

Not long after, she was responding: of course!!!! we <3 cora!! just called the pilot. he said to give him about an hour. he said there'd be a fee for the late notice but i told him it was nbd lol

That's exactly why she couldn't quit! Jack needed someone like her.

"We're good," he told Alice, before refocusing on their conversation. God. He felt a little rude doing that, but it wouldn't be a common occurrence.

They made it to his bedroom. He tried not to stare at the bed, tried not to think that they had an hour to kill.

"Sorry. Anyway. I've got some hoodies and sweatshirts that you can borrow. What else do you need? I don't think anything's open right now, but ... well. We can figure it out."

Jack grinned.

'No, Miss Shaw,'

'Just you.'

Mmm. Yeah. Alice still liked that.

'Only ever gonna be you,'

A jerky movement ripples up her body like a flame following a line of gasoline. Woah. Jack had a talent for that, saying things that surprised her, flipped her on her head, but Alice thinks that one might take the cake.

Alice swallows, and a low murmuring noise escapes her, thoughtful, and yet a poor attempt at grounding herself. You. Only you. You, you, you. Alice wishes she could write that word down over the span of twenty pages, just that alone,i nfuse it with meaning like a spell, and Jack would be able to look at it and understand what the repetition meant. Could y-o-u ever hold it all— everything she saw in Jack? She wishes her writing was magic. She wished she could enchant it so Jack could feel the same joy she felt when he'd said those words to her.

"...I like how that sounds..." Inhale. "Cuz' that's..." Exhale. "How I'm feeling..."

His thighs feel very firm beneath her. Her skirt, in comparison, feels all slippery and flimsy, like she has to adjust herself constantly lest she fall off his lap.

Except.

She doesn't think Jack would let her fall.

No. No way.

Both arms circle around her and crush her to his body, and Alice feels the air exit her lungs— of course he was going to hold he securely.

Alice feels his lips kiss at the edge of hers, press against her jaw, the delicate skin of her neck, before he ducks his head to settle in her shoulder.

'We better go,'

Oh, fuck. He's smiling into her clavicle. Does he know how hot that is? Feeling the amused stretch of his mouth against her flesh?

'Or I'll be stuck here, getting all worked up, finding new places to kiss you.'

Oh, fuck!

Alice makes another noise, staring down at Jack, shifting her weight atop her thighs as the heat flickering in her belly jumps, like a campfire being fed fuel.

How is Alice supposed to pack fucking toothpaste when she can feel the shape of his mouth against her, after hearing that?

She allows herself to bask in the hot feeling for a moment. Let her expression contract with something fluttery and pleased.

Then, with all the precision of a bomb defuser, Alice eases off his lap. The heat in her stomach remains.

"Well," she says, with an air of forced casualty. "For future reference. My neck is ticklish. In a very good way, I think."

Alice forces herself to swallow. If she thinks about his mouth, her. neck, or their time spent horizontal on the theater, starving for each other, she fears she may drool upon herself.

And then— just because she can— Alice grabs his hand, feeling the slightest tinge of shyness when she interlaces their fingers.

"I know you're a good east coast boy. And used to east coast winters."

Her eyes flit up from where they were staring at his knuckles. She'd never found that particular part of the human body attractive until him.

"But the desert is fucking freezing. Just so you're all prepared."

#005 #:D #i feel like jack gets distracted so easily and then he just has to stop doing everything #to focus on one thing or he'll die slkdfhs

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kpoptrashlord-007 · 2 days ago

Text

Hold Your Breath; NRK

Word Count;; 1.9k

Genre;; Yandere

Pairing;; Ni-Ki x Fem!Reader

Summary;;

You awaken inside a wooden box perfectly tailored to your dimensions, a nice snug fit. How considerate of your boyfriend… stalker? Murderer, at this rate. If all you have left is your voice then you’ll be damned sure to use it. Profusely. With excessive vulgarity. You’re not going to let him off easy, not after the hell he’s put you through.

Warnings;;

Yandere Content!! I went all in on this one so please heed the warnings! There's a spoiler at the very end of this list about the outcome of the story (MC's fate). Sadistic!Ni-Ki, Bored!Ni-Ki, Pissed Off!!Reader 'girl' used for Reader (hence Fem!Reader) Claustrophobia Warning (for you, yes, you! the person reading this! not the MC), Buried Alive, Suffocation, Blood and Wounds, Dark Humour Mentions of Kidnapping, Slight Stockholm Syndrome (but Reader just isn’t having any of it), Light Mind Break, Kinda Suicidal Thoughts but what’s the alternative, amirite?? (Reader is mentally stronger than me) Reader is so fucking done with his bullshit tbh so let’s see how that goes! Slightly Suggestive (mentions of/references to sexual acts), Excessive Swearing, Degradation (not in the fun kinky way) No Character Death, Reader or otherwise. It's something I would need to know before going into a fic like this so...

Request;;

“hi can i please request nr 2 from restraints and consequences for ni-ki(enhypen)? if you’re only doing one then pls do restraints, thanks :)” – Anon R2: ‘Your poor wrists… maybe next time you’ll do what I say the first time I ask.’ C2: ‘Don’t complain now – you did this to yourself.’

Notes;;

I wrote this so freaking fast y'all, I'm in my unhinged yandere era.

Main Masterlist || EN- Masterlist || Yandere Masterlist || Kinkoween Masterlist

“Wake up, my love,”

his voice, clouded with static and distance,

“time is ticking.”

When you stir, flipping your head from left to right, your cheek presses against something cold. It’s flat save for the slightest bump around its edges. There’s a low hum emanating from it, a bit like the kind you hear in rest stop bathrooms. A constant electric buzz.

You try to open your eyes to get a better look only to realise they’ve been open this entire time.

Dread burrows deep into your gut, smothering all reason and logic as you jolt upright… only to slam your forehead against a hard, wooden barrier. Panic overtakes your faculties as pain erupts within your aching skull… and your arms.

How hadn’t you noticed earlier? It’s nigh-impossible to ignore it now; bound together so tightly your fingers are going numb, your wrists lay limp on your stomach. It isn’t rope holding them together but something thinner, smoother.

Once more you fidget and attempt to turn only for your knee to knock against a solid wall. You try the other side and yield no better result. You’re surrounded on every front: left, right, above, below. It’s almost as if you’re inside a box. A human-sized rectangular box.

Better known as a fucking coffin.

“This can’t–” you whimper, struggling to speak over the sobs bubbling within your chest, turning your breath erratic and wild, “–can’t be happening.”

The little box – a phone – crackles with laughter.

You know that laugh.

You know it all too well.

“Riki, baby, what’s going on?” your voice betrays you, cracking on the last word.

“What do you think?” he drawls. “Surely even you’re smart enough to figure that one out.” When your only response is a barely contained wail, he sighs. “Don’t be so dramatic. You did this to yourself, after all.”

Did this to yourself?

He can’t be serious.

“What kind of sick game are you playing at?!”

No response. That’s a first. He’s usually so witty.

“Riki?” you call out, softly at first, then with enough force to tear the sensitive lining of your throat. “Why are you doing this!?”

An elongated hum cuts through the dark.

He might not answer.

And if he doesn’t, figuring out what set him off could prove impossible.

You rack your brain for something, anything that might’ve triggered such an extreme punishment. He came home in a good mood. Dinner went by without a hitch. You doted on his every word and gave him space when he grew tired of your hovering. It’s been months since you last attempted to leave – you don’t go anywhere near the front door, you don’t even look at it! And you’re always mindful of your words, careful not to disrespect him or the mockery of domestic bliss he’s oh-so-kindly thrust upon you.

Everything has been perfect.

You’ve been so goddamn perfect.

And this is his thanks?

Against all odds you’ve come to accept this as normal. The status quo. Life as usual. You cook, you clean, you care for him, all of it for him, and you do it with a smile. Day in, day out. Every morning you send him off with a kiss and every night you welcome him home with total subservience. You’ve even come to enjoy it when he takes you to bed… For the most part. And even when he’s in one of those moods, you don’t cry anymore.

How is all this not enough for him?

Rage long buried wells in the deepest pits of your heart but you push it down, quelling it with fragile hope the moment you hear him clear his throat.

“I guess…”

Not trusting yourself to speak you wait for him to finish, to clarify any of this in the slightest.

“I guess I was bored.”

The words slam against your fractured psyche harder than a tonne of bricks. Acting as cement boots, they drag you down to levels of despair you never knew possible. It might be rock bottom, or it might just be another Tuesday. What it truly is, in a way you’ve never imagined before, is liberating.

“Bored?” It’s your turn to laugh. “I’ve been pretty fucking bored myself.”

“Is that so?” Riki asks, joining you with an airy chuckle of his own. “How cute of us, matching up until the end.”

God, how you wish you could see him one last time, face to face, one final all-or-nothing attempt at slapping all that smug confidence and entitlement right out of him. A pipe dream. One you always knew you’d take to your grave.

“I have so much I want to say to you–”

“I’d save my breath if I were you.”

“–but I can sum it all up in just a few words.”

Years of walking on eggshells, of bending over backwards to please him, of total isolation after being forced to abandon a good, normal, healthy life, it all culminates in a single feeling: unbridled fury.

He can’t help himself, sneaking in an indifferent, “Please, enlighten me.”

and the last of your restraint snaps.

“I fucking hate you,” you seethe. Blood boiling, your tongue lashes out at a million beats per second. “I despise you. Every day spent with you was a waste of my fucking time. And you know what I regret the most? Not having told you sooner. I think I would’ve liked seeing the look on your face, and by God that would’ve been a first. Then you would have finally seen the real me, would’ve seen how I really look when I’m happy – happy to be fucking done with you.”

Wetting your lips, you wait for any kind of reaction but he doesn’t indulge your desires.

No surprise there – he’s always been a bit selfish.

“All in all it’s a good fucking day if you ask me. It’s a weight off my shoulders knowing I’ll finally be free of you. And all it took was dying!” You bark out a sharp laugh. “I’ll take that deal any day! Good fucking riddance, goodbye, and let’s never meet again!”

Huffing, you struggle to catch your breath in the humid, CO2-saturated box you’ll be spending the rest of your life in, courtesy of your psychopath stalker turned murderer boyfriend (and they say romance is dead!). It’s all so convenient for him, isn’t it? A two-in-one special. No muss, no fuss. Just a dead playtoy pre-buried to save time and energy because he’s–

“So fucking lazy. Can you hear me? You better be there, coward. It’s the least you can fucking do. Listen to my last words and shit…

“Hey. Hey! Are you there? Hey, Riki, are you there? Riki, hey. Hey, HELLO! Are you there?”

Not a blip or a peep.

“I must’ve killed children in a past life to deserve the ill fate of meeting you.”

Radio silence.

“God, I want to fucking punch you, just once, right in the fucking face. I want to hurt you so fucking bad. I guess telling you it’s been all I’ve thought about these last three years, four months, and twenty-seven days will have to be enough. I’ve imagined it so many times, so many different ways, and it always ends with you killing me… but it’s the fucking priceless look on your face that makes it all worth it.”

Nothing.

Seriously?

This fucker couldn’t even wait out the last few minutes you have left?

Warmth trickles into your palms and the pungent scent of iron fills your tomb and it’s only then you realise you’ve balled your fists so tightly the nails are piercing your skin. To make matters worse the air around you is thinning faster than you can vent all your pent up frustrations. Not that any of it matters. It might be better to speed up the process, to end this once and for all. But the truth is… you don’t want to die.

Why in the name of all that is holy would you have put up with this for so long if you were willing to take the easy route? You could’ve done it when he first granted you shackle-free privileges.

Is he thinking the same thing?

Getting a kick out of your faux bravado, laughing as you try so desperately to steal back a shred of dignity and an ounce of control?

“I fucking hate you!” you scream, kicking and thrashing, the last of your sanity burning to a crisp. Pinched skin splits beneath your wrists’ binding. One of your toes cracks against the impenetrable walls of your coffin. Your head throbs from movements far too exaggerated, the muscles in your neck tense and knotted. A heavy daze blankets you.

“I hate you. I hate you. I hate you, Riki! Do you understand me? Can you hear me? I fucking hate you!”

Blood oozes down your arms but you keep pounding your fists against the lid, fighting the urge to throw up as the pain intensifies tenfold. The material wrapped around them is inflexible and you wonder if it’s a type of metal, if you’re slowly garroting your own wrists. Another wave of nausea clings to the inside of your throat and you have to scream it out just so you can choke down the few viable breaths of oxygen left.

The phone crackles as the line unmutes.

"Aw, your poor wrists… are you done with your temper tantrum?’

“Go… to hell,” you pant.

Your eyes close only to snap wide open a millisecond later. You scan the dark for any inconsistencies or deviations, for the smallest sign to confirm your suspicions.

“Are you”—your voice is a rasp—“watching me?”

His deep chuckle is answer enough.

“You sick fuck.”

“I guess…” He sighs. “I wasn’t ready to give you up quite yet.”

“I guess,” you mock, “you can go fuck yourself.”

There’s a gravid pause and you figure this is it, the end, your grand send off!, when his voice returns.

“I’ve missed this.”

Soft, laced with adoration and affection.

“I’ve missed this side of you,” he continues.

It’s too hard to breathe let alone respond.

“I’ve missed the fighting, the punishments, the excitement.”

You might be able to manage another ‘fuck you’ if you really push yourself.

“I’m going to come get you, okay? I’m bringing you home.”

Shuffling.

The jingle of keys.

Creaking doors slamming shut.

“I’d only end up missing you anyway.”

Can’t you die any faster?

“And by the sound of it I’d only be doing you a favour if I let you die, and you haven’t earned any of those, have you?”

His voice echoes through the phone, almost hiding his muffled approach somewhere not too high above.

“Shallow, like your love. I thought it was fitting,” he murmurs, more than likely to himself but loud enough to make a point. A not-so-subtle hint on how you can improve in the future. His words are ragged and punctuated with the clang of metal striking dirt and stone as he adds, “At least it won’t take long.”

So your options are to listen to him as you die, or live with him until the next time you bore him.

“I’m so… lucky,” you wheeze.

He’s digging fast, inching closer by the second.

“Yes. You. Are.” The shovel strikes deep and he pauses, inhaling sharply. “Now be my good girl, my smart girl, and hold your breath, kitten.”

Tears streaming down your cheeks,

pain surging from your wrists,

lungs burning in desperation,

you hold your breath.

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