#the looks he's giving at her and the camera

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine being Sylus' non-mc significant other. part 2

Imagine Sylus had always been good at slipping into roles. A lover, a liar, a partner, a predator. Not because it was his nature but because that is how he survived. How he navigated a world full of ghosts and guns where names changed with the wind and loyalties died in the dark.

so Imagine when the mission called for him to play the doting boyfriend to MC, he did it without hesitation. Business was business. And nothing more. But you, you were never part of the plan.

Imagine you were something he never expected to find in the wreckage of his life. The softness he did not think he deserved. The quiet safety in a world too loud. With you, he wasn't a weapon, he wasn't a monster. He was just Sylus. Your Sylus. And that terrified him.

Imagine the way he knew what it looked like. The missed calls, the half truths, the bruises he wore like secrets. He watched you swallow your suspicion with grace, letting trust carry the weight of all the things he could not say. And you, you never asked too much. You never demanded more than what he could give and that made him want to give you everything. But then the mission came.

Imagine, the fake relationship with MC was meant to be a temporary cover. A strategic alliance masked in flirtation and staged intimacy. And he hated every second of it. He hated how close he had to stand. He hated the way MC would linger when the cameras weren't rolling. And what he hated most is the way he saw your silence begin to turn into sorrow.

Imagine he noticed everything. The way you started to flinch at the word "work." The way your smile faltered when he came home smelling like someone else's perfume. He noticed and it broke him because he couldn't tell you. Not yet. Not when the stakes were this high.

Imagine he never touched her like he touched you. He never whispered her name like a prayer. Never let her see the parts of him that he bled out in your hands. The vulnerable pieces you pieced back together night after night. MC was the mission. You were the reason he came back.

Imagine the night you asked about her and the way your voice cracked. That sound, that single, fractured breath did more damage than any bullet ever had. He looked at you and saw everything he stood to lose. Not because you doubted him but because he knew you had every right to.

Imagine he let it happen. He let it happen because he thought he was protecting you by keeping the truth buried beneath duty. But secrets rot. Even the ones told with good intentions. And you were starting to wither away from him.

"It's not what you think." He said but you already heard the guilt even before he felt it. Not guilt for what he did. But the guilt for the pain his silence caused you.

Imagine the way your silence answered. You did not scream. You didn't even cry. You just looked at him. You looked at him like you'd been bracing for this all along. And that killed something inside him.

Imagine in that moment, he realized something that made him feel like a sword pierced through his chest. You thought he loved her. You thought you were being replaced. You thought you were disposable. He made you feel that way.

Imagine that night, He stayed the night because he couldn't stand the idea of you being alone with that lie. Yet you did not touch him. You didn’t speak. You just curled into yourself like a wound trying to heal without being treated. And he lay down beside you. Not as a lover, not as a man but as the ghost of everything he ruined. Listening to the way your heartbeat refused to sync with his.

Imagine as dawn bleed into the room like a slow confession. He when and left with your back was still to him.You were quiet. The kind of quiet that used to mean peace, now it meant distance. The kind of quiet that he already knew he had lost you and you were just too kind to say it.

Imagine you were the kind of wound that he wanted to keep. The one that proved him that he could still feel something. And he would give anything to unlearn how it felt to wake up beside you knowing he didn’t deserve it.

Imagine he would give everything to go back to the moment you said his name like it was still a prayer and not a question. Because Sylus never loved her. He only loves you. And now he destroyed the only truth he ever had.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

[cressidagrey]

Mother Nature

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:   Oscar wants some peace and quiet after the Miami GP. 

Warnings and Notes: Do I like Hiking? Nope. But I feel like this is something Felicity and Oscar would actually do. Also one mention of a past eating disorder.

Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

The woods were still. Dew clung to the undergrowth, sunlight dappling in long golden patches through the trees. Birdsong filtered gently through the canopy. Somewhere far behind them, the world was still spinning—grid gossip, media soundbites, and Miami’s pastel chaos—but here, there was just the rhythm of boots on soil, the rustle of breeze, and Bee humming softly behind his ear.

Oscar exhaled.

They’d been walking since early morning, starting near Leith Hill Tower, climbing steadily through the forest. He could feel the weight of Bee in the carrier against his back—her chin tucked sleepily on his shoulder now, fingers tangled in the strap of his hoodie. Nearly four, and still not quite ready to do the whole hike herself, but stubborn enough to demand she start on her own legs before eventually giving in to the ride.

Felicity walked just ahead of him, hair tied in a loose braid, a thermos clipped to her backpack and mud already splattered up her leggings. She turned slightly to look back at him, one eyebrow raised in a silent question. He nodded—still good—and she smiled before turning back to the path.

God, he’d missed this.

No cameras. No ring lights. No microphones shaped like martini glasses. Just trees, and silence, and the two people he wanted most.

They used to do this nearly every week. During the Enstone year, when everything else was grim and grey—when the apartment walls were too thin and the furniture too cheap and Oscar’s future too uncertain—they hiked. Surrey hills. South Downs. Sometimes just long walks through fields behind the village shops. Back then, Felicity was the only thing steady. She kept him grounded, even when everything else felt like scaffolding ready to fall.

In 2020, when Bee was born, and those first weeks were a blur of monitors and sterile NICU silence, Oscar had felt like he was held together by tape. 

When they finally brought her home—tiny, scarred, brilliant—he started running with her. Not to get fitter. Not to train. But because movement meant control, and control meant he didn’t fall apart. Sometimes, when Bee couldn’t sleep and Felicity hadn’t eaten, he’d strap her into the jogger pram and run until her breathing slowed and his own heart calmed.

She’d grown up like that—wrapped against him as miles passed. He wasn’t sure she even knew that most dads didn’t take their toddlers running on country roads while naming trees and talking about downforce.

Ten miles in, and she was still content, even if sleepy. Occasionally mumbling “leaf,” or “mud,” or once, “Papa sweaty,” with absolute disdain.

Oscar huffed a laugh, glancing at Felicity again. She was crouched by a small patch of wildflowers, showing Bee something—a bee, probably, or a rock that looked like a dinosaur. She never pointed out grand things. Always the quiet ones. The hidden ones. And Bee absorbed it all.

They hiked in silence for a little while longer. The trail narrowed, and Oscar adjusted Bee’s weight, listening to her snuffle behind him.

He didn’t say it out loud—he rarely did—but these were the moments that made it all feel worth it. Not the podiums or the contracts. Not the headlines or the hype. Just this.

By the time they reached the zenith,Bee was fast asleep.

She’d nodded off somewhere around mile 10, one chubby cheek smushed against Oscar’s shoulder, her breath warm and rhythmic against the nape of his neck. Her tiny hands still clutched the strap of the carrier, though her fingers twitched every now and then like she was dreaming of climbing trees or chasing chickens back home.

The trail on the way down was easier. Looser, winding, gentle underfoot.

Oscar shifted his weight slightly, careful not to jostle her. He could feel the soft heaviness of her sleep against him, her body completely relaxed in that trustful way toddlers had when they felt safe.

He slowed his pace just a little.

Ahead of him, Felicity had paused by the edge of the trail to wait for him. Her hair was falling out of its braid, and she had a leaf stuck to her sock. She looked up and smiled at the sight of him trudging down the path, their daughter a bundled little koala against his back.

“She’s out?” she asked softly.

“Completely,” he said. “Didn’t even fight it this time.”

Felicity grinned. “Must’ve inherited my stamina.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “She sprinted through a patch of nettles earlier. You were the one who stopped to name all the moss.”

“It was rare moss,” she said, mock offended. “And I was educating your child.”

“She fell asleep halfway through your speech about root systems.”

“Honestly, so rude of her.”

He chuckled, stepping closer. Felicity brushed a few strands of hair off Bee’s forehead where they’d stuck to his hoodie. Her fingers lingered for a moment, just long enough to fix the strap, and then dropped.

They kept walking.

Below them, the hills began to roll out into open fields. A dog barked faintly somewhere in the distance. The world was waking up.

Oscar didn’t say much on the descent. He didn’t have to. Felicity’s arm brushed his every now and then. Bee’s tiny exhales tickled the back of his neck.

The gravel crunched underfoot as they finally stepped into the small car park near Leith Hill’s edge.

Oscar’s legs ached — that deep, familiar pull from too many miles and not enough downhill grace — but he didn’t mind. Not when Bee was still fast asleep, a warm, limp little weight against his back, her curls damp with sweat and her hand tucked under her chin like she was curled into bed.

Felicity walked a little ahead, already fishing the car keys out of her jacket. “She’s really not going to wake up, huh?”

“Out like a light,” Oscar murmured. “I think we broke her.”

“We did let her climb half the hill like a goat before remembering she’s three.”

“She insisted on it. Said she wanted to beat her personal best.”

“Her personal best is usually a tree stump.”

Oscar laughed quietly as they reached the car. Felicity opened the back door with a practiced flick, then held it open with her hip while reaching up to help unbuckle the carrier.

“Okay,” she whispered, hands gentle on the straps. “Let’s tag-team this.”

Oscar tilted his shoulders, careful not to jostle Bee, and crouched slightly. “You take her arms, I’ll handle the leg straps.”

“On three?”

“One… two…”

Bee gave a soft snore.

“Abort,” Felicity said quickly, freezing mid-unclip. “She’s twitching.”

Oscar paused, holding perfectly still as their daughter’s brow furrowed slightly in her sleep — then settled again, cheek smushed adorably against his hoodie.

They both exhaled like they were defusing a bomb.

Felicity tried again, this time even slower, managing to slide Bee’s arms out of the straps without waking her. Oscar crouched lower, catching her under the arms as she slowly sagged into him like a sleepy sandbag.

“She’s dead weight,” he whispered, adjusting his hold. “Like carrying a damp loaf of bread.”

“A very cute loaf,” Felicity murmured, brushing Bee’s curls off her face as she flopped sleepily against Oscar’s chest, her thumb halfway to her mouth.

“Think I can strap her into the car seat without waking her?”

“You drive F1 cars for a living,” Felicity said. “I believe in you.”

Oscar grinned.

Between the two of them, with the skill of sleep-deprived parents everywhere, they managed it. Bee stirred once — a little whimper, a scrunched brow — but Oscar whispered, “Shh, it’s okay, Bumblebee,” and stroked her back, and she settled again like nothing had happened.

They both shut their doors quietly.

Inside the car, the air was cooler. Bee’s head lolled to the side, soft breaths misting the window. Oscar twisted in his seat to check her one more time.

“She’s still out,” he said, voice low.

Felicity glanced back too, then smiled, soft and proud. “That was her longest hike yet.”

Oscar reached for her hand across the center console and laced their fingers together. “She’ll be climbing mountains soon.”

“She already does,” Felicity said. “Just on your back.”

Oscar leaned his head against the seat and smiled.

This.

This was what peace looked like.

Not headlines. Not trophies.

Just this. 

***

The drive home was quiet.

Bee stayed asleep the entire way, her head slumped to the side in her car seat, thumb still curled near her mouth. Felicity had kicked off her boots and tucked her feet under her on the passenger seat, absently scrolling through photos on her phone — most of them blurry shots of Bee pointing at squirrels or Oscar carrying her up the ridge trail like a human pack mule.

They’d barely cleared Dorking when Oscar turned into the McDonald’s drive-thru.

Felicity blinked up. “What are you doing?”

“Making an executive decision,” Oscar said solemnly.

“I literally made lentil stew last night,” she muttered. “We have prepped meals. We have hummus.”

“We also just walked nearly twenty miles with a toddler and haven’t eaten since noon.”

“You had trail mix.”

“I had five sad almonds and a raisin.”

Felicity opened her mouth — paused — then closed it again. “Fine.”

“You’re not going to make me a chart about preservatives later, are you?” Oscar asked as they waited.

Felicity just sighed. “Only if you order fries.”

Oscar pulled up to the speaker. “Can I get one chocolate milkshake and two vanilla, please?”

Bee stirred faintly in the back.

“Make that one vanilla, one strawberry,” Felicity said. “Vanilla is her sleepy choice.”

Oscar grinned at her. “So you do want one.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered.

The voice on the speaker confirmed the order, and a minute later, Oscar was handing over three sweating plastic cups with those too-thick red straws. He passed one to Felicity, who took it like someone receiving contraband.

“I can,” Oscar said cheerfully, taking a long slurp. “You made your own peanut butter last week, you’ve earned it.”

Felicity narrowed her eyes, but the first sip hit her tongue and she visibly wilted. “Oh no. It’s perfect. This is why I don’t let myself have them.”

Oscar glanced sideways at her — head tipped against the window, ponytail loose, cheeks pink from the wind, lashes smudged slightly under her eyes. She looked tired, and soft, and so, so alive.

He thought — not for the first time — about the girl she used to be.

When they were 14 and she was so thin that she looked like a gust of wind could carry her away. When she didn’t eat because that felt like the one thing in her life that she could control. 

Teenage Felicity would have looked at a McDonald’s milkshake like it was poison.

And here she was. 23 now. Ponytail falling out, curls soft around her face, pink-cheeked and barefoot in his passenger seat. Drinking vanilla milkshake without apology.

His heart ached with how proud he was of her.

“Don’t tell the sourdough,” she sighed.

Oscar laughed.

“Bee,” Oscar called gently. “Want a milkshake?”

His daughter’s eyes opened in slow motion, and the second she saw the cup in his hand, she sat bolt upright like she'd been summoned by sugar-based witchcraft. “Strawberry?!”

Felicity sighed. “You have created a monster.”

Oscar passed the cup back. “And I love her.”

Bee clutched the milkshake with both hands and immediately slurped like it was her life source. Then she leaned her head against the side of her car seat and sighed in bliss.

Oscar looked over at Felicity, who was halfway through hers now and trying to look unimpressed. “You can admit it. McDonald’s milkshake is your weakness.”

She took another long sip and gave him a deeply betrayed look.

“I’ll deny everything,” she said. “This never happened.”

Oscar raised his cup in toast. “To our health queen, momentarily dethroned by the glory of vanilla extract and industrial-grade dairy stabiliser.”

Felicity bumped her cup against his with a resigned sigh. “God help me if Bee remembers this.”

Bee, licking artificial strawberry off her straw, chirped: “Best. Hike. Ever.”

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was theirs.

And right now, it tasted like strawberry milkshake and everything being exactly enough.

***

Instagram Post - @/oscarpiastri ✅

Comments: 

@/maxfewtrell: 🤨 i blinked and oscar turned into a poet

@/yourgfcarla: she’s SO PRETTY it’s giving forest nymph who knows how to rebuild a gearbox

@/brakebiasfanclub: he really said: you don’t get to know her, you just get to witness that she exists 🫢

@/formulawives: "still the best part"??? WE'RE SO UNWELL

@/f1updatesdaily who took this picture of oscar’s mysterious engineer wife. was it oscar. is oscar the wife guy of the year. discuss.

@/sourdough_sinners not her looking like a woodland elf who makes spreadsheets for fun

@/f1wifelore why does this feel like a Victorian love letter via Instagram

@/felicitysfanpage i am once again asking for her skincare routine and engine oil preferences

@/danielricciardo she’s out of your league. respectfully.

@/maxverstappen1 did you hike or was this just a nature photoshoot disguised as cardio

@/mclaren Nature looks good on you, Oscar 🍃

@/sophiagracewrites this feels like page 237 of a novel where the main character realizes they’ve been in love the whole time

@/user193847 you guys he’s in love love 💀💀💀

@/f1girlsbookclub oscar piastri hikes??? like with boots and effort????

@/tiregirlie420 idk what i expected from him but it was NOT forest-core husband energy

@/slowpitstopfan excuse me?? he hikes?? regularly??? does McLaren know about this??

@/gaslythotwife I thought he got his cardio in by being emotionally evasive 😭

@/helmetontilt the real plot twist isn’t the mystery wife. it’s that oscar piastri willingly walks uphill in his free time.

@/brakesbeforeboys nah the idea of oscar being like “let’s get some air” and just vanishing into the HILLS is doing things to me

@/be.forreal do we think he uses a hydration pack. i need to know if oscar piastri owns a hydration pack.

@/gridwivesanonymous HE’S NOT EVEN TAGGING HER BUT HE IS GIVING HER “SOFT FOCUS IN THE GOLDEN HOUR LIGHT” ENERGY. THIS IS MARRIAGE. THIS IS A HIKE-BASED LOVE STORY.

@/notyourpitstop just realized that means he wears fleece. like fleece and hiking boots. i’m so unwell.

@/pitlanepropaganda

me: he's a calm analytical driver with an insane corner exit

also me, looking at this post: HE’S A WHIMSICAL FOREST HUSBAND WHO HOLDS HER HAND OVER TREE ROOTS

[beesandwasps]

Some of them are definitely malicious.

Look, Joe Biden deliberately expanded funding for ICE well beyond what Trump had done (Trump’s highest ICE budget was $8.4 billion, Biden’s was $10 billion) and invented an entirely new category of federal spending in order to funnel money to local police forces so they could militarize. Then he — unlike literally every President until that point — encouraged Israel to commit genocide without any consequences whatsoever, while actually deporting more people than Trump. Trump might or might not eventually have reached the point we are at right now without Biden, but Biden is the one who built and equipped a Gestapo for Trump to control and then provoked demonstrations so he’d have an excuse to sic them on the public. (Incidentally, it’s worth pointing out that Israel attacked Iran twice under Biden and suffered no consequences. That’s how dedicated Biden was to the Israeli cause, as opposed to anything Americans actually want or which would keep them safe.) No matter what kind of a frowny face Biden puts on when the cameras are running, he’s absolutely in favor of everything that’s happening right now, the cancerous racist shithead. I hope he survives long enough for Trump to turn on him and throw him into an overseas prison; I feel bad that no matter what he can’t possibly live long enough to really suffer for what he’s done.

And Harris had every opportunity to distance herself from this, we know thanks to leaks from within the party and her campaign that she had polling showing that she’d do better if she did, and instead she doubled down on it, said she’d continue it, said Biden hadn’t done a single thing she would change. She’s definitely complicit; she approved of what Biden was doing and promised to give us more of it.

And, incidentally, Obama is the one who arranged for the string of candidates to drop out and back Biden in the 2020 primaries, specifically in order to lock out Sanders, who was by far the most popular of the candidates in the initial run-up, while Hillary Clinton was third runner-up, according to multiple sources, in taking money from AIPAC and Bill gave speeches backing the genocide before the election.

Every single Democratic President since Reagan has materially contributed to what Trump is doing now. They’re all traitors. Even if everybody else in the party is merely ignorant rather than malicious — which is implausible; look at Chuck Schumer or see the late Dianne Feinstein’s comments about how the truth was making it hard to recommend invading Iraq (which she did) — the party still cannot be trusted in any way. “Blue No Matter Who” is the slogan of a self-sabotaging moron; the only electoral position which is at all a step towards sanity is to support a third party.

[v6quewrlds]

&.⠀⠀ROSE WATER⠀⋆⠀JUSTIN HERBERT.

pairing⠀⁎⠀justin herbert x vet!reader. word count⠀⁎⠀6.6k.

summary⠀⁎⠀justin and his blue polo shirt have stolen any hope of saturday afternoon peace you once held on to. forfeiting any chance of studying, you're inspired to share that hopeless insanity with him.

author's note⠀⁎⠀so i was being a little dramatic last night lol, enjoy <3 warnings⠀⁎⠀smut, 18+ mdni, some dom/sub dynamics, soft dom!justin, overstimulation, fingering, oral fixation (!), begging.

read more⠀⁎⠀justin herbert masterlist / series masterlist.

She was losing her mind, every single bit of it. It was torture, the sweetest kind of agony she’d ever felt. Justin was away in Wisconsin, playing golf for a charity event. She hadn’t thought twice about staying at his place while he was gone, not even giving him the chance to think about contacting his regular house-sitter.

She truly didn’t mean to get so worked up. But maybe she should have known better than to navigate over to her boyfriend’s Instagram profile and swipe to his tagged posts. Maybe she should have known better than to let the sight of him, gloriously tanned in a navy blue polo, stir up the butterflies in her stomach. There were videos of his golf swing, his back facing the camera, muscles flexing with each hit of the ball. His veins twisting down his arms like a road map to heaven. She should have known better than to watch that video of him smiling wide, dimple peaking through, some polite phrase leaving his parted lips.

Trying to resume studying after her deep dive was entirely pointless. She would find herself reading, rereading, and rereading the same sentence over and over again without comprehension. The only thing she could think of was the way Justin’s shirt clung to his broad shoulders in the pictures, the way his pants—pressed by her just before his flight that morning—hugged his thighs, and the way his eyes looked so vivid, bright, so full of excitement even through the screen.

Waiting to board. I’ll let you know when I’m on the flight.

His text came through, breaking through the haze of her thoughts.

Her response was simple: a selfie in the mirror, wearing a zip-up hoodie of his. The black zip-up was half undone, one side falling off her shoulder to expose a lacy, white bra underneath. It was as close to naked as she dared to be in a picture. There was no accompanying message, just her shoulder exposed, coils pulled back into a low bun at the nape of her neck, and the hoodie zipped low enough to reveal a bit of her chest.

Fly safe, I love you.

If she was aching, Justin was suffering. He had opened the text thread casually, his attention split between responding to messages and paying attention to his chartered plane's boarding announcements. He nearly dropped his phone when the image appeared on his screen. He turned his phone off, swallowing hard, and took a deep breath.

He turned his phone back on, lowering his brightness to avoid any unwelcome glances from nearby passengers. He inhaled harshly through his nose, keenly aware of how insane it was that he could get this worked up over a shoulder and a bit of lace. But it was her shoulder and her bra and just: her. He hadn’t seen her in hours, which was beginning to feel like days.

His index finger tapped against the side of his phone, contemplating a response. Knowing her, she was probably sitting as far away from her phone as possible, too anxious to watch for his reaction. But he had to say something, had to let her know that she had him hooked: line and sinker.

Hope that’s my hoodie.

He typed out quickly, hitting send just as he was called to board.

Boarding. Can’t wait to get home to you.

He shoved his phone into one of his front pockets and followed the flight attendant, his backpack slung over his shoulder.

The flight home was agonizingly slow. Every second dragged on, filled with images of her in his mind, her pretty eyes glittering with lust, her body silently begging for his touch. Justin could feel his heart beating in his chest, the anticipation of seeing her again making him restless. The moment the plane’s wheels hit the tarmac, he was up, eager to escape the confines of the aircraft and get back to her.

He pulled into the garage, grabbing his bag and making a beeline for the door. The house was quiet, but the evidence that she was there, she was still home, was everywhere. The smell of something sweet wafted from the kitchen, the faint sound of footsteps coming from his room upstairs. Just as he set his bag down by the door, the sound of paws hitting the floor announced Nova’s arrival. She wove around his legs, purring loudly, seemingly happy to see him for the time being.

“Hey, girl, where’s your momma?” He picked her up, scratching behind the feline's ears, then taking a moment to set his Callaway golf cap on the hook by the door.

She was still in that zip-up hoodie when he finally caught sight of her descending the stairs. However, now with the full view of her body, he could see the black boy shorts that matched the color of the hoodie. Her legs were bare, and her feet were tucked into a pair of fuzzy socks that matched the black and white theme of the ensemble. In one hand, she had her phone, and in the other, she clutched a mason jar of sweet iced tea. Presumably, one of the two she left behind in his cupboards and never felt the need to bring back to her rental home. She looked so innocent, so sweet, so utterly unaware of the chaos she had wrought upon him.

“There she is,” he narrated to Nova, his voice softening as he watched her approach.

She set her phone and the mason jar down on the entryway table just as Nova leapt out of Justin’s arms, landing gracefully on the floor. He reached for her, his hands sliding under the fabric of the hoodie to rest on her waist. Her arms looped around his neck, pulling him closer, her eyes immediately drawn to his lips.

“Missed you,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss him softly. It was slow, the kiss, a gentle reintroduction after a day apart. Justin’s hands tightened on her waist, pulling her closer until she was flush against him. He could feel the heat of her body, smell the faint scent of her perfume that had somehow permeated the fabric of his hoodie.

“I missed you more,” he hummed, pressing forward again to kiss her harder, deeper. Her arms dropped from his neck, her hands moving instead to feel the fabric of his polo. “Did you manage to get some studying done?” he asked, pulling away from the kiss, unable to hide his smile when she chased his lips.

“Some,” she replied, reaching out to play with his fingers, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth again.

He tugged her along with him, his steps slow and deliberate, leading her into the kitchen where that smell of sweetness was more concentrated. “Some?” he echoed, more so wondering aloud, pulling the oven mitts off the hook and opening the oven door.

“Some, but not as much as I should have,” she admitted shyly. Justin pulled out the sheet and placed it on the stovetop to begin the cooling process. She was trying to be subtle, her eyes tracing the line of his jaw, his neck, the expanse of his back. She knew he noticed; he could read her like a book. He hadn’t missed the way her eyes had glazed over when she met him at the door a few moments prior.

“How much is 'some'?” He removed the oven mitts and set them down on the kitchen counter, turning to face her fully, leaning against the counter.

She shrugged, resuming her fiddling with his fingers. “Maybe fifty percent? I got distracted.”

Justin released a short, breathy laugh. “By what?” Laughing once again when she chose not to respond. He knew full well by what—his own damn pictures. He couldn’t blame her; he’d had his fair share of distractions today too. But he’d be damned if he didn’t get to revel in her embarrassment a little bit. “Were you thinking about something?” He whispered, the hand in her grasp moving to find the back of her neck, his thumb stroking the soft skin of her cheek.

Her eyes flickered up to meet his, the corners of her mouth tipping up slightly. “Maybe.”

“Maybe what?” Justin prodded, his voice dropping an octave, his gaze darkening as he took in the way her breathing slowed and her eyes grew heavy-lidded. He knew that look. “Words, baby. Give me words.”

“Justin…” she groaned, her head dropping forward to press against his chest. She didn’t know how to avoid the embarrassment of telling him that she’d been thinking about him all day, about his arms, his hands, his smile.

He chuckled, his chest rumbling against her cheek. “Come on, tell me. Sent me a picture earlier, you can tell me now.” His hand remained on the back of her neck, gently guiding her to look up at him.

“I… I just… I was thinking about you,” she murmured, the honey-coating in her voice just barely audible. Her palm flattened against his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart beneath the fabric of his polo. “Thinking about how much I miss you when you’re gone, and how much I want you when you’re here…”

Justin’s smile grew, directing her gaze back up to him. He leaned down, his nose brushing against hers. “Is that all?” Seafoam green eyes searched hers, his voice a low rumble in the quiet kitchen. She could see the way his pupils dilated, the way his tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip. With every passing second, she found more difficult to maintain eye contact. He was always so intense in these moments, so demanding of her honesty.

Their mouths parted again, identical breaths leaving them both in a silent pant. Justin’s hand on her neck tightened slightly, his lips brushing against hers, and he whispered, “Should I fuck you? Does that sound like something you need?”

She nodded, her voice a squeak. “Please.”

He kissed her again, hard and demanding, his hand moving from her neck to cradle the back of her head, tilting it so he could deepen the kiss. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as she let out a soft whine. He broke the kiss, his eyes somehow even more intense as he whispered, “Good girl.”

Both of his hands moved to cup her face. Justin’s thumbs traced the outline of her cheekbones, his fingertips brushing against her ears as his tongue swept into her mouth. He could feel her body melting into his, her curves fitting against his angles like they were made for this, made to be together. His hands slid down to the zipper of the hoodie, pulling it down with a slow, deliberate motion. She could feel the goosebumps rise on her skin as the fabric parted, exposing the lacy white bra that had been taunting him for the last few hours. He groaned, his mouth moving to her neck, kissing and nibbling the soft skin there.

Her hands roamed up his chest, her nails digging into the fabric of his polo shirt. She pulled at the hem, trying to get her hands on the bare skin she hadn’t felt in what felt like an eternity. He chuckled, breaking away from her neck to kiss at her lips. His knees bent slightly, allowing him to scoop her up easily, her legs wrapping around his waist.

If she wasn’t so busy kissing him, she would’ve marveled at the ease with which he carried her up the stairs to his bedroom. Her heart was racing, her body thrumming with need, her mind swimming in a sea of desire. The bedroom door swung open, and he laid her down gently on the California king-sized bed that had seen more of her naked body than perhaps her own bed had.

Justin hovered over her, parting her thighs to make room for his frame. He kissed her again, a wet, sloppy mess of a kiss that had her toes curling and her core pulsing. His hands roamed under the hoodie, feeling her soft flesh, his thumbs brushing over the cups of her bra. “Do you want this off?” he murmured, his voice gruff.

She nodded, their parting of their lips allowing her to catch her breath. She felt his hands remove the jacket, tossing it to the side. Then he moved to the hooks of her bra, deftly unclipping it with a single hand, the other squeezing the plush flesh of her thigh, hooking it around his waist to keep her in place. She felt the cool air of the room kiss her now bare breasts, her nipples tightening to hard peaks. He leaned down to kiss her neck, his teeth grazing the skin there, leaving a trail of kisses down to her collarbone. She sighed as his mouth closed around one nipple, suckling gently.

Her hands moved to his hair, her nails scraping against his scalp as she held him to her, urging him to take more, to give her more. He chuckled against her skin, his tongue flicking out to tease the tight peak before moving to the other side to give it the same treatment. His hand slid down her body, over her stomach, and into her shorts, finding her already soaked.

“Eager, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick with lust, as he pulled away from her chest to look into her eyes. “So fucking eager for me, aren’t you?” He slid his hand into her shorts, his fingers sliding through her slick folds, finding her clit with a practiced ease that had her back arching off the bed. He watched her face as he circled the sensitive nub, his touch light and feathering.

Her eyes rolled back in her head, her hips moving in tandem with his hand, searching for more friction. “Can I have your fingers, please?” she begged, her voice hoarse with desire. Her hands moved away from his hair, finding the sides of his face, biting his lower lip gently as she pleaded with him.

“Anything you need, angel,” Justin whispered against her skin. He pulled his fingers from her shorts, hooking his fingers into the waistband and tugging them down along with her panties. He tossed them aside, leaving her fully bare before him. Just as he always did, he took a brief moment to take in the sight of her, the way her skin glowed under the soft light of his bedroom, the way her chest rose and fell with each desperate breath she took. He leaned down to kiss her jaw, biting the junction of her neck and shoulder weakly.

Her eyes fluttered shut, a soft whine escaping her throat as she felt his lower half press further into her. She nodded, eager to please. Justin’s hands moved to her hips, his fingers digging into the flesh as he pulled her closer to the edge of the bed. His mouth found hers again, swallowing her gasps as he ground into her. She grabbed hold of his wrist, kissing the inside of his wrist, then repeating the action with each of his fingers. Her eyes didn’t shift away from his, not even when she took his index finger into her mouth, sucking and licking until it was slick with her saliva.

“Need your mouth full?” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. He watched as she sucked on his fingers, her eyes locked on his, and felt a surge of lust that nearly brought him to his knees. When she was done, he pulled his hand away, bringing his glistening fingers to her center. He slid one, then two into her, her walls tightening around them. She was so wet, so ready for him.

Her eyes rolled back in pleasure, a silent moan escaping her lips. He watched her face, the swollen plump of her lips parting, the way her eyelids grew heavy. “So beautiful, baby,” he whispered, his thumb unintentionally brushing against her clit as he pushed his fingers in deeper. She responded with a whimper, her back arching up to meet him. He began to move his hand in a slow, rhythmic motion, watching her face, her body, learning her, memorizing every twitch, every tremble.

Her core tightened around his hand, her hips bucking slightly as he found the perfect rhythm. She bit her lip, trying to hold in the sounds that threatened to spill out of her. She felt the heat building, her body coiling tightly, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. “God,” she whined, her hand poised on his forearm as it flexed with every thrust of his fingers.

Justin watched her, his eyes dark with lust, his free hand bracing himself on the bed beside her. He whispered sweet nothings into her ear, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine. “That’s it, angel. Just relax for me. I’ve got you, I’ve got you, sweetheart, so good for me…”

Her breath hitched, her nails digging into his forearm. She was so close, so close to coming apart for him. And when she did, it was with a high-pitched cry, her body shaking as he continued to pump into her, drawing out the orgasm until she was boneless and panting beneath him. He talked her through it, as he always did, “That’s my girl, so fucking beautiful, baby. Just like that. Just like that…”

When her tremors ceased, he gently removed his hand from her pussy, bringing it to his mouth to taste her. “Mmm,” he groaned. “Taste yourself, baby.” He offered her his fingers, and she took them eagerly, sucking them clean, staring up at him through her lashes.

Justin’s cock was painfully hard, straining against his pants. He leaned down to kiss her, tasting himself on her lips. She wrapped her legs around him, trying to pull him closer, desperate to have him fill her. He chuckled against her mouth, breaking the kiss to remove his polo before his hands moved to undo the button of his pants.

“I want you so badly, J,” she breathed, running her hand down his chest.

“You’ve got me, baby,” he replied, indulging the way she pressed her lips to the pad of his right thumb; evidently not having gotten her fixation satiated. He pulled back, shucking his pants and boxers, his dick springing free, thick and hard, his veins twisting up the length of his shaft. She bit her lip, watching him with hungry eyes. He leaned over her, his hand moving to her chin, tilting her head up so he could kiss her again.

“Wanna make you feel good,” she purred, her back arching into him as his kisses trailed over her jaw and down to the tops of her tits. Her hips rocked against his. Her hand found the nape of his neck, her fingers threading through his hair as she tried to bring him closer.

Justin’s cock was begging to be inside her, but he held off, enjoying the sweet torture of her needy whimpers and the way her body moved against his. He kissed along her collarbone, making her squirm and moan. “Do you, baby?”

She nodded, her voice thin and breathy. “Yeah, I do. I want to suck you, feel you in my mouth, taste you, please…”

Justin groaned, his body responding to her words. “Just for a little bit, baby,” he murmured, releasing her chin and rising to his full height. He gripped the base, his hand twisting in a slow rise and fall, his tip left untouched. “On your knees,” he instructed, his voice taking on a commanding tone.

She obeyed without question, practically scrambling to get off the bed and onto her knees. She quietly watched him take a seat at the edge of the bed. From this position, her face was directly level with his crotch, his cock standing proud and erect before her. The sight of him, the smell of him, had her mouth watering, and she didn’t wait for his next instruction before leaning in to kiss his thighs, her hands coming up to rest on his knees.

Justin’s hand met the side of her face, firmly cradling her cheek. “Look at me,” he ordered softly. She did, her eyes lifting to meet his, full of hunger. He tapped the tip against her lips, smearing a bead of precum over them.

He watched her intently, his eyes hooded as she licked her lips, savoring the taste of him. Finally, he guided her forward, the signal to begin. She opened her mouth, taking him in with a sigh of pure pleasure. She could feel the heat of him, the velvety softness of his skin against her tongue. He was thick and heavy in her mouth, his skin a bit salty to the taste. She moaned around him, the vibrations causing him to tense.

Her hands moved to grip the base of his cock, her thumbs stroking the underside as she took him deeper. She knew what he liked, knew the rhythm that would make him lose control. She watched him, his eyes never leaving hers as she began to suck him off, her tongue swirling around the tip, her cheeks hollowing as she took more and more of him into her mouth.

The hand on her cheek contined to guide her, his thumb tracing her bottom lip as she worked his shaft. Justin’s breathing grew harsher, his eyes closing as he cursed under his breath. He watched her every move, his eyes darkening as she took him deeper, her saliva coating his length.

“Don’t wanna cum like this, angel,” Justin murmured, gently pulling away from her eager mouth. He didn’t want it to end too quickly, not when she was so obviously craving him. “Said I was gonna fuck you. How do you want me?”

He guided her to stand, his hands moving to her hips. She stood in between his spread legs, her own trembling slightly as she awaited his next command. He pulled her in for a kiss, his tongue delving into her mouth, tasting himself on her.

“Tell me how you want it, my love,” Justin whispered against her swollen lips, his hands roaming from her waist to her lower back, down to her ass, cupping and squeezing it firmly.

Her breath hitched as she leaned into him. “I want it from behind,” she responded, her voice a heated whisper. “With my face in the pillow.”

“Yeah?” Justin’s eyes bore into hers, the hunger in them growing.

She confirmed with a nod. Justin’s grip tightened on her hips in an affirmative squeeze before releasing her, standing to his full height. He took a step back, watching as she positioned herself on the bed, her legs spread just enough to allow him entry, her face buried in the pillow, ass up in the air. He couldn’t resist the urge to smack it lightly, watching as she jolted with the impact. She moaned into the pillow, urging him on.

“God, you’re perfect,” Justin rumbled as he took in the sight of her, all sprawled out and desperate for him. “So fucking perfect.” She was so slick and ready, he could see her wetness glisten in the dim light of the room. He brushed his tip through her folds, teasing her entrance before sliding in, watching as her body took him inch by inch. She moaned into the pillow, her hands fisting the fabric tightly.

Her tight heat clenched around him as he pushed in deeper, filling her completely. He took a moment to just appreciate the feeling of her, the way she felt so right around him. Then, with a grunt, he began to move, setting a slow, steady rhythm that had her back arching. She was so wet, so warm, and it was all for him.

Every moan and whimper from her made his blood warmer, his strokes more insistent. When he slipped out accidentally, her grip tightened on the pillow, her hips pushing back to meet him again. Justin took hold of her hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he thrust back in, eliciting a muffled cry from her.

“I’m sorry, baby. So wet for me, I’m slipping out,” he murmured. He pulled almost all the way out, the head of his cock dragging over her clit before plunging back in, making her moan loudly. Sure, he was being a little mean, playing with her like this, but the way she reacted was intoxicating.

“You’re teasing,” she whined, turning her face slightly to the side so the pillow didn’t muffle her voice entirely. Justin chuckled darkly, his hand coming down to smack her ass again, rubbing the raw skin gently before moving back to her hip to keep her steady.

“You know I don’t like it when you whine like that.” He tsked.

“Taught you to use your words. What do you need?” Justin encouraged, his voice a low growl in the quiet of the room.

Her breath hitched. “Harder. Please.” Justin’s grip on her hips tightened as he gave her what she asked for, his strokes becoming more forceful, the sound of their bodies meeting filling the room. She could feel him everywhere, his cock stretching her, his hands holding her in place as he claimed her.

The force of his thrusts had the bed shaking beneath them, the headboard thumping rhythmically against the wall. Her eyes squeezed shut, and she bit into the pillow to muffle the screams of pleasure that were building in her throat. She could feel her core tighten with every stroke, the pressure building until she thought she might just shatter into a million pieces.

“Oh…” she breathed into the pillow, her voice muffled, the fabric dampening the cries that spilled from her. Her eyes squeezed shut, her body trembling as she felt the pressure build, the warmth spreading from her core to her fingertips.

Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes rolled back, and her toes curled as Justin's relentless thrusts hit that spot deep inside her that only he knew existed. She could feel herself getting closer and closer to the edge, her muscles tightening around him. One of his hands moved from her hip to the small of her back, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh as he pushed her further into the mattress.

She couldn’t think with him inside her, couldn’t form coherent thoughts as he pounded into her, making her body sing with pleasure. She was close, so close, and all she could do was whine and beg into the pillow, her voice lost to the world but not to him. He knew her so well, knew when she was close, and just when she thought she’d fall apart, he slowed his pace, drawing out her agony.

Justin’s chest was slick with sweat, his breathing heavy and labored, his heart hammering in his chest. He watched her body move under him, her ass bouncing with every thrust, her thighs quivering. He watched her fuck herself back onto his cock, even as his hips stilled for a moment. The muscles in her back rippled with each gasp, and her breath was coming in short, panting bursts.

“Mmhmm, baby, just like that,” he hummed, his eyes flicking upwards to catch the intensity with which she gripped the pillow. She was aching, he could tell, having taken matters into her own hands in the wake of the pause he’d allowed. “Look at you, so desperate to cum for me. Keep going, angel, keep taking it.”

The words were a command and a caress, pushing her closer to the precipice she hovered upon. She could feel the wetness of her own desire mixing with the sweat on her skin, making her body slick and slippery. She obeyed, her body responding instinctively to his touch, his voice, continuing to do the work of impaling herself on him even as he held back.

Unexpectedly, she grew quiet, spasming around him, but no sound of pleasure followed. Her hips circled but her torso went slack, the tension draining away. Justin paused, concerned she had been hurt. This was out of character for her, she was always vocal in some way during their intimate moments. They had been working on her ability to voice her desires and enjoyment over the course of their relationship, so her sudden silence was disconcerting.

“Angel, baby, you okay?” Justin asked, worried. He paused his movements, his cock still buried deep inside her. He leaned over her, pressing his chest to her back, lifting her head from the pillow to get a look at her face, hoping to find the answer in her expression.

Her eyes remained closed, her breathing shallow and quick. She didn’t respond, but her grip on the duvet tightened, her hips now completely still. Justin felt a jolt of panic, but just as he slowly began to pull out, she spoke, her voice hoarse and needy, the words spilling out in a bit of a cry.

“Please… please don’t stop. I’m so close to cumming. Please, just don’t stop. Baby, please don’t stop.” She sobbed out the words, her voice trembling and raw. Her eyes remained squeezed shut as she clung to the edge of her sanity.

Justin felt a rush of relief at her words. “Scared me, angel. You okay?” he murmured, his hand smoothing over her hair as he watched her closely.

She nodded, her eyes fluttering open to find him staring down at her. “I’m okay, I promise,” she panted. “Just really need you to keep going. Please.”

Justin searched her face for any sign of pain or distress, finding none but an intense, almost desperate need. He leaned down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead before resuming his steady, deep strokes. He kept a hold on her face, needing the reassurance that she was okay, that she was still with him.

“Mm, fuck, baby, okay,” Justin whispered, his eyes stuck to her face as he began to move again. His strokes were gentle at first, but soon grew in speed and power as he watched her reaction. She pushed back against him, her breath hitching with each thrust. “Look at you, so beautiful like this. Taking me so good, baby, so good for me…”

Her eyes rolled back in her head, the arch in her back deepening as she took him in. Justin’s thrusts grew more powerful, his hips slapping against her ass, the sound echoing through the room. She was still quiet for the most part. Just the sound of her panting and the occasional whine slipping out from between her clenched teeth.

“Mmhmm, baby, that’s it,” Justin encouraged, feeling her muscles clench around him as he watched her chase the elusive second orgasm. He leaned over her, one hand on the bed for balance as he fucked into her with all the finesse and power of a man desperate for his girl’s undoing. His cheek pressed against hers, his moans mixing with her whimpers.

Her hands fisted the sheets, her knuckles straining as she held on tight, her body writhing beneath his. “Yes,” she moaned, the sound clear in his ears. “Yes, yes, yes… “ her voice trailed off into a whisper.

“Justin,” she gasped, her voice barely a whisper. “Please, can I cum? Been so good… I wanna cum for you…”

“Gonna cum on my cock?” Justin rasped, his voice strained with his own need.

She nodded frantically, her eyes screwed shut, her breaths coming out in panting whimpers. “Yes, yes, please, baby, let me cum for you,” she begged, her voice tight and desperate. “You feel so good, baby, I‘m so full, so close, please…”

Justin groaned, his own control hanging by a thread. He leaned down to kiss just below her ear. “Asked so nicely. You can cum, angel.”

“Thank you… oh my god,” she whined. The permission was all she needed. Her body responded immediately, tightening around his cock, her walls pulsing as the orgasm crashed over her. She was lost to the sensation, her voice hoarse as she screamed into the pillow, the fabric muffling the sound but not the intensity of her climax.

Justin felt her clench down on him and knew she was there. He didn’t hold back anymore, his hips moving with the force of his need, driving into her again and again. He could feel his own release building as he watched her come apart for him. Her body was shaking, the sight was so beautiful he could barely believe it was real.

Her cries grew louder, and he felt the beginnings of his own climax, his balls tightening as he pumped into her. He leaned down and kissed her neck, whispering sweet words of praise. “I know, baby. You’re doing so good, so fucking good. I’m so proud of you, taking all of me, giving it back so sweetly, baby. So fucking sweet…” Then, with a final, deep groan, he buried himself inside her, feeling his hot cum spurt into her, filling her up as she trembled and pulsed around him.

Once the ringing in his ears and the fuzziness of his brain had receded, Justin slowly withdrew. He made sure to gently kiss her neck and shoulder, not wanting to leave her feeling cold or abandoned after their intense connection. Her legs gave out, and she collapsed onto the bed, her breath still coming out in gasps. He followed her down, his body heavy with satisfaction.

Justin pulled her body closer to his, his hands stroking her sweat-dampened skin. He held her close, feeling her heart pound against his chest as she tried to regain her breath. He whispered sweet nothings into her ear, his voice soothing and gentle. “Did so well, baby. Thank you for letting me in like that,” he said, kissing her temple.

She was shivering, undoubtedly experiencing a drop in adrenaline and endorphins. So he surrounded her with warmth, his embrace tight and comforting. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, whispered to her, kept her awake and coaxing her to stay alert.

“I got you,” he murmured, his voice a gentle rumble in her ear. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Her body continued to shake with the aftershocks of her orgasm, trying her best to allow air to flood her lungs. Her eyes remained closed, lost in the warmth of his embrace. She could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest, and she matched her breaths to his, her pulse slowing with each gentle kiss he placed against her skin.

Finally, she turned her face towards him, her eyes fluttering open to find him smiling down at her. She gave a soft, tired smile in return, her body feeling like jelly. “Thank you,” she said weakly, curling into his chest with a sigh.

Justin’s arms tightened around her, his thumb brushing soothing shapes over her spine. He kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then her mouth, each one gentle, long, and filled with affection. “You’re welcome,” he whispered. “How are you feeling? Scale of one to ten?”

“I’m at eleven,” she murmured, making him chuckle. He pulled the comforter over them both, his knuckles brushing over the curve of her ass, palming it gently to pull her closer to him. Her eyes remained closed, her cheek pressing into his chest.

“Mm, that’s not on the scale, but I’ll take it.” Justin chuckled, his fingers continuing to trace patterns on her spine. She tipped her head back, making a contented noise. Her eyes remained closed, but she felt the warmth of his smile when he dipped forward to give her the kiss she was silently asking for.

His hand cradled her face, the kiss slow and tender. She huddled closer to his warmth as they kissed, vulnerability warming her skin and making her heart flutter. They separated for a moment, just long enough for Justin to whisper a gentle, “Thank you for trusting me,” before kissing her again. He was lost in her, in the feel of her body against his, in the way she melted into him as if she belonged there; as if she was meant to be in his arms, taking everything he had to give, giving him everything he needed in return.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers playing with the ends of his hair. “You feel so safe,” she responded. “Like nothing can ever go wrong when you’re here.”

Justin’s smile grew, his eyes closing as he breathed in the scent of her. “Good. That’s what I want to be for you,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to her forehead. His hand slid down her side, his thumb brushing over her ribs and stomach, tracing the line of her hip before settling at her waist. “Are these pictures gonna be a regular thing when I’m out of town?” he asked with a playful edge, his voice gravelly, resonating through his chest and into her ear.

She laughed softly, her cheek still pressed to his chest. “I think so. Is that something you’d like?” She asked, peeking up at him.

Justin’s smile grew, his eyes sparkling. “You could send me a picture of your thumb and I’d have heart palpitations, angel,” he quipped, making her laugh, the sound light and musical. He kissed her forehead again, his hand still resting on her waist. “I’ll start the shower, can I get you anything? Water?”

She nodded, her voice still a little shaky. “Yeah, water would be great, baby. Thank you.” She watched him get up, his naked form illuminated by the soft light of the light flooding in from the hallway. He was breathtaking, every muscle defined, his skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat.

She pushed herself up from the bed, her legs wobbly as she moved to the bathroom, beginning the clean-up of the stickiness between her legs. He returned to her side a few moments later, a glass of water poised in hand, Nova trailing behind him curiously, brilliant green eyes gleaming in the low light.

“Aww, did your dad lock you out?” She cooed, smiling when Nova meowed pitifully, her tail swishing. “I’m sorry, honey.”

Justin handed her the water, watching her take a grateful sip, the cool liquid soothing her parched throat. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “I set some food out for her while I was down in the kitchen, but she wasn’t interested. Wanted to check on her favorite person first,” he said, pulling her back against his chest, his hands running over her sides.

Her laugh was soft and sweet, a sound that never failed to make his heart swell. “You spoil her, you know that?” She took another sip, her eyes half lidded as she watched him over the rim of the glass.

“I have to compete with you somehow,” Justin said, shrugging. He picked Nova up, the cat purring as he held her to his chest, tail curling around his forearm. “I’ve had her for years but you give her a check-up once and she’s all about you now.”

Her smile widened, taking another sip of water. “I love her, she’s so sweet. She missed you today, though. Caught her stealing one of your socks again.”

Justin laughed at that, shaking his head. “She’s got a little collection going on somewhere.” He set Nova down gently, the cat deciding to curl in on herself, lifting a paw to clean her fur. “Finish the water, I’ll start the shower, and we’ll get cleaned up.” He leaned down, pecking her lips before moving towards the bathroom.

[hughiecampbelle]

Thunderbolts Preference: Being Plus Size And Insecure

Requested: hai hai!! your blog is feeding my thunderbolts addiction right now and your amazing writing is doing WONDERS. i was wondering if i could request headcannons/preferences of the thunderbolts* with a plus size!reader that doesn’t feel like they’re worthy of being part of the team? if that’s not something you’re comfortable i totally understand!! - anon

A/N: Whoever requested this: ily and I hope your pillow is always cold lol. I love plus size readers bc ya gurl is plus size and we do not get enough love! I'd love more plus size reader requests and 10000% intend to write more romantic plus size reader content bc ik this whole team is in love with bigger bodies :) Thank you for requesting!!!! I hope you like it my love!!!!! 🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

THUNDERBOLTS REQUESTS ARE OPEN

Bucky tries not to notice the way you attempt to cover yourself when the New Avengers go to press conferences or are caught by paparazzi. You're always ducking behind the others, sticking yourself in the back where the cameras can barely capture you. He hates to think you're doing it intentionally. One night, he finds you in front of newspapers and magazines with nasty headlines about your weight. That's all anyone will talk about and as much as you try to hide your feelings, he knows it's something you give a lot of thought to. You ask him if everyone thinks about your body as much as the press does and he makes it clear how serious he is when he says no. You hate that you're even bringing this up, but it's all anyone cares about when it comes to plus size people. He gently collects all the papers, throwing them out, insisting you're so much more than what your body looks like. You're strong and fast and powerful and one hell of an Avenger. He reminds you the headlines will do anything to smear your name. Bringing up your body isn't just lazy or a low blow, it's dead wrong. You're one of the best on the team and you shouldn't doubt that for a second.

Alexei notices you tweaking your new costume. It's tighter, a lot more revealing than your last one, but Valentina insisted you needed a new look. He hates the look on your face, how uncomfortable you seem when it looks great! You look great! You turn to him, defeated, asking if it looks okay and though he's adamant it does, better than okay, you can't help but hate what you see in the mirror. He insists you sit down next to him where he goes into a long discussion about body image. Do you think he has always been the confident man he is today? You shrug. You just sort of assumed so. Alexei is loud and confident and fearless in everything he does, even if it makes him come off as thoughtless or careless. No, he clarifies, and he tells you about his glory days as Red Guardian where everyone thought he was too big. It used to get to him, of course, but then he had his family and his daughters, his whole world, never saw him being big as bad. They loved him not despite his body, but because of it. Who else could give them a piggy back ride at the same time? What he's trying to say is, people will think and say whatever they want, but it's you who has to live in it. Do you really want to waste time disliking yourself?

Yelena notices how hard you've been working out and training, putting in more hours than anyone else, but she senses it's for the wrong reasons. You've become quieter, more self-conscious, turning down interviews and press conferences, and it hurts her to see this. She's always loved your body. Not just because you're one of the best on the team, but your curves as well. Your suit fits like a glove and she can't help but adore you when you go undercover, dressed to the nines as a means of distraction. People practically fall over themselves trying to get a better look at you. Gently, she brings it up, asking if you're doing all this because you want to be stronger or faster, or because you don't like what you see when you look in the mirror. You admit it's the latter, that you feel like you're not worthy of being on this team because you're plus size. It hurts to hear this. Never once has she doubts your abilities because of the size of your body. She's not angry at you, but on your behalf. You're on this team because you're good at your job and if anyone tells you otherwise, they're not only wrong, they're a liar.

Ava notices everything. She doesn't mean to pry, but she can't ignore all the little things you do, all the signs that show you are insecure about your body and your weight when you shouldn't be at all. She knows people who dislike the team will find anything to pick on. They drag up your past as assassins, they make fun of you for being brainwashed, they love to highlight the mistakes you've all made. Bringing up your body is a low blow, but not only that, it's downright inappropriate. She doesn't want to push the subject, but when you bring it up to her, asking her if she thinks your costume is too tight, too revealing, for someone with your body she's quick to put your fears at ease. You know, out of all of them, Ava is going to be the most straightforward. If she thought your body was something that needed changing or fixing, she would tell you. It hurts her to think of how long you've been thinking this and how evil all those people are that think they can drag your body into a conversation when it's completely unnecessary.

John finds you one day after a one on one meeting with Valentina. All she did was bring up your weight and your size, saying you need to change it, to be smaller, and to do it fast so that you "fit better" on the team. John isn't someone you normally go to with these types of things, but you can't help it. it all comes out, your voice quiet and shameful. He's furious, excusing himself immediately, and you assume he's mad at you for confiding in him. You don't realize it, but he marches into a meeting Valentina is having and puts her in her place. She has no right to say those things to you when 1.) it's not true and 2.) it's downright cruel. He's angry, screaming at her, telling her how much she hurt you, that she will never do it again. Normally fearless, you looked so small, so sad, and it killed him to see. He drags her upstairs where you are, saying if she doesn't apologize, she's going to regret it. They put on a happy face and Valentina "realizes how wrong she was" and apologizes profusely. You're shocked. She's never felt bad about anything hurtful she's done. You wouldn't find out until later, and John never brings it up, but you're immensely grateful for what he did.

Bob never thought that your body would hold you back or make it so that you were any less valuable to the team. You bring it up to him one night, when it's just the two of you, asking him if you think that. He's shocked, speechless, but he does his best to compose his thoughts the best he can. He asks you gently why you would ever think that? You shrug. There are so many reasons why. Not just the tabloids and articles written about your body, but sometimes you think the others are watching you, waiting for you to fail, like they're all expecting it. You've never seen Bob so serious, but he wants to make himself clear: none of them have ever or will ever think that about you. They all love you in their own special ways, especially him. He wouldn't have joined the team if it wasn't for you including him in everything and watching out for him and having so much patience. You're beyond valuable to the team, but even more so as a friend. It hurts him to think you think so little of yourself sometimes.

[scarletbit]

Apricity / bob reynolds

paring: bob reynolds x avengers!reader summary: you offer some sunlight at a dark time. (or, you and bob watch a video of that day.) word count: 1.04k genre: angst, fluff

Bob, Sentry, the Void. They were all one, there was no way to separate them and it you wouldn’t know what it would look like even if you could. You knew you had to accept him as one and you did. You loved him because he understood what it was like to have a part of yourself you didn’t want to have and be forced to embrace it anyways. To have something indescribable be merged with every aspect of your being.

You saw the way his gaze lowered whenever the team asked him if he could ‘activate’ Sentry while everyone was huddled in the debrief room, preparing a plan of attack for the next mission.

“I would if i could control it” he’d laugh nervously.

You heard the change in the inflection of his jokes as he reminded Yelena that he not only had no control, he also couldn’t even remember what he’d done. The twitch in his eye as he swallowed through another one of Walker’s sneers.

You knew it weighed on him, not knowing how to describe it himself either. How to differentiate between the pieces that made him the same Bob that now inhabited the tower, a place that took him time and reassurance to even believe he could belong in.

However, Bob was anything but weak. Your efforts to offer support often manifested in a form of cautiousness that became one of the main reasons for those rare arguments that rocked you both. You knew where he was coming from. You remember the same frustration and helplessness you felt when you first joined the team. How you were treated like a child begging to be left unsupervised by Bucky and even Yelena on those days you were reminded of what you had done and who you had been. Despite your reflexes, you learned to give him the room he needed by simply listening when he wanted to talk about those feelings he could hardly even describe.

You sat with him on the corner of the couch, one hand resting reassuringly on his back, the other trying to will itself away from your mouth (there really couldn’t be two nail-biters in one relationship).

“For the record, I don’t think this is a great idea” you reminded him, keeping your eyes on his face to will his away from the phone screen he held in his hand.

“I know” it was clear he was nervous; it was even more obvious that you were too. “I have to see” his grip tightened, the white of his knuckles offered proof “it’s been long enough.”

The video began, the shaky camera angled up into the sky to reveal Bob. Though not him, not really. Or maybe it was. The black shadow that encompassed what was undeniably Bob’s figure appeared on camera. It was him, of course it was.

The sound of people running became amplified. The screams of the people of New York City overwhelmed even the person shooting the video as they lowered the camera and began running themself.

You wanted to ask him to mute it. For both your sakes. He had to be hating this, and you hated knowing that he was. But you couldn’t. You’d try to convince him not to remind him that he was being manipulated by Valentina and her forces and that most of the team knew what it was like to willingly lose autonomy. They understood him and didn’t blame him. No matter how many times you’d all tried to explain, he couldn’t understand, and he definitely didn’t sympathize with the version of himself who would do that to innocent people. Do that to his friends.

He might not have remembered what he had done but he knew he hated the person he was seeing on that phone screen. You wouldn’t ask him to turn it off, but you couldn’t not say something.

“Hey” you began, shifting your hand from his back and moving to gently grasp the side of his face, compelling his gaze away from the video still replaying on the small screen to your eyes.

“It’s not you” you attempted to reassure him and help calm some of the uneasiness you could feel threaten to bubble to the surface of his already frayed composure.

“But it is” he grinned grimly, the expression never reaching his eyes. You couldn’t disagree with him, not when you didn’t know how. It was him, but it also wasn’t. That’s not a very compelling argument though.

“We have all done things we would do anything to take back, but we can’t, and we shouldn’t” you said the only thing you knew would help, the truth. “We’re here today because of it, we get to help others even after everything we’ve all done” you smiled, genuine. “We did bad things, fine, and maybe we don’t fully deserve any of this but we’re here now” your hands found his “you’re here now.”

His smile mirrored yours, genuine. He didn’t have to say anything. It was you who always knew how to vocalize the unrelenting deprecation that overwhelmed you both, even when you didn’t think you did. He didn’t have to say thank you when you reached over and fished the phone from his grip, throwing it across the couch, far from both of you, as if it was the reason such thoughts existed in the first place. He didn’t have to mention it when you turned the television on and put on that movie you’ve been talking about seeing for months, despite you never having time to do so, what with training and missions keeping you preoccupied. When you turned the television on, he didn’t have to mention the name of the movie you’ve been talking about seeing for months, despite you never having time to do so, what with training and missions keeping you preoccupied.

He didn’t have to say I love you when you fell asleep in his arms on the same couch you helped ground him, like you always do, not even a couple hours ago. In moments like this, when your presence alone shined on Bob’s shrouded clouds of thought, words were both too much and too little to describe the warmth you introduced.

[buzzmcnab]

[ID: 16 gifs from Psych, one for each episode of season 2. Each gif has the episode title, writer(s), and director.

1: Shawn and Gus perform on stage dressed as Roland Orzabal and Michael Jackson, respectively.

Title: american duos; Written by Steve Franks & James Roday; Directed by John Landis

2: Shawn opens the mouth of a full-size papier-mâché t-rex head that he's wearing on his shoulders.

Title: 65 million years off; Written by Steve Franks; Directed by Tim Matheson

3: U.S. Treasury Agent Lars Ewing holds a dollar bill up for the SBPD team to see.

Title: psy vs. psy; Written by Andy Berman; Directed by Mel Damski

4: Shawn and Gus scream at a dead body in a car.

Title: zero to murder in sixty seconds; Written by Saladin K. Patterson; Directed by Stephen Surjik

5: Shawn talks to a horse.

Title: and down the stretch comes murder; Written by Josh Bycel; Directed by Michael Zinberg

6: Gus makes a disgusted face and pretends to have a vision in front of his uncle, Burton, and Shawn.

Title: meat is murder, but murder is also murder; Written by Daniel Hsia; Directed by Eric Laneuville

7: Shawn underlines the word "Phsysics" on a blackboard.

Title: if you're so smart, then why are you dead?; Written by Anupam Nigam; Directed by Arlene Sanford

8: Chief Vick falls asleep at her desk, then she jerks awake.

Title: rob-a-bye baby; Written by Tami Sagher; Directed by Paul Lazarus

9: Shawn and Gus both make exaggerated "ooo" faces.

Title: bounty hunters!; Written by Andy Berman; Directed by John Badham

10: Shawn and Gus look at each other after giving Buzz McNab a BB gun, Shawn is wearing a Santa hat.

Title: gus' dad may have killed an old guy; Written by Saladin K. Patterson; Directed by Byoz Scott

11: College-aged Gus flirts with Mira at a tropical bar.

Title: there's something about mira; Written by Josh Bycel & Daniel Hsia; Directed by Joanna Kerns

12: Gus and Shawn flank Henry, who is dressed as an older man.

Title: the old and the restless; Written by Anupam Nigam; Directed by Jason Ensler

13: Shawn kisses an actress on set of a telenovela.

Title: lights, camera... homicidio; Written by Andy Berman; Directed by Matt Shakman

14: Shawn is applauded by blue-robed Monarch Lodge members.

Title: dis-lodged; Written by Tim Meltreger; Directed by Mel Damski

15: Shawn and Gus stand in line to get into a club, speaking to someone off screen.

Title: black and tan: a crime of fashion; Written by Steve Franks & James Roday

16: Shawn and Gus step forward cautiously, each holding a flashlight. Gus also has a baseball bat.

Title: shawn (and gus) of the dead; Written by Steve Franks; Directed by Steve Franks

End ID]

psych: season 2 (2007)

[missust3l3vision]

Hi! Can you please write a cute story about George and the reader! Like she’s in a really cuddly mood and they spend all day cuddling. Stolen kisses. The whole nine yards. Just disgusting cute! I also wouldn’t mind a follow up story with George getting the cuddle bug.

P.s. LOVE YOUR WRITING 💞

Oh my goodness this is so cute!! And thank you so much anon!

Cup of Cast

Description: George has broken his wrist and Y/n can't seem to leave his side. Whether to take care of him or just to cuddle he can't tell.

Three days ago George slipped when playing soccer on a damp field and broke his wrist. He had decided to take a small break from filming until his arm was a little less fragile.

This Sunday morning he laid in bed next to his girlfriend. He had woken up to the feeling of her drawing circles on his okay hand.

This was a common way to wake up for him, she was always so gentle. Turning to check the clock on the bed side table he saw it was ten past ten. Moving his hand away from yours and blocking the sun from his eyes he spoke.

"Don't you have a hike planned with Liv today?" He asked with his arm draped over his face, the pain in his wrist dulled by the painkillers but not yet gone.

"Not anymore, she was happy to have more time with Isaac when I cancelled. I thought i should stick around and keep you company" He was grateful that his arm was hiding his face, as a grin grew under.

"Mhm, you're obsessed with me." He teased, you nudging his exposed cheek. Him letting out a hushed giggle.

His morning voice always made Y/n feel warm, crawling in closer she nuzzled into his side, his arm moving to hold her.

"How's your arm?" She asked, him bringing it up. The cast was a light blue and all his friends signed it. Her humming in understanding of his silent demonstration. "Want breakfast?"

"A cuppa would be lovely," He said kissing the top of her head. "I'll put on something to watch while you make it. I've got to pull my weight some way."

You stood up and stretched, each pop making George raise his eyebrow a little higher. Walking out he grabbed the remote by his bed and opened Netflix and began to browse.

Not long later you entered the room with buttered toast and mugs of tea. You frowned at the sight of him. He was clearly in pain, when he noticed you his smile snapped back into place like a rubber band.

"I'm in the mood for something cute, want to watch Clueless?" You hummed in agreement and handed him a plate and walking around the bed to put down his cup.

"Are you doing anything today?" George shook his head taking a bite of the toast.

"Nothing, I don't want to do anything either." Sitting so close your elbow is in his lap you leaned closer. His good arm wrapping around you and only moving to feed himself toast or sip his tea.

The movie was a nice way to start the day. Once breakfast was done you put the dishes to the side and began to spoon. His bad arm on your hip and eyes glued to the screen.

"Paul Rudd is so hot." You whispered, him pulling you tighter into him. "Hey!" You yelped when he turned you over and kissed your cheek.

"Want to repeat that?" When you went to, he kissed your lips, "I dare you to try again." His smug grin told you more than you had to know.

"Well what about Brittany Murphy?" You asked him giving you a confused look, he was so expressive when it was just you two.

It was always a weird thought to you. How different he was when with his friends or on camera.

He was loud and goofy with you. The kind of boyfriend to throw his dirty socks at you before getting into bed, a man who when he orders food orders double of his meal and one of yours because he knows you will want some.

Hugging eachother close you told him she played Tai, and his eyes went wide before denying it.

"I only have eyes for you." He said so earnestly it made you forget everything else in the world. It was just you and George, and he was love in with you.

"Fuck Paul Rudd, you're the one for me." He smirked. A proud light coming off him in a way. Once the credits began to roll you asked "Want to watch something else?"

"Hmm, what's something with the same style?" You put on Legally Blonde and switched snuggle positions.

You had his head in your lap, sitting against the head board. He asked the occasional question. Whether about the movie or just life.

"Did your mum get her nails done? I know she was wanting one." He asked during one of the various courtroom scenes.

"Yeah, they're cute. Was thinking of getting similar ones." He hummed. Before asking the next question.

You couldn't tell if he was bored or just genuinely curious, whatever the reason you answered each one.

"I have a question for you Mr. Clarke." His eyes lifted to look at you, "How's your hand?"

"Could be better, I miss using it." Your hands found their way to his hair, raking your fingers through his curls. "At this point you're showing off." He told you.

A small laugh escaping you before turning back to the movie. His lingering on you, they always did.

You were ethereal to him, he would never admit it but he was glad his wrist snapped. Having an excuse to spend time with you, doing absolutely nothing, has made him feel light as a feather.

Today was everything he needed it to be, and you were the one to thank. And he promised that he would.

[imkissingjj]

JJ + SINGLE MOM!READER

AHHHHH, i love this so much 🤧

single mom who has a four year old girl named willow, the light of her life. her and willow, abandoned by the father while she was pregnant, living in a small, beat up home in the cut after being kicked out by her parents. since she had willow, she's had to put off relationships and her passions, in order to focus on her daughter, but this all changed when she met jj.

single mom meets jj out on the beach after willow stumbles into him when chasing flocks of birds. "sorry blondie, you were in the way of the pigeons.."

jj chuckles, looking back towards john b and pope who give him shrugs. "you out here alone track star?"

"umm noooo, my mommy's right there," she points directly to the sun kissed woman, snapping pictures with her digital camera in the distance. single mom loves photography, the only way she feels she can hold onto passing moments, moments she wants to remember.

she pads over to willow, soft feet leaving prints in the sand. "flower, we don't chase the birds, we feed them," she spoke, grinning as she dusted off willow's little outfit and willow giving a soft 'hmph'. her eyes look up, staring directly into jj's soft blue ones. "sorry, she lacks direction sometimes."

he grins. "nothin wrong with bein' a little reckless..."

single mom is a bit slow to warm up, a complete contrast to jj once he begins to show up more. even if he originally just wanted to be closer to her, he begins showing up for willow just as much—swimming lessons that turn into surf lessons, beach-combing for shells, taking her to school when mom can't, which he says is out of the kindness of his heart, when really he thinks doing more favors will get him a permanent spot in her life.

"mommyyy, blondie's here again!"

"flower, he's got a name..." she spoke, looking over towards the front door with a soft grin.

"is he your new boyfriend?"

"flower!"

jj smirked, stepping inside. "not yet, but soon."

someway, somehow, jj had convinced her to leave willow with the pogues while he took her on a date—clearly the best option considering they were so excited to play family, john b calling himself the "favorite uncle."

yet, jj aimed for an even better title than uncle—he wanted to be stepdad, no matter how long he had to wait, or how hard he had to try.

the first time they fuck, jj took her on a beach picnic. greasy shrimp tacos, a large blanket in the sand with low music playing, going a few rounds before cuddling under the stars.

jj grinned slyly, kissing her temple. "think we've made baby number two?"

slapping his chest playfully, she giggles. "jj! willow's already a handful, i can barely handle her, let alone another baby. besides, you're just like a big toddler."

"hey, im your big toddler...but, i can wait. i'll be papa j in no time. i'll settle for boyfriend right now."

[whalesforhands]

make these moments last forever

“Is it even on?” Your hand gently pushes at the lenses of the camera, so unceremoniously shoved in your face as sheepishness seeps in. “Please don’t tell me you took that much of a closeup of my face…”

“Relax,” Another click, another flash that has your eyes squeezing shut in efforts to protect themselves from the barrage of photos Ieiri Shoko could not stop herself from taking. “You look pretty.”

(As if you would believe her.)

“I hope you at least delete the ugly ones, Shoko…” You pout just as another flash goes off, your face hot with embarrassment at being turned into her muse of interest for the day.

It’s not everyday Ieiri Shoko finds the old camera she thought she had lost when she had first moved into the dorms, hidden under the all the other junk that she had sworn to you that she would clean up— Eventually.

But it’s fine now. Those things can wait, can’t they? The school days are slow, long and far too boring, so why can’t they just wait and stay as they are?

“Like I said,” She hums as she flicks through picture after picture, some blurry, some clear. There’s light flittering about you in some as the setting sun behind you acts as your backdrop in this sunset classroom.

It’s too good.

“You look pretty.”

(“If I’m so pretty, you’d let me see the pictures already…!”

“I’m getting them printed out.” She thinks for a moment with a thoughtful, careless smile. “Later, that is.”

“Shoko…!”)

——

“Fuck that mission…” There’s a thud when a bag throws itself onto the ground, shoes unceremoniously kicked off and landing before the classroom door.

“I’m so tireddddd!”

You don’t hear it, don’t bother to reply. Not when you’re already passed out on the floor, using Suguru’s haphazardly thrown schoolbag as your pillow as you curl in on yourself, the wooden boards of your classroom never feeling so comfortable.

“Oiii— Don’t fall asleep yet!” It comes out as a whining complaint, especially when his blazer is quickly undone as it flutters down to cover your snoozing form, the only one out of the 3 of you to be untouched by dust and dirt, the only one who stayed relatively clean as grime starts to settle on skin.

“Satoru, be quiet.” Geto Suguru is crouched down, exhausted beyond belief as he barely even catches his breath. “My body feels like it’s about to give out…”

And the snowy-haired classmate finally falls onto his knees, the shakiness now far more evident now that the veil of pretense had lifted, victory apparent on his smug face. “Haha… Ya finally admit defeat, Suguru?! I win the endurance battle!”

“Shut up already…”

It was a hard mission, after all.

“Senpais! You’re already back so quickly?” Light footsteps, quick on their feet and far too excited, the sliding door screaming on his hinges as it gets pulled open far too fast. “This calls for a celebratory picture!”

Haibara Yu likes celebrating. A selfie the first time Ieiri-senpai lent him the camera, a blurry picture of Nanami the next.

“He’s been using everything as an excuse to take photos whilst you were all gone.”

“Memories are the best, Nanami!” A happy grin and a light pat of the blond’s shoulder. “Ya gotta lighten up a little more to truly experience ‘em!”

“No, thank you.” A grimace and a complaint as Nanami Kento watches just how out of commission everyone was. “Haibara, I don’t think we shou—“

“Job well done, everyone! Cheeeeese!” A flash, and there’s his smiling face in the foreground, eyes scrunched into crescents that displayed the brightness of sunshine. Yet, even with such a bright image, situated behind him were the tired bodies of his upperclassmen, too exhausted to even twitch a finger after the last mission.

(“Ehhh? Nanami, ya gotta move in closer! This picture’s only got your shoulder and half your face in it!”

“Stop taking photos of me.”)

——

You’re barely even awake, toothbrush hanging from your mouth and hair a tangled mess when your body barely even registers the sound of the familiar camera clicks.

“…?” You can barely even make a sound in your current state, let alone be able to tell who had stopped you so suddenly on your way to the shared sink to rinse your mouth.

“Oho~ This one came out pretty cute as well!” You feel a warm hand pressing against your forehead, as if he was patting your head in thanks— That’s what you think so in your sleepy state, anyway.

You feel your hair being pushed back, strands parted with lithe fingers that drag down your cheek before it taps at the toothpaste foam gathering at the corner of your lip.

"But y'er too sleepy to even know, huh?"

"Hmmngh?" It comes out as quiet and as confused as you are, an odd way of rebutting the haughty tone of this person's voice; and the blur of white that starts to come into your visage as you slowly blink.

"I'm gonna upcharge this one to Shoko." You think he's showing you something when the tender hand against your cheek moves downwards, grasping onto your shoulder and pulling you in close as you hear the now familiar, soft beeps of the old camera.

“This one I’m gonna see how much Suguru would buy it for~” Your head is now against his shoulder, just silently nodding along to his whims, to his heartbeat that drawled you along to a lullaby you can’t help but listen to.

“Ya think I should keep this one for myself? My~ Never thought that you’d ask!” And there’s another flash that you can barely notice, through your sleep-riddled haze and the warmth of the person holding you in his arms.

“Off to the bathroom we go!”

(“Satoru…?” You blink up at him when you finally rinse your face, tired eyes looking up only to see him leaning against the doorframe, far too happy with flitting through pictures upon that camera.

“Aren’t you supposed to be waking Suguru up…?”)

——

“Yaga-sensei, you’re really lacking in this, huh?”

“Oh my. Your camera must be tough to handle.”

“Maybe it’s his age.”

“Shut your damn mouths! Don’t be rude to elders!”

“Ehhhh~? Utahime’s lecturin’ us!”

“Cheeeeeseee!”

“Haibara, the camera’s not even ready.”

And you can only hope your poor homeroom teacher figures it out soon, for yourself, for him— and for the photo album that you all couldn’t help but want to fill.

(“Yaga-sensei, have you tried pressing the big button on top…?”

“Technology nowadays. Hmph.”

“This was from your generation—probably.”)

“All of you…” Masamichi Yaga’s voice booms, resounding throughout the classroom as he crosses his arms, feet firmly planted into the soft, cotton slippers he usually dawned on his days off as he stood towering behind all of you, his stare transfixed upon the gadget before all of you.

“BE SILENT!”

A flash.

Flinches, twitches, jumps of fear as surprise etches itself onto everyone’s faces, the heated irritated glowing red upon your teacher’s face as the camera finally took a class photo.

(“Yaga-sennnn! Look what ya did!”

“My yearly class photos with the girls…!”

“It’s got its own… Charm.”

“I like it! It’s like a fun shot!”

“We wouldn’t be in a classroom if we wanted that.”)

masterlist

[writing-mlm]

What about normal mark x male reader who is his childhood friend

Maybe friends to lovers

Like really from kids they were by each others side, great friends, then when Mark got his powers, Mark told him first, then when Nolan fights him, debbie and the reader are both by his side. The reader staying with him through Amber and Eve, even if he was a little jealous and maybe after the variants or conquest Mark finally realizes he's in love with his childhood friend

Mothers are the best wingman

Summary: Mark’s been your best friend long before either of you were born and it seems like your mothers have a plan for the two of you. Too bad you’re both too blind to notice. Pairing: Mark Grayson x Male reader Word Count: 4.4k Tags/Warnings: canon-level violence, reader gets attacked, one sex joke, past Mark/Amber, established (later broken up) Mark/Eve, embarrassing mothers, reader is not a hero, one drunk scene

Your mother loved her photo albums, but she especially loved the one that was wrapped in a brown fabric with a white lace trim. It was the first photo album she ever bought; she tells the story often enough that it’s engraved in your mind. 

“When I was ten, my brother had his first kid,” She’d smile, brushing against the lace. “I knew then that I wanted one, too. I bought this with my allowance money and hid it for a decade.” It was a pair, in truth. A brown with white trim and a white one with brown trim. She swore the white one was going to be for her secondborn born but then she met Debbie. 

“We were college roommates,” Again, the story was engraved in you. “Ugh, hit it off there. I met your father and she met Nolan. Would you believe it, we got pregnant at the same time? And that’s when I knew,” She’d wave her hands before pointing at the white album, where, behind the yellowing plastic, was the name card. 

Mark & (Y/n) 

Below your names were both of your birthdays. Born six days apart, you were destined to be best friends, and even if you weren’t, you doubt your mothers wouldn’t have given you much of a choice otherwise. 

She’d show everyone you brought home pictures from the albums. God forbid Mark also knew them, oh boy they were in for story after story. You remember when you first invited William over— the stupid gossip loved each and every picture— he even has pictures of his favorites in his camera roll. 

Bath time, birthdays, graduation, vacations, your awkward braces phase, Nolan carrying the two of you on his shoulders, school plays, sleepovers, Halloween, your dad taking the two of you on a solo fishing trip, Christmas, beach trips, playing in the rain, and so much more. The album was stuffed to the absolute brim with pictures. There's an entire decade worth of pictures inside of it. She had to get a new one by the time you were nine, though. And it was still going. You cringed as she showed Eve yet another picture, remembering the day in painful detail. 

“I’m so going to kill myself,” You tell him through gritted teeth, forced to smile and give a thumbs up. 

“Me first,” He whispers back, an equally forced smile and a pained thumbs up. He has one arm around you, as do you, which isn’t the embarrassing part. The embarrassment comes from the fact that it’s your first day working at the Burger Mart together, and your mother and Debbie insisted she needed this picture for the scrapbook. 

Your dad, to his credit, hides his laugh behind his baseball hat. 

CLICK!

“Look at them,” Your mother cooed, showing Debbie the picture. 

“They look so cute! I’m so proud of you two!” 

“Oh my god, she’s crying,” You whisper. 

“Should we run inside?” He snorts when you jab his side. Thankfully, your dad calls them back to the car and the two of you are allowed to actually work. It doesn’t take long for the shift lead to learn that you two should not be paired together and that making a soda isn’t a two-person job, despite your strong insistence. 

Looking back, it’s crazy that working at that job together meant you’d been the first to find out about his powers. You remembered watching as he tossed the bag of trash too hard, the black plastic disappearing with no sign of coming down anytime soon. 

Mark looks at you from his spot on the couch, giving you an awkwardly painful half smile that you share. It was the first time Eve was meeting any of you; you weren’t in Mark’s superhero circle and you never talked to her in high school. You think it was more awkward because your mother wasn’t meeting Eve as Mark’s hero partner but rather as his girlfriend. 

No one’s ever told your mother about the heroes in her life, she doesn’t know about Nolan, Mark, and now Eve. She thinks Nolan had gotten killed; she thinks Omni-Man was a man she’d only ever seen once before his rampage. When it happened, she had no idea why you were so scared. Why you’d run down the street to Debbie’s to make sure she was okay, and why you’d spent the night for a week straight over there. You told her that Mark was going through something, you forgot what weird lie it was but she eventually let it drop. 

Your mother flipping over a certain page has your eyes snapping to Mark and his find yours not a second later. You both know what that means— she wasn’t too fond of Eve. You’d assumed so, Mark too, it’s something that, after knowing your mother for a while you get clued into certain actions. But skipping over the page, that's pictures where you and Mark were watching the fireworks meant more than just her simply skipping the page. 

“I think she still thinks you and Amber would be better,” You’d later admitted in the backyard, watching as your dad flipped burgers while your mother, Debbie, and Eve laid in the pool. It wasn’t one of those fancy in-ground pools— no it was one you’d gotten from Walmart with your first check because you just needed a pool. And fuck, it was coming back to bite you in the ass. 

“Really?” His voice cracks and you hum, staring at Eve with barely hidden jealousy. You wondered if you were like her, that he’d look at you the same way. Looking at him, your shoulders slump when you see his blush— right, he’s into women. The sight of Eve in a bikini is enough to get him worked up. 

“She’ll warm up to her,” You promise. “Eve’s nice.” You add because it’s hard to find something you don’t like about her. She’s nearly perfect. 

“Yeah,” His eyes switch to you as he smiles. “She is. I’m glad you like her, too, y’know?”

Your eyebrows pinch at the confession. “You are?” 

Mark nods. “You’re my best friend,” He laughs as if that wasn’t obvious. “I care about your opinion on things.”

“Yeah, but it’s your love life,” Mark shrugs, grabbing his soda and looks at Eve again. “I don’t really see why I matter in that…”

“If you don’t like someone, I don’t like them.” He explains and then his voice gets small. “Like when you told me that my dad was acting strange after my powers.” You’d caught them, while Mark was practicing and getting better at flying, that Nolan would switch emotions when he wasn’t looking. It caused a huge fight between the two of you. “I should’ve believed you.”

“You said you got over that,” You sigh. “It’s okay, I would’ve been hesitant too if you told me that my dad was acting weird.”

“Yeah, but your dad didn’t turn out to be an evil piece of—“

“Mark!” Eve giggles, her arms propped up on the edge of the pool. “Is it true that you used to play mermaids?” She asks, her head tilted and hair clinging to her skin in a way that makes it seem like it was done in some magazine to sell swimwear. 

“Mom, auntie!” He whines, the blush rushing back to his face. “No, I didn’t!”

“His tail was blue and yellow,” Your mother grins and Eve snorts; nothing can convince her that he didn’t now. Seriously, your mother who was oblivious to the whole hero thing just so happens to guess the colors of his suit? She couldn’t be making that up. “Why don’t you boys get in the pool? Cool down before it’s time to eat?” Mark looks at you and you look away from Eve, shrugging ever so slightly. 

“I want to finish up a report, but I’ll come down in a minute, yeah? It’s due in like three hours.” 

“You always wait until the last minute,” Your dad chastises and you laugh an apology before slipping back into the house. From your room, you can see the backyard and you get a full view of Mark letting Eve climb onto his shoulders to play a game of chicken with Debbie and your mother. Looking away, you slump on your bed and run a hand down your face before turning back to your laptop. 

Staring at your approval for a semester abroad, you wonder if distance would make these feelings go away. If you could just phase them away and just be happy for Mark instead of that stupid jealous feeling you get whenever he’s with his girlfriends. 

—

Two months into living in London, it’s safe to say that going abroad was the wrong idea. Like so wrong, so incredibly wrong that you were ready to jump on a flight and leave your things behind in your flat. Now, London wasn’t bad. You enjoyed it the normal amount— spent the first week really doing the tourist things and now just tried to go to classes. But you missed home, you missed Mark and your parents, you missed your high school friends, and the food back home. 

You hated seeing the news of Invincible taking yet another beating, hearing news about some earth-ending disaster he helped stop and not being able to be there. You hated that you knew he was hiding something, you can tell based on the way he texts, and how he looks when he calls you. Something is wrong with him and he’s not telling you and you’re not there to beat sense into him. 

And then he finds the time to fly over, you seem to forget about it and enjoy him for the little time you have him for. 

Some of your university friends were throwing a party at their flat and you happily went. You didn’t party in high school or during your first semester in college and now that there were no adults or friends to keep you in line, you’d gladly chug from the suspicious bottle. While you weren’t popular, there was definitely a crowd that knew you. You’re that transfer student from abroad staying with someone who’s in a decent number of friend groups. 

They cheer as you show the empty bottle and you laugh, shaking your head and drifting off to the snacks table to find something to wash the nasty taste away. There are some good British snacks, you’d admit but you absolutely hate having to call chips crisps. It’s painful— so painful man. 

Checking your phone, you don’t find many notifications. Just ones from the normal people, the regular group chats, and a spam text thrown into the mix. You’re about to pocket your phone when you start getting a call. Mark. Answering it, you find your way to a balcony and settle on a chair. 

“Hey, Mark,” 

“Are you busy— it sounds busy over there,” He inhales like he’s done something wrong. 

“No, I’m just at a friend's party. But I’m not busy, what’s up?”

If you’d been on FaceTime, you would’ve seen the way he looked away, how he ran his hand through his hair and how he stared back at the phone as if you would climb through it. “Eve broke up with me,” He finally says. Leaning forward in your seat, you scratch your neck to hide your smile. 

“Wha- what happened? I thought you two were good,” Mark sighs at the question, tossing himself back on his bed. 

“We were fighting, like, a lot. She was upset because…” He trails off like he hadn’t meant to say that part. Because he hadn’t. 

“Because?” 

“Because,” He nods to himself, sitting up. “I’ve… I've been— I don’t even know. We were fighting over everything, it seems.” He huffs and you know he’s hiding something again. But fine, he’ll tell you when he’s ready, right? For now, you’ll focus on the breakup and ignore him blatantly lying to you.

“If you want,” You carefully say, looking back towards the party. “No one would notice you slipping into the party I’m at—“ The wind blows and suddenly Mark is in front of you, his phone in his hand. Laughing, you end the call and drag him inside. He lets you, taking the cup of unknown liquid you eagerly hand him. You introduce him to some of your friends who’re too drunk to question how he was there and he slowly gets into the rhythm of the party. 

By the time it ends, he’s still sober. He learned the hard way that it takes a lot of alcohol to get him tipsy so he’s able to take you home when you’re stumbling over your feet. 

“Gonna throw up,” You mumble as he carefully flies through the city. “Park the car.” He laughs but lands in an alleyway at your request, watching as you throw up into a trash can. Wiping your mouth, you start walking away but he grabs your hand and pulls you back to him. 

Stumbling back to him, he steadies you. “Cars right here,” He jokes and you nod, wrapping your arms around his neck and laying your head on his shoulder. He lifts you up, carefully making sure you don’t move too much as he rises into the sky again. 

“Mhmm, gonna ride you,” Mark pauses, his face turning red and stampers out a question only to find that you’d fallen asleep on him. Shaking his head, he flies you back to your flat and carefully tucks you in without your host family finding out. Taking a picture of you drooling, he laughs as he sends it to you before he leaves. 

—

It’s the last day of you living in London, your flight leaves tomorrow so you’re making the last of your final full day. You snacks you’ll miss, some things for your friends and family before eventually just walking around. It’s late in the afternoon when you decide to turn around and head back to your flat, your legs are going to go numb soon and you’re a bit hungry. 

As you turn around, you jump at the sight of Mark, well you guess Invincible since he’s in his suit. 

He looks at you with a grin that makes you a little nervous. “Hey, Invincible,” You greet, pushing the headphones from your head down to your neck. “Everything alright?”

His head tilts in this robotic way and you take a step back, eyes narrowing. “I remember you,” He breathes and your eyes drift to his suit— it’s different. It’s a slight change but he has a symbol on his arm that wasn’t there before. Grabbing your phone, your thumb presses against his contact before Invincible grabs you. His grip is tight— impossibly tight and you shout as your wrist snaps. “Yeah,” He drags out as you fall to your knees, eyes wide as you stare at your bone popped out from your skin. 

People around you scream and run; and he seems to soak it up for long enough that you grab your phone with your free hand; pressing the call button. 

“You were one of my concubines in my empire,” His head tilts up as he continues to stare at you. “My favorite one.” Mark finally picks up, his voice unsteady. His voice is muffled by the headphones so you can’t make out what he’s saying, just his tone. 

“Let me go,” You plead, trying to avoid staring at your blood when it’s gushing from your wrist. “Please.” Mark pauses on the other end and you hope he heard it. You hope that whoever this was with his body, his voice, and a nearly identical suit won’t kill you before he gets there. 

“No.” His hand quickly moves from your wrist to your neck, tightening in a deathly grip that makes you choke. Holding his wrist, you try kicking him but he grabs your ankle, snapping your leg upward in one motion. Without air, you can’t scream as the pain ripples through your body. Closing your eyes, you try and breathe. Struggling to even get half an inhale inside your lungs. “You’re weak, fucking pathetic—“ You’re dropped to the ground and you shapely inhale. 

With your good hand you prop yourself up and look at where the weird Invincible once stood. Instead, there’s no one there and you look to your left. The gates are bent inwards, broken in pieces and on the lawn, you can see Invincibles fighting. The fake one, is on the ground, covering his face as your Invincible bashes his head in. You’d forgotten that Mark changed his suit colors. You should have known, should’ve remembered it.

Someone helps you, an older woman in a pantsuit gently pulls you away from the fight, reassuring you that she’d called an ambulance. You nodded, hiccuping as you started crying. It’s still hard to breathe, it’s hard to do anything but focus on the pain. You can’t feel your hand or your leg, the blood is getting everywhere and you’re sure there weren’t black spots on the floor before. 

“(Y/n)— hey, no, no,” There’s a black and blue suit in front of you and you lift your head as much as you can muster. “That’s good, keep your eyes open okay?” His suit is ripped, the goggles are cracked and you see his frantic eyes running across your body. “I’m gonna lift you and it’s gonna hurt, okay?” Nodding, he moves his hands underneath you and you shout as you’re lifted up. Your leg and hand sway with gravity, limp in the air and he apologizes. “Fuck, just— just stay awake, please.” He takes off in the air, flying as fast as his body could manage. 

The last thing you remembered was the feeling of him crashing into something. 

—

Mark listens to your heartbeat, his forehead pressed to the back of your hand to feel your warmth. Your other hand is in a cast, so is your leg but the doctors said that it should be healed soon enough thanks to the tech— he didn’t care for details, he just wants to know that you were going to live. 

He should've been there, he should’ve known— somehow. He should’ve gotten there faster. First Eve and now you. And the worst part, he had to call your parents to explain.

The door opens and he expected it to be them but it wasn’t. “You can’t be here kid,” Cecil says and Mark’s not sure if he’s relieved or not. 

“Those other Invincibles know about this place,” He shakes his head, not moving from your hand. “They could come here. Kill him to get at me,” He looks at you, an oxygen mask over your face, your neck bruised and his grip on your hand tightens a little. “He needs me.”

“We’re losing this, Mark. The world needs you.” He shakes his head, resting his forehead back against your palm as his eyes start to water again. 

“You’ve got every superhero on the planet fighting for you, right now.” 

“Mark… Oliver’s out there. Your mother is out there.”

“I said no!” Cecil sighs and leaves without a word. He sniffs, looking at you again. They’d washed the blood off, they’d gotten rid of the soiled clothes. You looked like you were asleep, peaceful. Your breathing was normal and he could hear you snoring like you always did when you were drained. 

The doors open and he looks up, ready to yell at Cecil but instead he sees your mom and dad. He stands on instinct, eyes still glossy and sniffs. 

“I’m so sorry,” He cries, watching as your mother rushes to your side, your dad close behind. 

“My baby,” She cries, stroking your face. “Wha— what happened, Mark?” She looks at him before slowly looking at him. Her breath hitched and he hangs his head, ashamed. 

“There’s alternate versions of me trying to take over the world,” He explains, trailing his eyes back to you. “One of them was in London and found him.”

“And you stopped him, right?” Your dad asks and Mark slowly nods. “Good. Go, we… we got him.” He wants to argue, he really does but instead he slowly nods again, grabbing his mask from the railing. 

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He promises and they nod.

Your mom grabs his hand and smiles up at him. “Be safe, Mark.” 

—

When you wake up, Mark isn’t there and neither are your parents. The clock shows that it’s well past midnight and you groan, a sharp pain shooting up from your leg up to your back. The hospital monitor picks up and you blink, staring up the ceiling. Lifting your arm, you squint at the metal cast and wiggle your fingers. You didn’t think you’d be able to do that anymore. Sitting up, you carefully remove the blanket and look at the similar cast on your leg. It hurts to move, but you can move it. 

The door opens and you see Eve. 

“Hey,” She smiles, flying. Her leg is in the same cast as yours. That’s pretty neat. “Glad you’re awake, it was getting boring in my room.”

“Hey,” You smile back. “How long was I… sleeping?”

“Two weeks,” She inhales, sitting on a chair next to your bed. “Mark stops by everyday, your parents too. They’re in a hotel nearby, last I heard.”

Carefully, you actually look around the room. This isn’t like any hospital you’ve seen before. “Where am I?” 

“Oh,” She slowly looks around the room. “This is the GDA, it has a hospital meant for heroes and sometimes their families.” She chuckled as she gestured to you. “Mark made them admit you.” She adds, now looking down. You smile, messing with the fabric of the bedsheet. “Do you want me to contact your parents? They won’t be able to get inside for another hour but at least they can know?”

You nod without hesitation. “Yes, please, thank you.” She nods and leaves the room. Two weeks, that’s a long time but then again you could’ve died. Holy shit, you could’ve died.  

The door opens again and you expect to see Eve, but instead you’re crushed underneath Mark. He holds you as tightly as he can without hurting and you can feel the tears flowing from his eyes down to your neck. “Mark?” You look down at him, carefully wrapping your arms around him. The heart monitor speeds up again and you curse at it, trying to see if it’s connected to a wire you can remove. 

“I thought you weren’t going to wake up,” He cries and you notice the bandages around his head. 

“What happened to you?” He shakes his head at that, holding you tighter. Okay, he doesn’t want to talk about that right now. That’s fine. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” He sniffs. “I’m fine. Oh— shoot—“ He lifts up, wiping his face. “I’m probably crushing you, I’m sorry.” 

You shake your head and carefully move to the side, creating a space for him to lay down. “I’m fine, Mark. Whatever doctors they have at this place are sick. I feel fine.” Catching the way his eyes dip down to your arm, you show off your cast. He nods, ghosting his fingers over the metal before his other hand curls into yours. 

“I…” He breathes, slowly shaking his head. “I was so worried when you called me. Eve had just gotten attacked by one of me and then— and then you. God, I…” His eyes find yours and he closes his eyes. “I thought you were going to die.”

You shrug as if you hadn’t been terrified that night. “I’m fine now. Let’s focus on that,” 

“Okay,” He nods and then looks around the room. “Did you… speak to Eve?”

“Not really,” You shrug. “She said she was happy I was awake, how long I was out, and then went to call my parents.” Mark nods again and starts messing with his shirt. You try to not look at his bruises on his face, just like he tries not to look at your fading ones on your neck. You look at his hand, watching as he pulls and tugs at the fabric. 

“When we broke up,” He starts and you look up at him again. “Me and Eve, I mean. We broke up because… she thought I was bringing you into the relationship.” 

“I don’t understand,” Mark squints as if the memories are so embarrassing he can’t bring them up again. 

“She— I would bring you up, a lot. She said it was nearly every conversation and she was convinced that I was… in love with…you,” Carefully his eyes meet yours before they snap to that damned heart monitor. When his eyes find yours, you look away. “And I didn’t believe her until you called me. When I saw you, lying there, something snapped. I couldn’t lose you. I was so afraid.” Softly, he starts crying and you lean closer to him, wiping his tears away with your thumb. “When you were out,  Cecil said that the world needed me and—“ He shakes his head, grabbing your hand. “It clicked that you were right there, my whole world.”

“Mark…” You trail. 

“I love you, (Y/n).” He says before you can find something to say. “And not in the way we always say it. I love you, love you.”

“I love you, too.” Mark laughs, leaning down and kissing the top of your head. You were hoping for the lips, but that’s fine too. Thankfully, when he pulls away, he leans down and carefully kisses you. Holding his face, Mark crawls on top of you but you make him lay down in the spot next to you. “Am I heavy?” He laughs and you snort, shaking your head before opening your eyes. 

“No, I just wanted you to be comfortable,” He hums, eyes on your lips before he crashes his lips back to yours. 

The door opens and he pulls away, half expecting it to be Cecil or Eve, maybe even a doctor but no. It was far worse. 

“Mom!” You both say, staring at your mother, your father and Debbie. Your father removes his baseball cap and covers his laugh while your mother and Debbie giggle. You fall back, covering your face and Mark rushes to his feet. 

“We uh… we can explain,” He hurriedly says but your mother waves her hand, pushing him out of the way

“Mark, we been knew that you two would get together. Now move, my son is finally awake.”

[shurisneakers]

unsolved (xvi)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse.

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, tension, ghosts, ptsd

A/N: this was 10k words long before i brought it down to 9.6k. anyway. we're starting to wind down with this series. isn't that so insane.

Previous part || Series masterlist

Dawn comes, and brings with it not birdsong. Not the gentle patter of rain. 

A loud, sharp knock on your door.

You roll out of bed to check your phone. 4:58 a.m.

You half expect to find the building on fire.

No one else would be stupid enough to pull this stunt on you on the second day of the year. 

When you open the door, Bucky’s standing there like he’s already been up for hours. Hoodie, boots, duffel in one hand, a to-go cup in the other.

“You’re up,” he says.

You stare at him. “You just woke me.”

He tips his head. “We’re leaving in ten.”

You’re not even sure you heard this loser right, considering it was 5 in the fucking morning. 

Still, you ask as patiently as you can, “Where.”

“Route 7. There’s a ghost on the highway.”

You just look at him, wondering if he had been replaced in the middle of the night by an alien with a death wish, because what the fuck is this.

He looks back, steady. “Ghost bride. Wants to hitch a ride.”

“And she must hitch one at the ass crack of dawn? Not at like, 3pm?” 

He shrugs. “It’s a long drive.”

“I haven’t packed.”

He holds up the bag. “I did.”

You recognize it as the one you keep ready for field work, though you can’t remember where you last left it.

“…You packed for me.”

“Check it. I guessed on the jacket.”

You take it, slowly. “But the camera’s not charged.”

“I charged it.”

“Tripods?”

“Loaded.”

“SD cards?”

“In the glove box. Readers too.”

You can’t stop staring at him. “Is this a trap?”

“There’s a folder on the front seat,” he says. “Case notes. Highlighted.”

“Highlighted.”

“Active case sightings.”

“What is happening?” You stare at him. “Are you trying to impress me?”

His eyes flick to yours, just for a second. “Is it working?”

You don’t know what to do with that, so you point at the cup. “Is that coffee?”

“No. Peach mango tea.”

“…For me?”

He raises an eyebrow. “No.”

That is probably the most normal he’s been in this whole interaction.

You don’t say anything for a moment. He doesn’t fill the silence.

He looks like he might, but he doesn’t.

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” he says. “Ten minutes.”

Then he turns and walks down the hall.

“Your cup’s in the car,” he calls over his shoulder.

You glance down. The zipper’s already half open. Inside, you can see your camera, tucked into its spot like it’s been handled a hundred times. Neatly packed. Memory cards in their pouch. Gimbal foam-wrapped. Chargers coiled.

You don’t know what to do with any of this.

The road unwinds slowly in front of you, all gray light and low fog. He’s been driving for over an hour. 

Neither of you have spoken much since the first gas station, and even that was mostly about fuel grades. A lot, considering he dragged you out of bed to be here. 

Ghost bride, tragedy at the wedding leads to it being called off, dies on her way home. Now haunts the highway, shows up in people’s car, waiting for someone to drop her to her favourite diner. Stuff you’d dealt with before, which is why Bucky dragging you out of bed for this made no sense. 

The sun's just starting to bleed into the sky when you say it.

“Does this have anything to do with the meeting yesterday?”

He shifts his position. Not much, but enough.

“No,” he says, too flat. 

You hum quietly. “Right.” 

You let the silence stretch.

You glance at him. “You didn’t say much after it.”

“Didn’t have much to say.”

You haven’t seen this Bucky since the first meeting you had with him all those months ago, all monosyllabic and short sentences. 

He turns up the heat on the AC, one arm leaning on the window.   

You turn your head to the outside, watch the mist slide past the trees.

Something stretches tight between you. Like a drawer packed too carefully, threatening to spill.

You think about the look on his face yesterday after Maya logged off the call. How he just stared at the blank screen.

You think about the way he’d said, “Guess that’s that.”

You glance at him now, and he’s still got that same set to his jaw.  

He just keeps driving, hands steady and eyes on the horizon.

“There’s no way this road used to be called ‘Lover’s Bone Trail’,” you say instead, poking a hole into the tension in the air.

“That’s what all the articles said.”

“And we, as a community, have just decided to keep it?”

“It’s historical. Named in 1874.”

“It was the 1800s. Everything was like a euphemism for syphilis. Men wore ten layers of wool and died from looking at soup wrong. Why are we respecting that?”

Bucky has no answer to that.

“So,” you say, suddenly loud because you guess you had to do this the old fashioned way, “if she shows up, I’m pulling over. She’s coming with us.”

“You’re not the one driving.”

“Technicality.”

“No,” he says. “That’s literally how driving works.”

“She’s a bride,” you say, ignoring him entirely. “That means she’s into commitment. I think I have a shot.”

“You think she’s your type?”

“I think I’m her type. She keeps climbing into strangers’ cars in the middle of the night. She sounds fun. I think I could win her over before she disappears.”

“Win her over to what.”

“To our side. She could help us with b-roll.”

Bucky exhales. “She’s going to latch onto your soul and suck the nutrients out of your bones.”

“Great. Finally some passion in my relationship.” 

He doesn’t answer.

You grin. “You could just admit you’re jealous of my hypothetical ghost wife.”

He mutters something like “I’m begging you to shut up” but there’s the barest, traitorous twitch at the corner of his mouth.

You lean your head back against the window, pleased. “If she asks what we are, I’m saying I’m single and looking.”

“You don’t even know what she looks like.”

“She’s a bride. How hard can it be.”

“You can’t just stop for every random on the street.”

“I can. And I will.”

“We are not putting a stranger in the car while it’s still dark.”

“If she’s dead, what’s she gonna do?”

“She could be a con artist.”

You grin. “So am I. We’ll get along great.”

You flash him a cheerful thumbs-up like that clears you of all responsibility.

Bucky shakes his head with a small tug at his lips. 

“Fine,” you say, “if she gets in the car and asks what we are, what do you want me to say?”

“Coworkers.”

You scoff. “We’re in a car at sunrise. You packed my jacket. This is essentially foreplay.”

He doesn’t look at you. “You’re deeply troubled.”

“You knew that when you signed the contract.”

He mutters something under his breath. You ignore it.

“I’m just saying,” you continue, “if she climbs in here and asks, I’m gonna say we’re eloping.”

“You’re gonna tell a dead bride that we’re eloping? You want to get us killed?”

“Yessir. You going to stop me?”

He doesn’t answer.

You lean back smugly. “Didn’t think so.”

He shakes his head, one hand adjusting the rearview mirror with resigned energy.

“Do you think we'd be one of those couples that get married and divorced over and over again? Because it’s fun and chic?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Like Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez.”

He narrows his eyes. “We’re not even dating yet and you’re talking about divorce.”

“Dibs.”

“Dibs?”

“I’m calling dibs on being your first divorce. I don’t care you who you date–” blatant lie “--so long as I'm the one you're getting married and divorced to over and over.”

He doesn’t respond. But his ears are a little pink.

You’re sitting cross-legged in the passenger seat with your hoodie pulled over your face like evil Kermit. 

Bucky’s been pretending not to notice for fifteen miles.

He should be used to this by now. He is used to this. But he doesn’t look at you. Can’t.

Because the problem is that he’ll either lose his mind or kiss you so hard it resets both your trauma timelines.

So instead he stares straight ahead. 

“If we see her, I’m slamming on the brakes and proposing.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. “You’re still not the one driving.”

You shift a little, pull your legs down, twist the sleeves of your hoodie into knots around your fingers

He sends a glance your way. “You should sleep.”

You look at him sideways. “You trying to get rid of me?”

“Yes.” Blatant lie.

Outside, the horizon’s cracking open with light. The fog’s burning off slow. The road stretches ahead like it’s daring you to say something next.

“If I die on this trip, I want you to taxidermy me.”

A beat passes as Bucky processes what you just said.. 

“No,” he says slowly, like it’s a boundary he’s had to establish before.

“I’m serious. Tasteful pose. Keep me in the studio.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Where would you put me then?”  

“I’m going to bury you in a ditch.”

“I’d crawl back up Michael Jackson style.” You sit up slowly and stretch with the smug satisfaction of someone who knows they’re an acquired taste and has already been acquired.

You’ve had enough caffeine to kill a Victorian child and still your brain refuses to slow down.

Still, you tediously continue, “If I die before you, you’re not allowed to get remarried.”

“We’re not married.”

“I just think if I die, you should live a quiet, devoted life. Maybe take up baking. Get weird about birds. But never move on.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Focuses on the road.

You keep going.

“If you die before me, I’m gonna be insufferable,” you say. “Wear your hoodie for five years. Cry at vacuum commercials. Start getting into knife-throwing or something.”

He lets out a breath.  

You smile, wicked and tired and radiant with nonsense. “Also, I’m going to lie about you. So much. You fought bears. You once ate glass to win a bar fight.”

“I’ve never even been in a bar fight.”

“Gotta fill in the gaps.”

And yet again, he doesn’t say anything. You’re sitting there with crumbs on your shirt spewing absolute madness without even blinking. 

He tells himself to focus on the horizon, on the mission.

But all he can feel is the heat of you next to him. The way you’re always like half-feral. And how every word you say has him unraveling by degrees. All he can think is that god, you’re annoying, and god, he wants to kiss you so bad he could drive you both off this road just to make it stop.

You turn to him suddenly, serious. “If I do die first, you can’t carry a picture of me in your wallet. That’s boring. You can carry my teeth. Like, in a pouch. Just in case.”

“In case of what.”

“You never know,” you say. “Might need them.”

He glances over. “You’re carrying your own teeth.”

“No,” you say. “I give you my teeth. It’s symbolic. A gesture of trust. Of love.”

“A bag of loose teeth is not love.”

“You just don’t get symbolism. Anyway. If you don’t do it, I’ll know you never really loved me.”

He finally glances over. 

Your grin widens. “See? That’s the look. Perfect. Do that when journalists ask if you still hear my voice.”

He doesn’t answer, eyes lingering over you for a second too long. 

“You’d look good with a parrot, by the way. For your widower era.”

He looks at you and it takes a millisecond to realise somehow this is– different. 

Messy. Like all the gears in his head are clanging against each other at once.

“You good?” you ask after a beat of him not moving.

He exhales sharply, before giving a curt nod. “Fine.”

You’re still watching him like you’re about to say something else when it happens.

You blink, and that’s when it flashes past the passenger window.

White and tall. Not a blur, but more like a flicker, the kind you catch just out of the corner of your eye. 

Pale fabric snapping in the wind. A veil, maybe. A dress.

You sit bolt upright.

“HEY.”

He jerks slightly, hand tensing on the wheel. “What?”

“What do you mean ‘what’? You twist halfway in your seat, finger jabbing at the back window. “Did you not see that?!”

“What are you talking about?”

“We passed her.”

“Passed who.”

“The bride!”

He glances at the rearview mirror. “There’s no one there.”

“She was right there. You just— I told you to keep your eyes open!”

“I was watching the road.”

“You were looking at me.”

“You were trying to give me your teeth.”

You’re still facing backward, peering through the fog. “I think she posed. That’s so hot of her.” 

He squints. Checks the mirrors. Nothing. Just the stretch of empty road behind you. 

You turn in your seat, trying to spot her through the trees. “She probably thinks we’re rude.”

“She probably doesn’t exist.”

“She posed.”

“She didn’t pose.”

“I know a theatrical ghost when I see one, and that bitch was hitting angles.”

“Jesus Christ.”

He parks.

You’re already out of the car before he unbuckles. Camera bag over your shoulder, boots crunching on gravel, one hand raised.

“Miss Bride!” you call. “Sorry, my cameraman was too busy making googoo eyes at me to notice you the first time–”

“Shut up.”

“--but we’d love a second to talk if you’re free. Perhaps even consider holy matrimony.”

Bucky rolls down the window to watch you. 

“Turn around.”

Bucky, sitting in the car, door shut, hands on the wheel, does not even flinch.

“No.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Excuse me?”

“We’re not going back.”

You stomp over to his window. He hits the button and rolls it down.

““She was right there,” you say, stabbing a finger into the air.

“She’s not now.”

“Because we drove past her.”

He shrugs. “She’s got legs. She can catch up.”

“She doesn’t have legs, she’s floating.”

“She can float her way over.”

“Bucky.”

“If she’s that into this, she’ll show up again. Get in the car.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, marching around to the passenger side. “You’re so fucking difficult.”

You throw the door open, toss yourself in.

He starts driving, non-chalant, like he hasn’t just disrespected the very fabric of journalism.

You stare at him. He stares ahead.

“Can’t believe I saw a literal ghost bride and you’re acting like it was a pigeon.”

“Both of them are mobile. She can come over if she wants.” 

Your voice is all sullen when you say, “She liked me. We had a moment.”

“I’m sure she’ll tell all her friends.”

You glare out the window. 

He’s been driving for forty minutes.

The forest has thinned. The fog has burned off. The sun has the audacity to shine.

No sign of her.

You’re on your third rewatch of the dashcam footage you weren’t even filming at the time.

“There’s a shadow at timestamp 7:08,” you say, zooming in. “Could be a veil.”

Bucky doesn’t look. “Could be a bird.”

You turn to him. “You have no imagination.”

At another point, you put on music that is, frankly, emotionally manipulative. Minor keys. Whispery vocals.  

He turns the volume down without asking.

You turn it back up.

Another twenty minutes pass.

Still nothing.

Just road. Crows. One gas station.

You sigh.

“I think she broke up with me.”

“She was never dating you.”

“We had a moment.”

“Your entire moment lasted less than five seconds.”

“People fall in love in less.”

“Name one time.”

You stare pointedly at him, daring him to say it.

He does not.

Instead, he says: “We’ll stop at the next town. You can film the local haunted mailbox or whatever.”

Another mile passes.

You peer out the window one last time, hopeful.

Nothing.

“You’re buying me breakfast,” you say like it’s punishment.

As if that wasn’t the plan anyway.

Since it’s on Bucky’s dime, you order too much food. It’s half out of spite. Half because the menu actually looks good. 

Bucky’s halfway through his toast, mind elsewhere.

You point your fork at his plate. “What should our last video be about?”

Bucky’s mouth goes a bit dry but he swallows the bread nonetheless. 

“Don’ care. Pick whatever.”

“Wow, can you contain your excitement? I can't handle it.”

He gives you a brief smile.  

You take a sip from his mug. “You’ll miss me.”

“Like a rash.”

“Charming.”

You kick his shin lightly under the table. He doesn’t flinch.

You lean back, stretching your arms over your head. “One more after this. That’s it.”

“It is.”

You eye him. 

He shrugs, picking a crumb off the table like it’s something to do.

“What next?” he asks you, tone casual but voice gruff. 

You watch him for a beat before saying, “I mean, I always figured I was gonna bounce after this. It was a fun gig.”

He nods once, making no motion to argue. Like you said you were going to pick up groceries.

“So, you know. Big change.”

“Guess so.”

You give him a look. “That’s it?”

“What else am I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know. ‘Wow, I’ll miss your witty insight and looking at how sexy you are." Something like that.”

He raises an eyebrow. “My mother raised me not to lie.”

You throw a balled up straw cover at him. It bounces off his shoulder and lands on his plate.

You pick up your fork again. “So what are you gonna do with your newfound freedom?”

He sets his cup down. “Sleep for a week. Punch the next person who says ‘content strategy.’”

“Bold of you to assume anyone talks to you voluntarily.”

“You never shut up.”

“I bet you had a countdown. Big red Xs on a calendar. ‘Only three more episodes with the loud one.’”

He doesn’t respond. You glance up.

His face is unreadable.  

You flag down the check with a raised hand.

“Anyway,” you say, lighter again. “One more, then I ride off into the sunset. You get your life back. Everybody wins.”

He watches you slide on your jacket, looking at you from the corner of his eye. “Is that what you think? I get my life back?”

You pause, one arm halfway in a sleeve.

He pays the bill without asking even though he very defiantly he said he wasn’t going to.  

You finish putting the jacket on. Adjust the collar like it’s suddenly very interesting.

Outside, the morning’s sharper now. Colder, even though the sun had taken its rightful place in the sky. 

You walk toward the car. He follows.

Just before you get in, you say, “I don’t think you hated all of it.”

He opens his door. Doesn’t look at you. “Some parts were tolerable.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I can take it back.”

“You won’t.”

The doors shut.  

Bucky turns the key. The engine grumbles awake. He checks the mirrors like he’s doing a final perimeter sweep before war.

And then he goes rigid.

“...Huh.”

You’re adjusting your seatbelt. “What.”

He doesn’t answer.

Just stares into the rearview, deadpan.

You lean over. “What.”

Still nothing.

“What?” you ask again, sharper. 

He sighs. “There’s someone in the back seat.”

You blink. “Sorry what?”

Bucky can’t tear his eyes away from the mirror.

You twist around.

White dress. Veil. Pale as moonlight.  

You turn back slowly. Face forward. Stare straight ahead.

“Is she... buckled in?”

“Nope,” he says, straight laced.

“She should be buckled in.”

“That’s not a priority right now.”

“I don’t care. That’s a moving violation.”

He adjusts the rearview. Avoids eye contact with her. 

You whip around again. She hasn’t moved. Just sits there, hands folded, gaze unfocused.

“Now what?”.

“She’s not screaming,” Bucky mutters. “So that’s a good start.”

“Oh great, we’ve upgraded from ‘screaming banshee’. Love that for us.” You stare at her a bit longer before deciding on, “She’s probably just hitching a ride.”

“A ride to where? Hell?” Bucky just adjusts the AC like that’ll fix the ambient death in the backseat.

She’s still there in the rearview. Still pale, still backlit like she brought her own horror movie fog. Face slack. Eyes a little too bloodshot, like she’s been awake since 1834.

You watch her for a second.

Then look at Bucky.

Then back at her.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “According to literally every story ever written about this woman, she just wants to be dropped off at the diner.”

He nods. “Which we’ve done.”

“Which we’re currently leaving.”

Another second passes while you both contemplate.

“What if she didn’t see it?” you pose.

“She’s sitting in this car. We’re in the parking lot. She has eyes.” 

“I’ve seen her eyes. She has bad eyes.”

You squint at her reflection. Her stare doesn’t waver. Doesn't blink.

“Okay. So if she saw the diner, and didn’t leave, does that mean–”

“She’s defective?”

“I was going to say she doesn’t have money.”

You reach down, grab the diner’s leftover bag from the floor and rifle through it.

You hold the takeout container up so she can see it in the mirror.

“Hey,” you say, “We have pancakes. They’re lukewarm, but edible.”

She stares.

“Real maple syrup,” you add, like that’s going to help. “I think.”

Still nothing.

Bucky glances in the mirror, then back to the road. “Well, you offered. Now what.”

You close the container, before twisting in your seat to face the back. “Okay, so what do you want?”

No answer. Just red-rimmed ghost eyes.

“Maybe she just wants to hang out.”

“She is bleeding from the eyes, Buck.” You lean forward, rub your hands over your face. “She wants something else.”

You glance back at the mirror. Her stare is heavier now. Expectant.

You squint. “What can we do for you? What will help?”

Her eyes narrow just a little.

You look at Bucky.

“She’s got that look,” you mutter. “The one you get when you think I’m about to say something stupid.”

Bucky nods. “That’s ninety percent of the time.”

“What if we brought her to the wrong diner?” You turn back to her. “Is that it?”

Nothing.

You lean back in your seat, defeated. “What the hell are we supposed to do with her? What’s the plan here?”

“I thought you wanted to marry her.”

You turn back around. “Girl, you wanna get married? I’ll do it, I don’t care. I love you.”

She doesn’t reply.

“Wow, rejected,” Bucky says flatly. “I thought you were soulmates.”

“Shut up.” You glance back at the mirror. The ghost bride stares, unmoved. Slightly annoyed. Still bleeding from the eye sockets.

You squint. “Try flirting with her.”

There’s a beat of silence so dense you can hear the engine hum in self-defense.

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me.”

“No.”

“Oh, come on. Give her a little smolder. Ask if she, I don’t know, haunts here often.”

“Absolutely not.”

“She’s literally haunting us, Bucky. The least you could do is be polite about it.”

“She’s dead.”

“So’s your dating life. You have nothing to lose.”

He glares at you.

You grin. “She might respond to compliments. What’s the worst that happens? She leaves from embarrassment?”

He glances up at the mirror, then back at the road.

You can see the moment his soul gives up.

“Fine.”

You bite back a smile.

Bucky clears his throat. Just once.

Then, directed at the mirror with the bone-deep enthusiasm of a man being held at gunpoint, he turns around. 

“So, uh–”

You lean in, eyes gleaming.

“You... look nice. In white.”

A pause.

Nothing happens.

He presses on, deadpan. “Timeless. Very... Victorian. Suits you.”

You press your mouth closed so tight it hurts. God forbid you laugh. 

Still nothing.

The ghost bride doesn’t blink. Doesn’t so much as tilt her head. Like even in undeath, this is the worst pickup attempt she’s ever witnessed.

“Tell her she has... striking bone structure,” you whisper.

“Absolutely not.”

“She’s got cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, Barnes. Show some respect.”

“Fuck off.”

You both look at the mirror again.

“I think you offended her,” you say.

“I think she’s always looked like that.”

“She probably wanted something more old-fashioned. A sonnet. A duel. A goat sacrifice.”

“She got a compliment. That’s the most effort I’ve put into any relationship in the last decade.”

You hum. “Explains a lot.”

He gives you a sidelong look. “You want to flirt with her?”

“I can’t. I’m already married to the grind.”

He groans audibly.

“Well,” you say, “we tried.”

“She’s still here.”

You tilt your head. “Ma’am, are you lonely?”

Another beat of silence passes.

In a quick second, she raises her eyes to you. 

Bucky and you exchange glances. 

“It it because you miss your husband?” 

Her eyes grow more bloodshot. Your eyebrows furrow.

“So, not him. Do you not like him?”

She does something that looks somewhat similar to exhaling.

“You said there was a tragedy at the wedding,” you muse. “Did something happen between you both?”

She inhales, noise coming out like a wheeze. 

You only stare at her for a while.

“He left you at the altar?” you say, voice gentler now.  

Bucky’s brows furrow. 

A second goes by with no change.

The ghost lifts her head a fraction. Her mouth twitches, barely.

You almost miss it.

You hum. “So you walked out?”

Another blink.

“Let me guess,” you say. “Everyone else went home to gossip and you– what– ended up at the diner? That your favourite place?”

She doesn’t nod. But she doesn’t look away.

Bucky glances at you. “She died on the way. Heel got caught crossing the road. Truck didn’t stop.”

You wince, looking back at her.

“You didn’t get what you wanted, did you?”

She looks tired. Deflated even, from what you’ve known her in the last few minutes.

“Okay,” you say, after thinking for a second. “Alright.”

You don’t explain further. Simply open the door, step out, and head into the diner.

Bucky stays seated, watching the mirror.

She doesn’t move.

Just watches you through the glass.

You’re gone for a minute. Two.

Then the door swings open again.

You’ve got a receipt in hand as you walk around the back, open her door like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

She looks at you.

And for the first time, Bucky watches her move.

She slides out of the car in one smooth, silent motion. Her veil doesn’t rustle. Her feet don’t touch the ground.

She drifts toward the door.

You get there first, hold it open for her, but don't follow.

He sees the waitress behind the counter glance up, not surprised at all. She nods once, like it’s routine.

And when the faint trace of the ghost steps through, the waitress turns, grabs a menu without reading it, and just pulls out a chair. Pours syrup into a little ceramic pitcher. 

She sets a fresh plate of pancakes at the far booth in the corner.

You waits until the ghost is fully inside.

Then let the door shut, before walking back to the car.

Bucky twists in his seat.

There’s no one in the backseat. 

But unlike the mirror, the booth isn’t empty.

The ghost sits.

You climb back into the car. Quiet. Still watching her.

Bucky looks at you.

“Let’s go,” you say.

He turns back to the window.

Watch her cut into the stack, careful. 

And for a brief second, she looks young.

 

The road is long again.

You thumb the edge of a candy bar wrapper and let your foot rest against the dash. He hasn’t spoken in a while.

Eventually, Bucky shifts in his seat.

“How’d you know what she wanted?”

You glance over, caught off guard by the softness in his voice.

“I didn’t,” you admit. “If that didn’t work, I would’ve tried something else.”

He falls quiet again.

You watch the blur of trees sliding past the window. Shadows flickering over the dash.

“People don’t really try to figure it out, you know?” you say. “They just assume. Oh, she’s lingering, so she must be angry. Must be tragic. So let’s banish her, cleanse her, salt the windows. But I don’t know, maybe she wanted something else.”

He hums under his breath. A sound like he’s chewing on the thought.

You’re ten minutes down the road when it hits you.

“Fuck.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. “What now.”

“I didn’t record it.”

A beat of silence.

Bucky drags a hand over his face. 

“I was moved,” you defend. 

“That’s not a setting on the camera.”

“Okay, well excuse me for having a heart.”

There’s a pause.

Then, unexpectedly, he huffs a laugh.  

 You stretch, bones cracking like old wood, and glance out the window. The sky’s brighter now, the sun finally winning the fight against the fog.

“So,” you say, casual. “I guess we’re heading home now.”

“No.”

You blink. “No?”

“No.”

You look over. He’s got the same expression he always has when he’s plotting something. His face is bare, unreadable, but with that slight tightness at the corner of his mouth.

You stare. “Are you kidnapping me?”

His eyes don’t leave the road. “Would I have bought you breakfast if I were?”

“That’s exactly what someone trying to trick me would say.”

He exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh, but in that direction.

You narrow your eyes. “Where are we going?”

He shrugs.

“That’s not an answer.”

“You’ll see.”

“That’s actually the slogan of most kidnappers.”

“Most kidnappers don’t let you pick the music,” he says dryly. 

You pause before reaching over and switching the playlist to something you know he’d hate.

He doesn’t argue.

Suspicious.

He finally stops at a fucking cabin.

The sign isn’t even painted properly. 

Just a piece of sun-bleached wood swinging lopsided over the door. Letters barely legible. 

It’s a lodge or gift shop or something, with a coffee shop right next to it.  

“Why are we stopping?” you ask, brows raised as he turns off the ignition.

Bucky doesn’t answer.

He just gets out, door shutting with a solid thunk, and starts walking toward the little building.

You scramble out after him. “Okay, I thought you ate lunch at like 5pm. Didn’t realise you were hungry.”

He doesn’t slow down. “Let’s go.”

You stare at the back of his head. “You’re being weird.”

He doesn’t argue.

Just pushes the door open and holds it for you. The little bell above it gives a jingle, bright and alive.

Inside, the air is warm and smells like baked apple, butter, and a little woodsmoke. A few tables. Worn chairs. Mismatched mugs on a shelf by the register. 

Bucky doesn’t look at you. Just walks toward the counter like he’s been here before.

You follow, slower now. Cautious. Trying to put pieces together that don’t quite fit yet.

There’s a small table near the window. Sunlight filters in like it’s being polite about it. He stops there. Waits.

“Okay, I want a croissant, if you’re buying,” you tell him. “And one extra one because you keep taking bites from mine even though you say you don’t want one-” 

Bucky knocks on the counter, pretty loudly for his standards. “Hello?”

You’re about to ask again what the hell is going on when the back door swings open.

You freeze.

Not metaphorically.  Your entire body stops moving like someone yanked the cord out.

She looks exactly the same.

Same cardigan. Same sleeves pushed up. Same towel draped over her shoulder, like she’s been mid-shift since the day you left.

“What the fuck,” you say quietly.

She stops just short of the counter and smiles like no time has passed. “Hey.”

Bucky, beside you, clears his throat. “Ma’am.”

Mrs. Mullens nods at him, warm and amused. “I was wondering when you were gonna make it.”

Your head whips toward him. “What on earth– what do you mean–”

She steps forward and folds the towel over one hand. “Well, he tracked me down. Told me what the plan was and so I invited him right over.”

You stare at him.

He stares somewhere over your head, suddenly very invested in the far corner of the café.

“This whole trip was… what?” you ask. “A set-up?”

“Don’t blame him,” Mrs. Mullens says gently. “Second I heard, I told him to get himself down here and bring you with.”

You don’t know what to do with your hands.

You don’t know what to do with your face.

Bucky shifts on his feet. “I’m, uh, gonna give you two a minute,” he mutters. “Wait in the car.”

He turns before you can stop him. Just raises one hand in a half-wave and heads for the door.

You feel like the floor’s been tilted, and everyone else got a headstart adjusting.

Mrs. Mullens watches you quietly, like she’s got all the time in the world. “You okay?”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then try again.

Her expression doesn’t flicker as she reaches out to hold your forearms. 

“Well,” she says, scanning you up and down. “There you are.”

You feel something in your chest cinch tight and then loosen all at once.

“Hi,” you manage.

She still smells like flour and cloves, soft in the way that nothing else in your life ever quite let itself be.

“Come on,” she says. “Sit with me. Let me make you something.”

“I don’t want to put you out,” you say, voice hoarse.

“Still the same order?” she asks, already halfway to the kitchen.

“Yeah,” you say. “Still the same.”

She’s back a few minutes later with a plate, the way she used to make it when you were seventeen and underfed and too proud to admit it.

“Thanks,” you say softly. “You really stayed the same.”

“You look taller,” she says, sitting across from you.

“I’m not.”

“You sure? Your feet used to swing off that booth.”

“I was like, eighteen.”

“You were seventeen,” she corrects, smiling.

You blink. “You remember?”

“I remember everything,” she says, a little amused. “You showed up with two shirts and a backpack like you’d been chased cross-country.”

You laugh under your breath. “Sounds about right.”

“I gave you the Monday morning shifts because you were too twitchy on Sundays. You always smelled like metal. What were you even doing back then?”

“Nothing good,” you say, without really thinking. “But I liked being here.”

“Did you? You were terrified of the espresso machine. Thought it was gonna explode if you pressed the wrong button.”

“It hissed at me, Mags.”

She laughs, full-bellied and familiar.

It’s been years. You should feel different, older, hardened. But with her sitting across from you in that same cardigan and kind eyes, you feel like the same version of yourself that used to sneak biscotti from the back and cry in the walk-in freezer when everything felt too loud.

“I know,” she says. “But you needed something to keep your hands busy. Didn’t think you’d stay longer than a week.”

You lift one shoulder. “Didn’t plan to. It just happened.”

“But you did.”

“I did.”

“Sometimes that’s the best kind,” she says. “When you don’t notice it while it’s happening.”

“I still don’t know if I’m any good at staying.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re bad at it.” She hums. “Some folks are just built for motion. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Never felt like I was built for anything.”

“Then I guess you get to make it up as you go.”

You don’t answer right away. She doesn’t push.

You glance around the café. It’s not the same one you left, but it might as well be. Same vinyl booths. Same laminated menus that stick a little when you peel them open. The clock on the wall ticks one second behind, and the radio hums something mellow and familiar from a back room.

“I liked the old place,” you say eventually.

She doesn’t look up from where she’s stacking sugar packets. “So did I.”

“What happened?”

“Rent happened,” she says simply. “And my knees don’t like the city anymore.”

You nod. “This place is nice too.”

“I like the light,” she says, finally glancing out the wide front windows. “Good for the plants.”

There’s a little succulent lined up by the sill. A tiny herb pot, something leafy and stubborn. You remember the basil plant she used to keep behind the counter. It never survived more than a few weeks.

“I thought you might’ve moved further,” you say.

“I tried,” she replies. “Didn’t stick.”

“Why not?”

She shrugs. “Missed my regulars.”

“Do you ever think about moving again?” you ask.

She shakes her head. “No. This feels right. Feels enough.”

You don’t know what to think about that. 

But something about the way she says it quietly and certain, makes you think maybe one day, it won’t feel so impossible.

She folds the towel in thirds, slow and deliberate, like she has all the time in the world.

“He said you spent the day driving,” she says, “showed up back home with half an hour left for the day to get done.”

You huff. “Snitch.”

She chuckles.

“And you just gave him the new address?” you ask.

“Well, I asked him who he was first.” Her eyes soften. “Then he told me he was with you, and that was enough.”

You fiddle with the edge of your napkin. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. Or write. Or—”

“I know why you left,” she says, cutting in gently.

You blink.

“I figured you’d come when you were ready.”

“I should’ve said goodbye.”

She reaches across the table and sets her hand on yours.  

“You did what you needed to do,” she says. “And you survived. That was always the only thing I ever wanted for you.”

You look at her, the lump in your throat rising too fast.

“I thought about calling. A dozen times.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come back. I told myself I would, after things settled. But they never really did.”

“I know.”

“I felt like I owed you more.”

“You didn’t owe me anything,” she says, gentle but firm. “You stayed as long as you could.”

You exhale, slow and tight. “I didn’t leave because I didn’t care.”

“I know,” she repeats with the same patience as the previous hundred times.

“It just–”

“I remember,” she says. “You got real quiet the last few weeks. Used to stare out the kitchen window like the world was shrinking on you.”

You swallow hard.

“I didn’t know how to make it easier,” she says. “So we did what we could.”

“I didn’t know how to thank you,” you add, quieter now.

“You just did.”

You laugh once, short, a little embarrassed. “It’s not enough.”

“Why not?”

“I left,” you say. “Just took off. No note.”

She tilts her head. “You think that erased everything before it?”

“No. But it– it undid it. I left the state,” you say, eyebrows pulling together in frustration. “Just because you offered me a room. That’s insane.”

“You were always going to leave. I knew that when you came in.”

You look up.

“You walked in that first day like someone who already had one foot out the door,” she smiles, hand still resting over yours. “You didn’t owe me anything. I was just glad I got to know you for the time I did. You were always my favorite.”

You scoff. “You said that to everyone.”

“I lied to everyone else.”

You blink.

“You knew that already.” 

“I hoped.”

You glance out the window to get your bearings.

Mrs. Mullens follows your gaze. “He’s still out there.”

You follow her gaze. Bucky’s slouched in the driver’s seat, arms crossed, sunglasses on. He looks like he’s trying to nap and also like he’s making sure he can see the door if it opens.

“Is that your…?”

“Friend,” you say quickly.

She lifts an eyebrow.

“He’s fine,” you add. “Mostly grumbles. Pretends he doesn’t like things.”

“He doesn’t talk much, huh?”

“Not unless he wants to argue.”

“He’s cute.”

You snort.

“He yours?” she asks, lightly.

You shrug, avoiding the question. “He drove me here.”

“That’s not what I asked,” she says, grinning.

You look away.

“He seems steady,” she adds. “Even from here.”

“He is,” you admit. “More than he knows.”

“You always did pick the prickly ones,” she says, amused.

You huff a laugh, the ache in your throat a little lighter now.

“Why’d you say yes?” you ask. “When he called.”

She stirs her tea, quiet for a moment. “Because I missed you.”

You stare at her.

“I don’t know what else to tell you,” she says. 

You nod slowly. You can’t meet her eyes.

She watches you for a beat too long. “You think you’ll stick where you are now?”

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Time’s almost up on this one. It was never supposed to be permanent.”

“Seems like you’ve got people now. Makes things easier.”

You stare at the guy in the car, shifting in his seat. 

“Not always.”

“No,” she agrees, “but it makes them worth the trouble.”

You both sit there a while, the sun warming the tabletop. The world doesn’t demand anything from you just yet.

She leans back in her seat and folds her hands in her lap. “You know, I’ve got a room upstairs here, too.”

You blink.

“Not fancy,” she adds. “Small.”

You don’t say anything.

“Could use the help. These joints aren’t what they used to be. I’ve got a dishwasher who always misses a spot and the young ones never sweep under the tables right.”

Your face pulls into a smile.

“Think about it,” she says, tone still easy. “Doesn’t have to be forever.”

You watch her, unsure if the ache in your chest is guilt or hope or something else entirely.

“It sounds good,” you say quietly. “Actually good.”

She tilts her head, like she’s trying to read your thoughts. “You don’t have to make the call right now. But if you need a soft landing, this is still one.”

“Even after everything?”

“Especially after everything.”

You look down at your hands. “Why didn’t you get mad?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She blinks like she’s surprised you’d even think that. “You were never mine to keep. I was just glad I got to know you while you were here.”

There’s a warmth in your ribs you didn’t know you were missing until it showed up again.

She reaches below and comes up with a little paper box, folds creased neatly at the corners.

“Take these,” she says, setting it down. “Eat them before they go stale. Or don’t. Your call.”

You reach for it. “You didn’t have to–”

“Don’t start,” she says lightly, ““I baked too much this morning.”

You open the box and peer inside.

Biscotti. Lemon glaze. Just like she used to make them.

“These still your favourite?”

Your chest stings.

“Thank you,” you say again, quieter now.

Outside, the sun’s starting to shift.

“I’m really glad I came,” you say, voice low.

“Don’t wait so long next time,” she says. “You come back when you want to. No pressure.”

“I won’t.”

“Good,” she says.  

You bite the inside of your cheek.

She reaches over and gently pushes the box of biscotti toward you. “These’ll hold for a few days if you keep ‘em in a cool place.”

“I remember.”

“‘Course you do.”

You finally pick one up and take a bite.

It tastes exactly the same.

The screen door swings shut behind you with a thud and a jangle of the bell.

You stand still for a second outside the café. 

Gravel crunches gently beneath you. The sunlight’s warm, dappled. The smell of coffee and baked sugar lingers in your sleeves.  

It should be easier to walk away than this.

It’s not like you haven’t done it before. Not like you haven’t packed lighter and left faster. Sometimes with the door still swinging behind you. Sometimes before the people even noticed you were gone.

But you’re not moving.

You turn back briefly, gaze catching on the shape of her through the window, apron tied neat, still wiping down the counter like you were never even there.  

And for the first time in a while, you feel… stuck.

Not in the bad way.

Not Leviathan-trapped. Not time-loop-clocktower-stuck.

Anchored.

For a moment.

You drag yourself toward the car on legs that feel heavier than they should, biscotti box clutched under one arm like it’s going to make this easier.

Bucky watches you through the windshield but doesn’t move. His elbow is propped lazily on the open window frame.

He doesn’t ask, only looks.

You stop beside the car. Pull in a breath.

“Hey,” you say, a little quieter than you mean to.

He rolls the window down a little further. “Hi.”

You rest your forearms on the top of the window. Your eyes are a little tired. Your voice is a little warm.

“She asked me to stay,” you say.

His face doesn’t change, not really. But his grip on the steering wheel falters for a beat.

“Said I could pick this place as my next job, live upstairs if I wanted.”

A long second ticks by. Then another.

“Oh,” he says.

You finally look at him. “What do you think?”

He shrugs. “I mean, sounds nice.”

“It is,” you say, eyes drifting back to the building. “Peaceful. Kind of perfect, honestly.”

He nods slowly.

The wind whistles soft between you both.

“I told her it sounds great,” she says. “Told her I’d love to do it.”

Bucky’s jaw shifts. He doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure what would come out.

The world stills around the silence like it’s holding its breath. 

And then, quieter. “So… you’re staying?”

The words are small. Stiff. Like they don’t quite know how to fit in his mouth.

You don’t answer right away. Just tilt your head back and stare at the cloudless sky, lips pressed together like they’re holding something in.

Then you glance toward the café again. At the little chalkboard sign that’s still got the special written in cursive. At the potted plants by the door that have managed not to die.

At the open window, and the breeze that carries cinnamon and clove and lemon zest like a memory.

And you turn back to him.

“I told her I’d come back,” you say. “I’ve got some more videos to shoot.”

His shoulders relax just a fraction.

He swallows, nodding like it means nothing. Like it’s good to be reminded of obligations.

His hand comes off the steering wheel, flexes once. Settles again.

And then you lean in closer than you need to be.

And you press your mouth against his cheek in a long, steady press. A kiss that lingers just a second too long, enough to burn.

You feel his breath hitch.

“You’re kind of insane, Bucky Barnes,” you say when you pull back, voice rougher now. “Thanks.”

You hand him the box through the window. “I got you some biscotti”

He doesn’t say anything for a beat, just looks down at it like it’s heavier than it is.

He shifts it from one hand to the other, then looks up at you again.

You don’t look away.

“You seriously considered it?” he asks finally, like he’s trying to make it sound casual.

“Yeah.”

The answer’s easy. Too easy.

“You still thinking about it?”

You pause. Then nod. “A little.”

And you both sit in that silence.

The breeze kicks up again. A bird chirps somewhere in the trees nearby. The world keeps turning.

You let your fingers drum once along the car door. Then twice.

“I liked it there,” you say finally. “It was warm.”

He nods, barely perceptible. “It’s a nice place.”

You rest your chin on your arm and peer at him. “You ever want that? Quiet place, job that doesn’t involve crawling through basements looking for dead guys?”

He considers that.

Then shrugs. “I think I used to.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know. I guess I just like knowing where my shoes are.”

You grin at that.

You let your arms fall and step back. Gravel crunches. Sunlight warms your shoulders.

“I’ll come back,” you say again.

He just nods.

You start to walk around the car, toward the passenger side. You slide into your seat, pull the door shut. Clip your belt.

The car hums to life beneath you.

He pulls out of the lot slow and easy. 

The café disappears behind you.

The road hums under the tires. Pine trees slip past in long green blurs. 

You’ve both been quiet since the bakery. The box of biscotti sits unopened in your lap. You pick at the corner of the lid, folding it in and out.

You break the silence first.

“So.”

Bucky flicks his eyes over to you, then back to the road.

“Summoning the ghosts of Christmas past and all that,” you continue. “Worked.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just shifts his position in the seat. 

Things have changed for him the past year. He’s come to realise that the world doesn’t follow the rules he was taught it ought to follow. 

You exhale, watching your reflection ripple in the window glass. “It was her. Ghost of Christmas past.”

He nods once, almost imperceptibly.

You clear your throat. “That’s why I went looking for her, you know. After. Couldn’t stop thinking about it. Thought if I found her again– I don’t know.”

He waits.

“I wasn’t thinking. I just left.” You glance at him. ”I didn’t start this series really expecting to find any. But I guess the world’s a lot more complicated than I thought.” 

He’s quiet. More than usual.

The muscles in his jaw twitch like they’re trying not to.

You turn slightly in your seat to look at him. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

You watch his throat bob as he swallows hard.  

Then, after a minute that stretches too long: “I’ve been seeing one.”

You blink.

He doesn’t look at you.

“Months now,” he adds, softer. “Maybe longer.”

You don’t say anything at first.

“Is that what you were talking about on the ship?”

Bucky exhales, jaw clenched. “Yeah.”

You wait.

He doesn’t meet your eye. Keeps his attention on the road ahead. “I didn’t want to say anything. Thought maybe it was in my head. Hallucination. Stress. Y’know. Old habits.”

“When did it start?”

“After that episode with that doll,” he says.

It falls quiet for a while as you piece it together. The comment about hallucinations, freaking out after the doll episode, the way he looked at the children’s ward–

“Bucky, is a kid haunting you?

He looks at you wearily. “You think I’m insane.”

You watch him for a second, eyebrows tugged together.

You reach over, hand resting on his face, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. His eyes close briefly under your touch.

“I believe you. Trust me, I do,” you say intently, before hesitantly asking, “This kid… are they yours?”

“No. No, I don’t have a kid.” He sighs. “It’s my sister.”

“You’ve been seeing Becca?”

“Yeah,” he glances at you. “You don’t think I’m lying?”  

You shake your head. “I don’t think you have any reason to lie.”

 The sun hits the edge of his cheekbone and shadows the rest of him.

“Thanks,” he says. His voice cracks slightly. “I didn’t know how to tell anyone.”

“How do you know it’s her?”

And so he tells you about the doll. The paper she threw at him in the mansion, the ouija board, the cornfield, the mirror on the ship.  

The fucking tarot cards.

“Tarot cards? From that stupid video?” you ask in confusion. 

“The Star, Six of Cups, The Hanged Man. I got in touch with this fuckin’ reader who said if you were haunted by someone, and couldn’t move on, it might be because we hadn’t made peace.”

He exhales, and you see it then. The look on his face like it’s been carved out of regret.

“I think she’s mad at me,” he admits. 

“Why would she be mad?”

“I don’t know. For dying. She had to figure it out without me. I wasn’t there for her.”

“You were just a kid too, Buck,” you say quietly. “You didn’t have a choice.”

He doesn’t respond.

You glance sideways. “You’ve never told anyone else, have you?”

He shakes his head.

“Do you think talking to Steve would help?” you ask. “He knew Becca too.”

“What’s he gonna think?” Bucky replies. “My brain’s been fried enough times. I don’t really know what’s real or not.”

You offer him a tired, lopsided smile. “It’s Steve. He’d believe you if you said you were a ghost.”

That earns a quiet huff of a laugh from him. Barely there, but it’s something.

You shift in your seat, grabbing onto his hand.

“We’ll figure this out,” you whisper. “Thank you for telling me.”

He lets out a shaky breath. 

He opens the door and steps inside.

He pauses just inside the entryway, eyes scanning a room he already knows by heart. No sound except the faint hum of the refrigerator and a distant car alarm outside. He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath the entire way back.

Alpine’s already on the table, licking her paw like she pays the mortgage.

“Do you want to know what it's like,” she says, in the dark, “living with a man who keeps all the lights off like it’s a crime scene?”

“Turn it on if it bothers you so much,” he grumbles. 

“You know what I did today?” she asks, still not moving.

Bucky doesn’t answer as he drops his keys in the bowl and shrugs off his jacket.

“I sat on the windowsill and watched the neighbour’s cat get fed twice,” she says. “They gave her actual tuna. Not the shredded cardboard you buy.”

He heads to the sink and fills a glass of water. The faucet squeals.

Bucky doesn’t respond. Just sips.

“Two full servings. A little parsley on top. I think there was lemon involved. Meanwhile, I have to beg for dry pellets like a Dickens orphan.”

He places the glass on the counter. She eyes the smudge it leaves.

“I get it,” she says. “Something tragic probably happened. But you live like you’re actively trying to make this place uninhabitable.”

“Because I am. I tell you to get out all the time, you clingy demon.”

He sits down in the nearest chair and rubs the back of his neck.

Walks to the fridge. Opens it. Closes it again.

“I’d ask if it was a long day but you look like this all the time,” she calls out. 

“Don’t start.”

She jumps down from the table, lands with a soft thud. “Bit late for that.”

He rubs a hand over his face.

Alpine watches with narrowed eyes. “You didn’t cry in public, did you? Because I can’t be seen with you if that’s–”

“Alpine.”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

He pours himself a glass of water, ignoring her.

She hops up beside the sink. “You look miserable.”

He points at her. “You’re supposed to be a support animal.”

“I support you being less lame. So far, complete failure.”

He drinks.

She sniffs at the glass. “Is that water? You okay? Should I call someone?”

He sighs, leans against the counter, and finally looks at her. “Why do I keep you around?”

She tilts her head. “Because I’m the only one here who doesn’t let you get away with your sad orphan Victorian chimney boy routine.”

He holds her stare for a moment longer, then turns away, muttering.

Alpine jumps back down, tail curling behind her. “Go on then, brooder. Back to your man-cave. Try not to repress anything new while you’re in there.”

Bucky flips her off without turning around.

The floor is quiet when he finally heads inside.  

He walks down the hallway with his hands in his pockets, head tipped forward just slightly. When he reaches the landing, he notices it.

A bowl of strawberries.

It’s on the little table outside his room, covered with a plate.  

He stares at it for a moment, then picks it up, turns it slowly in his hand. The fruit is fresh. Still cold from the fridge. He knows where it came from.

He doesn’t go inside his room.

He turns around and walks back down the hallway to the other door. Raises a hand, knocks twice.

Steve’s voice comes through, muffled as he pushes the door open. “Yeah? Oh, hi, Buck.”

Steve’s in his sweatpants and a faded t-shirt. He has his glasses on, one arm slung casually on the back of a chair like he was reading something before being interrupted.

“Didn’t see you all day,” Steve says, stepping aside to let him in.

“Busy,” Bucky mumbles, stepping in and holding up the bowl. “You left this outside.”

Steve glances at it. “I did. They’re fresh.”

Bucky doesn’t laugh, but he breathes a little easier. He stands in the middle of the room for a second, like he’s forgotten what to do with himself.

Steve watches him. “Everything alright?”

“Can we talk?”

Steve straightens a bit. “Yeah, of course.”

They both sit. Steve curls one leg under himself. Bucky holds the bowl of strawberries in both hands.

For a long time, he doesn’t speak. The wall clock ticks quietly behind them. Somewhere, a car honks.

“You good?” Steve asks.

Bucky lets the silence stretch a second longer. 

“What do you do when you fail the ones you love?” he asks finally.

Steve doesn’t move. He just watches Bucky carefully, gaze quiet.

“Well,” he says, “you apologise the best you can.”

Bucky swallows. “How do you live with the guilt?”

Steve takes a moment. Then he leans forward, rests his arms on his knees.

“You bring them fruit,” he says. “And make reminders to ask them about things they care about. You show up in a way that lets them know they matter. And you hope that makes up for failing when they needed you.”

Bucky stares at the bowl in his hands.

There’s a lump in his throat that won’t budge. He’s not sure how long it’s been there. Days. Weeks. Longer.

“You think it’s enough?”

“I think it’s something,” Steve says. “Which is more than nothing.”

Bucky doesn’t answer.

They sit for a while longer.

Steve nudges the bowl slightly closer. “They’re fresh.”

Bucky picks one up.

They’re tangy. They stain his lips red.

He eats another. Then another.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC. IT'S STILL INCONCEIVABLE TO ME THAT YOU LIKED THIS ENOUGH TO PAY ME REAL MONEY FOR IT.

to know when this fic updates, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications! it’s the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist and i don’t post there at all except for fics </3

[jordiipordii]

really need a scene in the broken cage of jean being unable to look at anyone or anything but jeremy during a game. jean sitting on the sidelines as jeremy does his thing on the court: all guts and instinct and no sure strategy. let us see what it’s like to watch jeremy knox on an exy floor thru jean moreau’s eyes. tell me more about how he darts and ducks and shoots. pls.

but let us also see the way jeremy interacts with the team. let us see the way jeremy claps xavier on the shoulder and asks “are you ready?” with such unabashed pride. show us jeremy running his hand over cody’s buzzed head as they exchange grins. tell us about jeremy fist bumping laila and then turning to wave alongside her at cat and jean as they sit out during that half. tell me what jeremy’s bleached hair looks like sparkling under the lights. tell me how the shadows make his dimples pop.

tell me, jean— how kids come running up to jeremy excitedly during breaks. how easily he kneels down to be on their level. tell me how soft jeremy’s brown gaze is as he gives them autographs with the most lopsided smiley face beside his name. i need to know what he looks like when the cameras are still rolling but he barely knows it. i need you to tell me the way he shakes hands with older fans and appreciates their praise and good givings. tell me it all.

i need him to tell us and then make sure he locks in all this knowledge for himself. why?

because once upon a time david wymack said to jean moreau: “if someone is looking for a role model, wouldn’t you rather they chose jeremy over riko?” and jean said no.

in the broken cage i need to see jean taking those words back. i need to see the moment he watches jeremy from all angles and says “yes.”

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐑

[ 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 ]

𝐚 / 𝐧 : for @ver-d-ant — first of all, how dare you give me something so soft, so wholesome, so stupidly domestic… and expect me not to spiral into emotionally repressed voyeur angst. this was supposed to be cute. your idea? adorable. her post-shower routine? precious. the slippers? i almost behaved.

but then Mephisto landed, and Sylus looked, and i blacked out. i don’t know what to tell you. he watched. i let him. this fic is basically one long descent into "i shouldn’t but i can’t stop" and you know what? that's on you. you handed me a bathrobe and a cracked curtain and i turned it into slow-burn longing and the worst kind of restraint.

this may not be exactly what you envisioned, but i hope it still captures the intimacy and warmth of your original idea — just... filtered through a morally conflicted scarecrow who does not close the feed. thank you for trusting me with your brainchild 🖤 part 2 is coming, because obviously Sylus is not okay and neither am i. hope you enjoy the mess we made together 🖤

𝐌𝐄𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 command.

The update registered as a blinking notification on the edge of Sylus’s interface—minor, dismissible. An autonomous course correction. A sliver of protocol deviation. Routine surveillance. Nothing demanding his attention—not with reports piling in like a rising tide, nor with mission requests stacked beneath his name, each marked urgent, high-risk, personal.

And yet— His gaze flicked toward the stream.

He told himself it was reflex. Muscle memory. The practiced vigilance of a hunter, not the pull of want. Not the hush of longing that had taken root in his chest these past few weeks—persistent, wordless, impossible to name.

The screen bloomed open.

First, static. A blur of muted color. A stutter of artificial light.

And then— Her.

She moved through the frame slowly, unconsciously. Not the sharpened edge he’d watched handle crisis with surgical control. No, this was her at the end of a long, unremarkable day. Her coat draped on the back of a chair. Bag slumped at the wall’s base. Barefoot. Unmade. Human. Her steps weighed not by grief, but something quieter: fatigue. The kind that comes from repetition, not heartbreak.

She didn’t know she was being seen.

That was the first thing Sylus noticed. The most damning thing.

No wary glances over her shoulder. No alertness in the spine. No subtle adjustments of posture. The curtains were drawn—almost. A narrow, vertical opening had been left, unintentionally or carelessly, revealing a single slice of her private world.

He should have closed the feed.

He didn’t.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair, just slightly. One hand still rested over the interface—ready, he told himself, to flick the stream away. But he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

She disappeared for a moment. Out of frame—likely toward the bathroom. The shift in lighting was subtle: a soft amber flicker, then the hush of a door sliding shut. A moment later, the quiet sound of water.

Rain-mode shower, if he had to guess.

He should have muted the audio.

He didn’t.

The patter continued. Water on tile. A rhythm so intimate, so familiar, it pressed against something buried beneath his ribs. It wasn’t lust. Not quite. It was older. Sadder. A longing with teeth. By the time the door eased open again, the water gone, the light changed—

His hand still hovered over the interface.

And he still hadn’t looked away.

And then— She stepped into frame again.

The bathrobe hung loose around her. Damp strands of hair clung to her collarbone, the weight of steam still tracing the air behind her. The room felt warm just watching her. Dense. Saturated. As if her skin still carried the heat of the shower, and the space around her had not yet cooled.

She moved differently now. Slower. Quieter. As though she'd peeled the day from her body and now moved through the apartment clothed only in herself.

Sylus’s throat constricted.

The camera feed remained unchanged—grainy, unblinking, impersonal. The crow’s gaze caught her at an angle: shoulder, jawline, the subtle turn of her back as she lowered herself to the edge of the bed once more. But the image—this fragment, this sliver—branded itself across his consciousness like a burn.

And he did nothing to stop it.

She untied the robe.

Not entirely. Just enough. The knot loosened, and the fabric slipped from her shoulders in a tired shrug, pooling at her elbows like silk too heavy to hold. She didn’t fold it. Didn’t fuss. Didn’t look down. Her hands reached instead for the bottle on the nightstand—familiar, gold-capped, intimate.

Her thumb eased it open with the muscle memory of ritual.

Then—motion.

She rubbed her palms together. A quiet glide. Then she smoothed the cream along her skin with unhurried strokes.

Sylus’s hand curled into a fist before he realized he’d moved.

She was meticulous. She always had been. Long, sweeping motions from wrist to shoulder. Slow circles pressed into the soft curve of her bicep. The lotion caught the low light—just barely. Just enough. Enough to blur the boundary between her body and the air around her.

He could smell it.

He knew he couldn’t. Of course he couldn’t. It was irrational. Illogical.

And still— He could.

That warm, faintly toasted note she wore—the scent that haunted the air when she passed him in hallways—he imagined it now, richer, denser. As though it rose from her pores with the heat of her bath, clinging to her collarbones, warming the hollow at her throat.

His pulse began to drum. A quiet percussion beneath his ribs.

Still, he did not look away.

Instead, he imagined.

Not her body—not yet. Not fully.

He imagined her hands. Her fingers. The ones working that lotion into her skin—how they might move if they turned toward him. If they followed the same reverent ritual along the length of his arm, his chest, the side of his throat.

And beneath the polished steel surface of his desk, out of view— His slacks had grown tight.

He exhaled. Slow. Intentional. Controlled.

And still— He did not close the feed.

She had moved on to her legs.

One tucked beneath her. The other extended for balance, pale and damp in the fading light. Her head bowed, lips parted with the faintest exhale as her palms swept upward—ankle to thigh, slow and meditative, each pass drawn with quiet intention. The robe hung loose around her waist, parting to frame the curve of her body like a still life—careless, unbothered. The same indifference she wore when dismantling her sidearm after a mission. Mechanical. Ritualistic. Sacred.

There was no performance.

No audience.

Except him.

His jaw tensed. The muscles in his neck burned with the effort of stillness. His gloved hand tightened into a fist on the desk. Leather groaned beneath the strain. The air in his office, sterile and regulated, turned oppressive. Stifling. Like the oxygen itself was complicit.

He shouldn’t be here. Not like this. Not watching.

But she looked— Untouched.

Not delicate. Never that. She was a woman forged in war, baptized in tech and gunfire, fluent in grief. But here, in the hush of her room, beneath the amber light that softened the world’s edges, she looked untouched by it all. Untouched by the hands of death. As if nothing had ever tried to break her.

As if she had never broken anything in return.

He swallowed.

Lower.

Her hands moved again, sliding lower now, slower now, trailing the inside of her thigh with quiet reverence. Not for an audience. Not for herself. Just routine. Muscle memory. And yet Sylus watched as if it were worship.

His eyes flicked to the clock glowing faintly on the corner of his screen. As if time might deliver him. Offer an excuse. A way out. But time had collapsed. Seconds had no meaning. The only rhythm was the sound of her breathing—soft, steady, real—filtered through Mephisto’s mic. And the dull, mounting pressure in his lap that refused to be ignored.

He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. A vain attempt at discipline. Breathed through his nose. Reached—finally, reluctantly—for the interface.

But he didn’t shut the feed.

Instead, he whispered—

“Kitten…”

The word escaped him like a confession. No thought. No restraint. Just breath shaped by longing.

His hand slipped from the desk to his phone. Fingers hovered over her contact. Hesitated. He’d never called without cause. Never indulged a moment of weakness.

But tonight— She was a thousand miles too close. And one inch too far.

He tapped the screen.

Once. Twice.

The line began to ring.

He didn’t think. Didn’t strategize. Didn’t plan.

He just needed to hear her voice.

Even if it ruined him.

The line clicked.

A soft chime. Then static. Then—her voice. Half-laced with amusement, half-thick with the warmth of post-shower comfort.

“Scarecrow?”

He shut his eyes.

It hit like a clean blow to the solar plexus—swift, efficient, disarming. She always said it with that lilt. That unspoken grin. Like it was a private joke between them. As if he was more scare than crow. More shadow than man. As if he wasn’t dangerous. As if he wasn’t watching her now through the unblinking lens of a crow perched meters from her window.

He cleared his throat. It scraped like gravel.

“Hey.” One syllable. Tattered at the edges.

She exhaled a soft laugh. “Didn’t think I’d hear from you tonight,” she said, voice wrapped in velvet ease. “Let me guess—you finished all your reports, decoded three enemy comms, and decided to call your favorite person to brag?”

He huffed. It should’ve been a laugh. It never reached his chest.

“You could say that.”

In the background: a faint rustle. Sheets, maybe. The towel he’d watched her drop. He kept his gaze trained forward, resisting the pull toward the feed still flickering at the edge of his vision. He didn’t look. Couldn’t afford to.

He just listened.

Clung to her voice like a man already halfway down the cliff, hoping the echo might still catch him.

“Mm,” she hummed. “You sound off. Everything okay?”

No.

He’d watched lotion glisten on her thighs. He’d whispered her name into the silence like it was a sin. He was still hard beneath the desk, still aching against the seams of his slacks like some undisciplined, lovesick boy.

“Long day,” he lied.

She sighed in solidarity. “You and me both. If I have to sit through one more threat assessment seminar taught by someone who’s never stepped foot outside HQ, I’m gonna defect.”

A smile tugged at his mouth. Fragile. Undeserved.

“I’ll bring the escape vehicle.”

“Oh?” Her voice brightened. “So you do still have that cool bike you pretend doesn’t exist in front of the twins.”

“I don’t pretend,” he said, teeth barely grazing the words. “I just… selectively withhold.”

She laughed.

The sound shattered him.

That voice—still steeped in warmth. Still echoing the intimacy of moments he shouldn’t have witnessed. He could see it—her, fingertips lingering at her collarbone, at the soft stretch of her thighs, the robe falling open in unthinking grace.

He dragged a hand over his mouth.

He had no right to this call. No right to her voice. To her trust. Not after what he’d done.

But he didn’t hang up.

He couldn’t.

“Are you alone?” she asked—not softly, but warmly. Like it mattered. Like she wanted to know if she had all of him, even just for a moment.

His throat constricted. The answer caught behind his teeth.

He stared at the pulsing comms light on his desk. Steady. Cold. Unbothered.

“Yes.” The word scraped out low. Uneven. “Just me.”

A beat passed.

Then—

“Well, I’m honored,” she said, the tease light in her voice, laced with gentle sarcasm. “What did I do to earn a rare and intimate five-minute window from the great and chronically busy Sylus Qin?”

His fingers curled against the edge of the desk. Hard.

She didn’t mean anything by it. She never did. She was just like this—blunt, warm, irreverent. Always brushing against the perimeter of his control, never knowing how close she came to breaking it wide open.

“I just wanted to hear your voice,” he said.

Silence.

Not sharp. Not suspicious. Just… still.

For once, she didn’t quip. Didn’t fill the space with humor or static.

“I mean—” he added, too quickly, “I figured you’d be… winding down.”

“…I was.”

Something shifted in her tone. Barely. But he felt it.

She must have heard it then—how his voice came slanted. Not flirtation. Not protocol.

Need.

“What’s going on?” she asked quietly. “Is something wrong?”

Yes.

Everything.

Mephisto was still outside. The feed still streamed. The curtains were still open. And she was still soft and lotion-slick and folded into her quiet little world like no one was watching.

Except he had. He was.

“No,” he rasped. “Not exactly.”

“You sure?”

No. But the truth would ruin them both. He couldn’t give her that—not when she still spoke to him like he was whole.

“I just—” He stopped. Dragged a hand through his hair, rough. “I couldn’t sleep.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not anymore.

A breath passed. Then, softer:

“…Scarecrow.”

The nickname again. But this time it was stripped of playfulness. Just concern. Gentle. Brutal. Disarming.

“I’m glad you called,” she said. “Even if you don’t know why you did."

His eyes slid shut.

He was going to hell.

But her voice— Her voice might be the only thing that ever felt like salvation.

Her breath caught. Just once. Not loud. Not sharp. But he heard it.

Then—

“You know,” she murmured, her words slower now—shaped by thought, not impulse— “you don’t have to send Mephisto if you’re curious.”

His entire body went still.

On the desk, the feed held steady. The crow, unmoving. The sliver of her room unchanged: amber light, open space, the vague outline of her form shifting just out of frame.

“I didn’t—” he began.

A brittle, instinctive lie.

“I know,” she interrupted. Soft. Certain. Not angry. Not even surprised. “He lands here all the time.”

A pause.

“I think he likes the plants.”

He said nothing.

Not because there was nothing to say, but because she hadn’t given him condemnation.

She’d given him something worse. Permission.

“You’re not subtle, by the way,” she continued, a faint smile audible now, almost fond. “Your drone loops too clean. Surveillance patterns don’t naturally reset that smoothly. And Mephisto?” A beat. “He always pauses here. Always just before night.”

Still, he said nothing. Couldn’t.

Because she wasn’t finished.

“You don’t have to do that.” Softer now. Almost tender. “You don’t need a middleman.”

Another silence. Wider. Deeper.

Then— The nail through the heart.

“You can come over whenever you want, Sylus. You don’t need a reason.”

A click.

The line went dead.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Phone still in hand, his pulse thundering like it meant to break through bone.

On the screen, Mephisto’s feed shimmered—just slightly. A subtle flicker. She moved.

And then— She turned.

Slow. Deliberate. Just enough for the camera to catch her profile: damp hair curling at her jaw, bare shoulders glowing in the soft light, lips parted as if tasting a secret.

There was no sound.

But he watched as her lips shaped the sentence anyway, low and taunting.

“Next time, knock.”

The screen blinked once. Then twice. Then—black.

𝐓𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝…

— © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐛𝐲 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰

[rafeyssugar]

INTRODUCING BIMBO READER

𐂂 . bimbo moves through life like she was made to be admired. not touched—not unless she lets you. she doesn’t walk—she struts, hips swaying like her body’s permanently synced to a song only she can hear. her nails click when she points, her lips shine when she pouts, and her eyes flutter when she wants something—which is always.

she doesn’t cling to rafe like baby. she doesn't toddle, doesn’t whine. she poses. angles herself toward him like a camera’s always watching. lips parted, head tilted, voice syrupy sweet. “daddy,” she hums, running a finger down the middle of his chest. “don’t you wanna spoil me?” it’s not a tease. it’s a prophecy.

𐂂. she looks exactly like what people whisper about behind tinted windows. platinum hair, shiny lip gloss, a closet full of pink and tiny things that barely count as clothes. her tops never reach her belly button. her heels are always a little too tall. and she never, ever brings a bag—why would she, when rafe’s hands are so much bigger?

he carries her phone, her powder compact, the perfume she sprays on his neck “just to mark him.” she asks dumb questions on purpose and calls him sooo smart when he answers. she knows he likes when she plays dumb—especially when she bats her lashes and gasps, “wait… is that illegal?” like it’s hot.

𐂂 . bimbo doesn’t cry a lot. she cries cute. glittery tears and perfect sniffles, her mascara somehow still flawless. she doesn’t sob. she gets quiet. lips trembling, voice high and helpless, blinking up at him like the world just hurt his favorite toy.

“daddy,” she whispers, pout deep enough to drown in, “you raised your voice. that’s actually, like, emotional damage.” he stares. she blinks. “are you gonna kiss it better orrr…?”

and rafe just groans, thumb already wiping her fake tear away. “you’re so dramatic.” “mhmm,” she hums, leaning into his touch. “and pretty. don’t forget pretty.”

because if there’s one thing about bimbo, it’s that she always gets what she wants. and if there’s one thing about rafe, it’s that he gives it to her. every time. no matter what it costs

💌 hiiii did u miss me ? it’s been like 2 months since i wrote anything (oopsie) but i’m back now n i have so many messy lil thoughts to turn into fics 💖 thank u for being patient w me ily forever. new rafe stuff coming so soooon 🧸💋

[rhadamanthes]

PR nightmare. Eren x reader

warnings: rockstar!eren, reader has curly hair, reader has a child, use of y/n, mommy kink, lactation, cheating, handjob, nipple play, cowgirl, fingering, eren is a crybaby, eren is whipped, jealousy, slight age gap (reader is 28 Eren is 23) kind of co dependency but not really... only on Eren side unhealthy relationships I guess ? lol.

author's note : I never had a child nor I plan to so there may have some inaccuracy about the way reader's body is recovering but for the sake of this fiction let's just pretend.

word count : 8,6k

It's your first day at work since you gave birth to your babygirl. You are anxious about seeing your colleagues again. What if they think you should lose some baby fat ? look too tired ? Are too eager to leave your family to be here ? All of these questions make your stomach churn.

But most of all you are anxious about seeing him again. You're Eren Yeager's manager. The famous rockstar could have any of the best agents in the world, yet he decided to stick with you since his early days. You are glad he does, as he is now your main source of income. After an extended period of time without seeing you he always gives you the cold shoulder just like a cat.

Eren has sent flowers to congratulate you but you haven't seen him in person for four month now. Stepping in the skyscraper you swipe your badge on the portico making your way to the elevators. The agency you work for has rented two floors: the 13th as a photo studio and the 16th as offices with all the managers for the different talents the company englobes.

Today Eren is shooting covers for his upcoming album so 13th floor it is. Nervously pulling at your cuticles, the door opens on the familiar white walls of the studio, the staff is running around, making them look like ants from your point of view, you giggle at the thought, making your way to the spot where the cameras and the background is set. Dark colours as always, Eren's universe is particular but if fit him well.

"Oh my god you're back!" Isabel exclaims, she's part of the junior team. Her hands are wrapped around a box, containing swords, american fists and other weapons. What the hell does Eren have in mind this time?

"Yes it's my first day back" the two of you make small talk before her presence is requested somewhere else.

The scenery he's chosen is stairs leading to a rusty iron throne. You bite your thumb, the reference is easily understandable, you make a mental note to ask the legal team if you could get in any type of trouble for that.

"Ah, y/n what a pleasure to see you again" Daris Zackley, the artistic director shakes your hand with his usual strong grip. As always, conversations with him are one sided, he talks and you try to find a new sound of approval you haven't already used. He fills you in with what happened for the last few months, most of it you already know :keeping in check with a rockstar's every move is indeed an easy task even on your hospital bed.

"Where is Eren ?" you interrupt, you've been there for almost half an hour now and not a single one of his dark locks you've seen.

"Running late as always but I told him 10:00 is my last limit we're packing up if he doesn't show up in 3 minutes" he precises checking his watch.

" I was at hair and make up Genius Zackley" a deep voice reaches your ears. Well at least you know the shoot is not getting canceled. Turning around to face Eren you can't help but smile at his pun. Eren is wearing nothing but a white linen sheet low on his waist, spartan sandals on his feet and hair fully down. The only thing missing is a laurel crown so he can go full Cesar on his throne, suits him well though.

"And who are you ?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. There it is the cat letting his owner know that it's absence was very rude. You roll your eyes at his comment.

"The new intern, now please get in position before your team leaves" It's his turn to roll his eyes now, turning his back on you as he ascends slowly the stairs up his rightful seat. You understand now why he chose such a dark environment, it makes his tan skin and light clothes pop out. You only notice now that there isn't one single of his chest tattoos on display, probably the reason why the makeup took so much time.

A good call as always, Eren knows what makes him look good, what to accentuate on his body and features to make him irresistible, the tight golden bracelets around his biceps and thigh are the proof. Sometimes you wish he's also known how to behave but it would quite make your job inexistant: you've lost count on how many public statements you had to make on his behalf, the number bribes you had to give paparazzis so compromising photos wouldn't air out in the open.

Laying on his throne he tries all different types of positions, keeping his face impassible. When he looks your way you give him a thumbs up and he rolls his eyes, again. His act is starting to get on your nerves, the initial joke was fun but now he is just acting like a petulant child. An extra that you recognize as Mina Carolina, joins Eren on the throne, she's wearing a similar toge, the collar dripping down with fake blood. They are reenacting La Piéta, your fingers come to your temple, massaging them in circular motions. You are going to be really busy for the next few weeks.

_

"What's the plan for lunch" you ask once Eren is changed into casual attire. The photoshoot extended past mid day break, the star of the show not being totally satisfied with how the photos turned out.

"I'm having lunch with Mina you can have lunch with whoever you want." he states not even looking at you while he ruffles in his bag.

"Eren" you snap, your tone makes him look up immediately. "You're having lunch with me Mina will have you whenever during the week. He opens his mouth to no doubt get on your nerves some more but the sharp stare you give him seems to change his mind.

"Fine" he utters, smiling at you for the first time today.

After a silent commute to one of the regular restaurants you enjoy around the office ,you are sitting on a plush bench. Eren is right next to you, With the way he acted toward you this morning you would think he'd put the maximum distance between the two of you, but no, his thigh is flush against yours and he's completely ignoring the menu resting in front of him, instead hovering over yours to choose his dish. Is it a new trick of his or did he really missed you that much ?

"So how is life at three now ? " he asks, face resting on his palm as he looks down at you.

"Pretty much the same i mean plus the diapers, the crying in the middle of the night, the milk and the stroller" Both of you chortle and Eren takes a sip of his water.

"Well you're not exactly selling dreams here you know ?" you nod picking at the bread basket.

"What about you ? New album coming soon ? "You know the answer, you just want to hear him say it.

"Yup, I had sleepless nights too but it's all good, when we get back I'll make you listen to some tracks yeah ? " You nod all smiles and your plates arrive.

Entering the building again you can feel Eren's attitude shifting, he's walking miles in front of you, not looking back a single time. You're not going after him, taking your sweet time going up the stairs as he waits for the elevator. Whatever game he's playing he'll get tired of it first. After all, you are bound to work with him anyway. 

-  

And he does, next morning bursting in your office.

"You didn't even ask to listen to my music, some manager you are" he grumbles, depositing a fuming coffee on your desk with a bagel. 

"I already had my cup you can give this to someone else" you state eyes never leaving your monitor as you catch up on your emails. 

A beat of silence fills the room except for the soft tune of your mechanical keyboard. 

"Are you being serious right now ?" voice of the angry Eren you recognize, but you still don't acknowledge him.

"I have a lot to do, our schedule is pretty packed so please if there is nothing else" you gesture vaguely to the door. 

The sound of his footsteps receding makes you smile, the door slams behind him, through the glass doors you see him storm off god knows where. 

Your office is at the end of a corridor where pictures of Eren and yourself, his gold record adorn the walls, you started in the bullpen like everyone else, but after many successful achievements you moved to your personal office.  

Everytime you walk up this alley it reminds you that you've been with him since his first day even before the two of you joined the agency. Your old apartment used to be filled to the brim with paperwork, cd's and gift the early days fan would send him, sometimes you are nostalgic of theses days, just the two of you, canvassing all the clubs and bars of the city to get a scene, now they pull at your feet, or rater your phone to get him on their stage. 

Currently, different club owners are listing the advantages to get Eren's album release party in their establishment. Not a single one has convinced you yet, they are all pompous and pretentious. Eren has made a name for himself in the music industry, he doesn't have anything else to prove. 

But you wish to find him something simpler, more like him. Plus the last time he was invited to a club he ended up in a fight, you would hate that kind of publicity for his new album, other managers would probably think that all kinds of publicity is good publicity but you are rather protective of him. 

The criticism he receives about his music you couldn't care less, you either like it or you don't. But when it comes to his personality, you hate seeing every random person on the internet giving their two pieces of advice about him, you know him, the real him, so the critics hurt  as if they were directed toward you. 

All of these thoughts swim in your head, twirling the cord of your desk phone, as the man whose name you forgot keeps rambling in your ear. The door of your office files open, snapping you back to reality. Your eyes send daggers to whoever entered without permission, but they soften once you realise it is Eren. 

You gesture to the phone, for him to keep quiet, his long legs close the distance between you two as he falls to his knees, face planting in your lap.  Eren large  shoulders start to shake and soon enough you feel hot tears piercing through the tissue of your dress where his head lay.

Oh, your heart clenches in your chest. Instinctively you start combing his long hair, quickly dismissing the man on the other side of the phone to focus on Eren. 

"Hey, what happened, what's wrong Eren ? Tell me" your voice is soft, similar to the one you use talking to your newborn child. The sobs quietly come to an end , you place your hands on the side of his head to look him in his eyes but he resists. Eren was always very private about his feelings, especially the ones he thinks make him look weak. 

"Did something happen with the others ?" you ask, resuming the combing motion through his dark locks.  His head shakes slightly from left to right. "Then talk to me please. I'm getting worried there."

"I'm sorry" is all he says, it's muffled, faint, inaudible if it wasn't for the silence of the room. You don't even need to ask why he is sorry, you already know. A tiny smile is growing on your face, this time you leave him no choice but to look at you, lifting his head up forcefully. 

"You don't have to apologize about anything, hm ? It's ok Eren" you reassure him as you wipe the trails of tears from under his beautiful emerald eyes with your thumbs. His brows are furrowed, eyes slightly red and lips pursed in a soft pout. He looks good like that, your smile grows slightly again. 

"Why are you laughing?" he sniffled. 

"Would you rather have me crying with you ?" you giggle, deposing a soft kiss on his forehead, standing on your feet, you pulling him up with you. He is towering over you from a good twenty centimeters. "Come here" you lock him in a tight hug, arms around his mid back. His body relaxes into yours and he lets out a long sigh. "I missed you, I don't want you to leave me again" he whispered, squeezing the air out of you. 

You are glad to finally work things out with him, but the way he has you pressed against him makes you painfully aware that you are not fully recovered from your pregnancy. Your breasts  are pressed against his hard chest. "Eren, Eren" you squirm tapping his back. He breaks the contact with a worried expression on his face. 

"Did I hurt you?" he asks, sounding panicked, holding your shoulders in his hands.  "No, no just" you look down at your bust and see two darked stains on the level of your breasts, so much for not wearing a bra today. "Is that blood" he whispers-yells approaching his face from your tits. "No! It's milk, silly" you push his head off, looking down at the mess on the upper part of the dress. From the corner of your eyes you can see him fixing his pants. There is no way he's turned on by that. 

"Eren! Ew! Get out! " You tone, pushing him to the exit as he giggles. "If you need help just call me" he laughs, kissing your cheek. You roll your eyes at his behavior but smile nonetheless. 

You always keep spare clothes in your office, having learned that they always come in handy after too many drinks at late night office parties. As you button up the navy linen shirt, you can't help but feel ashamed about Eren seeing you like that, he took it as a joke of course, there are not a lot of things he takes seriously except for his art. 

Your life will never be the same while he keeps fulfilling his lifelong dream of becoming a rockstar.  Tears pool in your eyes, it's your turn to cry now.

- 

Days after days you slowly fall back into your routine as Eren's manager, accompanying him to events and interviews to make sure he stays in line or reveal too much about his upcoming comeback... But most of the time you are here, at the office, l  upon exiting the elevator a conversation catches your ear. 

"He'll be the face of Y.fragrances that's like such a good deal he can probably get any girl he wants after that" you hear Floch Forester boast to one of his colleagues with a voice as annoying as his face. 

"Did you just say Y. fragrances ? " You inquired, approaching his desk, his Adam apple bobbed up his throat and he nodded "The deal is for Eren ?" another nod. "Scratch that deal immediately" your tone is cold, him and petra ral was the tandem that replaced you during your leave obviously that haven't been doing a good job. 

"What are you talking about ? this is good for him and all of the company" he laughed nervously looking at his colleague for help. 

"If you knew how to do your job properly you would know that Y.fragrances is a branch of Y.pharma owned by Grisha Yeager, that name rings a bell to you ? That's Eren's father which he hasn't spoken to in years. This is just another one of his schemes to get a hold on his son, So scratch that deal right now or Eren will fire you himself."

Floch's face pales as you speak, frozen in place like you just turned him into stone, you quirk an eyebrow and he reaches for his phone at the speed of light. Turning your heels you walk toward your own office. What a shitty way to start the day you grumbles, heels hitting repeatedly the faux wooden floor. 

"That was pretty impressive" a familiar voice you recognize as Eren's trail behind you. "There is no way you didn't know about this, Eren, what are you doing?" you grumble, not taking the time to look at him. "I wanted him gone, the guy is an asshole, but nothing gets past the best agent in the world so you saved his ass"

You roll your eyes stepping in your carpeted floor office.  "This could have been a real mess Eren, it is serious."  you turn around and he is right in front of you, almost stepping on your toes. "Are you mad at me ?" he asks, kissing your cheeks, this is usually how he greets you in the morning.  "No, but next time run it by me first ?" you take the cup of coffee from his hands, drinking the sugary mixture from the cap, he nodded at you, all goofy grin on his face. 

"Anyways we have a busy day today : Zackley got the results of the shoot for your cover Pixis want to see them too so we have to be in the red meeting room in ten, this afternoon you have fittings for the fashion week and we'll also see if we can borrow something for your party" you give him back his cup at the end of your rant. "Sounds good ?" 

"You're the boss" he shrugs, positioning his mouth on the lipstick stain you left in your wake, eyes never leaving yours. What a tease.

It is a rare occurrence that the CEO shows up to validate any visuals so when Pixis enter the room, everybody goes quiet. 

"Y/N, a delight to have you back among us" his deep voice starts, as he squeezes your hand. You greet him back shyly and Eren laughs next to you. Of course he does, but it's not like you can dap up a sixty something year old man or greet him with the familiarity you do with Eren. 

The meeting goes well, the cover is provoking, the religious imagery he copied, the game of thrones reference but somehow everyone agrees that it fits Eren's persona well. 

"Armin and Mika are in town, cool if I grab lunch with them ? " Eren asks once you are both out of the room. "Sure, just remember we have to be at 2:00 at the showroom." Promising he'll be there on time Eren struts to the elevators. 

When you enter your office again you're met with the deep voice of your partner, Erwin Smith, he's holding your little girl and your heart immediately melts. 

"Surprise." he says, a tired smile adorning his angular features. Rushing to the sofa you depose a million kisses on his lips, patting gently the top of your newborn hair. 

"My babies" you squeal once you're sat next to them. Erwin transfers the baby from his arm to yours and she stirs a little before falling back asleep. Catching up with your lover you almost forget that you are at work, until it is feeding time, naturally you undress your chest when Erwin jolts standing up to close the blinds that are facing the corridor, the sofa is in a blind spot but you appreciate his attention anyway. The milk flows from your breasts to her mouth and you are able to relax. 

Your breasts are significantly heavier with all the milk you're carrying these days so this is a welcomed relief. You lay your head on Erwin's shoulder, feeling yourself getting slowly dragged to sleep. The door opens suddenly, dragging you back to reality, your eyes are wide open. 

"Eren!" you scold, you're a bit reassured that it's only him but still.

"You could have knocked, surely the closed blinds and doors were not enough to let you know she was busy" Erwin states in a sarcastic tone. 

"I didn't know we had visitors" Eren shrugs, sitting on the empty side of the couch flushed next to you. The proximity makes you realise that your breast is out. It takes a bit of manoeuver to swap the baby in her father's arm and button up your shirt all while preserving the little of dignity you have left, but you manage.

"So... what's the name of the baby?" Eren asks, isolating the last word like it's a slur. You snortle looking at him. "Lily, you want to hold her ?" you ask, knowing that he hasn't a paternal bone in his body, if anything he's the one that needs to be held. 

"Hard pass," he grumbled looking elsewhere. "We probably need to leave soon" Crap, you almost forgot about the fitting. You quickly check your watch and indeed you need to leave now or else you'll mess with everyone's schedule.

"Baby, I need to go, but I should be home early tonight" You turn back to Erwin, cradling his face in your hand. 

"Don't worry" he kisses your forehead softly. "Wait, you didn't eat anything, I didn't mean to hog you during your break" he speaks with a concerned face.

Standing up you smooth the material of your pants. "That's fine I'll pick something on the way" You hold your hand out to him so he can stand as well. The warmth of his palm makes you giddy and you turn your attention to Eren. He is still sitting on the couch, arms crossed and an empty stare. "Let's go ?" 

The ride in the elevator to the ground floor is deadly silent, Erwin looks amused, Eren looks ready to slit his own wrist. Parting ways with your family, you kiss Erwin and Lily one last time while Eren calls an uber. The Mercedes class A pulls up to the curb, the door is opened for as you take your seat behind the driver's. Surprisingly Eren is  stacked against you once again, with the way he's been silent for the last couple of minutes you would think that he'd choose the farthest option. Ain't he just full of surprises 

He is sitting sideways, caging you against the window. A slender finger of his picks up your curls and twirls them around, all of his attention is on you as you scroll your social media mindlessly, when the car is set in action you have to remind him to buckle his seatbelt. 

"Has he ever tasted your milk ?" The question makes your eyebrows shoot in surprise. You turn to him "Can we not discuss this now ?" you glance at the driver in the rearview mirror. "Would you prefer to be at the showroom in front of everyone ?" "Actually that's my personal life so I don't owe you anything" Your tone is harsh but you can' t believe he has the audacity to demand this from you. 

The mood has been set for the rest of the day, professional interaction only, he tries the different look the stylist has prepared ,you give your advice and validate them. No banter, no funny pictures like you always do. His gaze lingers on you from time to time and it is enough to make you feel bad as you eat the driest sandwich ever, in an empty corner of the room.There is something about giving him the cold shoulder that always makes you feel guilty. Eren never means ill, not to you at least. So you make the first step to reconciliation with him. 

"Hey, want to share a cab back home ?" you ask, searching for his eyes but he's only looking at his shoes, fixing his leather jacket.  "I don't want to bother you" he simply answered, voice barely above a whisper, your heart sank to your socks. "Eren, I didn't mean to lash out on you earlier" you start, grabbing his hand. "It just wasn't the right time, ok ?"  His emerald orbs meet yours and you swear they're more glassy than usual. "Yeah ok, let's just walk for a bit" you nod and the both of you make your way out of the building.

The first minutes are walked in complete silence. You try to find the right moment to break the ice but you don't know what to say, you don't know how he will react. Ever since you came back you feel like you haven't done a single right thing with Eren, making him cry, making him upset, what if you two are not compatible anymore ? 

"I'm sorry about earlier, I know I may have crossed a boundary, but I don't know how to act when I see you with him, for the longest time it was just us"  A weight is thrown off your shoulder but also his words are sinking in your core ; us ? You and Eren are undoubtedly a duo. It has been ever since he was 18 and you were 23, the age he is now. 

"I know" you say, bumping his biceps with your shoulders, a smile forming on your lips as you reminisce about the last years.

You've met him through Zeke, a college friend of yours. Diploma in hands, him as a literature major, you as a communication major, he had no issues finding a job, you on the other hand should have known that this sector was saturated. Months and months with no proper job offer, or decent one that takes into account your hard years of studying and the salary that goes with it. But beggars can't be choosers, you ended up as a  barmaid to make ends meet.  

As the good friend he is, Zeke reached out to you when his punk little brother (his words not yours) dropped out of school to pursue his dream of being an artist. He needed contacts and someone to tell him wrong from right: everything a eighteen years old boy lacks. Of course you helped him, After all there is a reason you decided to major in this domain.

Selfishly when he started to become a local attraction you wanted to keep him to yourself but the opportunities were soaring for you two, soon enough you were able to quit your job to focus mainly on Eren's career. It is safe to say that you spent the most of the last five years stuck to him. 

"Do you remember my apartment on Salisbury Street ? I was thinking of renting it for the launching party " he chortles looking at you with curious eyes.

"That shoebox ? It can barely fit the whole team. What about guests"

"Never stopped us before " you reply with a knowing smirk, he's looking at you with the same expression.

"I like the idea" comfortable silence stretches between the two of you, as you glide down the streets, sun slowly setting behind the skyscraper. Still you can't shake the need to address one more issue

"He's never tried it" it's an half word confession but you can't bring yourself to spell it out. Regardless, Eren seems to understand perfectly well what you mean. 

"The guy is a pussy, if you were my girlfriend we would be making cheese out of it"

"You're so gross" a laugh bubble up your throat 

"No but really, I want to taste it, think about it, there will be no doubt about who's in charge then"

You glare at him sideway "There never was a doubt about who is in control here" 

"Right you're so bossy. Is it why Erwin is at home with your bald ass baby while you are out earning the keep ?" you push his shoulders at his stupid comments

"Erwin is working from home, Levi helps him around the house, and you are probably jealous of Lily because she rocks the buzzcut better than you do"  Eren had so many hair phases in life, bald, undercut, bleached, colored. These days his hair is long, almost grazing his shoulders blades, all natural color from roots to ends. The reminiscence of his previous hairstyle makes him cringe.

"Wait, did you say Levi ? You're telling me that these two spend their days together taking care of your baby while you are out with me ? Good thing it's the month of June you are one hell of an ally."

"Right, it's not like you have several gay allegations yourself within your friends group. Who was it with again ? Armin, Reiner, Jean" You're about to list some more when his large palm covers your mouth. 

"That's different, I'm famous so that's how I know I actually made it" You roll your eyes not very convinced with his reasoning, but there is this river in Egypt...

Of course you are aware of the rumors surrounding your partner and his... janitor ? friend ? You wouldn't even know how to describe it. Levi has been in Erwin's life long before you and he will be long after. All in all you don't really care that much about it. Erwin is good to you and your daughter. Levin makes your life easier and is caring despite his icy personality. Sometimes you are caught between their longing stares, almost feeling left out.

"Let's call a cab" you offer to conclude this odd day.

_ 

Another day, another task to tend to. The "back to basics" idea for the release party was approved by Pixis and Zachley; you are able to rent your old appartement for the occasion. To you and Eren it used to be a recording studio, hotel, showroom, office and so much more. You want to conserve the vibe it used to hold but also make it more practical with all the transit that there will be that night.  Sitting on the couch of your office you try different layouts on your Ipad when a knock echoes in the room.

"Come in"  You lift your eyes to meet no other than Eren, since when does he knock on the door ? As if he heard your question he clears his throat.  "With yesterday's incident I figured I might pick up good habits"  Well, that is a pleasant surprise, never too late to be a good boy you shrug, refocusing your attention on your screen.

"What are you doing here anyway ? It's a day off for you" No answer comes from his part and you feel the couch dipping next to you, his head resting in the crook of your neck, his body curled up against you, back facing the door. 

" I wanted to see you and Porco is the biggest douchebag ever" You shoulder shakes with a soft laughter, right Eren is not the best at getting along with the fellow artist signed at this agency Porco harbour about the same temper as Eren so you can see how that cause a problem. 

"Tell me more about it" you hum softly caressing his hair. Eren mirrors you, softly tugging at your curls to make them bounce. 

As Eren rambles on, he keeps his head in your neck, lips grazing the tender skin with each word, deep voice reverberating directly against it. Goosebumps are rising all over your skin and you can't say that you know what he is talking about, you are distracted. When his lips press fully against your neck you yank his hair hard, giving him a stern look. 

"Let me taste you"  his green eyes are boring into yours pleading to finally indulge him. Intimacy has always been a good way to unwind for you and with everything coming up you could use the stress relief. If you both want it, what's the harm in that?

"Lock the door and close the blinds" you murmur letting go of his hair but he doesn't move "Unless you changed your mind" Scrambling to stand up he almost trip over his feet with what you only can guess is excitement. His eagerness makes you chuckle, you sit up on the couch, setting the Ipad away. Nothing is going to distract you from this moment. 

Making a quick work of the doors Eren comes back rushing to the sofa, while you unbutton your blouse. "No, no let me do it" he pin your hands to your side, fiddling with the buttons himself instead.  He is kneeling on the plush cushion of the sofa, so close to you. 

"You are practically panting" you remark, teasing his abs through his shirt.

"I'm so excited," he smiles, kissing your lips roughly. 

Once your breasts are out in the open Eren scoop them up in his hands, groaning when they are pressed against each other. "Look at you, so perfect" the smallest droplets of milk spritz out under the pressure. The sight makes Eren moan, as he attaches his lips to your left breast, aspiring the teat into his warm mouth, drawing the precious liquid from your body, the one substance he has been dreaming about for the last few weeks. 

Better than any drugs he's ever tried : his expectations have been met, moaning every second sending vibration through your bust. 

"Does it taste good baby? You like it ?" you taunt, letting your nails rake against his skull. 

"You're a goddess, it's so fucking good" he grunt before resuming his previous acitvity, eyes closed. It's like he is making out with your tit, tongue swirling and lapping at your sensitive nipple.The wet suction sounds fill the room and you stick your thigh together. Feeling yourself getting more aroused by the second. 

You didn't know it would affect you that much, but damn,seeing how a simple body fluid has him acting drives you crazy, you allow small moans of content to escape your lips. Once he has his fill Eren cup your cheeks, giving them a languorous kiss allowing your own taste on your tongue, it's sweeter than you expected. 

"Do you like it mommy ?" If it wasn't for your lust clouded brain you would have cringed at the nickname but right now you couldn't care less, biting your lips as you nod. 

"How about that one ?" you inquire pushing the fabric of your unattended breast. Eren moans, wasting no time to give it the same treatment as the other, he is splayed across your lap, strong arms locked behind your back. You feel his hardness against your thigh. There is no way he can cross the open space like that, so you take matter in your hand, literally. 

You have never seen his cock before so when you fish the hard length from his trousers your mouth falls in an o shape. The boy has reasons to be cocky. Spitting in your hands, you apply slow stroking motion on his penis. He immediately starts to fuck your hand and you smile how greedy can one be ? 

"Let me touch you please, let me make you feel good mommy"  you nod quickly, swallowing your spit, as you do so Eren's fingers have already snaked their way to your wet core. Making a quick work of your panties you feel the tip of his digit tracing circle on your clitoris, mimicking the ones he applies on your nipple. You haven't indulged in sexual intercourse since the birth of your daughter solitary or with Erwin so this feels like an electrochoc, your eyes close shut and a curse slips your lips. 

Your hips buck on their own and your grip on his cock intensifies. Eren and yourself are  both desperate as each other, chasing your high using the other's body. 

"Be a good boy, make me cum please, I'm close Eren" you know this will motivate him to bring you to your edge, and it does, accelerating his movement as he groans in the fat of your breast with muffled whispers of "mommy" mixed with your name. You want him to come at the same time as you so you focus on his tip, swiping your thumb over his slit over and over again.

The room sounds like a mess when you both finally cum. You're panting, Eren is moaning, you can only hope that no one walks past your office right now. His hot semen covers your digits and you lazily bring it to your mouth to have a taste, not as sweet as your milk, but you'll take it, licking clean any remnant on your skin. 

His head is resting on your lap, as he kisses your belly through the buttoned part of your blouse. 

"Was it good for you ?" he murmurs, looking at you through his dark hair. You nod as a smile crosses your face, you push his hair back.  "Yes Eren, thank you"  A proud smile is displayed on his face as he closes his eyes once more, rubbing his face in your covered stomach. 

_

It's Friday evening, and finally the week comes to an end. You have staged the apartment for Eren's upcoming listening party, it is perfect. You curated the place to be a perfect mix of his past and present self, it's more of an intimate gathering than a big launching. It will sure stir up the curiosity of the press and fans so might be good on all sides 

You haven't seen Eren since your... steamy intercourse, he is off until the next week. The aftermath of your act is unsure yet, he left with a spring in his step and a dopey grin. He wanted to spend the rest of the day with you and had a hard time keeping his hands to himself.  You took it as a post orgasm bliss, only wishing that he won't be acting that way toward you in public now that you finally indulged him. 

Getting home to your partner and child that day was jarring, a part of you was excited about keeping such a dirty secret but it also made you feel like shit. You cried that night and Erwin held you close to his chest, soothing you, telling you that everything was going to be ok. There is something about being in his arms that instantly calms you, he is so much bigger than you, and always warm.

 You didn't tell him the reasons behind your tears but he was as supportive as always. You had rocky days during your pregnancy so he's not a stranger to your random outburst of emotion and you are grateful he doesn't judge you for it. 

One thing you don't miss about pregnancy other than the swollen ankles, shitty sleep positions, back pain and nausea, is the alcohol prohibition. You are currently relaxing on your sofa, a nice glass of white wine in your hand while you watch the latest episodes of love island. The doorbell rings and you adjust your silk robe before making your way to the door. It must be the Thai food you ordered. 

You don't have the time to greet the courier that he's already bursting into your apartment. You are ready to scream when you recognize the emerald eyes that have been haunting you for quite some time now.

"What the fuck is wrong with you seriously" you barely can contain the anger in your tone, kicking his calf with your bare feet. 

Eren mumbles  something you can't hear as he takes off his shoes and jacket. He is avoiding eye contact with you at all cost, you recognize this behavior. The same he used when he shaved his hair without telling anyone two days before his first ever  billboard appearance, the same he used when he got caught with his ex again after publicly painting them as a bad person. 

Just what has he done this time? You close your eyes resting all of your weight on the front door. Here goes your peaceful weekend. 

"Eren ? What is going on" you tone is calm, he has a habit of getting defensive when feeling cornered. 

"Nothing, just wanted to see you" you almost believe him but he is fidgety, too much to be normal. You close the distance forcing him to look at you. 

"Speak" 

" I have told Armin and Mika about us" Your whole body freezes at his words, you're speechless, soullessly staring at him. Large hands come to your shoulder shaking  lightly as he calls your name. Freeing yourself from his grasp you walk to the couch slopping on it. His words swim in your head on repeat. His bestfriends know about this, they're far from gossip kind people, but the more  people know the more at risk you are.

"Are you mad at me ?" he's sitting right next to you and you haven't even noticed. 

"You told your friends that I cheated on my partner Eren, sorry if I'm not smiling ear to ear right now" you deadpan, downing your wine glass in two greedy sips. These words seem to have awakened something in him as he whispers his next sentence.

"Shit is Erwin here ?" You shake your head left to right. "He's  at his dad's with Lily and Levi. I'm joining them tomorrow." Right, it's the first time your father in law is meeting your baby girl and here you are with the men you cheated on his son with, way to go. "Why the hell did you do that?" you ask incredulously.

"They've known about how I feel for years, I was so happy the other day it slipped my lips"  

"About how you feel ?" you question, filling your glass again.

"Yeah, I love you" he answers easily, kissing your cheek.  You snortle, once the bottle is empty, setting it on the ground. "No, you don't" 

"Yes I do" he sounds angrier, gripping your shoulders for you to face him "I have been in love with you since I was eighteen and I don't plan on stopping" His revelation makes you all giddy inside but you can't show him.

"It is normal for you to feel attached to me, we spend an awful lot of time together Eren, but it is not love" you explain, petting his cheek tenderly. His brows furrowed and he scouts closer to you. 

"I'm not a child, I know what I feel, I'm in love with you can't you see it ?" 

"Would you be saying this if we didn't have sex the other day ?" you regret your words the moment they echoe in the room. He looks like a kicked puppy and you're the one who gave the blow. 

"I love you because you care about me in a way no one did before, you understand me and I thought i did too." he gets up and before he can move you catch his wrist, he's wearing the watch you have offered him after he won his first award.  He could be wearing any of the expensive watches that were gifted to him by the brands he works with, yet he chose the small discreet one you picked for him. You gulp, guilt sinking slowly but surely in your bones.

"Do you remember when you slipped encouragement notes between the cue cards for that stupid vanity fair video or whatever ? That is one of the reasons  I fell in love with you, not because of the other day" You tug at his wrist so he can face you again. 

"I'm sorry Eren, I didn't mean to say that. It's just a lot for me to take in, can you understand baby ?" The nickname softens him and he hugs you.

-Crisis averted- your manager brain can't help but chant in your head. You shut it down rapidly, as the situation sinks in. Are you in love with Eren ? Probably not if you're asking yourself this question, you need to clear out this situation. 

Pushing his body away from yours you kiss him. A real kiss one where you take the time to taste each part of his mouth, tongue dancing around each other and bodies impossibly closer. The butterflies are here in your stomach but that is not enough for you to determine your feelings. 

"Get on your knees Eren, eat me out" His eyes grow wider but he wastes no time obeying you. 

Parting your knees, Eren yanks you to his face, planting it straight in your pussy, he then starts to rub it  left to right, up and down, the groan he left out sends  vibrations in your whole body.  With the help of his fingers he stretches the skin around your clitoris, exposing completely the bundles of nerves to the cold air of the room. You don't have the time to shiver that his tongue is actively lapping at it. 

Your hips jolt at the contact it almost feels like your first time, you can't even remember the last time you received head.  Grabbing your glass from the table you sip on your wine as a smile spreads across your lips, this what heaven must be like, a pretty boy giving you head while you sip on the gods nectar. 

"Is it good ?" Eren asks, the lower part of his face covered in your arousal, the sight makes you catch your lips between your teeth, you nod pushing his head back towards your core with your feet. He smiles against your pussy. 

The familiar numbness in your legs tells you that you will not last long, but there is something else, something more urgent that comes with no warning. Before you can utter out a word a stream of bodily fluid sprays on Eren's face. Fuck, maybe you had to much wine. Your body shakes and it doesn't stop eren from his assault on your abused clitoris. 

"W-wait please Eren" you beg pulling at his hair, you feel the tears prick up in your eyes with the intensity of your first orgasm. He contests a bit, before resting his head on your thigh nipping at the flesh playfully. 

"I want you to feel good" He doesn't seem bothered by the fact that he is covered with your cum, your pussy clenches greedily but there is nothing to grasp on, you need him right now. 

"I think you prove us that you are very much capable of that " you chuckle, pushing his shoulder with your toes "Come here" you pat the empty spot on the couch next to you. Once he is sat you straddle him, locking his lips with yours. Eren quickly gets rid of his pants and underwear, he's about to pull the string of your robe, when you catch his wrist.

"It's my first time having sex since childbirth" you murmur against his lips, almost shameful. You don't want him to imagine a wild rodeo session that will leave him limping.  "We are going to go slow, you chose the pace ok mommy ?" he reassures you, planting feather light kisses on your lips, here goes the butterflies against. You nod grinding on his erection a few times for good measure then slowly sinking it inside your cunt, inch by inch. 

Once it is fully seated inside of you, you start with slow back and forth grinding motion. Eren's large palms are on your back, accompanying your every move, but never directing you, he is so willing to help it makes you want to ruin him. attaching his plump lip to your nipple he suckles but nothing comes out of it. 

"Fed someone else today, there is nothing for you" you mock, gripping his jaw in your hand as you intensify your hips movement. Eren pout looking up at you. "I want you all to myself" he managed through your grip. His eyes are glassy, you are convinced that you can make him cry out of pleasure if you play your cards right. The thought makes your pussy clench down on him and he winces.  

"You want mommy to yourself baby ?" you ask in a condescending tone, gripping the headrest of the couch to ride him harder still.  He nods furiously. "I want to be yours" you chuckle at that, slipping your fingers in his mouth. "You already are Eren, you belong to me, I control every aspect of your life"  you press your digits hard on his tongue and he moans. "Say it" you command, laying your feet flat on the couch to bounce up and down on his thick cock. 

His words are incomprehensible , your fingers filling his mouth are the reasons, a devilish grin sprouts on your face. "Say it or I will stop" you emphasize your words with a hard slam of your hips down his cock, the tears break free from his pretty eyes, there he is.

"m'yours" he spills hastily, drool covering his digits and your chin. "Good boy" you use the nickname as a reward and his dick twitches inside of you. 

It is priceless to see him like that, you feel your lower belly tangle in a mess of excitation and pride. The sloshing sound of your wet cunt ramming up and down his manhood does nothing to tame you down.  The same feeling of numbness runs through your legs again, you don't want to cum yet but you are not going to be able to hold it in if he keeps looking at you like that. 

"Do you want to fill me up Eren ? Fuck another baby inside of me ?"  you ask, taking out your fingers out his mouth. More tears fall freely from his eyes and he growls, head falling back  on the couch still gawking at you through hooded eyes,

"Please, yes please"  he begs voice deeper than usual, he's such a mess right now, you giggle ready to finish him. Your lips melt on his, as your drool covered hands flies to your pussy, flicking your clit in circular motions.  It is not long until Eren's cum fills you up to your womb, you follow shortly after, body thrashing against him. 

"I love you" is the first thing you hear when you come back to your senses. 

"I love you too Eren" you answer, his dick stirred inside of you. 

If it is true, why does it leave a bad taste in your mouth ?