#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

[kitteninabunker]

toji eating you while you're in the middle of a very important job meeting wasn't supposed to happen!

but he’s lying back on the bed, shirtless, smug, and already patting his chest. “c’mon, baby. sit on my face,” he groans, voice heavy with need, like he’s been starving for it all day. “be a good girl for me. i know you’ll cum fast—can’t ever handle it when i suck on this pretty clit, huh?”

you try to resist, try to focus on your notes and the gallery of coworkers blinking on your laptop screen. but toji’s strong hands grab your thighs and tug you down with no effort, manhandling you into straddling his face like you weigh nothing. you barely get yourself muted in time before his mouth meets your cunt—hot, greedy, disgusting in the best way.

“t-toji, stop,” you whisper in a panic, hands trembling as you brace yourself on the bed frame. your thighs already feel weak, his tongue flicking ruthlessly over your clit like he’s trying to draw every sound out of you.

he chuckles against you, the vibration making your legs jolt. “stop?” he murmurs mockingly, licking a fat stripe through your folds. “nah, baby. unmute it. let your boss hear how much this slutty pussy loves squirting on my face.”

your eyes widen. “toji—”

“do it.”

and because you’re soaked, needy, and too far gone to think straight, you do. your hand trembles as you unmute yourself, heart thundering as you try to keep your face composed for the camera. but he doesn’t give you time to adjust. toji dives back in like he owns you, dragging his tongue in maddening circles around your clit, locking his jaw to suck with obscene, wet noises that make your toes curl. it's clear he's doing this for his own pleasure, it's no regards as to how his wife looks on camera. it actually makes his cock throb, knowing she's up there struggling to stay professional with his tongue in her slit.

“okay, let’s go over last week’s meeting,” your boss says, her voice distant over the roar of blood in your ears. each of your coworkers sits calmly in their little squares while yours is turning into a damn porno. your cheeks are flushed, lip bitten raw, hair clinging to your sweaty forehead—and in your own box, you look wrecked.

“mrs. fushiguro?” your boss asks. you hear the concern in her voice. “is everything alright?”

“y—yes!” you choke, blinking hard, trying to remember what the hell a spreadsheet even is. “just—just a headache. sorry.”

toji groans underneath you, tongue flattening against your clit as he laps like a man possessed. your thighs shake around his head, your hands clawing at his hair, and when he suddenly slips two thick fingers inside you without warning, you nearly scream.

your body trembles violently, muscles locking up as your orgasm slams into you. your hips grind against his mouth, chasing it, unable to stop now even if you wanted to. slick gushes out of you, messy and uncontrollable, spilling over his tongue and chin—and toji just moans, holding you down, drinking every drop like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

you slap the laptop shut before anyone sees too much. your pulse still thuds in your ears.

panting, legs still twitching, you glare down at him. his eyes are dark, lips glossy with your cum, and he’s grinning like the smug bastard he is.

“if i get fired,” you growl, wiping your face with the back of your hand, “it’s your ass.”

toji just licks his lips and smirks. “worth it.”

[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.

[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.”

[manicmanuscription]

Different Acotar Character's x Current Partner Trend

Featured Characters: Rhysand, Azriel, Cassian, Lucien, Eris, Feyre, Nesta, and Elain. (all x f!reader)

A/N: Y'all Reader DOES hit Cassian but he knew she was going to and wanted her too? It was inspired by this one tiktok I saw in this trend very much giving Cass energy where the man said current wife, wife hit him and he immediately defended her because he knew she was going to so very much inspired by that. I also only said current wife/husband for most of these because in Acotar mates are like higher than that and I think if reader said boyfriend/girlfriend we'd actually see some major crashouts. Also in my head for this, Acotar is the same but just with phones, your free to imagine a completely different AU, go crazy fr,

Warnings/Tags: Reader hits Cassian, illusions to smut, very suggestive, lots of making out, big possessive energy throughout all of this. Beginning of BDSM scene because you know Azriel is FREAKYYY. Slight Dom/Sub dynamics. Fluff, slight angst, mostly just steamy. NOT proofread because I ain't doing all that. Minors DNI

Rhysand

I couldn’t help but giggle at the TikTok Mor sent me, girlfriends, wives and mates calling their partners ‘current’ just to provoke a reaction and I slipped my phone in my pocket with a plan in my head, smiling to myself. 

A few hours later Rhysand had returned from Hewn City with a gift and it was the perfect opportunity. We both sat out on the balcony watching the sun set and he slid a hand on my thigh in exasperation as I adjusted my phone standup upright against the wine bottle. “Can you please just open your present now baby?”

“Hold on a minute I want to make a video and show it to everyone.” You reminded him gently. “Your generation and phones.” My mate muttered under his breath, eyeing the little black box warily and I couldn’t help but chuckle. Technology had evolved so fast in the last few years and it was funny to see him still be so suspicious of it. 

“Grumpy old man.” I whispered as I opened up the camera app. “What’d you just say?” Rhys warned, squeezing my thigh. “Nothing!” I smiled, giving him a quick kiss. That’s what I thought. His voice slid into my mind and I sent him a quick bolt of love down the bond before pressing the record button. 

“Hey guys! I’m here with my current” the second the word current left my mouth the hand on my thigh slid up to the back of my neck. “husband-”

I didn’t notice his other hand until he stopped and then deleted the video. “No. Try again.” 

“Sorry baby I was just joking.” “Mhmm Hmm.” I started recording another video and I purposefully didn’t make eye contact with him but it was inevitable with the small screen reflecting ourselves back and the storm in his eyes could level cities. 

His hand squeezed my neck in warning and I did my best to ignore the heat pooling low in my stomach even though I knew I was playing a dangerous game. “Hello! I’m here with my current husba-”

“Absolutely not.” My mate said, grabbing my phone and winnowing us back inside the bedroom, tossing me on the bed. He set the phone up on the nightstand and pointed it towards my form on the mattress. “Wh-What are you doing?” I asked nervously, moving myself up towards the headboard and doing my best to stay out of view of the still recording camera.

Rhys walked to the end of the bed undoing his cuffs while he did so and I let out a barely audible whimper at the sight. He looked dangerous and absolutely furious. “Since you're obsessed with that little phone so much…”His voice trailed off as he eyed me hungrily, grabbing my ankles and yanking me back into view of the camera and further down the mattress. Rhysand crawled up my body, pressing tantalizing slow kisses to my skin as he did so. 

“We’re not leaving this bed until you correct your mistakes.” He said darkly, his mouth finally connecting with mine, barely giving me a chance to catch my breath as he dominated my tongue with his own. Purposefully claiming every inch of my mouth and I could practically taste that furious dark power simmering underneath his skin. 

Well it looks like I am never posting this video and Rhys chased away any other thoughts as he swallowed a strangled moan from me, somehow deepening the kiss. 

Lucien

“Hey baby?” I called out from my vanity chair. Lucien opened the adjoining bathroom door, a towel slung low on his hips and steam curling into the bedroom. “Yeah?” He asked as he walked over to me, patting his wet hair with a separate hand towel. 

My eyes ran appreciatively up and down his body and he gave me a wink. He paused walking behind me. “Do you remember what you need or you get distracted sugar?” 

“Oh shut up.” I rolled my eyes, finally twisting myself towards the mirror and pulling my gaze away from his muscled body. “I'm making a bedtime routine video. Do you want to be in it?” 

“Hopefully not all of your bedtime routine because I play a pretty active role in it-”

“Lucien!” 

“Ok ok!” He said putting his hands up in surrender even as I stifled a laugh. “Yes I want to be in it baby.” He stepped closer, still pretty tall from behind my chair so he lowered himself slightly and wrapped his arms around my torso. I smiled, melting into his touch before setting up the phone and hitting record. “Hey! So I’m going to be filming a nighttime routine with my current husband-”

“What did you just say?” Lucien interrupted me, standing to his full height and putting his hands on his hips, that towel almost slipping. I turned in my seat to face him. “I said we’re going to be doing a nighttime routine like I told you-”

“No no no after that?” 

“What’s your problem? Can we please just make the video?” I asked, doing my best to put my innocent face on even as I fought a smile at his furious expression. 

“Did you forget who I am, baby? Your mate. M A T E. Mate.” He looked at the camera with furrowed brows and for a second I thought I saw hurt flashing across his face before it turned into something darker, something more feral. He snatched my phone and stopped recording. Tossing it in the bathroom. “Hey, that's my phone!”

Lucien didn’t seem to listen to my protests; he just scooped me up with a small squeak. My nightgown rode up my thighs as he threw me on the bed. “It’s ok baby I’ll help you remember and make sure you won’t ever forget it.” 

Azriel

I hadn’t really been listening when the girls were telling the stories about their ‘current boyfriend’ mishaps or successes. It had been a silly trend going around but I had no interest in it, not really wanting to hurt my mate’s feelings. 

Until he started pissing me off. Working long nights. Leaving early in the morning without so much as a goodbye kiss and all this after his long mission? I felt neglected and well truly I hadn’t been bratty in a long time. 

I made a plan to get him to pay attention to me by forcing him to make a video together tomorrow in his office but he had spent this whole dinner party practically ignoring me again. Even though we were technically holding hands he was chatting it up with his brother’s like they weren’t all in Illyria for a few weeks and I was starting to get really annoyed. So he could touch me but not actually talk to me? 

No. I’m done. With a plan in mind I pulled away from Azriel’s side not seeing the confused look he gave me as I walked over to Mor and Feyre plopping down onto the ottoman next to them. “Hey girll!!” The females both slurred at the same time, very obviously drunk or at least tipsy. I smiled at them, warmth filling my chest in their presence. “Are you guys having fun?”

“Yes! Our High Lady can pa-a-rtyyyyy.” Mor cheered. “Yeah cause you infected her Mor..” Cassian chuckled from across the room. Feyre glared at the male, a clock somewhere in the house striking one in the morning. 

“What’sss that supposed to even mean? Am I not allowed to have fun? This is a celebration you have all been going for so soooo long.” She pouted, giving Rhys puppy eyes and I practically watched the High Lord melt underneath her gaze. He stepped away from his brothers, tucking a piece of hair behind her hair and sat beside her giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Of course you can darling ignore him, he’s a no good busybody.” 

“Hey!” Cassian protested and Feyre ignored him, melting into her mate’s chest with a small humph. This conversation wasn’t going in the direction I needed to piss my mate off so I steered it, turning towards Mor. “I heard you're going shopping with the girls this weekend?”

“Yes, do you want to come?”

“Maybe, since my current husband is probably busy.” I said with a small sigh. 

Azriel whirled his head around to face me and before Mor could voice whatever surprised thoughts clearly written on her face Azriel spoke first. Walking towards me and lifting my chin up to face him. “What did you just say?” His voice was lethal, dark and it had every fae in the room tensing up prepared to fight at the pure threat in his low tone. All conversation’s stopped completely, so quiet you could hear a pin drop. 

I opened my mouth to repeat it but my very drunk High Lady and friend beat me to it. “She said her current boyfriend is too busy to hangout with her so she’s going out on the town.” 

I knew everyone was watching us but I couldn’t find myself to care. Azriel’s firm grip on my chin and that deadly look in his eye had captured my full attention. “Is that so?” Azriel enunciated each word slowly. His deep voice only serves to add to his dangerous tone. 

“Mhmm Hmm.” Feyre said, nodding her head. 

I opened my mouth to respond but Azriel was already firmly guiding me up and out of my chair. Staring directly into my eyes with an intensity that had me shifting nervously on my feet. The look on his face was void of any emotion and if I hadn’t known him so long. I would’ve missed the absolute feral look in his eye. He masked it well but I knew him and I knew how deeply and utterly fucked I was. I think I fucked up. 

“Apologies Rhysand and Feyre but my mate and I have to go now. Thank you for the lovely night.” 

“You’re welcome. Have a…good night you guys.” Rhysand said and I could practically hear the smirk in his tone. Bastard. 

The shadows swirled around me in lazy circles but I had seen the occasional twitches, the tightening around my limbs and I knew they were just as anxious as Azriel was to get us away from prying eyes. 

Feyre had said something else I’d missed and as soon as she was done speaking they enveloped me completely and Mor’s voice echoed before the darkness transported us somewhere else. “Oooo girl she is in troubleeee. She not gon’ to walk tomor-” 

When the shadows dissipated I expected to find us in the bedroom, but as I slowly registered the dim lighting I quickly realized it was the playroom. Azriel was standing in front of me. The gentleness gone from his expression and he reached behind me and grabbed my hair in a ponytail pulling me close to him with a harsh tug and leaned down to whisper in my ear. “Where’s my good girl? She would’ve never acted that way tonight.” He hummed softly a clear warning and I opened my mouth to respond to defend myself, or say anything to lessen the punishment I was sure to receive but all I could do was plead. “Azriel…” 

“Shush shush I know. You just need a firm hand to bring her back to me hmm?” 

Gods I had fucked up. 

Eris 

It took a lot of convincing to get Eris sat in front of the camera, the High Lord tapping his fingers impatiently against the wood table as if he had something better to do than spend time with his mate. 

In fact I had told him just that in my plea to make a Tiktok and instead he responded with an annoyingly flirty quip about how there’s a thousand other ways we could spend time together and I had spent the night wrapped up in his arms but finally here we are. 

I pressed a quick kiss to his cheek and he softened slightly before I pressed the record button. “Hi everyone!” I chirped, shoving away the regret starting to form. I could participate in any other trend but had chosen this one, my one golden ticket to finally get him to film with me. Oh well this was payback for taking the hounds on a walk without me. 

“So I’m here with my current husband and-”

Eris’ head snapped to mine instantly, those amber eyes blazing impossibly brighter. The hand that had been impatiently tapping the table had stilled along with the rest of his form. A stillness only a predator could maintain and I shifted in my seat slightly, that heated gaze still on mine and I looked down at my hands just to avoid its burn. 

“What just came out of your mouth love?” He asked. Tone as smooth as butter and I recognized the courtier in him, the one who stole secrets with honeyed promises and poisoned touches. He lifted my chin so we made eye contact and I had forgotten how deadly my mate could be, how he’d survived years of living under Beron with a mask of calm and I had willingly opened the snake’s cage.

I opened my mouth to apologize when my phone suddenly turned to ash, the table next to go. “Eris…you’re being cruel.” I whispered carefully so many photos on that damned box and it was just gone. He gave me a cold smile and I instantly knew I was fucked. “No you haven’t seen cruel yet sweetheart.” He responded, still making direct eye contact with me in hopes to get me to squirm. Brushing a piece of my hair behind my ear, a kind gesture but I knew what it really was. A mockery, a reminder of the gentleness I could have if I hadn’t been a brat. 

The touch sent sparks down my spine and I finally hardened my gaze. His eyes only sparked with hunger at my unspoken challenge. What was that old saying? Don’t poke the bear? But there was a reason we were mates and I could handle his heat. “You know what, I'm not sorry.” I snapped, just like he wasn’t sorry for going on our morning walk without me. 

That cold smirk only grew wider, a hand lacing around my throat and one tightly wrapping around my thigh as he leaned in. “You will be.” 

Cassian

I stood next to my mate as he set up his phone, a grin plastered all over his face and I instantly knew he was up to some type of buffoonery. I just rolled my eyes and continued cutting the vegetables, chopping up the carrots with a practiced ease. “What are you doing love?” I finally asked. 

“Just making a video.” He hummed and hit the record button, coming to stand next to me so we were both in the frame.

“Hey Rhys I hope you’re doing good I’m making dinner with my current mate-”

He didn’t even get a chance to finish recording as I reached my free hand and punched him in the throat, a laugh bubbling out of my mate’s throat when I did so even as he wheezed for air.

“What did I say?” I asked him as he doubled over gasping, I dropped the knife and put my hands on my hips just watching him. “What did I say?”

“You said-” He wheezed out, letting out another choked laugh and a deep inhale for air as he struggled to regain control of his breathing and guilt tugged at me slightly. Even if I had warned him what I would do if he did this stupid fucking trend. “You…said.”

“-said you were -gonna hit me if i..” 

“Yeah, yeah and what did you do?” I asked harshly, trying to ignore the mixture of feelings rolling through me: guilt was the most present and slight pride at my form. But the bond was recoiling at my actions.

Cassian pulled on it gently. Letting me know he wasn’t mad and he even sent down his love and amusement, he knew what he was getting into to. Cassian continued laughing as he finally could breathe again which only made me angrier.

“I’m sorry. Please love, I'm so sorry.” He murmured, taking steady inhales and cautiously wrapped his arms around me from behind.

“Watch your fucking mouth or you won’t be currently living on this earth anymore.” I snapped as I picked the knife up again and started cutting the carrots, with a little more force than necessary. 

Cassian pressed his face to the side of my neck and breathed in deeply. The video is still recording but neither of us really cared. He then peppered kisses down my neck and I hummed softly, melting into his touch.

“I’m so sorry baby, I lost a bet to my brothers. it’ll never happen again. Let me make it up to you please?” He begged, a whine entering his tone, his hands obsessively grabbing my waist and holding me tight to his growing length. 

I flushed and quickly grabbed the phone and stopped recording, passing it Cassian. “Later.”  He continued to touch me as we made dinner, helping me reach the dishes on the high shelves and cutting the vegetables so I could focus on other tasks. One hand was constantly touching me as we worked side by side and brushing against me as he moved about the kitchen. 

“You know I’m proud of that punch by the way.” Cassian finally spoke, I looked up and expected to find a goofy grin on his face but all I could find was pride and I ignored the way my entire being lit up at it. “Thanks, my current mate taught it to me.” 

Cassian’s eyes sparked with a challenge, mirth dancing in them even as something darker hid behind it, pulling on the bond. He was right it was fun to mess with his instincts, he couldn’t hide the way his hands tightened around his chair. 

Before the night progressed any further a text popped up on my phone. A message from Venmo from both Rhys and Azriel with different amounts on the notification as they paid me what was due. The comment from Rhys reading: 'he should be more careful when you have a knife in hand.’

“Those bastards fucking set me up.” Cassian scoffed leaning in his chair and huffing like a small child. “Yup.” I popped the p reaching for my phone but Cassian was quicker, years of honed reflexes had him picking me up and carrying us to our bedroom in just a few quick seconds. 

“Alright enough of this damned nonsense.” He growled and I laughed, pressing myself closer to him as the night finally began.

Feyre

Feyre was seated on the breakfast nook, the morning sun reflecting off her skin and making her even more radiant. I skipped into the kitchen and pressed a kiss to her lips, my mate’s mouth chasing me as I pulled away before sitting next to her. 

“Oohh what are we eating?” I asked, eyeing the spread before me excitedly. 

“Well there’s some bacon, pancakes, fruit…” Feyre’s voice trailed off as she noticed I was already reaching for my phone to snap a picture, an amused chuckle escaping her before taking another sip of her tea. I opened the camera app looking at the picture button before deciding on a video as an idea formed. I’d just been watching those current partner videos earlier…and I selfishly wanted to see her reaction. 

I set the phone up on the vase of my favorite flowers sitting in the middle of the table hitting the record button before my mate could ask what I was doing and I ignored her silent question as she arched her brow. 

“So I’m here eating breakfast with my current wife-”

“What did you just say?” Feyre asked, choking on her tea, looking at the camera then back to me a few times. “I’m not sure if I heard you right?” 

“No, your hearing is fine love. We’re eating breakfast and you’re my curr-”

“Finish that sentence and see what happens.” Feyre said darkly, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms, eyes narrowing in on me. Fuck she was so pretty. When I remembered what we were talking about I continued the conversation for the sake of a video long sense paused unbeknownst to me.. “I’m just saying-”

“No.” She demanded, placing a hand on my thigh and squeezing in warning. “My current mate and I are eating breakfast-”

“No.” She snapped, squeezing my thigh with just a little more force and I couldn’t help but squirm, heat licking down my spine. I could tell she was close to snapping just a little more… “Fine guys. My current girlf-”

“Alright.” Feyre growled, reaching over and breaking my phone in half with a surprising strength, her power surging and tainting the air briefly. “Feyre!” I gasped standing up in shock. “It seems my pretty little mate wants to play games with me.” Was all she said before throwing me over her shoulder and carrying me upstairs. Fucking Finally. 

Nesta

Nesta and I were all wrapped up in our bed, leaning against the headboard hair wet from our earlier bath together and I curled into her shoulder even more so I could be closer to her and also so I could see her phone more clearly as she scrolled through Tiktok. 

A voice played from the speakers. The female on the screen doing another one of those current boyfriend videos with the male right next to her throwing a fit. I giggled a little bit and Nesta looked down at me with a serious expression taking over her face. “I will kill you if you do that to me. I’m serious, don't even think about it.” 

I knew her struggles and the things she’d overcome, it would be disrespectful to poke fun at old wounds just for the sake of a few likes. I nodded and moved so I was straddling her thighs. “Didn’t even cross my mind baby you’re stuck with me for life I’m afraid.” 

She smiled, a genuine one and my heart sang at the fact I was able to pull it from her. 

Elain

I finally found Elain in the kitchen and I walked up behind her wrapping my arms around her torso and pressing a kiss to the juncture of her throat. “Missed you.” I murmured. She hummed happily, leaning against me and rubbing those callused hands along my arms as she turned to give me a proper kiss. One in which I greedily indulged her.

Finally when we pulled away she mumbled a breathless “Missed you too.” When I noticed the camera that was recording. I gave Elain a questioning look. “I’m making a tutorial on how to make my famous lavender cookies!”

“You’re going to share the recipe with the entire world and not me?” I grumbled unhappily and she chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to my nose to get me to calm down. “That’s because I’m supposed to cook them for you, not the other way around. You know the rules in my house.” 

I rolled my eyes and washed my hands before coming back to Elain’s side to help her. She arched an accusing brow at me. “What?! I can cook. I'm great in the kitchen.”

“Sure you are.” She said, not so subtly rolling her eyes. “Just introduce me to your little viewers.” 

“Alright guys this is…” She paused and I could practically see the wheels turning in her head, a mischievous smile playing at the corners of her lips. “My current wife and she’s going to help me finish up.”

I paused what I was doing, putting the measuring cup down so I could look at my mate, who was intentionally avoiding eye contact. “Baby you said current wife.”

She just hummed and I put a hand on my hip, snatching her phone up, and deleting the video. “Hey!” 

“Nuh uh, cause I am not the one Elain Acheron. Your cookies are for me and me only, your mate. Not your current wife, or wife, or girlfriend or one of those little side-”

“You mean my friends?”

“I am definitely not one of your friends.” I grabbed her by the hips and set her on the counter, pressing myself between her legs. “Fix it. Now.” 

“You’re my mate. My beautiful, lovely, very possessive mate.”

“And....”

“And I love you very much and I’m yours.”

“Yeah that’s what I thought.” I grumbled, pressing my mouth to hers and invading her with my tongue, trying to etch my lovely mate into my very soul and being even further than she already was.

[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.

[ds-angel1]

how serial killer!rafe infantilizes candy!reader

cw: murder, dd/lg, drugging, (forced) infantalisation, conditioning

Picks out your clothes daily: baby pink jumpers, frilly socks, shirts with cartoons, flowy dresses, and overalls; he calls anything else “not for his girl.”

Pre-chews or cuts your food: he’s “making sure you don’t choke, sweets.” Even at restaurants.

Won’t let you have sharp objects. “Why would my baby need scissors? You’ll hurt yourself.”

Reads you bedtime stories: real ones, or made-up ones about princesses being rescued by men with knives.

Bans caffeine and alcohol, (but gives you sedatives and “mood candy” in cutesy pillboxes you decorated.)

Only calls you “baby,” “princess,” “kitten,” or “doll.” ect., He never uses your real name, he says it sounds too grown.

Rewards you with praise for being helpless:“You’re such a good girl for letting Daddy handle it.”“That’s right, no thinking, just smile for me.”

Corrects your tone if you sound “too adult.”“Ah ah, use your soft voice, baby. Remember?”

Encourages babytalk. Pretends not to understand you unless you use cutesy words.

Tells you scary, complex things (like taxes, politics, or crime) are “way too much for your soft little brain.”

Your wardrobe is 80% themed: cupcakes, animals, pastel florals, glitter jelly shoes, or footie pajamas.

Insists you wear lip gloss and blush but nothing “mature.” No red lipstick, no eyeliner, “makes you look mean.”

Only buys you coloring books and kids toys, nothing that you need actual brain power to do or use.

Keeps the remote for the TV hidden when he leaves so you can’t watch anything but the kids channel.

Tells strangers you’re “special” or “slow” so they won’t talk to you directly.

Uses pacifiers when you’re stressed, says it “calms her.” Sometimes he soaks them in syrup or drugs.

Keeps you under a surveillance system with baby monitor audio, GPS bracelet, and room camera. Just in case.

[lalo0]

Pretty Faces┃ Damsel in distress

Part 1

Sana x male reader (smut)

words count: 12k

The thing about these events is that no one actually wants to be here.

Not me, not them, not even the poor souls pretending to be fans screaming from behind the barriers. It’s just part of the deal: put on a suit, smile, act like you’re honored to attend another rigged award show where the winners are decided weeks before anyone even pretends to vote.

I flash a practiced grin at the cameras. Just enough teeth to seem charming, not enough to seem desperate. They eat it up. They always do.

Inside, it’s colder than necessary, not for comfort, but to make sure no one starts sweating through their designer suits before the main event. I recognize the usual layout: round tables close together, champagne that’s all label and no taste, plastic smiles stretched across faces polished within an inch of human.

I find my table. Karina’s already there, glued to her phone like she’s solving world hunger. My manager, Karina Yoo. Full-time job: Making sure I don’t publicly crash and burn.

“You’re late,” she says, not even looking up.

“I’m fashionable,” I correct, sliding into the seat beside her. “Try to keep up.”

She hums under her breath, something between disapproval and exhaustion, and taps at her screen a few more times before glancing at me. “You’re third. Stick to the script and smile.”

“I always smile.” I flash my teeth at her. “You think I’m out here winging it?”

Karina just gives me that look. The one that says she doesn’t get paid enough to argue. I lean back in my chair, scanning the room. Same faces, slightly different brands of fake.

And then there’s Sana.

Of course.

If South Korea had a national treasure, it would look awfully much like her. She’s draped in a dress that cost more than some idols’ entire discography budgets, shimmering under the lights with an ease that looks accidental and isn’t. Perfect smile, perfect hair, legs crossed in a way that suggests she doesn’t have to try, she just exists. She’s laughing at something, head tilted, hand brushing through her hair like it’s all just a natural accident. I know better.

And because the universe is nothing if not predictable, a few tables down sits Kang Jihoon.

Perfect skin, perfect smile, perfect product of fifteen million dollars in marketing campaigns and enough plastic surgery to qualify as a construction site. The kind of rival whose existence is an insult. Our eyes meet. He nods, that tight little smile that says, Congratulations on your award. Hope you trip and break your teeth on the way to the stage.

I smile back, all teeth.

Karina nudges me under the table. “Don’t start anything.”

“I never start anything,” I say, sipping from a champagne flute that tastes like someone bottled hand soap and chilled it.

Jihoon’s laughing too hard at something one of the producers said. Probably another joke at my expense. He’s not subtle.

The lights dim and the host starts his opening bit. I tune it out. Same script as last year, just different names plugged in. When they call my name, it’s with all the fanfare you’d expect for someone already halfway to an EGOT.

“Leon — Male Solo Artist of the Year.”

I stand, smoothing the front of my jacket with a deliberate, oh, this old thing? kind of air, and make my way up to the stage. Flashbulbs pop like fireworks, but I pretend not to notice. The trophy’s lighter than it looks. Cheap, like the ceremony. I step up to the mic and smile, not too big, not too smug, just the right angle to keep the fan edits flattering.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll keep this brief. Thank you to my fans, my team, and to everyone who made this possible.”

I bow. They applaud. Pavlov would be proud.

On the way back to my seat, I catch Sana looking. She raises her glass in a slow, deliberate toast. The corner of her mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile. I raise mine back, then hold her gaze for a few more seconds.

—

By the time I make it into the afterparty, an overpriced lounge in Gangnam with too much glass and too little oxygen, half the eyes are already on me. A few heads tilt together, a few girls whisper behind raised hands. All that wasted effort, as if I can’t already feel it in the way the air sharpens around me.

Sana's also here. Of course she is.

I spot her immediately, curled into a corner booth like she’s the headliner that doesn’t to be introduced. There’s a drink in her hand, something clear, expensive-looking. She’s laughing at something one of her friends said, one of those bright, polished laughs that sounds so effortless you almost forget how practiced it probably is.

Sana’s good at playing innocent. Better at making sure you know she isn’t.

She’s exactly the kind of person you learn to spot early in this business. The kind who doesn't just walk into a room, but recalibrates it around herself. A professional manipulator, disguised as a professional sweetheart.

I don’t blame her, I respect it.

Still, I don’t head toward her right away. That’d be too obvious. Too eager.

Instead, I weave my way past a few clusters of people, industry kids mostly, managers, producers, B-list actors desperate to be mistaken for A-list. The kind who try too hard to look like they belong here. I smile at a few of them, nod once or twice, let them think I’m being polite. The truth is, I don’t remember half their names. the other half aren’t worth remembering.

It doesn’t take long for Karina to catch up to me. She’s dressed for business even when she’s pretending not to be, black blazer, sharp lines, sensible heels. She looks more like she’s here to close a deal than babysit a soloist with too much media training and not enough patience.

“You’re late,” she says under her breath, flashing a smile that’s for everyone else’s benefit.

“You’re welcome,” I reply, offering mine right back. “I wasn’t sure if I should come.”

Karina sighs, just audible enough for me to hear it.

“This isn’t optional,” she reminds me. “Show face, shake hands, act grateful. You know the drill.”

“Relax. I’ve been doing this for longer than I can remember.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

She’s right, technically. I’ve been in this business long enough to know exactly what tonight is: a networking event dressed up as a party. A chance for people with too much money and too little shame to decide who gets to be famous next. It’s not about talent, it’s never about talent. It’s about leverage, perception, the right smiles, at the right moments, aimed at the right people.

Speaking of which, Sana’s eyes catch mine from across the room. It’s not obvious, just a flicker, a slight tilt of her head, but it’s enough. I don't smile right away. I make her wait for it, let her wonder if I’ll bother. Then, slow, deliberate, I offer the faintest nod, barely a movement. But she sees it. And more importantly, she understands it.

I let Karina wander off to do whatever it is managers do at these things, probably networking, maybe praying. It doesn’t matter, she’s not the one I’m here for.

I grab a drink from a passing waiter without asking what it is. It could be champagne or window cleaner for all I care. It’s not about the drink. It’s about having something in my hand, looking just casual enough to pretend I’m not watching her.

But of course I am.

Sana doesn’t make me wait long. She slides off the leather booth with a grace so natural it has to be practiced, leaving behind two of her group members who immediately start whispering the second her heels click away.

I don’t move. I don’t smile. I just let her come to me.

Up close, she smells expensive. Something sweet and sharp, something no stylist could’ve picked. It’s the kind of thing that clings to your clothes if you let her too close, the kind you’d notice hours after she’s already gone.

"Leon," she says, all polite sweetness, tilting her head like she’s genuinely surprised to see me. As if this wasn’t planned. "Didn’t think I’d run into you here."

"Sana," I reply, letting her name sit on my tongue a second too long. "Small world."

She laughs, soft and airy, a sound designed to make people lean in closer. I don’t. I stand my ground, sipping whatever poison’s in my glass.

"You look good," she says, and it feels like a test.

"You look expensive," I answer, because she does. Every inch of her, hair, skin, makeup, is curated to perfection, not a single thing out of place. It's the kind of polish you can’t fake. It costs money, time and blood.

Her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile. "Same old Leon," she says. "Still charming as ever."

"Still lying through your teeth," I shoot back, and this time she does smile. A real one, sharp at the edges, not the kind she gives the cameras.

"You’re not gonna be nice to me? I thought you had an image to maintain."

"I’m off the clock," I say. "Besides, you don’t want nice. You want me."

She laughs again, softer this time. She’s enjoying this. Of course she is. Girls like Sana don’t chase boys, they chase puzzles, and I’m not about to make it easy for her.

She shifts her weight, leaning in just a fraction. "So what’s it gonna be tonight?" she asks. "Leon the idol or Leon the asshole?"

I shrug, taking another sip. The drink’s starting to taste less like paint thinner now. “Whatever gets you wetter.”

Her eyes flick in surprise, blink-and-miss-it sharp. Like she’s checking how deep the water is before she dives. She taps her glass against mine. Little clink. Too sweet to trust. “Surprise me.”

I let a smile tug at the corner of my mouth. “Careful,” I tell her. “I might.”

Sana takes another slow sip from her drink, eyes never leaving mine. “You know, I forgot how much I hated you.”

I grin into my glass. “Come on, we both know you’re obsessed with me.”

“Obsessed is a strong word,” she says, but there’s that curl of her mouth again, like she’s chewing on something she’s not ready to spit out yet.

“You’re the one who came over,” I remind her.

“Pity,” she says, tossing it out like it was obvious. “You looked lonely.”

“You’re confusing lonely with selective.”

She hums under her breath, amused, like she’s seen this movie before. “Selective, huh. Funny way to describe standing alone with your drink going flat.”

“Funny way to describe stalking me.”

“You wish,” she shoots back, but her hand grazes mine when she reaches for her glass, and she doesn’t move it right away. The corner of her lip glistens when she speaks again, too casual to be innocent. “Anyway. I figured someone should save you from dying of boredom.”

I laugh, not bothering to hide how dry it sounds. “If I was dying of boredom, talking to you would only speed things up.”

Sana leans in a touch, just enough to really make sure I smell her perfume. “That’s rich coming from you, Leon. Aren’t you supposed to be the life of the party?”

“Off duty.” I swirl the drink in my hand, let the ice clink against the glass. “Besides, you don’t want the real me. You want the version you can brag about to your friends.”

She looks at me then, really looks, head tilted like she’s deciding whether to really say it. “Maybe I want both.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

The way her mouth curls tells me she doesn’t care. Or worse, she does. “Try me,” she says.

I toss the rest of my drink back, the burn sharp down my throat, and I feel it catch, slow and deliberate, when she leans closer and drops her voice to a murmur. “Come on. Be interesting.”

I don’t answer right away. I let it hang there, just a second longer than is polite, and smile like I’m thinking about it, like it’s some big favor. “Maybe later,” I say, setting the empty glass down on the bar. “When you’re drunk enough to forget.”

Her fingers trail the rim of her glass, slow, absentminded. “And what if I don’t want to forget?”

I shrug. “Not my problem.”

Sana laughs under her breath, low and dry, then tosses her drink back too, straight-faced, like it’s water. Her hand brushes mine again, deliberate this time, knuckles grazing. And maybe it’s the burn of the liquor or the glint in her eye, but for a second, it feels easy to forget the part where I’m supposed to be working.

I check my phone instead. Flash a smile she doesn’t buy.

“Midnight already?” I say, slipping it back into my pocket. “Guess I’m getting old.”

Sana just watches me, eyes a little too knowing. “Leaving already?”

“Big day tomorrow,” I lie.

“Shame.” She taps her glass against mine, gentle little clink, like she’s toasting something only she knows about. “I was starting to have fun.”

“Yeah,” I say, pushing off the bar. “You should get out of here too. Never know what kind of creeps hang around these places after dark.”

—

Her laugh follows me as I walk off.

The sidewalk’s quieter than it should be. I don’t rush. The trick is never looking like you have somewhere to be. I hear the door swing behind me. Heels again, faster this time.

“You forgot your manners,” she calls out.

I don’t turn. Just slow down a little. “I said goodbye.”

“You said ‘you should get out of here too,’” she says, catching up. “That’s not the same thing.”

I glance over. She’s got her arms folded, jacket barely draped over her shoulders, heels digging into the concrete like she’s got something to prove. I sigh and keep walking, but she matches my pace like it’s a challenge. We’re two blocks out when the tension hits me. Background noise shifts, too quiet on one side, too fast on the other. I look ahead. There’s a guy leaning against a wall, hood up, trying too hard to look casual.

Sana notices.

“Leon?” Sana’s voice rises.

I don’t answer, just stare at the guy. He tilts his head. No mask, no warning, just lunges a punch that grazes my jaw. Instinct sharpens everything. I shift under his arm, grab his wrist, then slam him into the wall. Hard enough to echo, but not enough to stop him. He surges forward, elbow into my ribs. Winded. Pain flowers across my side.

He then pounces forward and tries to grab Sana “Move!” I bark to her, stepping between her and him. He’s circling me now. All of a sudden, three more guys show up, their hands grabbing at my arms. I snap a swift elbow back, crack against one’s jaw. He stumbles. Two of them close in, fists clenched, going for my throat. I swallow past the soreness in my chest. Drop low, grab one by the shirt, whip him into the other two. A crash of limbs and grunts, bodies sliding on asphalt. I’m not winning this with finesse. Not tonight. I land a knee, hear a crack, and then I’m up, fists short and sharp.

But there’s another. He strikes from behind. My vision blurs, and for a second the world goes gray.

“Leon!” Sana screams. I hear her, but can’t answer. I duck another punch, blood spitting where I snap back with an uppercut. I taste metal—blood—fuck I hate that taste.

I catch a glint—a knife now. He’s reaching. I lurch, scoop my jacket off my shoulders and wrap it around my arm. He swings. The cold blade bites the leather, nothing more. I sidestep, stomp my boot into his foot and grind it there. He hisses and drops the blade, but not fast enough. I grab him, twist hard, and drop him against the pavement.

And then—silence, broken only by distant screams.

Sana is behind me, frozen. I spin around, chest heaving and hands bloody. She stares—eyes blown wide, the color drained out of her face. “Oh… my god.” She sways forward, collapses against my ribs. Knuckles white on my arm. I hold her, feel her tremor through my side.

A siren wails, closer now. The city knows, they saw. I wipe my hands on the pavement without thinking. “You okay?" I ask, voice rough. Too rough.

Sana’s grip tightens like she’s grabbing onto a lifeline. My jaw throbs, ribs ache. I’m shaking—partly from the adrenaline, partly from how her body sags against mine. I press a hand to her back, steady. Witnesses come closer, murmurs rising.

And the next moment, I realize, every eye in the street is watching us.

Phones up. Lights flashing. Murmurs thick in the air. Half of them didn’t see the fight, just caught the aftermath—blood, scared girl, bodies on the concrete like someone forgot how gravity works. And me, standing over it, like we were filming a movie.

Sana hasn’t moved, still curled in on herself like her skin’s not fitting right, arms locked around herself. Her heels are uneven on the sidewalk, and it’s not because they’re cheap, but because one of them seems be cracked. Security splits the crowd. One of them goes straight for one the guys on the ground, checks if he’s breathing. He is. Unfortunately. Another glances at me, hesitation loaded in his posture. His eyes do the math—celebrities, blood, cameras, and he decides not to ask questions.

“Is she hurt?” someone barks behind me. Not police.

I don’t answer.

She still hasn’t looked at me. Not really. But she’s closer now. Just slightly. Her shoulder brushes mine when another guy tries to come up and someone yells at him to back off. Flashing lights again, blue and red this time, police. They show up just in time to make it look like they were involved. Reporters circle like flies. A few of them already have the headline drafted. Top Artist Defends Fellow Star from Late-Night Assault. Or maybe something dumber. Hero or Hype? Leon’s Street Fight Goes Viral.

I hear my name in a dozen voices, some shocked, some excited. No one’s checking if I’m okay though. No one cares, and I don’t blame them, not when Sana’s here, shaking so subtly it barely shows unless you’re looking.

I am looking.

One officer steps in, clipboard out, tone all business. “What happened here?”

I tilt my head toward the guys on the ground. “They did.”

He gives me a look that tells me it’s not enough, that he wants more. But I’m already giving the cameras a different angle, just enough profile to look sharp, not smug. Another officer crouches beside Sana, softer voice. She doesn’t answer him either. I shift closer, just enough that the gesture reads on camera. Protection, familiarity, maybe something more. She finally moves closer, her shoulder brushes mine again, this time staying there. And that’s all they need. Flash, flash. I hear someone mutter my name like it’s holy, and for a second, everybody was focused on me.

—

The cameras follow us all the way to a barricade the police made in order to secure the scene. Some idiot shoves a mic past the line and it almost clips Sana in the face. I block it with my hand and shoot them a look. They already got what they came for. Girl clinging to my side, blood on my shirt, four bodies on the ground. It’ll go viral before I even make it home.

A cop waves us through like he knows who we are, maybe he does, maybe he just saw enough to not want to slow us down. I nod once and keep Sana close. She’s quiet now, not still terrified quiet, more like all the words got sucked out of her lungs and haven’t come back yet. Her heel catches on a curb and I catch her before she falls. She doesn’t even look up, just mutters something that might be thanks. They pull us aside behind one of the cars and another cop shows up with a pad, asking questions. I give the short version, four guys, I didn’t like the way one of them looked at us, they swung first. He scribbles without looking up, nodding like it checks out. The bodies get loaded into an ambulance.

Sana hasn’t moved from my side, she hasn’t let go either. Her hand’s curled around my jacket like it’s the only thing she can use to balance herself in a world that just shifted under her heels. The officer glances at her. “Miss, did you see what happened?”

She doesn’t answer. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out, just this low sound like she forgot how to breathe right. He tries again, gentler, still nothing. I watch her face, it’s not blank, it’s too much, everything still happening inside. You can see it behind her eyes, the split-second replay on loop.

“We’ll talk later,” I say. The cop shrugs, maybe he knows better than to push.

Reporters are getting closer and someone’s yelling my name again. A girl tries to push through the line, phone in hand, red light blinking. I turn slightly and block Sana from the angle. She doesn’t notice, or maybe she does and doesn’t care, hard to tell. A few more suits show up, one of them’s definitely management. Not mine. He spots us and jogs over like he’s actually worried. His face does that thing where he tries to look concerned and not furious. Fails.

“Sana. Are you okay?”

She blinks. Doesn’t answer. He tries again, crouches a little to meet her eye. “Can you walk? We have a car waiting.”

Still nothing.

He glances at me. Then at her hand still on my jacket. His jaw tightens. “Leon, thank you for stepping in. We’ll handle it from here.”

Sana flinches. Just barely, but it’s there, and it’s enough. I don’t move.

“She’ll tell me when she wants me to go,” I say. My tone doesn’t change, it doesn’t have to.

The guy hesitates, then backs off. Probably running through all the possible headlines in his head.

Another officer approaches. He looks at me, then at Sana, then at the blood drying on my knuckles. “We’ll need you both to come down to the station tomorrow. Just statements. Routine.”

I nod. “Yeah. Sure.”

He gives a tight smile and leaves, but we’re still not alone. Phones up, flashes still going off behind the line, one guy’s livestreaming. I can hear him narrating. “...she’s not saying anything, but she looks freaked. That’s Sana, right? Holy shit...”

—

I guide her away from the light, the noise. She follows, doesn’t speak, doesn’t stumble either, just walks like the world’s too bright and her body doesn’t know where to hide.

When we hit the corner, out of view, she stops, finally her hand loosens from my jacket. She leans against the wall like her legs gave out, but she’s pretending it’s a choice. I stay close, don’t say anything.

She doesn’t look at me, but she finally speaks up. “Can you...” Her throat works around the words. “Can you stay? Just for a bit?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

She exhales like she’s been holding it in the whole time. Doesn’t say thanks, but she doesn’t need to. I slide down the wall next to her, feeling the cold concrete under me. Sirens still in the distance, phones still out somewhere nearby. Sana stays silent again for a while. She’s staring ahead, breathing a little too shallow, like she’s trying not to fall apart on camera even though there’s none left. I let the silence hang, she’ll talk when she’s ready.

Her voice cracks first. “That was… insane.”

“Yeah.” I wipe my lip again, still bleeding, or maybe I just keep reopening it. “Not quite the night I had in mind.”

She finally looks over, eyes a little less wide now, less glassy. “You’re bleeding.”

“No shit.”

She almost smiles, but it dies before it fully gets there. “You could’ve gotten killed.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

That earns me a small chuckle, but air catches in her throat like she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to find anything funny yet. Then she looks down at her hands like they’re not attached to her, nails dug into her palms so tight I’m surprised she’s not bleeding too.

“I really thought I was gonna—” She cuts herself off. Swallows. “You know.”

I don’t reply to that one. No need. She knows. I know.

The sirens have mostly stopped, just distant flashes now, the crowd moved on to whatever version of the story their friends will find the most interesting. Someone’s already writing their thread, I can feel it.

She wipes under her eyes, quick, like she doesn’t want me to see it, still shaking, just less. Her voice drops again. “You were... really fast back there.”

I shrug. “Adrenaline’s a hell of a drug.”

She stares at me for a second, then she leans her head back against the wall, finally letting herself breathe. “I mean it. You saved my life.”

I glance over. “Don’t make it weird.”

That gets a real laugh out of her. She closes her eyes for a second, just sitting there, like her body’s finally caught up to the fact that she’s safe.

When she opens them again, her voice is lighter, not fully back to normal, but getting there. “You’re kind of an asshole, you know that?”

“Old news.”

She turns her head, rests it against the wall so she’s looking at me sideways. “Still, thanks. Most people would’ve run.”

“Yeah.” I glance at her. “But then I wouldn’t get all the attention.”

She huffs out something and snorts. “You’re unbelievable.”

I flash a smile. “I try.”

The cold air bites a little more now that the adrenaline’s burning out, my ribs are gonna be a problem in the morning. She watches me shift against the wall, her eyes narrow for a second like she’s inspecting something.

“You're in more pain than you're showing.”

“No cameras here,” I say. “I can afford to wince.”

Her expression softens. “Still, you should rest.”

I stay quiet for a while. “What,” I mutter. “You gonna take me home and patch me up? Make me soup or something?”

She doesn’t even blink. “Yeah.”

I stare at her. Waiting for a punchline, a smirk, anything that would tell me she’s joking. There’s nothing.

“You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.”

I stare at her. “You just got jumped by four guys and your first instinct is to invite me over?”

“You’re the one who saved me.”

I exhale through my nose, leaning back against the wall. “You always make decisions this fast or is this just a post-trauma thing?”

She sits up and shifts her weight onto her good heel, the other one’s still cracked from earlier, tilted at a weird angle like it's given up completely. “I don’t really want to be alone right now. That a crime?”

I glance down at her hands, she’s clutching the hem of her jacket, there are little tremors in her fingers she probably thinks I don’t notice. I sigh, finally standing, my ribs immediately reminding me why sitting had been the better option. “Alright. Lead the way.”

—

The streets are quieter now, not empty but less people. Most of the crowd’s dissipated, police are still wrapping up, reporters shoving mics in the faces of whoever looks available. My name’s still getting thrown around in hushed conversations like I just cured cancer or shot someone live on air. Phones keep popping up every few feet we walk, people think they’re being subtle. They’re not.

Her apartment’s not far. A tall building that screams money yet tries to pretend it doesn’t. The kind of place where the lobby smells like fresh flowers even though nobody ever sees them change. The doorman barely raises an eyebrow when he spots us, just nods, like seeing a half-beat-up guy with a girl clinging to him is the most normal thing he’ll witness all week.

Elevator’s empty, thankfully. The second the doors close, she exhales, like she can finally breathe again. I lean against the mirrored wall, watching the numbers climb, and we finally get off the elevator and into her apartment.

“You sure about this?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

She glances over at me, hair falling across her face as she tilts her head. “You’re bleeding on my floor, feels a little late to kick you out now.”

I huff a quiet laugh, more air than sound. “Fair point.”

Her apartment’s exactly what you’d expect from someone like her, minimalist, expensive, but somehow not lived in. Everything’s perfect, neutral colors, oversized windows, some abstract painting on the wall that probably cost more than my last three endorsement checks combined. It’s the kind of place that looks ready for a photoshoot, but not for people.

“Sit,” she says, pointing toward the couch like she’s scolding a dog. “You’re ruining my carpet.”

I drop down onto the edge of the massive sectional, ribs protesting the movement. She disappears into one of the rooms and returns a minute later with a sleek little white box that she tosses onto the coffee table.

A first aid kit.

“Don’t expect a miracle,” she mutters, popping it open and pulling out some antiseptic wipes. “I’m not a nurse.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

She drops to her knees in front of me, carefully inspecting my face like she’s about to grade an art project. “Jesus, Leon.”

“I know. Gorgeous, aren’t I?”

She doesn’t take the bait, just starts cleaning the cut on my lip. The antiseptic burns worse than the punch. I grit my teeth.

“Don’t be a baby,” she says softly, dabbing around the edges. She’s close enough now that I catch the scent of her perfume again. Her fingers are steadier than I expected, but I can feel how tight her shoulders are, still tense from earlier, still running on whatever leftover adrenaline she’s got.

“You’re quiet,” I say after a bit.

She presses her lips together, focused on my knuckles now. “Trying to concentrate.”

“Didn’t realize dabbing a wipe took this much concentration.”

Her eyes flick up. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Not really.”

She huffs something close to a laugh. “Unbelievable.”

She keeps working in silence for a bit. The scrape across my cheekbone, the split at my eyebrow, the raw skin on my knuckles, every time her fingers brush my skin, she slows down like she’s checking if she’s hurting me.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she says finally, barely above a whisper.

“What, punched them? I thought it was pretty effective.”

“You know what I mean.”

I glance at her, but she’s still focused on my hands, not meeting my eyes. “Would you rather I let them hurt you?”

“That’s not—” she cuts herself off, exhaling hard. “I just… you didn’t have to get hurt for me.”

I let that hang for a beat. “Didn’t exactly think about it.”

She finally looks up, eyes softer now. “Yeah…”

I don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.

Her hands are still resting lightly on mine, bandage half-finished, but she doesn’t move. Just stays there, kneeling on the floor, like she doesn’t want to break whatever weird moment this is.

I clear my throat. “You done playing doctor yet?”

She smiles. “Almost.”

She pulls the last bandage tight, smooths it down with her thumb. Her hand lingers on mine a second too long. She notices. So do I. Neither of us moves.

“You’re kind of an idiot, you know that?” she says softly.

“Old news.”

She exhales again, finally standing. “Come on. You’re staying here tonight.”

I arch a brow. “What, you need a security blanket?”

“No.” She crosses her arms, but her voice stays light. “I need you where I can keep an eye on you. In case your macho hero thing makes you pass out.”

I smirk. “You just don’t want me walking out and making another scene.”

“That too.”

She walks off toward the hallway, tossing the first aid kit onto the kitchen counter on her way. “Wait here, I’ll get you something to wear.”

I lean back into the couch, watching her disappear down the hallway, and let out a slow breath. My ribs still hurt, my lip still stings, but for the first time tonight, everything feels a little less loud.

She comes back with a shirt and sweatpants that don’t look like they’ve ever been worn. Tags still dangling. Probably bought for a boyfriend that never existed or some stylist’s emergency backup. She tosses them next to me.

“Bathroom’s down the hall, second door.”

I push off the couch, slower than I want to be, my ribs reminding me I’m not as indestructible as I thought. The hallway’s quiet, same soft lighting, same expensive everything. Even the towels folded on the rack look like no one’s ever touched them. When I catch my reflection in the mirror, I barely recognize it for a second. Split lip, cuts along my cheekbone, blood dried into the edge of my hairline. I turn my head, jaw tight, flex my shoulder. Bruises already starting to bloom across my ribs. Nice.

I strip out of my ruined clothes and clean up as best I can. Cold water helps a little, mostly just makes me more aware of how bad everything aches once the adrenaline’s fully gone. I swap into the fresh clothes she gave me — they hang a little loose, but they’re soft, comfortable. Smell like fabric softener and hotel rooms.

When I step back out, she’s already fixed the living room. Coffee table cleared, lights dimmed low, two glasses of water sitting out like she’s trying to pretend we’re normal people winding down after a normal night.

She glances over from the couch and nods once. “Better?”

“It almost doesn’t feel like I got jumped in an alley.”

I sit back down, careful this time. The couch is stupidly soft. The second I lean back into it, my body wants to sink and stay. Sana’s sitting cross-legged across from me now. Barefoot, jacket folded next to her. Her hair’s a little messy, like she finally stopped caring about fixing it. She then watches me for a second, like she’s studying my face all over again.

“You heal fast,” she says.

I shrug. “Occupational hazard.”

She smiles, faint but genuine. “You do this often?”

“Getting beat? Not really.”

She picks up one of the glasses, takes a sip, then stares at it like she forgot it was even there. The silence stretches again, but it’s not heavy this time. It’s tired. Shared.

“You want something stronger?” she asks after a while. “I’ve got wine. Or whiskey.”

“Water’s fine.”

“Lame.”

“Responsibly lame.”

She snorts under her breath. “Suit yourself.”

The quiet comes back, but we both kind of sink into it now. Less tension, more like neither of us really knows what to do next. The adrenaline’s fully burned out, all that’s left is sore muscles and weird feeling humming under the surface. She shifts again, pulling her knees up, arms wrapping around them loosely. The oversized sweater she threw on while I was gone swallows half of her. She looks smaller like that. Not fragile, just… smaller.

Her voice breaks the quiet again. “You ever think about it?”

“About what?”

“Why you do this. All of it.”

I glance at her. She’s not looking at me, just staring across the room like she’s asking the air.

“Be more specific.”

“The career. The cameras. The image. The fact that people are already turning tonight into a headline while we’re sitting here pretending we’re okay.”

I lean my head back against the couch. “Sometimes.”

“And?”

“I have my reasons.”

That gets a little smile out of her, almost bitter. “Same.”

We sit with that for a while. Both of us quietly admitting we’re a little fucked up without having to actually say the words. After a minute, she stretches her legs out across the couch, one foot bumping into my thigh lightly. She doesn’t pull it back. Just leaves it there like it’s normal.

“You’re weirdly good at this,” she says.

“At what?”

“Not making it weird.”

I laugh under my breath. “That’s because it’s already weird.”

“Touché.”

She finally shifts enough to meet my eyes again. There’s still something behind them, something a little cracked from earlier, but it’s fading. She’s finding her footing again.

Another beat passes. “Thanks, by the way.”

I glance at her. “You already said that.”

“I know.” She pauses. “I just mean it.”

I don’t answer. Don’t need to. She already knows.

Her foot taps against my leg once before she shifts back into her little cocoon of oversized sweater and expensive throw pillows. “You tired?” she asks.

“Not really.”

She looks away. “Me neither.”

We both stare ahead for a while longer, the weight of the night settling in around us. Not heavy. Just there. Her eyes drift over me again, slower this time. No more shaky breathing, just that steady hum underneath. Like her nerves have been replaced with something else now.

“You’re staring,” I say.

She shrugs, small. “So?”

I watch her for a second. She’s still tucked into that oversized sweater, hair messy, cheeks a little pink from the heat inside or from everything building up between us, probably both. Her legs shift a little more, stretching out, toes brushing against me again, not subtle this time.

“You flirting with anyone who saves your life?” I ask.

She gives me a small grin. “No. You’re special.”

“Lucky me.”

Her eyes drop down to my mouth for half a second. She catches herself, but not really, just letting it sit there like she wants me to notice.

“You could kiss me, you know,” she says, voice lighter now. Casual. Like it’s something obvious.

I don’t say anything. Just let my hand drift up, settling on her knee. Skin warm under my palm. She doesn’t move. Lets me touch her like she’s been waiting for it.

“You sure?” I say, voice low.

Her eyes stay locked on mine. “Don’t make me say it twice.”

I don’t.

I lean in slow, watching her breathe. She meets me halfway. Soft at first. Warmer than I expected. She tastes like wine and mint and something even sweeter. Her hands slide up to my shoulders, pulling me in like she’s afraid I’ll stop.

I kiss her again, deeper this time. She opens her mouth under mine swiftly, like she’s been waiting all night. My hand moves higher up her thigh, fingertips tracing bare skin under the edge of the sweater. She shifts, hips angling toward me like she’s trying to get closer without making it obvious. I pull back for half a second, catch my breath. She’s already watching me again, breathing a little harder now.

“You good?” I murmur.

She nods quickly. “Yeah.”

I go back in. This time she’s hungrier. Her hands slide up into my hair, nails scratching lightly against my scalp, pulling me in deeper. Her breath hitches when my hand slips under the hem fully now, palm resting on her hip.

She moves into me without thinking, pressing her body up against mine. Her knee brushes higher against my leg, grinding against me once. Just enough to let me know she’s there. She breathes against my mouth, voice softer now. “You feel good.”

“So do you,” I mutter back, fingers moving up her side, finding bare skin under the sweater. No bra. Of fucking course. My thumb brushes under the curve of her breast, testing the softness, and her breath catches again. Her head drops back a little as I slide my palm up, cupping her breast fully now. Warm, soft, perfect in my hand. Her nipple’s already hard under my thumb, and she shivers when I roll it gently.

“Fuck—” she whispers, breath shaky.

I press my lips to her neck, kissing along her skin, feeling her pulse under my mouth. She tilts her head. Gives me more room. My hand slides down again, lower this time. I feel her body tense, not nervous, just expecting. Fingers slip under the band of her shorts now. Skin hot, smooth. I move slower here, letting her feel every inch of my hand moving lower until my fingers find the heat between her legs.

She’s already wet. Really fucking wet.

My breath catches against her throat. “Jesus, Sana.”

Her voice breaks. “Been like that.”

I press against her slowly, fingers moving in small, steady circles over her clit through the soaked fabric of her panties. Her hips twitch at the first touch. Her hands clench in my shirt, pulling tighter.

“Fuck,” she gasps, rocking her hips up into my hand, chasing the pressure.

I don’t rush. Just keep it steady, slow circles while she breathes harder against me. Her face presses into my neck, little whimpers slipping out with every shift of my fingers.

“You’re not even trying to pretend you don’t want this,” I whisper against her ear.

“Why would I?” she breathes, voice breaking. “Just don’t fucking stop.”

Her hips grind harder against my hand now, chasing the friction. I slide my fingers inside the soaked fabric finally, skin on skin, feeling how warm and wet she is. She gasps loud against my neck, her body twitching under my touch.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” I groan into her hair.

She nods fast, too breathless to speak. My fingers rub slow, spreading her open, feeling every slick inch of her. She’s grinding up against my hand now, little desperate sounds slipping from her mouth with every slow circle I draw.

Her voice breaks against my neck. “I’ve been thinking about this all night.”

“Yeah?” My voice is rough now. “You wanted me to touch you like this?”

She nods again, gasping. “Yes. Please—”

I press my thumb harder against her clit, my fingers dipping inside, curling gently. She lets out a sharp gasp, her hips bucking up to meet me. “God, Leon—” she chokes out.

I kiss her again, swallowing her moan while my hand keeps moving. Her whole body’s shaking now, her thighs trembling around my wrist.

Her breath catches. “Fuck— don’t stop, don’t stop—”

“Not stoping,” I whisper against her lips, fingers still working her, feeling her tighten around me as her body starts to get hotter and wetter. Her legs are shaking like crazy now, thighs twitching every time my fingers hit the spot. She’s got one hand in my hair, the other gripping the couch cushion like she’s holding on for dear life. Breath’s all chopped up, mouth open, but the words barely come out right.

“Fuck—Leon—”

She’s close. Stupidly close. You can feel it in how tight she’s clenching around my fingers, how her hips keep jerking up, trying to grind harder against my hand like she’s chasing it.

I pull my hand back. Just enough.

Her head snaps up, eyes wild. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

I blink, like I don’t know what she’s talking about. “Don’t what?”

Her chest heaves. “You know.”

I smirk a little. “Relax.”

She glares at me, but it’s useless — she’s a wreck. Hair all messed up, sweater falling off one shoulder, legs spread wide open, all dripping and shaky and desperate. She looks so goddamn hot like this. I shift down without saying anything, both hands sliding under her thighs, dragging her hips closer to the edge of the couch. She makes this tiny breathy noise when I lower my head between her legs, like she’s already breaking before I even touch her.

“Leon—” soft, high, breathy.

“Shh.”

I start slow. Kiss her inner thigh first. Then again, closer. She lets out this shaky exhale, hips twitching. By the time my mouth hits her, she lets out a small gasp, like her whole body short-circuits for a second. I lick up slow, teasing, barely pressing at first. She squirms, fingers tightening in my hair. The second time, I press harder, tongue flicking over her clit, and her whole body jolts.

“Fuck—oh my god—” it comes out all broken, high-pitched.

I pin her hips down, keep her still, my tongue working slow circles now, steady, just enough pressure to have her breathing all messed up again. She’s shaking under me, little gasps turning into full-on moans.

“Leon, don’t stop,” she whispers, voice cracking.

I keep at it, pushing my tongue flat against her, sucking lightly, then switching it up, licking faster, deeper. She’s fucking dripping now. I slide two fingers back inside her while my mouth stays locked on her clit. She lets out a loud cry, hips jerking hard.

Her thighs try to close around my head but I shove them back open. “Keep them open,” I mutter into her, voice low and vibrating right against where she’s falling apart.

She moans again, louder this time. “Fuck, I—Leon—”

Her whole body tightens up. I feel it hit before she even makes a sound — muscles locking, her breath catching in her throat like she forgot how to breathe. Then it breaks loose. She lets out this raw, fucked up cry, back arching off the couch as she comes hard, legs shaking, fingers pulling at my hair like she’s trying to ground herself.

I don’t stop. I keep my mouth on her, working her through it while she gasps and whimpers, hips twitching with every aftershock. She’s trembling all over, voice breaking into little shaky noises she probably doesn’t even realize she’s making. When I finally pull back, my chin’s wet, and she’s completely wrecked. Sweater bunched up, hair sticking to her face, chest still rising and falling like she ran a marathon.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and look up at her. “You alive?”

She lets out this breathless, fucked little laugh. “Barely.”

Her voice is somehow soft and rough at the same time, but she’s smiling now. I move back up, hovering over her. My hand cups her jaw, thumb brushing across her lip.

“You still want more?” My voice comes out lower than I mean it to.

She doesn’t answer right away. Just stares up at me, breathing all shaky, pupils blown wide. Then she nods. Her fingers hook into my shirt, tugging me closer until our faces are inches apart. Her voice is soft, but there’s that little spark behind it again. “Let me take care of you.”

I blink, watching her. “You sure?”

She bites her lip, eyes never leaving mine. “Yeah.”

Her hand moves down, tracing over my chest, stomach, slower than she needs to. She’s buying time, steadying herself. When she reaches the waistband of my sweatpants, her fingers slip under. Light, barely there. I suck in a breath, feeling my cock already straining against the fabric.

“Sit back,” she murmurs.

I shift off her, leaning into the couch, legs spread a little wider. She sits up slowly, still kind of unsteady from earlier, but focused now. Focused on me. Her fingers tug the sweatpants down, slow and careful. She exhales when she frees me, lip caught between her teeth. The second she sees how hard I am for her, her face flushes a little darker.

���Fuck…” she whispers. “You’ve been like this this whole time?”

I grin, voice rough. “Hard not to be.”

She lets out this breathy little laugh, slowly kneeling between my legs, hair falling into her face a bit, hands bracing herself on my thighs. She leans in, mouth hovering just above me, breath ghosting across my skin. Her hand wraps around the base, squeezing gently, thumb rubbing along the vein.

Her eyes flick up to mine — teasing. “Still feeling okay?”

I huff. “Sana.”

She smirks, satisfied, then lowers her head, tongue flicking out for the first slow lick, base to tip. My whole body tenses instantly. The sound that comes out of me is closer to a growl.

“Jesus—”

She hums against me, like she’s proud of herself, before wrapping her lips around the head, tongue circling, wet and warm and perfect. She keeps her eyes locked on me as she does it. That part’s deliberate. She knows exactly how much it drives me insane when she looks up like that. Her mouth slides lower, slow at first, taking more of me in with each movement. I feel her tongue working underneath, swirling around the shaft as she moves. The wet sounds echo a little too loud in the quiet apartment, her soft breathing mixing with the slick slide of her mouth. I exhale hard, one hand sliding into her hair automatically. She doesn’t fight it, just lets me guide her, pace picking up as she gets more comfortable.

Her other hand joins in, stroking the part she can’t fit, perfectly syncing with the rhythm of her mouth. Every few strokes, she pulls back just far enough to swirl her tongue around the head again, licking up the precum before sliding back down.

I groan, hips twitching. “Fuck, Sana…”

She smiles around me, like she enjoys hearing that, then pushes down deeper, throat tightening slightly as she takes me further in. My fingers tighten in her hair, not pulling, just holding. Her breathing grows heavier, little hums vibrating through me as she works. She starts bobbing her head faster now, messier, spit gathering at the corners of her mouth, stringing thin lines whenever she pulls back. Her hand never stops moving on me, stroking in time with each motion.

“Shit—” My voice breaks a little. “You’re gonna make me—”

She pulls back suddenly, letting me slip out with a wet pop, a thin line of saliva still connecting us. Her chest is rising fast, lips swollen, chin slick.

Her voice comes out breathless, teasing. “Not yet.”

I let out a sharp laugh, biting back a groan. “You’re fucking evil.”

“Mm.” She grins, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Just a little bit.”

She leans back in again, this time slower, licking along my length like she’s savoring it, like she’s not in a rush. Her eyes half-lidded now, looking up at me like she knows she owns me in this moment. My whole body’s wired tight, stomach clenching every time she goes back down, taking me in deeper. Her tongue works in slow circles again, lips sealing tight, cheeks hollowing just enough. I let my head fall back for a second, breathing hard, fingers still buried in her hair, guiding her as she keeps the rhythm steady. She moans softly around me, sending vibrations straight up my spine. I can feel myself getting closer again, and I know she feels it too — the way my hips jerk slightly, how my breath keeps stuttering.

She pulls off again, this time panting a little herself, eyes glazed but locked on mine.

“You close?” she asks, voice low, rough.

I nod, throat too dry to say much.

She smiles. “Good. Because I’m not stopping this time.”

And then she’s back down on me, faster now, more desperate, both hands gripping my thighs to keep steady as she bobs her head, sucking hard, messy and wet and fucking perfect. My hand tightens, and I feel it building sharp and fast this time. My whole body locking up as the pressure snaps.

“Fuck, Sana—” I groan, spilling deep into her mouth as she takes it all, swallowing without hesitation, hands gripping tighter like she’s holding me in place until I finish. She doesn’t pull back until I’m completely spent, breathing hard, chest rising fast. She finally releases me with another soft pop, wiping her mouth again, eyes a little dazed, lips shiny and swollen.

She sits back on her heels, staring up at me with that smug little smile, voice still breathy. “Told you I’d take care of you.”

I let out a shaky laugh, chest still heaving. “Yeah. You fucking did.”

She crawls up, still shaky, but cocky enough to pretend she’s not. Hands slide up my chest, nails grazing just a little. That look’s back in her eye, like she’s proud of herself and she wants me to know it. “You good?” she whispers.

I laugh under my breath, voice still fucked. “Yeah. You?”

She shrugs as if her legs aren’t trembling. “Obviously.”

Then she swings a leg over, straddling me, settling right on top of my lap like she’s been waiting all night for this. Probably has. The sweater rides up high on her thighs, and the panties? Already soaking wet. She’s not even trying to hide it. She knows I’m looking and she wants me to.

“You sure you’re up for more?” she says, but she’s already grinding.

“Yeah. Don’t play dumb.”

She grins, biting her lip, rolling her hips once, dragging herself right over me. I grab her waist, squeezing tight to make her stop. Not because I don’t like how it feels — because if she keeps doing that I won’t last.

“You keep grinding like that, you’re not gonna get round two.”

“That a threat?” She says it soft, but her voice is all breath, like she’s barely keeping it together.

I pull her down, lips crashing again, messy, tongues fighting for space. It’s hot, wet, desperate. Her hips roll once more and I groan into her mouth. I can feel her grinning against my lips, smug little shit. I pull back just enough to breathe. “Lose the panties.”

She’s already halfway there before I finish the sentence. Hips up, fingers hooked in, dragging them down her thighs and slinging them. They hit the floor behind her, then she drops back onto me, no barriers now. The heat of her pussy is right against me, shivering a little, and it’s not because she’s cold. “Fuck,” she whispers.

“Yeah.” My hand slides between us, guiding myself against her, the tip sliding along her folds, slick and warm and ready. She twitches under me, already desperate for it.

“You ready?” I murmur.

Her voice breaks. “I’ve been ready.”

I push in slow, feeling every inch disappear into her. She gasps, hands gripping my shoulders, nails digging in. She sinks all the way down, seating herself fully on my lap, breath catching. “Jesus,” she whispers.

My hands slide up under the sweater, gripping her back. “Look at you.” She rolls her hips, just slightly and I’m already breathing heavy. “You feel fucking perfect.”

Her pace starts slow, hips grinding in tight circles, drawing herself up a little and dropping back down. Every time she sinks back down it knocks the breath out of me. She’s biting her lip, trying to play it cool, but her thighs are already shaking. “Fuck—you’re deep,” she gasps.

I huff, voice rough. “You wanted it.”

She leans in closer, forehead pressed to mine. “Shut up.”

Her hips pick up, faster now, slamming down harder, slapping sounds filling the room. Skin on skin, wet and filthy. She’s moaning under her breath with every drop, breaths becoming quicker, losing her rhythm a little. Her voice starts breaking. “Leon—oh my god—fuck—I’m close—”

I slam my hips up into her, one good thrust, and her whole body jolts, almost folds right into me.

She gasps. “Shit—Leon, I—”

I catch her hips and freeze her in place. She whines. An actual, desperate, fucking whine.

“Not yet,” I growl.

She’s breathing so fast now, her hands push at my chest, but not to get away — she just wants to move, but I don’t let her. Her voice is wrecked. “Leon—please—just—”

I shift under her, breathing heavy into her ear. “Turn around. On your stomach.”

For a second she doesn’t move. Just stares at me like she can’t believe I’m making her wait. Then she exhales hard, eyes glazed over, and does it. Climbs off with shaky legs, drops onto the couch face down, ass up. She spreads her legs like she knows exactly what I’ll do next. I stay sitting for a second, just staring at her. Sweater bunched up, hair a mess, her ass high, pussy dripping for me. I drag my hand down her back, over her ass, thumb brushing the slickness between her thighs.

“Look at you,” I murmur.

Her breath shudders. “Just fuck me already.”

Now we’re getting somewhere. I shift up behind her, one hand gripping her hip, the other pressing between her shoulder blades, easing her down into the cushions. Ass high, legs spread, face buried. The view's fucking unreal. She looks back at me, breathless but still wearing that little smirk like she’s running this. "Don’t take too long or I might get bored."

Mouthy even now.

I grin, voice low. "Yeah?"

I drag the tip through her folds, slow, lazy, letting it glide through the slick mess she’s made. She tries to push back, hips wiggling, but I hold her firm, making her wait, making her feel it. The second I press in, she lets out this sharp little breath, head dropping, hair falling across her face as I start filling her slow, inch by inch. Her pussy is tight, hot, squeezing like her body’s starving for it.

"You’re fucking soaked," I breathe as I bottom out, buried to the hilt. She gasps, knuckles whitening on the cushions, voice shaky but still trying to stay sharp. “You should take some credit for that.”

I pull back and slam into her hard, the slap of skin loud in the room. She jerks forward with a choked moan, biting her lip like that’ll help. My hand fists in her hair, yanking her head back just enough to arch her for me, breath stuttering out with every brutal thrust. "Where’s that smart mouth now, huh?" I growl, driving into her rough, setting a rhythm that makes her body jolt under me.

Her breath catches, but the mouth keeps running. "Still here," she pants. "You’re just making it… harder to use."

Her voice cracks on the last word when I hit that perfect spot that makes her legs twitch. My grip on her hips tightens, fingers digging in, holding her steady as I keep slamming into her, wet sounds filling the air with every thrust. She’s trying to hold it in, but I feel her clenching tighter, her body shaking, already starting to fall apart.

"Leon—fuck—" she gasps, her voice breaking when I drive in deep again. "I—I’m—"

I can feel it, the way she’s locking up around me, the desperate little cries slipping out of her with every thrust. I keep hammering into her, forcing her to take it, her orgasm ripping through her sharp and messy, thighs trembling, breath hitching, whole body seizing up under me as she cums hard. Her moans turn sloppy, breathless, breaking apart with every slam of my hips. I don’t stop. I ride her through it, fucking her straight through the shaking, through the aftershocks, keeping my pace brutal as her body twitches around me.

"That’s it," I growl, voice rough. "Take it all."

She’s wrecked now, voice reduced to breathy little whimpers, hands clutching at the cushions like she’s trying to ground herself. Her whole body’s shaking under me, legs barely holding her up. The pressure’s boiling in me too, fuck she’s tight. I yank her hair again, making her arch harder. She’s flushed, chest heaving, hair a mess sticking to her sweaty face, I’m right fucking there, but I’m not done yet, not like this.

I pull out, fast. She lets out a desperate, broken whine, clenching around nothing, body twitching as I leave her empty.

“W-Why’d you stop—” she manages, voice wrecked.

I flip her onto her back before she can finish, pinning her under me. She looks so fucking hot—flushed, breathing hard, hair all over the place—but still has that spark in her eyes. That fire’s still there, even like this. I grab her jaw, thumb pressing her lower lip down as I hover over her. "You still want more?"

She grins through the haze, biting lightly at my thumb. "If you’re not too busy being dramatic, yeah."

I drag my cock across her lips, still slick from her pussy, then I tap it against her mouth. “Open.”

Her lips part right away, tongue out, waiting, filthy and eager like she’s been craving this part. She wraps her lips around the tip instantly, sucking hard like she’s starving for it, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing around me. Spit’s already pooling at the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin. She moans around me, sending vibrations straight up my spine as I sink deeper into her throat.

She takes me like she wants it messy, sloppy sounds echoing in the room as she works her mouth around me. My fist clenches in her hair, guiding her, setting the rhythm as I start thrusting into her mouth, fucking into her throat slow at first, then faster, making her eyes flutter. Gagging, drooling, but not stopping. Her breath stutters through her nose, but she takes every inch like it’s her last meal. Her hands come up, clutching at my thighs for balance as I fuck her mouth deeper, rougher. Her spit’s everywhere now, glistening on her chin, down her throat, strings of it connecting us when I pull back slightly.

She gasps for breath, voice ragged but still cocky. “You’re making a mess.”

I shove back in, cutting her off, voice sharp. "That’s the point."

Her throat works to take me, gagging again as I push past her limits, fucking into her like her mouth owes me something. She moans again, those desperate little sounds spilling out between gags, eyes glassy but locked on mine like she’s daring me to push harder. When I finally pull out, she gasps for air, spit glistening everywhere, chest heaving like she’s barely holding it together. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand but keeps the smirk. “Get back inside me,” she breathes, voice wrecked but sharp. “Finish what you started.”

I don’t make her ask twice. I flip her back over, dragging her hips up again, and slam into her in one brutal thrust that knocks the air from both of us. Her cry rips out raw, and I don’t hold back. My hips slam into her, driving deep and rough right from the start, setting a punishing rhythm that leaves both of us breathless.

Her voice is breaking, nothing but broken moans now, breathy and high, hips jerking against me, thighs trembling. “Leon—fuck—yes—don’t stop—”

I’m right there, breath catching, every thrust getting sloppier, heavier, my groans rough in my throat as I chase that edge. Her body tightens up under me again, spasming, clenching like she’s ready to lose it all over again.

"Gonna fill you up, baby," I growl through gritted teeth, slamming deep. "Fuck—"

Her head throws back, voice wrecked. "Do it—please—just fucking do it—"

That’s it. My whole body locks up, slamming deep one last time as I cum hard, cock pulsing inside her, spilling deep. My groan breaks out rough, shaking through me as I hold her hips tight, grinding into her as I ride out every last spasm. She shakes beneath me, twitching, breathless, completely fucking ruined. I collapse over her, both of us panting, skin sticky with sweat, her body still twitching around me as I stay buried inside.

—

The room's quiet except for our breathing, both of us wrecked, tangled together in the mess we made. We stay like that for a while, her head resting against my stomach, one arm lazily draped across my thigh, breathing starting to slow but still not all the way down. My chest’s rising too fast, legs feel shot, one hand drifting through her hair, not even thinking about it, just moving.

Her lips are parted a little, swollen, wet where she’s still catching her breath. Her cheeks flushed all the way up, that pretty post-fuck glow fits her so well. There’s that small grin playing at the corner of her mouth, like she’s pleased with herself. She should be. She drained me, fully and completely, and she knows it. She shifts a bit, curling in closer, her cheek pressing against my thigh now. “You alive?” she mumbles, voice rough, half muffled into my skin.

I exhale something close to a laugh, fingers still combing slow through her hair. “Barely.”

“Good.” Her voice stays soft, but I can hear the smug underneath it. “You deserved it.”

I let the silence answer that one, not even pretending to argue. My brain’s still fuzzy, everything warm and heavy, like my body’s floating but too heavy to move. She finally lifts her head, blinking up at me, hair sticking in random directions, eyes glassy but sharp under the mess. “You look like hell.”

I glance down at her, mouth twitching. “You don’t look so put together yourself.”

She grins wider. “Please. I’m glowing.”

Her hand slides up slowly, resting flat against my stomach, fingers drawing lazy circles over my skin like she’s not even aware she’s doing it. I feel my abs twitch under her touch but don’t stop her. She keeps tracing slow patterns, like she’s grounding herself with every little circle.

“You good?” she asks, her voice dipping just slightly, not all teasing this time.

I tilt my head back, eyes half-lidding. “Yeah. You?”

She doesn’t answer right away, but the way she shifts even closer kind of says it for her. Her body molding into mine like we fit like this, warm skin pressed everywhere, breathing synced up again. For a while, neither of us says anything. Just the quiet hum of the room, the faint noise of the city outside, distant cars, maybe a siren somewhere blocks down. But here it’s calm, cozy even. She fits perfectly tucked under my arm like this.

“You know tomorrow’s gonna be a circus, right?” she says after a bit, voice muffled into my chest.

I sigh, hand drifting over her back, slow. “It already is.”

“They probably posted a hundred clips of tonight already.”

“Thousands.”

She groans softly. “I’m gonna have to listen to my manager’s meltdown for a full week.”

I smirk, thumb brushing her spine. “Tell him to get in line.”

Her body shakes a little as she laughs into my skin. “They’re gonna turn me into some fragile girl.”

I snort. “Right. The poor Sana, completely helpless.”

She pinches my side lightly. “Shut up.”

“Just saying.”

Her voice drops softer again. “I hate that shit. Like I’m some victim that needs to be saved.”

“Then stop clinging to me like one.”

She smacks me gently without even pulling her head up. “Asshole.”

I grin. “Love you too.”

Her breathing slows again. She’s fighting sleep now, but her body’s too comfortable to move. Her leg’s still draped over mine, fingers still tracing absent little shapes across my stomach.

Another beat of silence.

“You’re staying,” she says, quiet now.

I run my hand through her hair again, fingers sliding through the mess, catching the strands gently. “You already said that.”

“Just making sure.”

Her eyes are closed now. I feel her lips brush lightly against my skin once before she fully settles, curling into me like we’ve done this a hundred times before. The weight of the night sinks in fully. The blood, the fight, the adrenaline crash. The weird, unexpected calm afterward. All of it sitting somewhere in the air between us. But even then, it felt weirdly peaceful. And for the first time all night, it’s actually quiet.

—

She’s out cold.

Didn’t even flinch when I shifted off the bed. Just breathing softly, mouth a little open, hair half stuck to her cheek like she’d melted into the pillow the second her body let go. I stand there for a bit, watching her chest rise and fall. She looks small like this, safe. Like none of what happened tonight even affected her. Like there wasn’t four guys in a fucking alley two hours ago trying to tear her apart.

I grab my phone off the nightstand, screen lighting up in the dark. Two texts waiting. One from Karina—work shit, nothing that can’t wait. The other’s from him.

‘Did you really have to go that far?’

I sit down on the edge of the bed again, thumb hovering for a second. The apartment’s dead silent except for the hum of city traffic leaking in through the glass. Sirens in the distance, maybe leftovers from earlier, probably reporters still sniffing around. This one’s gonna be everywhere tomorrow, I can already hear the headlines spinning.

The phone buzzes again.

‘Four of my guys got picked up.’

I let the air leave slow through my teeth. My ribs pinch when I lean forward, the adrenaline from the sex gone now. Elbows on my knees, fingers dragging down my face like that’ll scrub any of this off. I stare at the screen for a while. Not angry, not anything really, just tired.

I finally type:

‘You knew what the job was.’

I barely finish sending the message before the dots start dancing again.

‘They weren’t supposed to end up in cuffs. It was just a scare, you didn’t have to lay into them like that.’

My eyes flick toward Sana again. She hasn’t moved, still curled up under that stupidly expensive throw blanket. Knuckles twitch a little in her sleep like she’s dreaming something light, like tonight wasn’t real. I stare at her for a long second, then type:

‘They weren’t supposed to touch her.’

He takes longer this time. The dots blink, disappear. Then:

‘This one’s gonna cost you.’

I lean back against the headboard, let my head tip back and close my eyes. Everything fucking hurts. My thumb floats for a second longer before I finally send:

‘I know.’

[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

[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)

[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."

[ferrstappen]

I’m going home, to my little daughter l dad! Max Verstappen imagine

A/n: a little late, but a little Father’s Day piece for Max 💘 it’s a bit all over the place but I really wanted to write something.

summary: Max doesn’t know what’s waiting for him back home.

The race had just ended, and the sound of cheers still echoed through the television speakers. Max’s Red Bull had crossed the line in second place. Montreal had been tough, with strategy and pit stops, but he’d done what he always did: fought until the end.

You adjusted Lia in your arms, her soft baby breaths tickling your collarbone as her chubby hand clung to your shirt. She was getting heavy, but you didn’t dare move her. She’d only just fallen asleep after the cooldown lap.

The twins had brought home their Father’s Day projects from school. Happy Father’s Day, Papa! was scribbled in Mila’s careful handwriting, while Luca’s contribution was mostly cars, stars, and a scribbled heart that somehow resembled a tire. Mila complained that the teacher made them work together since, well obviously, had the same dad, limiting her “creative freedom”, that was exactly what she told her teacher.

You were sitting on the couch now, warm with the baby’s weight, your phone already open to FaceTime. The race broadcast switched to post-race interviews, and you turned the volume down. Your heart was already somewhere else, 5,000 kilometers away, with Max. You missed being there waiting for him, leaving a kiss on his helmet for good luck, but your daydream was interrupted when the call connected after a couple of rings.

“Hey,” Max’s voice came through, slightly crackly from the paddock noise but unmistakably soft.

You smiled. “Hi, daddy.”

He was still in his race suit, blond hair a mess under the cap, a bit of sweat clinging to his brow, but his eyes? They lit up the second he saw you and the bundle of blankets resting against you.

“Is she asleep?”

“She fought it,” you whispered, brushing Lia’s soft hair, “but yeah, went out like a light after Lando’s crash.”

He laughed. “My girl’s got taste.”

“She only fussed once, when you got overtaken.”

“Smart baby. I’ll have a talk with the car, she can’t be bothered by that.” Max joked, his blue eyes twinkling with that side of him reserved for his family.

You both smiled, the kind that lives in the quiet space between exhaustion and love. Max looked at you for a moment longer, his expression tender and achingly proud.

“I’ve missed her, I’ve missed all of you.” he said softly.

“I know,” you said, equally soft. “But she watched you. We all did.”

Just then, Mila and Luca ran into frame, holding their signs again, breathless with excitement.

“PAPA!”

“You were SO fast!”

“We cheered for you the entire race!”

“Happy Father’s Day!”

Max laughed, his head tilting back as he took them in, and you watched the way his face changed, tired but glowing.

“Thank you. The signs… are amazing.” Max said shaking his head slightly with a smile.

“We’re saving the cake for when you’re back!” Mila added.

“Only one slice,” Luca warned. “Mama said no sugar after bedtime.”

Max winked. “Rules are different on race weekends. I’ll be home tomorrow.”

You watched them chatter back and forth until a voice called for Max off-camera, someone from media, reminding him about interviews and the press pen.

“I gotta go,” he said, and then looked at you one last time. “Give them all kiss for me?”

You nodded. “Always.”

And then he was gone from your phone screen.

You tucked the phone beside you and kissed your daughter’s cheek, whispering, “Papa loves you,” just as her fist opened briefly in sleep.

The broadcast shifted again, now showing Max being asked about his plans for the F1 movie premiere in New York, making you sit up slightly, curious, not remembering Max mentioning a premiere.

He paused at the question. Then, without missing a beat, gave the same smile you’d just seen minutes ago.

“I’m going home,” he said, voice calm, warm. “To my little daughter.”

And in that moment, it didn’t matter if he’d won or lost; he’d already won everything that mattered, his perfect family, and that was the only thing on his mind while flying back to Monaco.

Max always loved returning home. Even after the wins. Even after the podiums, the cheers, the champagne, nothing ever came close to the click of his front door in Monaco and the silence that greeted him. The silence of home. It wasn’t really quiet, not in the way the outside world would define it, but to Max, the laughter in the hallway, the shuffle of small feet, even the hum of the dishwasher was peace. His quiet.

He rolled the suitcase in slowly, careful not to wake anyone. It was past ten, and he figured the twins would be asleep by now, maybe you’d stayed up for him, maybe not. You had Lia, and four-month-olds didn’t really believe in full nights of sleep. Max wouldn’t blame you if you’d already collapsed into bed or right next to her crib.

The hallway was dim, the soft yellow of the entryway light casting a gentle glow, until something burst above him, a soft explosion followed by a cascade of blue and silver balloons falling from the high ceiling of the penthouse.

Max froze, startled. Then came the roar of footsteps, the unmistakable sound of Mila’s high-pitched squeal and Luca’s fuzzy socks rapidly approaching.

“PAPA!” The twins yelled at the same time.

Max barely had time to drop his bag before they slammed into him from both sides, their small arms wrapping around his middle, asking to be lifted.

“You thought we forgot!” Mila declared triumphantly, clapping her hands.

“Did we surprise you? Did it work?” Luca asked, slightly out of breath, eyes glowing hoping Max was surprised.

Max blinked, then laughed. “I’m… definitely surprised.”

You appeared a second later, barefoot, hair tied up in the way that always made his heart flutter. Lia was in your arms, blinking blearily at the light, clearly pulled from her nap but too calm to make a fuss.

“Happy Father’s Day,” you said, voice soft but warm.

Max reached out, resting his hand on Lia’s back, pulling you gently in so all five of you Verstappen were pressed together in the entryway.

“You really didn’t have to…” he started, but you interrupted him.

“Shh,” you whispered, eyes crinkling. “You say that every year, and every year we ignore you.”

The living room was filled with decorations. Handmade banners, more balloons, a giant card the twins had drawn together. One side read WE LOVE PAPA and the other had a drawing of Max with what he assumed was supposed to be a steering wheel, there was a plate with beef carpaccio and tomato soup, and a photo of the five of you framed on the mantle, from Lia’s first month, all of you lying on the couch in a sleepy pile not paying attention to Victoria who managed to take the picture.

Max let out a slow breath, soaking it all in.

“I really thought Father’s Day was over,” he admitted. “Being away, missing most of the day. I just figured…” He trailed off.

“You figured wrong,” you said, leaning in to kiss his jaw. “We waited for you, the real celebration starts now. We Verstappens make our own rules, you know?”

Mila tugged his sleeve. “We saved the cake, and Luca didn’t even lick it.”

“I didn’t!” Luca added proudly.

Max grinned and crouched, pulling both twins close. “Best team in the world.”

You handed him Lia, who immediately nuzzled into his chest, her sleepy weight melting into him like she belonged there, like this was her favorite place on Earth.

“Hey, meisje,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head. “Papa’s home.”

The kids dragged him to the couch, demanding a story from the race, a bite of cake, and answers to why he didn’t win in Canada. You curled up beside him, legs folded under you, one hand resting on his thigh as Lia dozed between you both.

And somewhere between Luca’s proud explanation of tire degradation and Mila feeding him cake with too much frosting, Max looked around and felt something tighten in his chest, the good kind, the kind that reminded him he was living exactly the life he’d dreamed of.

He didn’t need a trophy to tell him he’d already won everything there was to win, especially as the Verstappen household became quiet.

Well, maybe not quite, not entirely; there was the low hum of the monitor on your nightstand, the one that occasionally crackled with Lia’s soft breathing. Mila had whispered “Happy Father’s Day again” while half-asleep when Max tucked her in. Luca made him promise to make pancakes in the morning.

The hallway still smelled faintly like chocolate cake and baby powder. A strange but familiar combination these days.

Max exhaled deeply as he sank into bed beside you, fresh out of the shower. His hair was damp and his skin warm. He smelled like your favorite body wash, the one he pretended not to use, but always reached for when he missed home a little more than usual.

He didn’t say anything at first, just allowed you to settle on the bed with him.

You were lying on your side facing him, head propped on your hand, eyes already soft.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” he said, voice low, hoarse from the long day.

You hummed. “I know.”

“But you did.”

You reached out and touched his chest lightly, fingers brushing over the fabric of the old Red Bull t-shirt he’d pulled on. It was faded, soft from years of wear. One of the first ones he ever gave you, back when you used to steal them from his apartment.

“You always make the day special for me,” you whispered. “I just wanted you to have something, even if it’s a bit delayed. It’s our thing, you know?”

Max’s hand found your waist under the covers, and he slid closer, forehead brushing against yours.

“I don’t need the decorations or the cake,” he murmured. “It’s this. It’s coming home to you. It’s knowing they waited,” his voice dipped as he closed his eyes briefly, “that Lia is here. That Mila and Luca still want to tackle me the second I walk through the door.”

You smiled against his mouth as he kissed you, slowly and familiar, the kind of kiss that said thank you, I missed you, you’re my home, I love you, all at once.

“I saw the clip,” you said after a moment. “The movie premiere thing. That quote.”

He groaned lightly into your shoulder. “You did?”

You nodded, grinning. “I replayed it five times.”

“I didn’t mean to say it like that. They caught me off guard. I just thought of her. Thought of all of you.”

“It was perfect. I was ready to give you another baby right when you arrived.” You giggled.

Max raised his eyebrows suggestively before laughing with you, rolling onto his back and pulled you with him until you were half on his chest, your hand splayed over his heart. You listened to it beat, steady and strong beneath your palm.

“I used to think I’d want to be everywhere,” he said quietly. “All the races, all the events. All the noise, but now?”

“Now?”

“I just want to get through the weekend… and come back to this. To you, the kids, the cats… and yeah, the dog.”

You blinked slowly, your heart swelling as you pressed your lips to his collarbone. “You have it,” you whispered.

His hand slid up your back. “Yeah, I really do.”

The baby monitor gave a soft sigh of static. Lia stirred once, then settled.

Max closed his eyes, letting the silence wrap around him, letting the weight of you against him pull him deeper into the stillness of home.

It wasn’t loud, but it was real.

And it was everything he ever dreamed of.

[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 ? 

[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.”

[kingofthecotas]

more like a relapse | ao3

aka the bmw sex fic (e) | 3.2k

inspired by this post and its tags everyone say thank u @certainstarfishllama

——

In Valentino’s defence, he’d told them it was too much. 

——

They unveil the car in Jerez with him there, and they’ve done a good job, he has to admit: deep midnight blue, and only the trim, the wheel spokes, the threads of the interior, carry his yellow. The art of subtlety seems to have been lost, however, when it came to stencilling his number over the rear doors. A horrible reminder of his age, more than his racing.

Whatever. It’s a good-looking car. 

They’d insisted, all of them, BMW and WRT and MotoGP, now that he’s as close to a BMW factory driver as he can get. They’d insisted, and he may be Valentino Rossi but even he is not always able to escape the demands on his time, attention, and commercial indulgence. 

He saves his gripes for Uccio, both of them hiding in the blessed privacy of his motorhome with cups of the only decent coffee to be found at the circuit.

“It’s, ah, ostentatious,” he says over his second espresso. It’s mostly a complaint. Partly a boast. 

“It could have been yellow,” Uccio retorts. “I suppose they have to make sure that whoever wins it actually wants it.”

“Yes, probably.” A sip. “Who do you think will?”

Uccio lets out a snort. “The way he is going? Márquez, probably.”

And—oh. Valentino hadn’t even—well, he’s considering it now: Marc settling into the leather seat, framed in yellow, Vale’s yellow, victorious and satisfied; his big hands curled around the wheel, yellow stitching beneath his palms—

Uccio snaps his fingers. Valentino blinks. 

“Don’t,” his friend warns. “He only ever wanted to fuck you, and then fuck you over. Both of which he managed, by the way.” 

“Mm.” And Marc had been very good at fucking him. Just a little too good at fucking him over, too. 

——

Marc doesn’t get pole in Jerez.

It’s a good lap by Fabio. Even Marc thinks so, from the crinkle in the corner of his eyes; he’s always known Fabio is better than what his bike allows him to be.

Marc doesn’t get pole in Le Mans, and it—Vale looks sideways at that one, but Fabio is at home, on form, on a bike that seems to be coming to him, and again, it was a good fucking lap. 

Silverstone makes it three, and Valentino shouldn’t care this much, he shouldn’t, and Pecco has been complaining constantly about the fucking front end, and he has to take it seriously now because Diggia is saying the same. He shouldn’t care this much, but it chafes.

He doesn’t mention it to Uccio. It wouldn’t be the first time he accused Marc of doing something on purpose.

——

They give him the keys in Mugello for a couple of media laps, and it’s too easy to slip them into his pocket afterwards, solid and warm through his shorts. Suzi is laughing—good, he likes Suzi—swiping hair away from her face and the cameras follow that instead of the quick movement of his hand. The producer has another set, will be able to drive it back to its spot in the paddock; he might even get away with it, which sends a mischievous thrill up his spine. If not—ah, well, an easy mistake to make. He’s sure he will be forgiven. 

——

Pecco gets pole on Saturday; his first of the year, impossibly, and not entirely unexpected, but it rubs something raw in Vale when Marc pulls in behind the second-place board. It’s ridiculous, this hurt that’s pistoning in his chest, but it’s there all the same, so. Nothing to do but muscle through it, Márquez-style, and pretend it isn’t entirely self-inflicted. 

Catching Marc in the midday light, between motorhome shadows, is a little too easy, and Marc waits for him. He waits, head tilted with that terrible arrogance as he waits for Valentino to speak.

There was a time Marc made him nothing but angry. Not so much, anymore: time and age and a different kind of heat that curls his chest into a breathless knot. 

“You are slipping, eh?” He tries for familiar, light, teasing. Familiarity breeds contempt, however, because Marc snorts, dangerous like a bull. 

“Perhaps you do not believe in Pecco as much as you pretend to.” Straight for the jugular, then. 

“Ah.” Vale manages to laugh. “It is the bike, we both know this. He likes it here. Maybe you will even let him win tomorrow.”

“Let,” Marc echoes, an old Spanish slant to the words that Vale had thought he’d lost. “I do not let anybody win.” And that really was the problem, in the end. 

“No,” Vale agrees. The car keys burn like a brand in his pocket. “You might let someone else get pole, though.” 

And Marc smiles, flat. Ivory blade on a knife edge. “Why would I do that?” 

He looks good in red; it deepens the tan in his skin, and teases his eyes into something a little less black. Es tu color, Valentino doesn’t say. He does shrug though, unbothered, and flash a lazy smile before turning his back. 

Marc’s gaze scorches into him every step he takes. 

——

Marc does not let Pecco win. It’s close, though, closer than Qatar, but that’s no consolation when second place is second place, and five points is five points. Perhaps it’s a good thing Vale won’t be in Assen, a country and a twenty-four-hour race away.

Just like Saturday, Vale has no trouble finding Marc, this time in the seldom-trespassed space between the garages and the service road that passes under the track on the run to Arrabbiata. The producer had left the car here on Thursday, on display, not far from the motorhomes.

“See, I said,” Marc says—initiating now, and Vale wonders when they got here, how they got here, “I said I do not let anybody win.”

“Just pole position, then.”

Marc shrugs, self-assured again and easy with it. “No points for pole.”

“Ah, but look.” Vale reaches into his pocket, finds what he’s been carrying since Thursday afternoon. “At the end of the year, you would get a car.” He dangles the keys between two fingers, noting the hypnotic way Marc’s gaze follows it.

“I have enough cars.”

“Maybe you would like a test drive?”

“No.” But Marc is closer than when they started talking, a step or so; Vale catalogues it greedily. That, and the most words they’ve exchanged in a decade. 

“I am a professional racing driver, you know. Might be fun.” 

Head angled, and another step forward. He has Marc on a string here, and Marc has him too. Neither of them could turn and leave if they tried. “What, you are giving me a sales pitch?”

“If you want.” And Vale wants. He wants.

“Show me, then.” Haughty, like he’s doing Valentino a favour. 

So Vale does, beckoning with a hand outstretched, letting Marc follow him around the corner to the car, already unlocked. The blue seems darker now, less vibrant next to Marc’s red as he opens the driver’s door and slips in, every movement a carefully calculated execution of muscle and sinew. Aim, set, fire. 

Marc traces a finger over the neon yellow stitching on the seat, the leather steering wheel. “Tasteful.”

“I didn’t design it.”

“No?” Marc says. “You would have had more yellow?”

“Maybe,” Vale says, horribly delighted at this strange game they’ve found themselves playing; Marc leans across the driver’s seat, one leg pulled up to his chest, to inspect the gearstick.  

Vale wants him so badly his tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth. Marc knows this, of course he does, so he lets his other leg hang out of the open door, smooth skin paler than usual in the dark, shorts riding up his thigh. 

Silence. Valentino waits. 

“How does it drive?” Marc says eventually, just a glance over his shoulder.  

Vale lets himself smile. 

——

Valentino knows Mugello well enough, a second, third, fourth home, and the roads around it are second nature. He’s a lazy driver too, left hand on the wheel, right elbow on the centre console, taking the curves in the road easy. 

“This is how you drive your racecars?” Marc asks, almost this side of mean, and Vale pushes down a gear just to make the engine growl, just so Marc’s sharp cut of teeth slides into something more satisfied. 

He had allowed himself to imagine, sometimes, Marc in a passenger seat beside him. If not for the gearstick being something for his right hand to hold—well, Marc looks at him with those almost-black eyes that shouldn’t carry as much feeling as they do—and normally they don’t, not if Marc doesn’t want them to. Vale’s fingers twitch. 

One swing of the wheel, and they’re on a dirt road that leads to nowhere, too fast, tyres crunching loose stone as he pulls to a sharp stop. 

Marc huffs out a sharp laugh. “I thought we were driving.” And before Valentino can fire back, he’s out of the door, cool air ballooning into the space where he had been. He’s getting better at doing that, taking Vale by surprise, as if he’s practised the willing twenty-one-year-old out of himself.

His lip curls, despite himself, and Vale can’t decide if it’s humour or scorn, so he presses the ignition into silence and opens his own door, praying that the evening breeze brings some sense with it.

It doesn’t. Marc has slipped into the backseat, door wide open, inspecting something that doesn’t seem as important as catching Valentino’s eye in the rearview mirror, and it hasn’t been so long spent apart that they don’t understand each other in their silences—no amount of time would be long enough, Vale thinks, for that—so he’s pulled on a string out of his seat, drifting, marionette, around the front of the car and to the open rear door, his own number a dull shadow. Marc shuffles further in; Vale braces himself on the doorframe, a familiar heat simmering low in his stomach. 

It’s been a long time, ten bloody years of dug-in trench warfare between now and the last time they meant this. Not so long that Vale isn’t already half-hard. Not so long that Marc has to do anything more than tilt his head in invitation, and Valentino crawls into the backseat.

“Very graceful,” he mutters, a protective wall of self-deprecation, but Marc’s answering laugh isn’t mean—or Vale doesn’t think so, at least. It’s been a long time.

One hand finds itself on Marc’s ankle, his leg crooked just so. The other lands on the inside of his smooth thigh, gentle thumb drawing a circle. 

Marc swallows; his throat clicks, loud in the silence. Those same dark eyes, now carefully shuttered, wait for Vale to make his next move, and at least if it’s away then his shields are up. No perceived sunk cost. 

How like Marc to shrink into his own defences now, like he can’t—like he doesn’t know—

“Yes?” Valentino asks, unable to get anything more coherent out, but Jesus Christ, it’s important.

“Yes,” Marc hisses, headstrong and demanding and everything Vale taught himself to hate. Wanting, too: a crack in the shield wall, so he presses his advantage, sliding one hand under Ducati-red armour just to feel Marc’s skin again. 

Trainers shaken off, rolled somewhere beneath the front seat, Vale tries to keep hold of Marc—a desperate greedy thing, really, and one he can’t explain to himself; his free hand struggles with the button on his shorts, and then pulling them down without bumping his head against the glass roof. Marc, leopard-lithe, has no such problems, his own shorts kicked free and discarded. Shirts, too, a black-and-red pool of them to be distilled apart later, a reversible reaction. 

Marc gets there first, counter-strike, and gets his whole hand around Valentino’s dick, hot through his boxers. He’s hard too, beneath his red underwear. Superstitious idiot. Vale makes a noise he hasn’t for years, arousal cut through with ungainly humour. 

As if that was a personal challenge—and it probably was—Marc slips the same hand, right hand, past Vale’s waistband, light enough to tease down the length of him but unbearably scorching, so it seems only fair to return the favour. Marc is heavy in his palm when Vale works it free, and he shudders, sliding further down until he’s beneath Vale’s chest.

It’s uncomfortable, even on the wide seats, and Vale has to readjust, then shift again, before realising, “I don’t have any—”

“Side door compartment,” Marc says, and smirks. Jesus. Vale had cameras in this car on Thursday. 

Valentino could decide he’s been engineered here, manoeuvred to Marc’s whims instead of the other way around. He decides he’s enjoying it. Decides that Marc wanted this too. 

He reaches past Marc’s head as directed, muscle-stretch burning his shoulders, and pinches a packet between two fingers, imagines Marc carrying them around with him, slipping them into the car when no one was looking. He nearly slices the pad of his thumb on the sharp foil edge trying to get the lube on his fingers. 

“Easier in a bed,” he says, mostly to see if Marc will laugh again, and he does, bright and loud, shifting so Vale can get between his legs.

He does, pushing a finger in, leaning down close to Marc as he does, feeling more than hearing the hitched breath, and presses in, reining himself back because—careful, careful. Marc is squirming now, demanding more, but Marc is never careful, not with himself. 

“Come on,” hissed somewhere in Vale’s neck, fang-sharp.

“So impatient,” Vale purrs, and it is a purr despite the desperate want clawing at his throat. 

“You have been—fuck.” Marc throws his head back, skin taut in his jaw. Still got it, then. “You have been staring at me since Jerez.”

Maybe. Maybe Vale had been staring for longer than that, and Jerez was when Marc began to look back. 

Second finger in, and gentle is an effort now, but age has taught Vale that some things are worth the wait. 

Another short breath. Marc tilts his head up, catching Vale’s earring with his teeth. Vale wonders for a moment if he might rip it out, but Marc moans hot against his earlobe instead. Ten minutes ago, Vale would have chalked that little victory towards his total. Now, the giddy triumph is a silver thread drawing him in closer, closer. Third finger. 

Marc whines this time, releasing the earring with a final tug, his hands reaching down until they find the back of Valentino’s bent legs—what are they doing, Vale wonders hysterically, crouched and tangled in the backseat of a car like a couple of teenagers. If teenagers’ knees protested when they did this, that is. 

“Please,” Marc pants when Vale twists his fingers, spreading just to be sure. “It’s—I can—”

“Yeah—yeah.” 

“Vale—”

“Yes,” Vale soothes, and pulls his hand away to wrap it around his dick. A long time, since Marc has said his name like that, since he’s been inside Marc like this. 

One smooth movement, and he groans through it, Marc’s satisfied noise catching behind his teeth. Then he twitches, a breath before Vale gets all the way in, and clenches—Vale has to throw one hand out to brace himself, hits the window with a dull thud that makes them both jump. His fingers leave an unmistakably sweaty mark.

“Ah—shit,” Marc says, and laughs without restraint. Vale watches, motionless, warmed to the very root of him. 

Then he moves. 

Marc gasps, his eyes going wide, mouth open in a way Valentino hasn’t seen in a long time—normally so tight, jaw set, cheeks stiff unless he has to smile, but this—

This is all Vale’s. 

One knee slips towards the edge of the seat when he tries to drive in further, a swoop that sends him closer to Marc’s slack mouth, only their breath between them. He finds purchase somewhere in the footwell and when he readjusts, slants his hips up, he swallows Marc’s filthy answering moan down his own throat. 

Hands clutch him, only hesitating for a second before settling just where Valentino likes them, back of his ribcage, big and warm against his skin. Tip of a nail pressed into the divot of his spine. 

Vale follows the pressure, curls his torso down, cobra-like, thrusts again. Marc pants scalding against him, and everything in Valentino’s awareness is Marc, Marc, Marc: skin, breath, their bodies. 

It’s easy to forget, like this. When they’re like this. 

Everything is hot with Marc, scorching, a cacophony of red and orange and the heat of him against Vale’s skin, around his cock. They’ll burn out, though, they always do, and not with a gentle fizzle, not in embers. Supernovas. Heat death.

Not for the first time, Vale wishes—

But they are. They are. They couldn’t be anybody else. 

Marc tilts his hips, breath coming ragged now, and Vale meets him there, their rhythm broken, frantic; white-knuckling, both of them searching for leverage to push impossibly closer. 

“Marc,” is all he can say, “Marc—” and he’s lost every other word in every language he knows. 

Marc gasps, forces out, “Fuck—Vale—” before he buries his face in the crook of Valentino’s elbow as he comes, and that’s all Vale needs to follow him, arms shaking, pelvis twitching. 

He pants hard and ugly through his mouth. Stares. Lucidity is an unwelcome companion, everything cool and sticky now, the breeze brushing his bare legs like gentle fingers. Marc turns his head, loose, sated, but closed away again, guarded, as Vale pulls out. 

The thing with Marc is—he’s excellent at evaluating the danger after the crash. It’s how he is, riding past the limit to find it, looking back to pinpoint where he could have avoided it all, if he’d been a little more careful. If he hadn’t charged headfirst towards the highside. 

“Sorry,” Marc says, then before Valentino’s stomach can truly start churning, “You will have to pay for someone to deep clean it, I think.”

The fucking car. “Or you could make sure that you win it.” 

“It is, ah, growing on me.” 

“Oh, yes?” Vale asks, light, as if it matters nothing. Inconsequential. 

“Yes, I think so.” 

“It will remind you of me, a little bit.”

“Of this?” And Marc’s smile is impish; Vale can’t help but give him one back.

This—this is what he hates about Marc: how good they are together, and what a wrench it is when they inevitably end. Because they can’t—they don’t work. 

“We should…” Valentino sighs through his nose; reluctance tugs at his tongue. “We should get this back, I think.” He goes to reach for his shorts, the keys; stopped by a tentative hand on his wrist.

Marc’s eyes glint, sparks of the dashboard lights. “This is still your car, no? For now?

“It is,” Vale agrees, slow. Understanding is swift, when it’s Marc looking at him like that. “Ah, well, I suppose they will not miss it for a while longer.” 

A flash of teeth. In the dark, inching down his palm, Marc’s fingers lace with his.