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rooster-the-love-of-my-life · 3 days ago

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Idiots At a Wedding pt2

Summary: Pretending to be Bob's girlfriend in front of his family has tk be easy right? Right...??

Pairings: Bob Floyd x fem!reader

Warnings: mentions of family trauma, crying, kissing, Bob

A/N: omggg you guysss!!!!!! You're the absolute best, o wasn't expecting to get so uchlove from all of you, so.than you very very much much for this. Also I'm very sorry if anyone of you hasn't been tagged, I've been trying to tag yall but I can only have 50 tags per post, so I'll have to find a different way to tag you all. If any of you know how please do tell me, I could really use your help. Anywhoo, enjoy reading and don't be a stranger.💞💞

series masterlist || part 2

After spending an hour trying to make yourselves look presentable, you and Bob made your way downstairs to the party. The house was already packed with people, and more were yet to come. As soon as you reached the last step, Bob was whisked away by Mary and Jeff, leaving you standing alone in a corner.

"Ah, there you are." Annies sweet voice flooded your ears. "Where's Bob? He left you all alone already? I swear that boy need a lesson in how to treat a lady."

"It's fine." You replied. "He wouldn't have left me alone if he didn't know I could handle myself in a room full of strangers."

"Oh, I see you're one of us." She nodded cryptically. "I always knew he would go for someone like you."

"What does that mean?" You asked.

"What my dear sister means to say is, you're an extrovert too. Just like the rest of the Floyd family." Another sweet voice broke into your conversation. Looking at where it came from, you found it belonged to a young woman, who had now slung one of her hands on Annies shoulders and was leaning against her. "Robby's the only one of us who's an introvert, for a moment we all thought he was adopted, but alas, that quite shy boy is all ours. I'm Lucy."

"Ah, the bride to be. Congratulations." It all clicked finally as she engulfed you in a classic Floyd hug as well.

"You're even prettier than I expected." She said, as Annie agreed with her loudly.

"Oh please, have you two seen yourself." You chucked, slowly becoming red. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but what did you mean by he would go for someone like me?"

Both the blonde sisters shared a knowing look with each other before Lucy explained. "Bob is the quiet one of the family, as you may have noticed. He was the one who stayed inside and read a book while the rest of us played football or did some loud thing. We always knew he needed someone to bring him out his shell, someone like you."

"And from what I've seen till now, he seems to be really comfortable with you. More than with anyonelse else." Annie finished, both looking smug.

If you weren't blushing before, you sure were now. You knew how different you and Bob were, anyone with functioning eyes did. But you had no idea you had any sort of effect on him. Maybe you two really were great actors. If so, this performance alone was enough to earn you an academy award.

The night continued, you stuck around with Annie who showed you around the house and introduced you to everyone all the while asking you about your work and the navy. After a few hours, when it was nearing dinner, Bob finally found you.

"Hello ladies." He said, walking up from behind you, casually planting a hand on your waist, catching you off guard. "Hope my sisters aren't annoying you darling."

Darling? Where did that come from? Regardless, your heart did back flips upon hear the nickname slip so casually from his mouth.

"Oh not at all." You replied, looking up at him. "In fact they've kept me really entertained with all your childhood stories."

"Oh dear lord no." He groaned loudy, his head falling down and landing in the nape of your neck. "Why do yall hate me?"

"What kind of sisters would we be if we didn't tell her about all the times you've peed yourself as a child?" Lucy teased.

"The nice kind." Bob mumbled, lifting his head a little but still keeping his chin resting on your shoulder. "But don't you both worry about anything. I'll tell her every embarrassing thing about yall before going to sleep tonight."

"Is that your idea of pillow talk Robby?" Annie joked, instantly making her younger brother regret saying what he said. "If so, I must say I am very disappointed."

"Now, now kids." You jumped in, knowing how flushed the man behind you must have gotten. "Be nice, I've got all week to see you three fight. Don't ruin the show just yet."

All four of you shared a laugh, when Mary called everyone for dinner. The entire party filled into the big dining room where homemade food was spread out on the table.

"Bobby, I might just kiss your mother." You whispered, mouth salivating at the sight of good home cooked food. The navy had it perks, but good food was not one of them.

"Be my guest." He chuckled. "But just beware, she might never let you leave."

You were about to say something else before you were interrupted by Mary clearing her throat.

"As most of you might know, today's the first day of the wedding celebration for our dear Lucy and Peter. And as out family tradition says, the newest couple in the room has to share a kiss. So come on yall." She finished, as both you and Bob looked around the room to see which couple was going to be the one kissing.

All the while, the entire room had turned towards the two of you and was watching you expectantly. It took a while for you two idiots to realise just who Mary was talking about, and as soon as you did, Bob quickly spoke up in defense.

"What? Ma. Come on, it's Lu's wedding."

"Yes, but Peter and I have been together for three years. You two have been together for only six months." She replied quickly, smirking.

"But-"

"No no, no ifs, no buts." One of Bob's many aunts jumped in. "Tradition is tradition, honey. Now come on, give your girl a kiss."

While Bob was trying to get you two out of this situation, you were stood next to him absolutely frozen. You had agreed that you might have to kiss and show a little affection out in public, but you didn't think it would be so soon. Even though Bob put up a tough fight, he couldn't put off his family.

He leaned down to your height, and slowly planted a soft kiss on you cheek, earning groans from everyone.

"Come on man." Someone shouted. "You kiss grandma Ruth better than that."

"Yeah Robby, I wouldn't be shocked if she left you for kissing her like a teenager." Someone else shouted as the whole room erupted in loud laughter.

Turning your head to your left, you were met with Bob's crimson face. Through all the howling and laughter, all you could think of was how horrible this must be for him. He never liked being the center of attention, ever. So having about fifty people urging him to kiss you might just be his worst nightmare.

Without a second thought, you placed your right hand on his left cheek and turned his head towards you. You took a step closer and got up on your tiptoes to reach him. Slowly, you leaned in with closed eyes until your lips landed on his. Bob was caught off guard for a mili second, but he quickly put his hands on you hips and brought you in closer, engulfing your mouth with his own.

From the moment your lips touched, you felt as if your whole body was on fire. You had done many things that pumped adrenalin through your body, heck you flew plane for a living. But none of it even came close to what you felt upon kissing Bob Floyd.

Bob kept pulling you in closer, as if he was afraid he would wake up from a dream if he let you go. But when he head the loud hooting around him, he finally came back to his sense and realized he was standing in the middle of a dining room and not alone with you. Though it did feel like it from the moment you touched his cheek.

You two pulled away, breathing heavily, yet still holding on to each other. You were just about to pull away completely when Bob learned in and gave you a short sweet kiss, making your heart leap right out of your chest.

"That's what I'm talking about!" Someone exclaimed over all the commotion. Your entire face was red and you were breathing heavily, staring right at the ground as Mary urged everyone to take their dinner.

Next to you, Bob was sure he had died and your kiss was what had greeted him into heaven. But neither of you had time to even look at each other before plates were thrust into your hand and food into your plates.

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

The bedroom was awkward to say the least. After dinner, which seemed to stretch out for an eternity, you finally trudged back into Bob's childhood bedroom, silent and red faced, both thinking about the same thing.

You slipped into the bathroom to get ready for bed and to get your giddy heart to stop beating so fast while Bob changed his clothes outside, reminding himself it was all just for show. All it'll ever be.

By the time you came out, he had already slipped under the covers and turned off the lights. Due to the lack of light, and your clumsiness, you bumped your foot into one of the dressers hard.

"Ow." You whispered, bending over because of the pain, cradling that foot while hoping on the other to keep standing stright.

"You okay?" Bob asked, voice gruff, followed by the rustling of sheets.

"I'm gonna need your help navigating the room Bobby." You whispered, trying to hide the pain in your voice.

"Oh shit sorry." He mumbled, turning on his bedside lamp. "I forgot it's your first time here."

"It's alright." You limped over to the bed and sat down, still cradling your hurt foot.

"Does it hurt too much? Should I get ice?" Bob fussed, serious faced, as you turned around to look at him, and boy was he a sight for sore eyes. His hair was messy, the kind of messy you wanted to run your hands through and mess up more. He wasn't wearing his glasses, sleep was evident in his eyes and his muscular torso was on full display.

Another thing learned about sweet, mysterious Bobby. You thought to yourself, trying not to blush to hard at the sight of him.

"I'm fine Bob, it's just a stubbed toe. I'll survive." You said, noticing how his expression hadn't changed. "And if I don't, I have you to nurse me back to life."

"That you do." He chuckled.

"There he is." You said, getting into bed as well. "Thought I'd lost you for a second."

"I was just worried." He replied, sliding in as well, laying face to face with you.

"You fuss over the stubbed toes of all your friends or am I just special?" You joked.

"You're just special." He answered without skipping a beat. You two laid in silence for a few moments, lost deep into each other eyes. But the big yawn that left your mouth ruined the moment.

"Go to sleep." Bob smiled at your scrunched up face, extending his arm to turn the soft yellow light off. "I'll see you in the moring."

"See you in the morning Bobby." You whispered through another yawn.

"Night sweetheart."

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

Morning came quicker than you wanted it to. Sunlight poured through the windows and the shrill chirping of birds took over, as you moved your blanket up over you head and turned the other way in an attempt to block out the sunlight. You were expecting, half hoping, Bob would still be sleeping next to you, but all you found when you stretched your hand was an empty bed. His side of the bed was already made, with his blanket neatly folded.

Of course he made his bed as soon as he got up, you thought, learning another thing about him.

You were in half a mood to stay in bed for a bit longer and laze around, but the smell of fresh pancakes mixed with the sound of laughter got you up on your feet within a second. You quickly got dressed and headed downstairs, where you were greeted by the Floyd family already enjoying breakfast.

Annie was sitting at the table laughing at something Lucy had said, with Andy playing in her lap. Mary was over by the stove, flipping pancakes with military precision along with Jeff who was cooking the bacon. And then there was Bob, who was standing at the end of the counter, pouring everyone orange juice in mismatched cups. His hair was sweaty, face flushed, glasses foggy, like he'd just come back from a run.

"Morning." You said loudly, announcing yourself. Everyone's head turned to you and a chorus of 'good morning' rang through the room. "I see you're still keeping up with your runs." You commented, walking closer to Bob.

"Can't give Hondo the pleasure of thinking I've gotten slow, now can I?" Bob replied, laser focused on pouring the juice.

"Right, throw me under the buss, why don't you. I won't be supried if I can't run a meter after eating your mom's food." You sighed, thinking about the delicious meal you had last night and the one you were about to have now. "Mary, you have magic in your hands, pure magic."

"Well thank you darling." She said, picking up the plates with the pancakes and heading towards the table. "At least someone here appreciates my cooking."

"Oh come on ma, we've been having your food for ages." Lucy argued.

"That doesn't mean you can't compliment a woman once in a while." Mary looked at her children with a pointed, teasing look.

"Don't worry marmie, as long as I'm here, you'll always have someone to compliment your cooking." Jeff chimed in, placing the bacon on the table and then placing a soft kiss on Mary's cheeks, the same way he would with his mother's.

Your heart melted upon seeing this. The way they all had accepted someone new into their family, loved him like their own. You could only hope you would get this in your life.

"That makes two." You added, smiling at the matriarch who returned it with the same vigor. "You need some help?" You asked Bob, who was finished with his task.

"If you won't mind." He replied, looking down at all the cups there were to carry. Without wasting another second, you both jumped into action. A minute later, all of your were seated on the table as plates of food were being passed.

Once everyone was settled in and already gulfing down the breakfast, Mary spoke up, breaking the silence.

"You know, I never asked how you two met?"

You head snapped up instantly, as did Bob's. There was a slight excitement in his eyes, the kind that comes when you see a question you already know the answer of in a test.

"Well we both-" Bob started, but was stopped by Lucy.

"I want to hear it from her." She said, looking at you intently. "Women always know how to tell a story, with exact timelines. Men don't."

"Well," You stared, placing your cutlery down gently in your plate. "We were both assigned to the same special task force a year ago. After the mission we were all asked to stay back, and that's when we got together."

"Oh my god, you're even worse than him." Lucy groaned.

"Come on, give us something more. We can't live on breadcrumbs." Annied chimed in.

"Details, dearie, details. Give us the details, tell us what you thought of our Robby when you first met him." Mary urged you, after your vague reply.

"Okay, um. I first saw him at the bar where the whole squad generally hangs out, the hard deck." You started, smiling fondly at the memory of that night. "He was sitting in a corner, drinking ginger ale and eating peanuts, while everyone else was playing pool. I was a little late-"

"As always." Bob added, giving you a teasing smile.

"Only five minutes late." You corrected, rolling your eyes playfully. "I didn't see him at first-"

"Cayse you were busy arguing with Hangman." He butted in again. "A usual occurrence."

"Will you let me continue?" You huffed, as Bob raised his hands in surrender, motioning your to go on. "When I finally did see him, he offered me his peanuts-"

"Which you took a handful of."

"Bob." All women on the table screamed.

"Sorry, sorry."

"And I've liked him ever since." You finished, knowing in your heart that the last part wasn't a lie.

"Aww, ain't the sweet." Mary gushed. "Now, tell me who asked who on a date?"

You shared a knowing look with Bob across the table and spoke before he got the chance to. "Mary, do you think your son would ever ask someone out first?"

The whole table erupted in fits of loud laughter, as Bob sank into his seat.

"You didn't ask her out?" The older woman gasped. "Why?"

"Why? Mama, have you seen her?" The answer slipped out of his mouth before he could stop himself. It was true of cousre, he was always afraid to talk to you cause of how pretty you looked at all times, but he never meant for it to come out like this.

"Our little Robby, smitten like a kitten." Lucy teased, pulling at her older brothers cheeks, who swatted her hands away.

"As cute as this may be, I still think it's wrong you didn't as her out." Mary voiced. "Your father taught you better than this."

"What do you want me to do now mama? Were already together." Bob replied.

"Ask her out." She suggested.

"Mary, that's completely unnecessary." You chimed in.

"Nonsense. My son should know better."

"Yeah Bob, ask her out." Annie nudged you slightly, a cheeky grin taking over her face.

"Ask her out Robert." Jeff was in support of the ladies as well, smirking wildly at his brother-in-law.

"Ask her out, ask her out." Lucy chanted childishly. Even baby Andy started babbling as if he was willing his uncle to do the same.

"Alright, fine, fine." Bob sighed and sat up straight in his seat. You were as red as a tomato by now, finally understanding what Bob had meant when he said his family was a little too much. He said your name softly, looking right into your eyes.

"Darling, will you be my girlfriend?"

"Happily."

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

The rest of breakfast was a blur. Conversation flowed easy, love and warmth busted through the table and all you could think of was how fun it must have been growing up in such a family. A family who accepts you just the way you are, you didn't need to change, didn't need to be perfect to earn their love, all you had to be was theirs and they loved you. Oh, how you wished you had a family like that.

After breakfast was done, you were helping Lucy with the dishes all alone in the kitchen when she asked you your plans of the day. You were about to say it would be to do whatever was asked of you, but she had plans of her own for you.

"Well, whatever they are, cancle them." She announced, sitting up on the kitchen counter next to the dishwasher, where you were standing. "Cause I've decided to make you one of my bridesmades. Annie the made of honor, obviously. I was down one girl and one of Peters friends had to sit out, but not anymore now that Bob has got you into our lives."

"Oh Lucy, are you sure?" You asked, overwhelmed with how much this family had welcomed you. "It's your special day. I don't want you to feel obliged in any way to add me to your bridal party. I'd be more than happy to sit and watch the ceremony."

"Oh please, I might not have know you for too long, but I've grown really fond of you. Part of it cause I believe you truly are an amazing person. The other part is cause of how you are with Bob. I know he's my older brother and he's supposed to be the one looking out for me, but ever since we were young, it's always been the opposite. He's always been the quiet one, the easy target for most people, that's why we were all worried when he said he wanted to join the navy. None of thought he'd make it through basic training, but here he is. We all always knew he need someone soft, someone gentle, someone who could help him tune the world out whenever it got too loud or mean. And I'm glad he's found that in you."

You couldn't stop the tears from forming in your eyes as Lucy spoke. Bob's whole family cared so much for him, they never tried to change him or stop him from being who he was, they just protected him the best they could. And now they put their faith and trust in you to do the same, to love him gently and unconditionally. All of this made you feel extremely guilty for lying to them. Here they were, opening their home and hearts to you while you were deceiving them every chance you were getting.

"Oh Lucy." You whispered and slung you arms over her shoulder as she leaned down to hug you as well. "I'd be honored to be your bridesmade."

"Good." She laughed as she pulled away. You saw that tears had begun forming inher eyes as well. "Now, I'm gonna go stop crying cause I don't want my face to be all puffy all day."

With that and a squeeze on you shoulder, she was gone, leaving you alone, crying in the kitchen. Everything that was happening just reminded you of how different your family was, how conditional. The more you witnessed the love between the Floyd's, the more your ind was flushed with the bad memories of your own home.

Though your tears and the echos of your past, you didn't hear Bob descend the stairs and enter the room. He saw you leaned over the counter with eyes closes, sniffling softly and he immediately dropped the wet towel in his hands down on the floor and ran towards you.

"Hey, hey sunny, what's wrong?" He asked softly. He had never seen you cry before, he doubted anyone from the squad had, so this caught him completely off guard. "What happened? Did you get hurt? Did someone say something? Did I do something?"

"It's nothing Bob." You turned you head tbe other way, not wanting him to see you cry. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine, you're crying." He whispered, placing his fingers gently under your chin and turning your head towards his. "You can tell ne what's wrong sunny." He cupped your face and began wiping away your tears with his thumbs.

"I just really like your family Bob." Your voice cracked in the middle of the sentence as more tears spilled out of your eyes.

" Oh honey." He moved his hands from your cheeks to the back of your neck as he pulled you into a hug. This was the closest you had ever been to him, and a little part of you was cursing you for being this vulnerable during this time. The part raised by your father.

"I'm sorry, you're supposed to be enjoying with your family, not watching me cry." You pulled away, much to Bob's dismay. "I'm sorry, just forget this ever happened."

"You know you can tell me anything right sunny, anything at all. I'm all ears." He said, trying to look into your eyes but you kept your head down, not having the courage to meet his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Yeah, I know." You sipped your hands from his grasp and moved past him. "I'll tell you some other time."

You moved to the stairs quickly before Bob could say anything else. Evey muscle in his body was telling him to follow you, to demand to know what's wrong and help you fix it. But having grown up around women had taught him it was better to leave you be for the moment. Even though his heart was hurting, he had to give you space.

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transbionic-shieldmaiden · 2 days ago

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I mean, I agree, broadly, with what you're saying here. The current situation is very much the War on Terror "brought home", as it were. But, like, it is factually possible to protest / organize / insert-other-activism against one without protesting against the other. Like, that's just factually true. You might object (and I would more-or-less agree) that by "merely" opposing the usage of the military against the populace, our hypothetical pro-imperialism anti-domestic-authoritarianism person is, ultimately, still believing in something that will eventually lead to the oppression of the populace, but the immediate effect is that they're counted on the other side of things.

I'm gonna let you in on a little secret here: most of the time, politics doesn't care about your motivation. Motivation only matters when it comes to predicting your next activity. But whatever you already did? It happened, and it doesn't really matter why you did it. To follow your car analogy, a car-lover who hates engines who signs my petition to ban engines still signed my petition, even if they are unaware of the broader implications. Maybe this is a fundamental difference of concerns -- my goal here is to promote political action, not ensure ideological purity. And it's not that I don't care about motivation. I certainly prefer people that are opposed to imperialism and domestic authoritarianism.

The thing is, motivations and ideologies change much more slowly than policies. To take our pro-imperialism anti-domestic-authoritarian -- if we allow them to stand alongside and work with the broader coalition fighting domestic authoritarian, they will be exposed to more radical (and, in this case, correct) ideas regarding the true role of the military. Will they become an ACAB anti-imperialist overnight? Probably not, but they odds are a lot better than if we mock them for having unlearned only part of the hierarchy.

Like, what exactly do you think a coalition is? If a group of people all agree on what the problem is and how to solve it, that's not really much of a coalition, at least not the way I'm talking about it here. That's just an ideological bloc. And if I lived in a country where anti-imperialist leftist types were a sufficiently large, coherent, and organized ideological bloc to enact change, I would be singing quite a different tune. But that's just not the world we live in. Politics is the art of the possible, and sometimes that means making compromises between two bad options.

And, like, I get why leftists are so often resistant to that idea. There's so many issues where a bolder and more radical solution might circumvent the need for a compromise between bad options at all -- if our theories are correct, anyway, but that's a whole 'nother discussion. On top of that, people are constantly using the vague idea of compromise and imperfect solutions as a cudgel to prevent any real change. I get why that leads so many leftists to react with knee-jerk suspicion at the mere idea of working with people who we think/know to be wrong. Unfortunately, the fact that some people disingenuously use compromise to quiet calls for real change doesn't change the fact that sometimes you really are stuck between choosing to work towards an imperfect solution or fade into irrelevancy while cultivating a perfect set of ideologically-pure beliefs.

I have some news for members of the united states armed forces who feel like they are pawns in a political game and their assignments being unnecessary.

#hope i haven't come off too condescending here #and look. if you (the general you) want to just deal with leftism as a book club where the most important thing is being always correct #and where you don't care about taking effective political action and actually making the world better #then...that's your choice and you're welcome to it #but as for me #because i didn't get into leftist politics to end some abstract idea of empire or capitalism or whatever #im here because i want things to be better #my fucking country #politics cw

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salem-s · 3 days ago

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FINAL ── TEMPORARY TRUCE ── RAFE CAMERON

SYNOPSIS you absolutely can't stand your roommate's brother, and Rafe can't not take an opportunity to poke fun at you every chance he gets. but when you both accidentally have a jello shot infused with molly, you decide to have a temporary truce and enjoy the night. SERIES MASTERLIST

WARNINGS language, fluff, sssmmmmmuuuut (fingering, oral fem receiving, p-in-v unprotected (do not follow their footsteps) you get the idea), mentions of staples in head. 18+ mdni. please i am not condoning drug use don't take after these idiots for the love of god. also i didn’t feel like waiting until 6pm est to post this so here’s an early last chapter? happy friday? sorry if there’s mistakes alright godspeed.

WORD COUNT 10.4k. alright. no one say anything. it was originally around 5k but like the ptputss final chapter, i couldn't let that happen. hope you enjoy this scrap.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER motion picture soundtrack by radiohead

Sarah is usually a pretty good roommate.

Despite growing up with cleaning services and maids and private chefs, she's always done a good job at tidying up after herself. Dishes are rarely left in the sink (you two normally have a truce of doing the dishes the morning after a night out, rather than dealing with them in your drunken splendor), communal spaces such as the kitchen, living room, and bathroom are, for the most part, always crumb-free and organized, and you'll even take turns cooking for each other on occasion. The two of you have fallen into a nice routine in terms of sharing your own space.

However, Sarah has little to no concept of privacy.

Especially now, as she pounds on your door and yells your name as if there's a fire.

"Why the fuck are all the condoms all over the floor?!"

It takes you a full minute to realize what's going on, where you are, who you're with.

The sliver of sunrise pokes through your sheer curtains, audaciously shining into the room and into your eyes when you momentarily prop yourself up on your elbows and squint. You blink blearily as your senses slowly start to come back to you: the sunrise indicating an early morning, the lingering scent of your body wash littering your skin, the increments of knocking on your door, and the warmth of Rafe right beside you.

He stirs not only from Sarah's loud voice, but from your movement, and you watch him endearingly frown, eyes still screwed shut as he paws for you with the quietest groan, as if the notion of you being away from him in a time like this is offensive. Once his hands find your body, he's gripping whatever he feels first — in this instance, your lower hips — and curling his fingers into your flesh and pulling you tight against him, so tight that you're no longer propped up on your elbows and instead trapped in the confinements of his arms.

You blink from the jolting movement, heart skipping when he lazily slots a leg in between yours as if the gesture is second nature.

Sarah calls your name again.

"I don't care if you have someone in there!" She yells, slightly slurring as if she's just gotten in for the night (morning?). "If you don't answer in five seconds, I'm coming in."

You stiffen in Rafe's arms.

Fuck. Holy fuck.

You think for a brief second on the implications of her walking in right now, and seeing the two of you cozied beneath the sheets after months of telling her that he's the blueprint of a guy you'd never want to be with. A flicker of panic rises in your chest at the thought of seeing him, her fucking brother, laying in your bed like he was made to be here and, apparently, successfully scoring with the girl he's been talking to her about for ages.

The attempt to free yourself from his hold fails, and he only nuzzles further into you.

"Hey," you whisper hurriedly, "wake up."

"I can hear you!" Sarah accuses from the other side of the door. "Five, four-"

You pinch Rafe's abdomen, and your quest to see if he's ticklish falls short as he barely budges, instead humming low and baritone and un-fucking-fazed at the fact that his sister is about to walk in on you two right now. While you can practically hear your own heartbeat, you can feel his beating in a slow, syncopated rhythm, relaxed more than ever despite the premeditated headache you're both about to endure.

"Three!"

Rafe doesn't even open his eyes, using his other senses to simply feel you. He gently nudges his nose against your temple, inhaling deep as his lips find your hairline to press a morning kiss, and he does it delicately enough to avoid the area with the staples. Warm hands splay on your back and waist, mapping out the bareness of your skin and nimble fingers settling under your shirt as if he has every right (he does).

If your roommate (your friend, the sister of the guy you have in your bed right now) wasn't inducing a mild panic on your part, you'd surely swoon over the simple act.

"Two—"

"Sare," Rafe mutters and the baritone of his voice vibrates against your skin, loud enough to get the counting to suddenly stop. "'T's too early for this shit."

Utter silence from the other side of the door.

The implication almost makes you burst out laughing. Almost.

Because you think at how out of left field this must seem to her right now, especially if she hasn't been to bed yet and is coming down from her drunkenness and roll. The two of you have been M.I.A. all night, not even charging your phone and his being somewhere amongst the city in someone's back pocket, so you figure they've spent a long time trying to figure out where you went.

Also because it's Rafe. Her brother. Sleeping in your room after all this time of threatening him with death if he so much as looked at you wrong. Being in your sacred space that you only let few people enter. Staying together behind closed doors after she discovered enough condoms to last a lifetime littered across the floor.

Sarah doesn't even say anything, and instead you hear the bedroom door creak open.

You can't even look at her if you tried, because you're helplessly taut to Rafe with your face buried in the crook of his neck. You can't even turn and shoot her a sheepish look because he simply won't let you, he won't let go, simply holding onto the moment just a fraction longer. Not that you necessarily mind, because — for starters — you're comfortable and warm and he smells very nice, and you could really get used to waking up like this: pressed up to him and peppered with an influx of affection that you aren't sure you deserve.

All you can do is idly lay, butterfly kissing the skin on his neck as you can only imagine the look on her face as well as his. You can picture it: his lazy, shit eating grin and her furrowed brows and incessantly blinking eyes. The image only progresses in your mind when his hand rubs gently up and down your spine, but you figure it's less of an affectionate gesture and more as a possessive stake in his claim of you, almost to rub it in her face.

"Good mornin'," Rafe drawls out, as if he's taunting her. "Fun night?"

There are a few moments of silence between the siblings, and you can only roll your eyes at his proud demeanor. Prick.

She speaks probably after staring between you two for all this time. "What the fuck? I mean, like, what the fuck?"

He only hums, and when you try to turn over onto your back so you can look at your friend, he actually lets you. But not without his hand smushing between your back and the mattress, not that he necessarily seems to mind at all because he doesn't pull it away, nor does he remove his other hand that splays audaciously on your hip, nimble fingers skimming the waistband of your sleep shorts.

The look on Sarah's face is quite literally what you pictured: her brows furrowed yet eyes wide in disbelief, her hand still lingering on the doorknob as if she's been petrified at the sight before her. She's still in last night's outfit, hair a bit mussed and mascara shadowing the slight bags under her eyes, yet she looks more awake than ever as she blinks her gaze between you and her brother. Finally, her eyes settle on you.

Her words are immediate. "Did he pay you?"

Rafe snorts as you reach your arms up, stretching long like a cat and yawning as if you've worked a twelve hour shift. "Only offered to pay off her student loans, 's all."

Sarah narrows her eyes at her brother. "Shut up." Then, she looks back to you. "Did he?"

You find the gall to roll your eyes, even though your heart is racing and your expression is sheepish. "Is it that hard to believe?"

"Yes," she retorts instantly, apparently in the mood to deprecate her brother's dignity. "He's only been obsessed with you since move-in, and it's made him dumber than usual."

"I'm right here?"

Sarah ignores him completely. "I can't believe this is actually happening. I totally called it."

Your face flushes, and you're really, really grateful that you're not facing him right now.

Unfortunately, she’s right. Sarah has been (not) subtly rooting for you and her brother to get together ever since you first threw him a scowl, ever since Rafe’s brows flung high in surprise when you — instead of ogling and swooning over his introductory flirtation — simply looked him up and down, scoffed, and carried on with moving your stuff into the apartment, ever since Sarah doubled over laughing at her brother’s shocked expression. He obviously wasn’t used to that working, and she got the biggest kick out of your no-bullshit attitude.

Ever since that day, the very first time you and him met, Sarah’s been praying to all higher beings to get you two together.

When he’d leave a room, she’d raise her brows at you as if to say “So?” and your answer was always the same: an eye roll, a snort, and a “Yeah, right” that transcended time and space. When you dislocated your shoulder and were retelling the story later to all your friends, she asked three different times to clarify that it was Rafe — the guy you wouldn’t let touch you with so much as a breath — who carried and brought you to the ER (at the time you ignored the giant fucking grin she shot her brother, who glared at her to relax). Every single time the three of you ran errands or went out and about in the city, Sarah always accidentally asked you both to accompany her, telling you it slipped her mind that he was coming along.

Your answer was always the same, consisting either of an eye roll, a groan, a snide comment, or all of the above in one go. She knew that the possibility of you ever being with him was slim to none, yet always subconsciously rooted for the best case scenario for her brother, which would be ending up with a person like you.

So now, as she looks between you and him cuddled together in a way she never thought possible, it’s obvious to tell she is thoroughly confused, yet elated.

“Okay, well,” she starts, failing to suppress a giant grin, “next time you want to rob me and John B of all our condoms, just ask.”

God, if your face wasn’t burning before, it’s definitely on fire now.

“Yup, okay,” you say quickly, “thanks so much. See you later!”

Rafe laughs next to you as Sarah takes one last fleeting glance at the two of you, before slowly retreating from the room and closing the door behind her. From the hallway, she makes a noise of excitement, a squeal? Something along those lines, and you don’t have the vicinities to study the sound since she’s already gradually getting quieter, retreating to her room with a door slam.

Silence is met between you and him for a beat, two, three, before his thumb starts rubbing gentle circles on the bare skin of your hip, just above the waistband of your sleep shorts. It sends goosebumps shooting up your arm.

“Mornin’, Star,” Rafe muses low, almost cautiously.

You wait a few moments to look at him, letting your gaze linger on the door before slowly lulling your head to tilt towards him. The sight of his hair sticking up in a million different directions nearly makes you snort, but the noise dies in your throat when you really notice how pretty he is right now: bleary eyes, tousled hair, a smile so gentle it would’ve made your knees weak if you were standing. He’s so close, closer than ever, and with the rising sunlight backlighting his features, you wish you had the capacities to take a picture, to capture this moment and save it for the books.

Apparently, you stare for too long, because with each second passing, his smile augments.

It takes you a stupid amount of time to find your voice. “Hi.”

His gaze flickers up for a moment, to where the staples lay hidden in your hair. “How’s your head?”

You go to answer, you really do, but his arm that was trapped under your back is slithering itself out, and soon his hand comes up to cradle the side of your jaw, fingers ghosting over your hairline with such delicacy that it short circuits your brain.

“Mhm?” He prompts again at your silence.

You blink stupidly. “T’s okay.”

“Just okay?”

“Yeah.”

Rafe doesn’t really like that answer. Well, you assume he doesn’t because he frowns, eyes lingering on the wound for a few moments longer before settling back into you, bright blues boring into yours with such unnerved intensity that you squirm. Instead of looking away, instead of rolling your eyes and settling on something else, you hold his gaze, and it never dawned on you how pretty his eyes really are, an alluring bright blue.

The words blurt before you can stop them.

“You still have me.” Your voice is impossibly quiet. “By the way.”

It's nothing fancy, no grandeur gesture or announcement. It's a soft spoken promise etched in the basking sunlight under lavender scented sheets, sheets that smell of him already. The words are simple, yet they hold a heavy insinuation about locked off parts of you, parts of you that you never let anyone see or feel or experience.

Yet it's how you say it, sweet and soft and laced with as much honey as a morning voice can have, but also firm and certain as if they hold their own, stand tall without a pillar as their foundation. Perhaps it's enough, at least for now, because even though it it isn't a monologue of any sorts, it's confirmation. It's hope.

Rafe swears he's never heard anything better.

His grin is lazy and relaxed, gaze soft and unnerved as he peers at you as if you've hung the stars yourself. His hands press a little firmer into your skin, simply relishing in the privilege to hold you, to feel you, to open yourself up to him as you never have with anyone before. An overwhelming sense of pride swells in his chest, of possession, because you're his. After what felt like a bedtime story, a far away fantasy, a dream, you're finally his.

His voice is saccharine. "Thank you, baby."

And the moment's ruined, at least the lovey-dovey part of it, because you can't help but scrunch your nose and feel your lip twitch at his words.

"Did you really just thank me?"

All he does is hum in affirmation, not even caring that you're practically laughing at him. He'll be fine if you jab at him until the end of time if it gets you to smile at him like this. The thought of forever with you makes his heart skip, and he attempts to mask it by leaning in, lowering his face into the crook of your neck and placing gentle kisses on your soft skin.

You feel a shiver up your spine as his fingers gently skim over the bare skin of your tummy at the same time he peppers kisses. "Sarah said since move in."

Another hum, and this time he's sucking a particularly sweet spot right under your jaw.

It makes you let out a low sigh, but you're not letting him distract you. "You've liked me since move in?"

I've loved you since move in, he almost says.

Instead, he settles on, yet, another hum.

Your hand flies to the nape of his neck, nails gently scratching the ends of his hair in a way that makes him emit a low groan. It's baritone against your vocal cord that sends warmth immediately to your core, the sensation of his body heat against yours, his lips, his nimble fingers, it's all too much, too teasing, too cruel if he still pushes you away with the fear of your injury.

"Rafe," you say in a hushed tone, embarrassed at how it's borderline a whine.

"Mhm?"

The vibration tickles your neck, and you attempt to hold onto your remaining piece of dignity as you manually shut your mouth to refrain from further humiliating yourself. Instead, you practically writhe beneath him, a hand coming up to grasp the back of his that shamelessly explores your stomach, squeezing once to emphasize your need without explicitly saying anything.

But, of course, Rafe isn't the type to let that slide.

You want to smack him when you feel him grin against your neck.

"You're insufferable," you manage to mumble.

He chuckles against your neck, low and audacious. "Sorry, baby." He doesn't sound the slightest bit apologetic. "What d'ya need?"

The words feel foreign on your tongue, words you've thought time and time again yet never had the gall to say, to speak into fruition, to submit to someone else in such a way.

"I want you."

The sigh that emits from him is guttural, deep from the back of his throat and almost needy at the sound of your words. It's dreamy, almost, as if you'd just set a nice, hot plate of his favorite meal right in front of him, ready to consume and exactly how he likes it. You figure he has been dreaming of this, dreaming of you beneath him and begging for him like a bitch in heat.

Rafe says your name almost painfully, his kisses and fondling coming to a halt.

But you groan, already knowing what he's about to say. "No. No, I literally feel fine."

He says your name again, almost in warning.

You ignore it. "It doesn't even hurt." It does a little. "Stop acting like I'm in a full body cast."

Rafe sighs gutturally, but not like before out of lust and instead out of annoyance, as if him withholding the act of sleeping with you is a giant inconvenience to him, especially when you try and push back. It's bad, really bad, timing, and sure you could wait a few days until he feels as though you're somewhat better, but, frankly, you don't want to. You assume he doesn't want to wait either, but is trying to be better, more gentlemanly with you.

You even go as far as throwing your dignity out the window.

"Please?"

The single word feels strange coming from you, as you've always hated the notion of begging for anything, especially for dick, and especially when the dick is attached to a guy like Rafe Cameron, a guy who's all flirt like it's a sport. And it's something he never hears from you, always double-taking when you add it to make sure he's heard you right.

But right now, he hears you loud and clear. And it kills him.

Rafe takes a beat, digesting the severity of your request and internally battling himself on the morality of the situation. Eventually, what feels like eons when in reality it's only been a minute, he pulls back from you, propping himself up on an elbow so he can stare down at you.

His eyes search yours for any uncertainty, any doubt or shroud of pain in your pretty features. But you give him nothing of the sorts, only peering up at him full blown with lust and need. You can tell he's thinking, the gears in his mind working overtime as he stares at you, eyes flickering from yours to the area with the staples.

"Here's the deal," he starts quietly, yet firm enough to get you nodding eagerly already. "I'm doing all the work."

You frown. "But—“

Immediately, his hand comes up to cover your mouth, palm pressing firmly to get you to shut up real quick. "No. You're gonna lay here and look pretty, and that's all you're going to do."

You're reluctant. You want to engage, to touch him freely, to be able to move to his mercy. You want to give back, to jerk him off and make him squirm just as he has to you, to love on him in the way he deserves for taking care of you all last night. The last thing you want to do here is lay still and offer nothing, not after what he's done for you, how he's made you feel in these past few hours, how he can make you feel from here on out.

It hardly seems fair to him. You're not concerned with yourself.

But all of that flies out the window when you feel him pressed against your thigh.

The breath nearly escapes from your lungs, your need suddenly tenfolds when you understand just how big he is, just how hard he is from a bit of kissing and folding from his end. You haven't even touched him yet, you've only simply said please, and he's ready for you yet patiently prolonging his need to check in on you.

"And at any point your head starts hurting," he continues nonchalantly as if his cock isn't pressing against you, "I'm stopping. Immediately. Understand?"

You blink at him, barely registering his words because you can't get over that this is happening.

"Star." A warning.

Stupidly, you find the ability to move again when you're nodding against his hand, anticipation bubbling in your stomach as your eyes meet. His brows are slightly furrowed in seriousness, blue eyes still bleary from just waking up. His hair, ridiculously, is still incredibly messy, yet as endearing as the sight is, you are seconds away from jumping his bones.

But you need to play this coy, need to behave so he'll indulge your (and his) wishes without any mishaps with your wound.

Rafe removes his hand. It sits idly on your ribcage.

"Words," he demands, fingers twitching with anticipation.

You nod anyway. "I understand." Your lips twitch. "Now, since I'm not allowed to move, can you kiss me or what?"

His mouth is on yours before you can even finish the sentence, and he swallows your words with a low mmrph, a hand teasing up your ribcage under your shirt to rest under the swell of your breast. Instantly, you're gripping his knuckles and moving his hand up so he can shamelessly fondle you where you want him to be, and at the feeling of his cool ring brushing over your nipple, you sigh into his mouth.

Rafe nearly reciprocates the sound, emitting a groan as he feels your hand leave his, instead bracing on the ridges of his abdomen and trailing down his shirt. It isn't until your fingers are skimming the waistband of his shorts where he's wincing, almost as if he's in pain.

"What'd I say, Star?"

You pout with faux innocence. "But I want to."

He nearly scoffs at you. "You'll have plenty of time for that later. For now, sit pretty and lemme eat you out, yeah?"

Your heart skips a beat as you try to rack your brain for the last time someone's eaten you out, more so the last time someone has offered to do so. The excitement outweighs the curiosity.

It's usually a pity reciprocation, as in you blow someone first, they eat you out after or the next time you see each other, or they don't even offer at all. You rarely even finish from it and have faked it more than once, but you know the stories surrounding Rafe Cameron. All of them say the same thing: he knows what he's doing. You're more than willing to find out.

"You want to?"

He scoffs again, nearly offended that you'd think he wouldn't want to. "Only been thinkin' about doin' so for ages."

His mouth is on yours again and you whine quietly, but it leaves as soon as it came before he's kissing your jaw, moving to your neck, descending down your body.

"Been wondering how you taste."

Biting a sweet spot on your neck.

"I think about you every fucking night."

Sucking one of your nipples through your sleep shirt.

"Fuck my hand to the thought of you 'til I'm seein' stars."

Kissing the flesh of your stomach as his fingers dangerously hook under your waistband. And from this angle with his face hovering at your hips, Rafe peers up at you, still searching for any uncertainty or flickers of pain.

"Can I, baby?" He asks, voice saccharine.

You're thrown for a loop, caught off guard by the obscenities of his comments (that you're not even sure he knew he made) that starkly contradict the softness of his tone asking for permission, peering up at you with a sliver of innocence that doesn't match the words he previously spoke, as if they were on his mind for ages, as if they were his second nature.

All you do is nod, blinking down at him.

He doesn’t like that. “Words.”

“Yes.” Your response is immediate. “Yours.”

Rafe lets out a shaky breath that tickles your stomach. “Gonna make me finish if you say stuff like that.”

“Isn’t that the plan?”

All he does is shake his head, shutting you up immediately when his fingers hook under the waistband of your sleep shorts and yank. Your breath hitches and, with a blink of an eye, you’re bare below the waist to him.

The shorts and underwear are thrown carelessly over his shoulder. “Plan is to fuck you right back to sleep,” he murmurs low, almost to himself as he stares at your cunt. “Sound good?”

His breath fanning over your core sends a chill down your spine, and you assume you’re glistening with need with the way his eyes almost darken at the sight of you, legs slowly spreading open and hooking over his shoulders as if you’ve done it a thousand times before. And he settled right in, one hand slithering up your chest to fondle your breast as the other ghosts over your cunt, his index and middle finger spreading you open achingly slow.

Your back arches. “Rafe.”

“Mhm?”

“Stop teasing.”

“I’m not,” he says simply, eyes glued to the way his fingers slowly disappear inside you.

You realize he’s not doing this to torture you, but to make himself actually believe this is happening, to soak in the moment that he’s been dreaming to experience. Here you are: cunt to the wind and begging for him, and he can’t get enough of it, of you. He’s seconds away from losing his mind, especially when you let out breathy moans when his fingers completely bury in you, curling in that sweet spot that has you whining so pretty he nearly finishes from the sound of it.

His eyes hungrily dart between his hand disappearing into you and your face, brows etched in pleasure and lips parted all hot and bothered. Slowly, so achingly slowly, Rafe pumps his fingers in and out, almost leaving your cunt entirely before slamming back in. His thumb, experimentally, rubs firm circles as to where he thinks your clit is.

He misses once, twice, but once he finds the spot that makes you let out a ragged moan, he doesn’t miss again.

A hand flies to his hair, tugging the messy strands harshly yet he pays no mind to it, completely and enamoringly bewitched to the sight of your glistening cunt taking his fingers so well, stretching open for him, inviting them with your warmth as if they were meant to stay buried in you. But he’s starting to get jealous of his hand, jealous of the way it gets to fuck you and his mouth doesn’t.

Without a word, Rafe lowers himself completely between your thighs.

His tongue feels like nothing you’ve experienced before as he eats you out like a man starving. Ravenous. Insatiable.

Selfishly, his fingers leave your cunt so his mouth can have you all to himself, groaning at the sweet taste of you as if it’s been paining him that he’s never gotten to taste you before. When his nose brushes your clit, you writhe pathetically beneath him, so much that his arm flies up to press down on your hip to stop you from moving, even though you continue to attempt fucking his face against his iron grip.

With a particularly firm brush of his nose against your clit, your hips practically buck up into him, and the coil gradually starts to build in your core.

“Fuck,” you breathily moan. "You're so— And I can't— You just— Fuck."

You sound like an idiot. A wriggling, babbling idiot as your mind tugs you in a million different directions, constantly distracted by his mouth, his moans, his fingers that re-enter your cunt and aid his tongue in a way that flips you sideways. You aren't sure what way is up right now, and your fruitless attempt to speak fails miserably, irrevocably rendering you speechless as the added combination of his mouth and fingers and thumb pressed firmly on your clit leave you moaning his name as if it's the only word you know.

His hips stutter into the mattress, both of you rutting like bitches in heat as he can tell you’re getting close. It’s all in the way you tug his hair a little tighter, arch your back a little higher, moan a little louder. His name falls from your lips like a mantra, a prayer, an incantation that renders you completely enamored with him, his touch, his mouth.

Especially when he groans into your cunt, the vibration only spurring you on further.

"Oh my god," Rafe murmurs into you, almost without meaning to. "You taste so sweet, Star."

All you can do in response is writhe, feeling the familiar coil start to build.

"Even better than I imagined," he rasps, inches from your cunt as he hovers for a moment, eyes darting between his hand fucking you and your face. Your head is thrown back on the pillow, eyes fluttered shut at the sensation of him, him, him. An unoccupied hand slithers up your ribcage under your shirt, reaching the swell of your breast and kneading the flesh. The ice sensation of his ring against your nipple only augments the pleasure.

And suddenly, it's bearing too much. His fingers plunging in and out, in and out, in and out, curling into the sweet spot inside your cunt over, and over, and over as his thumb presses firmly on your clit. It's the spot he hasn't missed since he found it, rubbing circles counterclockwise that make you practically see stars. His other hand pinching your nipple and shamelessly fondling the flesh as if he has every right (he does). His breathy moans fanning hot against your cunt as he stares abashedly.

"Never gonna get used to this," he curses, almost pained. "There isn't a fucking day that goes by where I don’t think about you."

The coil builds.

"You make me crazy and you don’t even know it. Wearin' my shirts thinking they were Sarah's, walking around in fucking nothing and lookin' like a fucking sin."

And builds.

He lets out a breath. "I can't count how many times I've thought about you like this, so fucking pretty underneath me."

And builds.

Rafe can tell, because you grip his hair a little harsher and grab the hand that's on your breast, almost as a way to ground yourself to the moment and make sure you don't fly away in pleasure. Your hips squirm and buck into his hand, chasing a high you can already tell is different from the rest. He's decided that you've never looked prettier: laying flush and moaning his name like a prayer.

It nearly snaps. "Rafe, you're— I'm gonna—"

"I know." His voice is saccharine. "Let me hear you, baby."

His mouth is back on your cunt, and the added sensation of his tongue aiding his fingers sends you over the edge, a wave of ecstasy washing to your core and searing hot from the waist down. You come with a strangled moan, a sound that goes straight to his dick as his hips stutter into the mattress, lapping and suuuuuuuuucking the orgasm straight from you.

The low groan he emits vibrates your nerves as he eats you out as a starved man, the noises lewd and straight pornographic as you ride out your high against his face. Your hand that grips his hair is pushing him further into you, further burying his mouth into the spot you need him the most as he laps up every last drop. The act does little to faze him, instead spurring him on to moan into you, the sensation reverberating throughout your waist and sending a shiver down your spine.

Your legs shake around his head and your chest heaves when you slowly come down, blinking the white spots from your vision and, momentarily, coming back to earth. Rafe continues to lick and suck and clean you up, claiming every last drop as he's always thought about doing, mouth still buried between your thighs and even going as far as licking his fingers dry of you.

When he mouth eventually does leave you, he doesn't pull away without placing a chaste kiss over your swollen bud, moving to decorate your thighs in pretty purple hickies and kissing up your body, smoothing your shirt up past your ribcage to take a breast in his mouth. The sensitive bud has you subconsciously arching your back up into his touch, not even realizing you do it as you still fight to come back to earth from the stupidly earth-shattering orgasm.

Rafe eventually makes his way up to your neck, sucking a quick sweet spot before moving to your jaw, then finally your lips.

When you kiss him, the breath momentarily leaves your lungs as you taste yourself on his lips, dazedly smiling from the haze that he caused. Your hand paws at his chest, settling on the firmness of his abdomen before trailing lower, and lower until your fingers are dipping under the waistband of his shorts and boxers in the blink of an eye.

Before he can pull back like he did earlier, your fingers nimbly find the base of his cock and skim down his length as if you're admiring the topography of a map.

Rafe instantly folds.

"Shit," he mutters, a mix between a moan and a whine as he rests his cheek against yours. "You can't just—"

You squeeze his cock for emphasis, causing his hips to stutter forward.

Rafe curses. "Star, oh my fucking god, oh m- You can't keep touching me like that, holy shit."

Of course, you don't listen, and continue to slowly jerk him off. He lets you for a few moments, caught up in the sensation of how nice your fingers feel wrapped around him, thumb smearing the pre-cum from his tip down his length that nearly sends him over the edge. The indulgence lasts maybe fifteen seconds, perhaps twenty, before you're squeezing particularly hard again.

His hand grips your wrist instantly. "You— I can't— You've got to—"

"I gotta what?" You feign innocence, nearly grinning and how he groans in response. "I wanna make you feel good."

"Fuck, you are," he rasps as if it's been ripped from him. "You make me feel so good all the time, baby. You don't even know it."

Pride shamefully swells in your chest at the anecdote.

"Then let me right now," you practically purr. "Please?"

Rafe grips your wrist tighter, actually stopping your movements for real this time. "No."

"No?"

He scoffs, but it comes out shaky.

"I'm not finishing in my fucking pants the first time I'm with you."

He ends the sentence with your name, a word he rarely uses, yet a word that invokes a visceral reaction from you every time he does. It almost makes you whine, almost. Yet, you actually don't know if you do or not because you're so blinded by lust that he could be whispering the secrets of the universe and you'd have no idea. Revealing the ingredients to his famous chocolate chip cookies. Spilling confidential documents that contain the cure to immortality. You'd have no idea.

And you also have no idea where this newfound eagerness is coming from, knowing damn well you've never begged for dick in your entire life.

"Then be with me," you practically beseech. "I'm yours."

Rafe curses at your words, taking a beat, two, before pulling his head back to look at you, to really look at you, his pretty blues boring into yours that are so blown with lust they nearly look black. He searches your expression for any teasing regard, anything to make him think that you're just saying that to get laid.

But you're not. You're pulsing for him, heart beating in tandem with his as if you were made to sync up. The urge to arch into him, to forever be molded to the sculpture of his body, is so devastatingly strong that it nearly pains you. The realization is horrific enough, but you truthfully can't find the energy to care or dwell on the sanctions of your dignity as you peer up at him, certain and bleeding with need for him.

"Mine?" He asks, and the clarification is detrimental.

You oblige. "Yes."

His gaze flickers to the crown of your head, to the wound. "But—"

"We'll go slow," you assure instantly, cutting off what you know he's going to say. "I want you. I don't want to wait."

He's dreaming. He must be. Because how'd he get so lucky to have you underneath him telling him how much you want him? Touching him in a way he only fantasized about? Needing him in the same way he's needed you for a year? The second he's inside you, is he gonna wake up and realize it was all a figment of his imagination? Left to succumb to the hypocrisies of his mind and move back to square one?

How could you not be a dream? Especially when you look so pretty and sound so sweet and feel so heavenly?

Rafe would be stupid to say no since you asked so nice.

So when you tug at the end of his shirt, this time he doesn't second guess the implications of your intentions and aides your act, gripping his shirt by the collar and carelessly pulling it off. You take a long second to glance at his chest, chiseled and crafted by a higher being, before your fingers are back to his pants. When you slowly start to tug his shorts and boxers down, he lets you, eventually letting you get down to his pubic bone before he's leaning back to fully kick them off.

Shamelessly, you stare at his body fully bare to you, and you nearly scoff at the audacity of him actually having a big dick. It's one thing for a guy to act like he has one just for all that smack talk to fly out the window when it's revealed to be small, but it's a completely different thing when the dick matches the attitude. And for him, for Rafe Cameron, to be both a cocky prick who happens to be well endowed is perhaps one of the audacious things you can think of.

Although you barely have time to comment on his size before his hands are all over you again, pushing the material of your shirt up to your sternum until you eventually get the hint to slightly sit up so he can slide it up over your body. You hiss when your breasts are fully exposed to the cool air, and a flicker of excitement (nerves? Whatever it is) sparks when you realize you're both bare to each other, exposing one another to the simplest of vulnerabilities one can share.

"You're beautiful, Star," is all he says before his mouth is on yours.

You kiss him back and paw at his chest as if it's a lifeline, clawing to pull him closer as if he isn't already molded to your figure. He hovers over you and when his cock, hard and aching and beautiful, brushes against your hip, you both moan into each other's mouths, him from the sensation and you from the anticipation.

Rafe's breath hitches, and the air completely leaves his lungs when you wrap your hand around him again. But the way you grab his differs from before, as earlier you were firm and needy, whereas now you hold him delicately, a wordless promise that you’re ready for him, all of him, at any time.

His hand grabs the back of yours. “You okay?”

You nod immediately against his lips, heart racing as he guides your hand that’s holding him down, down, down until his length is slipping through your folds, and you swear that Rafe fucking shudders from the feel of it.

“Holy fuck.” His forehead gently rests against yours, staring down at your almost connected bodies. “I’m not even in you yet and you already feel so fucking nice.”

Your hips buck into him, eliciting a sharp breath from him. “Then be in me.” You hate how pathetic you sound. “Please.”

However, the words are music to his ears and he could bust right here and now from them. “You don’t need to beg, baby. I have you. Always will. I got you.”

His words are saccharine. Soft and delicate in a tone only reserved for you. It’s his version of a declaration of love, an indirect promise that he’ll be here, he’s it for you, he’s all you need. The words are full of life and hope, and you’re eternally grateful that he embraced your need instead of poking fun, and you realize it’s because he needs you just as bad as you need him in this given moment. He has no room to tease. Nor do you.

And when he does slip inside you, the feeling is indescribable.

Rafe’s big. Bigger than you’ve ever had. And he can definitely tell based on the sharp breath you take when he’s halfway in. Although he’s careful with you, gradually pushing in when you give him the green light and immediately stopping when you visibly react, and as much as you appreciate the time and care, it’s so achingly slow, so much slower than you need him to be and he’s teasing you without even realizing.

When he’s completely buried in you, pubic bone to pubic bone, you feel so irrevocably full in a way you never have had before. You can feel his cock twitch inside you when you moan into his mouth at the sensation of being completely succumbed to him, the feel of him, all of him everywhere at once.

“You okay?” His ask is immediate.

“Yes.” Your hands slither up his chest to grip his shoulders, to attempt to find something to ground yourself too. “Feel so full.”

He almost finishes just from that. Almost. And thank god he doesn’t.

“If you don’t start moving,” you shakily warn, “I’m gonna—”

You’re interrupted when Rafe rocks into you once, moving centimeters further into you before pulling out almost completely. You nearly curse at him again, yell at him for basically leaving your cunt until he’s thrusting back in faster than you anticipated. Your nails become talons in his shoulders, indenting crescent moons on his smooth skin and forever etching your mark, your claim.

“You’re gonna what?” His grin is wide and breath shaky, peering down at you with not only amusement, but pure admiration. “Kill me?”

“Shut up.”

Of course, he doesn’t. “You’re all talk, Star, you’ve been sayin’ that forever and you’ve never once tried.”

You moan when he buries in you deep, so deep, it brushes your cervix. “You’re—You’re insufferable.”

“Yet you let me fuck you nice.”

“Who said you do it nice—?”

The words are ripped from your throat when his thumb comes down to press on your clit, and the irony of that plus your previous words is comical. Especially when he grins so fucking wide that it sends you nearly into psychosis, arching your back to further press your chest to his.

He preens as his thumb rubs circles on your clit. “That qualify as nice?”

You want to kill him. You want to smack that stupid smile off his face. Yet you want to kiss him and yank him closer at the same time. The Jekyll and Hyde emotions make your brain feel all fuzzy, and for a moment, all you can respond with is a low moan, almost in annoyance yet dripping in pleasure. You can’t help it— he feels so fucking nice inside you, nicer than you’ve ever had before, rocking in and out of you as if it’s what he was put in this earth to do.

“You always this mouthy in bed?”

The attempt to keep your last shroud of dignity before he makes you a blabbering mess fails.

Rafe thrusts into you a little harder, a warning. “Always this mouthy with you.”

“How flattering.”

“Can’t help it, was made to worship you, baby.”

“Am I su-supposed to thank you?”

He grins at your stuttering, eyes shamelessly watching the way your tits bounce from the force of his thrusts. “A bit of appreciation would be nice.”

You hate that you’re getting close to finishing. In the time that you’ve known him, you’ve been building up walls and closing yourself off to the possibility of getting your heart broken by him. You told yourself that the day you let Rafe Cameron in is the day of rapture, of when all hell breaks loose, of when you finally lose your mind.

Yet his words, his touch, his pretty eyes: it’s all too much. The attention is too much, especially on your clit and how he manages to push himself deeper so delicately that it reaches regions unknown, hitting spots you didn’t think possible and rendering you speechless even further. You hate how he is fucking you nice.

“C’mon, Star,” Rafe muses low, yet there’s a slight strain to his voice that indicates he’s just as fucked out as you. “Tell me how good it feels.”

You don’t want to. You want him to eat that shit eating grin and, for once, be humbled. His ego is too big, too audacious, and you know that he’s only saying this because he knows it’s true, he knows how good it feels, he knows how badly you crave and respond to his touch. He only knows because he feels the same regarding you.

And for once in your life, you secede.

“Feels good.” You let your eyes flutter shut to try and mask your embarrassment. “Feels so good, Rafe.”

You hear him moan. His rhythm stuttering.

“But don’t let it get to your head,” you manage to add, nails scraping on his back as you feel a familiar jolt to your core.

“God, you’re a fucking dream,” he albeit whines, the teasing demeanor dropping immediately as he folds his cards to your hand. “Can’t believe you’re mine.”

The coil builds in your lower stomach.

“You’re so— And I’ve been—” He’s a fucking mess, and you figure he’s close, too. “Fuck, you’re perfect, so tight, so warm, I’m— Shit, baby, I’m losing my fucking mind.”

You’re right there with him, one hand scratching up his neck to grip at the ends of his grown hair, tugging like a bitch in heat to get his lips to hover over yours. And when he does, when Rafe’s mouth brushes yours, you yank him closer to kiss him as your orgasm builds. The kiss is barely a kiss as you both pant into each other’s mouths, breathy and needy and whining as the lewd noises coming from your connected bodies spurs you on further.

“Yours,” you manage shakily, orgasm moments away.

His is too. “Mine.”

And you both finish like that: needy and flush and pathetically encapsulated by the feeling of one another. Your nails indent crescent moons in the smoothness of his muscles, scratching fresh red marks along the porcelain skin while he moans pornographically into your mouth, brows pinched in pleasure as you feel him come hot spurts inside of you.

The intensity is tenfold from your earlier orgasm. It’s searing hot from the waist down plus the added sensation of him irrevocably filling you up in a way you didn’t know you craved until this very moment. Your back arrrrrches into his chest, to fit the mold of his body rocking ferociously into yours as your chests conduct heat from the friction. Your legs hook impossibly tight around his lower back, pulling him tighter than you thought possible by crossing your ankles and using that leverage to bring him closer, to bury him further into you.

The sound is obscene. The lewd noises coming from your simultaneous orgasms plus the shameful moans that escape both your lips. It’s filthy. Downright pathetic. Yet so utterly and completely unapologetic that you can’t find the capacities to care. You can’t even tell which way is up right now, hips bucking desperately into his to chase the high and relish in the feeling of Rafe, Rafe, Rafe.

Your ears have been ringing, body on the verge of floating, senses so incredibly dulled by the ferocity of your orgasm that you don’t realize he’s been speaking the whole time, riding out his high with his words that could come across as prayer.

“—love you, oh my— Never letting you go, never gonna fucking— Oh my god— Oh my— Can’t believe you’re mine, all mine, Star.”

“Yours,” you manage to repeat, breathy and moaning and so fucking pathetic. “All yours. Always.”

That just makes him whine into your mouth. Literally. His hips slam into you over and over and over as his cum gushes out of you and spills onto freshly washed sheets but you can’t find the gall to care, not when he feels this fucking good, not when you feel this fucking great, euphoric on the sensation of him surrounding you. He’s inside you. On top of you. All around you. It’s intoxicating yet alluring. You’re captivated, and your high has never hit harder.

You see white spots momentarily, all the bundle of nerves rushing south so quickly that you’re left with your brain as mush. Feeling your eyes roll back, your hips have a mind of their own as they rut in tandem with his, both of you riding out your highs together in solidarity as everything starts to numb.

Chest heaving, you slowly start to come down from the intensity as your vision slowly regenerates and your hands soon stop shaking. Your thighs, however, are a lost cause hooked around his waist, trembling and shaking his body with the ferocity. He comes down, too, thrusts gradually slowing down as he pumps the rest of his load into you, cum dribbling out of your cunt and down your thighs onto the lavender scented sheets now stained with him.

“Holy fuck,” he rasps when he stops moving, stops thrusting, stops coming, still buried to the hilt inside you.

His cheek is warm against yours. “That was… I’ve never.. You really…”

You’re a blabbering mess, that much is obvious, especially when the spots stop blurring your vision and your body stops trembling as much as before. And as if the moment couldn’t get intimate enough, his hand is leaving your clit (eliciting a low whine from you) and trailing up your stomach to your shoulder, skimming down your bicep and wrist to engulf your hand.

His fingers lace with yours like muscle memory, squeezing once, twice, three times.

It dawns on you right now, in this very moment, that he said that he loved you.

The words had been so sudden, came and went so quickly that you barely registered them in the moment as you were caught up with the intensity of your simultaneous orgasm. But you heard them, felt them roll off his tongue as if he’s been itching to say them for so long, with such ease to them that you figure it’s been sitting docile in his brain and waiting to be revealed.

But he doesn’t register them. Not outright, anyway, and you are thoroughly shocked at how easy you’re taking it.

Love has never come easy to you. Not until you met Sarah and your friends. Family weren’t reliable and home friends were caught in the past, so you’ve been reaching for a version of love you thought you deserved. But then you realized it’s more than blood and childhood obligations to tether yourself to, and more about connection, care, respect. Sarah and your friends made you come to that realization. Yet Rafe makes you believe them.

You’re about to say something, about to address the words and respond with something stupid.

But Rafe slowly pulls out of you, your combined fluids making an audacious mess at the action, as he rolls over onto his back, staring at the ceiling with his hand still laced in yours as if he’ll float away he lets go.

“Oh my fucking god,” he eventually curses, chest heaving. “I didn’t even use a condom.”

You can’t help but laugh. No, cackle.

Because that was the catalyst for the night’s mishap. You needed condoms, he left to get some, you fell in his absence, he discovered you too late. It was your attempt to be good, to be safe and responsible because you always are. But, of course, you were too caught up in the pleasantries of having him, needing him, craving him.

You squeeze his hand without meaning to. He doesn’t mind, lulling his head to the side to stare at your profile.

“So much for being careful,” you muse lightly, voice hoarse. “And so much for changing my sheets.”

You feel his bright blues boring into you as you stare at the ceiling. He boyishly laughs, a sound that is music to your ears as he squeezes your hand back in a way that makes your heart lurch, especially now that you know his true feelings, feelings he doesn’t realize he exposed in the heat of the moment.

“My bad, Star,” Rafe says with such eased nonchalance that it makes your head spin. “I’ll make sure your sheets live to see another day.”

All you do is hum, feeling airy and spacey in the rising sunlight as his hand is warm in yours. When the mattress dips beside you, you don’t flinch or crack a joke or freeze, but rather lull your head to the side to invite him into your space.

And he accepts the invitation, propping himself up on his side to practically peer down at you, taking the hand that isn’t in yours to cradle your face so delicately, so carefully, that your heart skips a beat. Especially when his blues bore into your eyes and gaze on you with a softness that augments the lovey-dovey feeling that you so desperately hate.

“You okay?” He asks for the umpteenth time tonight.

You nod against his palm, figuring that being vulnerable couldn’t hurt. After all, he’s seen you naked and bleeding and crying and still hadn’t run away yet, so you assume that he’s in it to see all your faults, unfazed by the ugly parts of you that you rarely let people see.

“Yeah,” you murmur gently. “Are you?”

Rafe can’t help but snort at your concern. “Baby, I’m on fuckin’ cloud nine right now.”

You manage a grin.

“Let me get you cleaned up,” he adds, leaning in before you can protest to place a soft chaste kiss on your lips. “Stay here and look pretty.”

He’s leaning back before you know it, hand leaving your face and body leaving your vicinity, the warmth leaving with him. You watch groggily as he slips his boxers back on (after standing idly for a moment to look and see where they went) and momentarily exiting your room. The first thought that comes to mind is that you should cover up, you should attempt to appear halfway decent before he comes back to try and gain back an ounce of your dignity.

But the urge never comes. You simply wait for him.

Rafe reappears seconds later, a warm damp towel between his fingers as he sits on the edge of the bed. Flinching when the towel meets your thighs, he cleans up what he can with the utmost delicacy that you’d think he’s handling fine china. And to him, he is.

When your eyelids hang heavy, you catch a glimpse of him smirking, almost to himself, as he finishes up wiping you clean.

You try to frown but you think it comes across as a smile. “What?”

All he does is hum gently. “Told you I’d fuck you back to sleep, that’s all,” he muses, clearly pleased with himself and your fucked our state.

“Rafe.”

“What? I’m a man of my word.”

When you try to stand on your own, he’s there to take place a guiding hand on your elbow, helping you find your footing like a baby fawn. Rafe grabs you your robe when you beckon for it, sliding over your body and maneuvering into the bathroom to use it and do a very, very quick version of your night routine (good morning, world). In the midst of you re-entering your bedroom, you find him just finishing up replacing the (now damp) fitted sheet with a clean (dry) one you had in the closet.

“Found a spare set,” is all he said about the matter, and instead helps you out of your robe to feel you bare again.

You crawl back into bed, nearly sighing at how inviting it is as you flip onto your back. Through sleepiness, you watch him make sure the towel and sheets are in your hamper before allowing himself to relax, wasting no time easing back into your bed and settling in next to you as if he was made to lay here, as if the mattress is already molded to his figure, as if you already haven’t designated that side of the bed to him anyway.

His hand slithers across your tummy, laying rest on your bare hip bone under the sheets and pulling you taut to him. You’re yanked away from your usual spot and held flush against his chest, inhaling his scent like a freak and letting the atmosphere lull you to sleep.

One of Rafe’s hands cradles the back of your head, the other tracing the vertebrae up and down your spine.

“Later,” he says after a long silence, “when we’re feeling okay, I’m taking you out.”

Your heart skips a beat. “You are?”

His response is immediate. “Yes. Dinner. Dessert. Fuckin’ go-kart for all I care. Whatever you want, Star. Wanna show you off ‘nd show everyone you’re mine,” he murmurs, voice low and baritone and so casual as if it doesn’t rattle your brain.

Still, you can’t help but smile.

“Don’t remember you asking,” you tease, seconds away from sleep. “Is this your fool-proof flirting tactic in action?”

He snorts, and it makes his chest bump impossibly closer to yours. “My tactic wasn’t all that fool-proof. It took you a year to notice.”

You preen, even though he can’t see it. “Had to keep you humble, Cameron.”

Your voice is impossibly soft, so genuinely fucking happy that he can’t even poke fun. Not while you feel so nice in his arms, anyway.

“Mhm, Star,” he drawls out. “Speaking of humility, we’re adding a new law to the friend constitution.”

You already know where he’s going with this, and groan against the soft skin of his neck.

“Rafe—“

“No one is allowed to shower in extreme temperatures while a second party isn’t present,” he recites formally, not even bothering to apologize for cutting you off. “I’m proposing that at the next town meeting.”

You manage to roll your eyes. “That’s excessive.”

He probably senses it. “It’s necessary. Your injuries make up at least half the list.”

“Semantics.”

“Never leaving your side from now on,” he murmurs casually, “and if I do, I’m wrapping you in bubble wrap.”

The thought pathetically excites you, biting your lip to suppress a wide grin that he wouldn’t even be able to see anyway. You smooth your fingers over his abdomen, simply taking a moment to appreciate the close proximity, how he opened his heart to you on a silver platter and irrevocably make him yours.

“That a promise?”

He hums, as if he has all the time in the world to indulge, as if it’s obvious that he’d be serious. You’re his now, how could you forget? Especially when his arms hold you close and his knee slots between your legs, latching to you, claiming you in a way no one ever has before. It’s absolutely intoxicating, thrilling, allured to his scent and his touch and him, him, him.

You think you love him. You’d be stupid not to.

And you think he has some sort of idea, especially when you subconsciously pull your head back to stare at him, heads sharing the same pillow and faces inches apart. You simply stare at him, admire the strength of his jaw and the slope of his nose, how his laugh lines are accentuated when he smiles in the slightest, the blue of his eyes boring into yours, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours.

This is how you come down: bones exhausted from the night before, mind turned to mush by the injury and how he’s made your head spin with every flirtatious comment, every confession, every genuine act of love, compassion, care. You fall asleep in his arms and he falls asleep in yours, lulled by the cadence of his heartbeat and his soft, sweet nothings.

You think you say you love him, you aren’t sure in your practically asleep state, but when he pulls you a fraction tighter in his sleep, you let yourself relax. You let yourself be loved by him.

salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission. mdni.

notes sorry for the LAME ending hope u enjoyed the series!!! thank you for all the support this has been super fun to write. also NOT CONDONING DRUG USE okay thanks!!!!

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yukioos · 2 days ago

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YUKI I HAVE AN IDEA!

What if reader and shoto are arranged married for quirk stuff. They are aware due to both sides of family. What’s awkward was THEY WERE CLASSMATES AJAJAJJAJAJA pls, this is funnier in my head.

when you’re in an arranged marriage with shoto todoroki, your old classmate from UA

when you were informed you had an arranged marriage with shoto todoroki, you were confused until your father told you it was because of quirk marriage.

unfortunately, it happened to both your father and shoto’s father, as you knew him from UA. you already knew much about his past, how his quirks work and how he uses them, which attacks of his are stronger and which are weaker, so maybe it wouldn’t be too uncomfortable.

you weren’t necessarily devastated, just a little surprised, as you hadn’t seen him in a year or so. when shoto was told he would wed you, he wasn’t too ecstatic either, not wanting to have to make a ‘perfect child’ like what his father tried to do. but he remembered your name, the memories flooding back from UA and from the war you almost lost each other in.

but your father wanted you to spend time with shoto so the two of you could get used to each other, a bit sweeter on his part. surely, the hangout wouldn’t be too awkward, after all, you were friends-ish back in high school!

oh, you couldn’t have been more wrong.

you arrive at the todoroki residence with your father for dinner, walking in with formal clothes and jewelry on. when he rings the doorbell, you stand behind him, and shoto’s father, endeavor, answers the doorbell immediately with a smile on his face.

he greets your father and opens the door for him, “mr. l/n, i’m glad you could make it!” his smile slightly falters, “where’s the girl?”

you tilt your head and peek over your father’s shoulder with piercing eyes, staring into endeavor’s now softer ones. he grins as the two of you walk in, and he places a warm hand on your shoulder, leading you further into the house, more to the dining table.

there, you see shoto sitting at the table with food methodically scattered across it, and he taps his hand against his thighs, waiting for you. once he hears the thumping of feet coming towards him, he turns his head but doesn’t stand up or greet his father, nor yours, but he sends you a slight smile. he wouldn’t admit it, but he missed you dearly.

so you sit across from him, and your fathers sit across from each other, starting a conversation but not inviting you two in. you roll your eyes and try to avoid eye contact, feeling yourself become sweatier and more nervous by every passing second. he was still intimidating.

you grab some food and put it on your plate, and shoto quickly does the same, as he was waiting for you to grab the food first. you begin to eat with your chopsticks, and chew quickly, supposing fuyumi made the food, as she did back in high school.

but you feel eyes looking at you, so you sigh and look at your father, who has a disapproving look on his face. he scolds, “y/n, you know the men are supposed to eat first.”

you raise an eyebrow in confusion and shake your head, “since when is that a rule?”

your father continues staring at you before giving a forced smile to endeavor, “i apologize for her behavior, i don’t know what's gotten into her lately.”

they continue their conversation, and you politely ask shoto, “where’s the bathroom?”

he eagerly replies, “i’ll show you,” and stands up from his seat, placing his napkin on the table and leading you down numerous hallways to the bathroom.

you break the comfortable silence, “it’s kinda weird seeing you again, shoto. sorry we lost contact after high school, i got really busy.”

he pauses, “it’s alright,” he tries to make up something, “i got busy too.” it wasn’t a total lie, but he thinks he could’ve managed keeping a relationship with you while doing hero work.

you nod, and he puts out a hand, referring to the bathroom, and you thank him, go to the bathroom, and you don’t hear the footsteps that trail in the hallway.

toya keeps his hands in his pockets, then asks, “why are you standing outside the door, weirdo?”

a soft smile appears on shoto’s face. he speaks, “y/n’s in there,” then raises an eyebrow when toya doesn’t immediately respond, “the earth-wind girl.”

toya lets out an ‘ohh’ and tilts his head, “what’s she doing here?”

shoto’s eyes slightly widen at his brother’s confusion. how the hell did he not know about his marriage? he blurts out, “dad arranged us to get married.”

toya’s eyes widen, and suddenly there’s a darkness within them. he balls up his fists and asks, “history repeats itself, huh? that bastard isn’t any different from a couple of years ago.” he pauses, eyes becoming a bit more teasing, “what are your thoughts on her? on your marriage?”

shoto takes a second to think about it, looking up at the ceiling. he softly replies, “i don’t want to get married to her for the sole purpose of having a multi-quirk child,” he hesitates saying something, but eventually opens his mouth, “but i’m not totally against marrying her. she knows how to handle herself and is good around children, plus she’s smart, has a great personality.” toya’s eyebrow raises, and he grins, but shoto shakes his head, “i remember that from my high school years.”

he then realizes that toya isn’t fully looking at him, but rather behind him, at you.

you came out of the bathroom a few minutes ago, and shoto didn’t even notice.

in my mind toya is rehabilitated and goes to therapy so he’s back home w his siblings and parents. thought it’d be fun and maybe a lil cute to add him bc i miss him so much, thank you so much for requesting this. it was pretty cute to make

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orellazalonia · 1 day ago

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Hey!! I would like to request a Bucky Barnes x reader fic where their daughter shows up from the future. Bucky and Reader aren’t dating or really even know each other that well yet (maybe they share mutual friends on the team or are friends but just dancing around each other a bit??), so this could be a surprise to them. You could have it that she keeps saying she can’t share information about the future but then accidentally drops information like they have a pet cat named alpine and she has three siblings (Bucky deserves a big loving family) without even totally realizing it. Idk if this is even a great idea, but I like your writing and thought this could be a fun request. Thank you for sharing your writings with us!! <3

Hello there, dear! This was such a cute request, thank you for it! I do admit it was a challenge figuring out how to seamlessly combine each element. So, I hope I did well and that you enjoy! Happy reading!!! ♡

Out of Time, Into Our Lives

Summary: A teen girl suddenly appears at the Avengers compound claiming to be from the future. While she tries to avoid revealing too much, she accidentally and subtly drops hints about her life, her siblings, and the deep bond she shares with you and Bucky Barnes both. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.7k+

Main Masterlist

It started like any other morning at the Avengers compound. Quiet, a little too quiet. You were nursing your first real cup of coffee, leaning against the counter in the common room kitchen while chatting lazily with Wanda about her latest attempt at baking banana bread.

Bucky entered halfway through your sentence, nodding politely at you before making a beeline for the fridge. You and he had been doing this little dance for a while now. Friendly, respectful, always a step or two away from crossing into something more. You liked his dry humor, the way his voice softened when he asked how your day was. But neither of you had made a move. Not yet.

Just as you took a sip, FRIDAY’s calm, robotic voice interrupted:

“Alert. Temporal breach detected. Unauthorized presence in the compound.”

You and Bucky both straightened at the same time.

“Temporal breach?” He muttered, already halfway to the hall. You followed.

It wasn’t often something genuinely strange happened anymore, but what you found in the hallway outside one of the research wings made your breath catch in your throat.

A girl stood there, around seventeen. Messy hair pulled into a loose braid. Her clothes didn’t look particularly futuristic, but there was something… off. Like she didn’t belong. She wasn’t panicking, wasn’t aggressive. She was just staring at a portrait of the original Avengers lining the corridor wall, head tilted slightly.

When she noticed you, her eyes widened but it wasn’t fear that passed over her face. It was recognition.

Her gaze locked onto Bucky first. Then shifted to you. And something in her face softened.

“Oh,” She breathed. “It’s earlier than I thought.”

You frowned. “Do we know you?”

“I’m… not supposed to say anything,” She said quickly, straightening. “I mean, I can’t. It would mess with… everything. I wasn’t even supposed to be here. I didn’t mean to come through. The rift just kind of… swallowed me.”

“Rift?” Bucky echoed, stepping closer.

The girl put her hands up, showing no threat. “I know how this sounds. But I swear, I’m not dangerous. I’m not here to hurt anyone. I just need help getting back.”

You gave her a once-over; she didn’t seem injured, but she looked like she hadn’t slept in a while. Underneath the brave exterior, she seemed a little lost.

“Okay,” You said gently. “We believe you. Let’s just take this slow. What’s your name?”

She hesitated. “I can’t tell you that.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“I’m serious,” She insisted. “If I tell you who I am, it could screw up the timeline. I mean, it already is screwed up if I’m standing here. But I really can’t afford to make it worse.”

Wanda appeared in the doorway, her expression unreadable. “She’s not lying,” She said quietly. “She’s scared. But not of us.”

The girl nodded quickly. “Thank you. I’m just… trying to wait it out. The breach will reverse itself. Probably. Eventually.”

You crossed your arms. “So what are we supposed to call you?”

“Uh. I don’t know. You can give me a fake name?” She offered with a shrug. “That feels safer.”

There was a long pause, awkward. You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but she beat you to it:

“Is Alpine here?”

You blinked. “Alpine?”

Bucky looked up sharply. “How do you know about Alpine?”

The girl’s face went pale. “I mean. I—uh—I read about her? In the files. Maybe. Probably.”

Bucky’s frown deepened.

She let out a tiny groan and rubbed her face. “I told myself not to say anything specific. Ugh. Okay. Look. I’m just going to sit in a corner, be very quiet, and not ruin anything else, okay?”

You sat beside her, slowly, noting how carefully she avoided looking at Bucky too long. Not out of fear, but something heavier.

She tugged her sleeves down over her hands. “This was easier when you were already married.” The words slipped out of her mouth like a quiet sigh, too casual for how much they weighed.

You and Bucky both stiffened.

He stared at her. You weren’t sure he was even breathing. “What did you just say?”

She blinked, realizing. “Oh. I mean, I didn’t mean it like that. I shouldn’t have said anything. Please ignore that.”

You frowned. “Wait… what do you mean, already married?”

“I’m not answering that.” Her voice sharpened slightly now, trying to backtrack. “Sorry. I really can’t say anything else. Like, actually can’t. This isn’t just me being dramatic, it's literally against every single future protocol. I’ve already said too much.”

Bucky stepped forward slowly, his tone low but steady. “You said you came through a rift. Do you know how that happened?”

She looked grateful for the change in subject, nodding. “I was working with someone back there, on uh, stabilizing temporal energy. I wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near the live field, but things got weird. And loud. And then everything just… cracked.”

“Cracked?” You asked.

“Yeah.” She hugged her arms around herself. “Like a window splintering. I fell through. And now I’m here. Too early. Way too early.”

You tilted your head. “Too early for what?”

She looked at you, then at Bucky, and something softened in her expression. Like she knew the two of you better than you knew yourselves. Like there was something unspoken that pained her to keep secret.

But she didn’t answer. Instead, she whispered, “I shouldn’t even be talking to you yet.”

FRIDAY’s voice interrupted gently. “Should I notify Director Fury?”

“No,” Bucky said sharply. Too quickly. Then he glanced at you. “…Not yet.”

The girl looked surprised. “You’re not sending me to a cell?”

You offered a faint smile. “We’re not monsters.”

“And you’re not dangerous,” Bucky added, quieter now. “At least not yet.”

She snorted. “Wow. Thanks, I guess.”

Wanda stepped closer, watching her closely. “You’re scared,” She murmured. “But you’re also… relieved. Why?”

The girl didn’t answer right away. She just looked back at the wall, where a photo of the original team hung in a dusty frame. After a long silence, she whispered, “Because I missed this. Seeing it again. Seeing you all… before everything changes.”

Her voice cracked on that last word. You saw it, just barely: the tension in her jaw, the sheen in her eyes she was trying to blink away.

“I can’t stay long,” She said, turning her face away like she didn’t want either of you to see the emotion creeping in. “So just… let me be here until the breach resets. Then I’ll be gone, and this’ll be nothing more than a strange footnote in someone’s mission report.”

You looked over at Bucky. His brow was furrowed, mouth slightly open like he had a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue but no idea how to ask any of them.

She noticed, smiled a little, sadly. “You always look like that when you’re overwhelmed.”

His lips parted, but she cut in quickly, raising a hand. “Nope. Not answering anything. I’m very good at not answering.”

A long silence settled between the three of you.

Then she yawned. A real one. Unfiltered. She rubbed her eyes like a kid, her exhaustion finally catching up.

“Can I… take a nap somewhere not surrounded by broken lab equipment?”

You smiled despite yourself. “Yeah. We’ll figure something out.”

Bucky’s voice was low. “You hungry?”

She paused, like she hadn’t considered that. “Kinda. Do you still make those-“ She caught herself. Froze. “…Never mind.”

But the warmth in her eyes didn’t fade. She didn’t say it. But it was already there, written in every look she gave the two of you:

She knew you. And she loved you both.

Even if she couldn’t say it.

The girl slept for twelve hours straight. You'd offered her the spare room near the east wing, technically meant for visiting guests, but it had soft blankets and a window view, which she seemed to appreciate.

You sat outside her door for most of the first hour, just in case she tried to run or vanished the way she arrived. But she didn’t.

Bucky checked in at least three times too, though he pretended he was just “walking by.”

When she finally emerged the next morning, hair sticking out in wild directions and wearing one of your old sweatshirts you’d left folded on the chair, she looked younger. More like a kid playing dress-up than a displaced anomaly from the future.

She padded into the kitchen barefoot and blinked at you, rubbing her eyes. “You’re making eggs.”

“Good morning to you too,” You said with a grin. “Hungry?”

“Starving.” She yawned and flopped down at the counter like she’d done it a hundred times.

Bucky entered a moment later, nodding to you both. “Morning.”

She perked up when she saw him, then quickly forced her face back into something neutral, like she’d caught herself.

You passed her a plate. “Toast, scrambled eggs, hash browns.”

She dug in immediately. “Thank you. Food here’s just as good as I remember- I mean, as I hoped it’d be.”

You bit back a smile. “Smooth.”

She glanced at Bucky nervously, but he didn’t press. He just poured himself coffee and sat across from her, watching her with quiet curiosity.

“So,” you said lightly, “What should we call you?”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “Call me…” She looked around the room, clearly stalling. “Jules?”

You tilted your head. “Is that your real name?”

“Nope.” She smiled a little too innocently. “Which makes it perfect.”

Bucky took a sip of coffee, eyes never leaving her. “Alright, Jules. Mind if we ask a few things?”

“As long as it’s not timeline-altering, catastrophic, or classified by future standards, maybe.”

You exchanged a glance with Bucky. “Okay,” You said slowly. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” She answered, mid-bite. “Chronologically. Time-wise… eh. Don’t ask.”

Bucky leaned forward slightly. “Do you have a family? In your… original timeline?”

Her chewing slowed just a little. Her expression flickered. Then she nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

Silence fell again. After a moment, she added, “It’s… a big family. Messy. Loud. Someone’s always yelling, someone’s always drawing on the walls, and someone’s always pretending they didn’t start it.”

You smiled softly. “Siblings?”

She paused, eyes widening like she just realized what she said. “I didn’t—wait. That wasn’t—I mean—”

Bucky raised a brow. “You have siblings?”

She groaned and put her face in her hands. “Dang it.”

“How many?” You asked, voice careful.

She peeked through her fingers. “Three.” Then flopped back dramatically in her seat. “Ugh. I knew I’d slip up. You two are too nice. It’s disarming.”

Bucky chuckled quietly. “You don’t have to tell us anything else.”

“No, it’s fine,” she mumbled. “At this rate I’ll blurt out the entire family tree before lunch.”

“Do you like them?” You asked, curious.

A slow smile spread across her face. “Yeah. I love them. They're chaos. But the kind you miss when it's quiet.”

Bucky studied her like she was a riddle. “Are they older than you?”

She looked down at her plate. “Some. Some younger.”

And that was it. She shut down after that, turning her attention fully back to her breakfast. You let her. The moment felt like something private, like she’d tugged back a curtain for just a second and now needed it closed again.

But later, when she wandered into the rec room to find Alpine curled in a sunbeam, she sank to the floor and whispered something to the cat that made Bucky freeze in the doorway.

You didn’t catch the words. But you caught the tone: nostalgic, fond, like she’d said it a thousand times before.

And when Alpine, notoriously selective, climbed into her lap without hesitation, she just stroked her fur like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she belonged.

The days that followed were strangely easy.

She, Jules, settled in like a half-remembered song. Not quite a stranger, not quite someone you knew, but comfortable. Familiar. You found her sitting on the kitchen counter in the mornings, legs swinging as she ate cereal straight from the box. You caught her once talking softly to FRIDAY, as if the AI were an old friend she’d grown up with.

Bucky never said much. But he was there. Quietly hovering, checking if she was eating enough, if she was sleeping okay. They started watching movies in the common room, not speaking much, but it was something. The space between them had stopped feeling like distance. It was anticipation now. Recognition.

And then there was the night Bucky found her on the roof.

You followed the scent of cold air and firewood up the metal stairs and found them sitting side by side, backs against the railing, stars overhead. Jules was hugging her knees, wearing one of Bucky’s jackets now. It was too big for her, sleeves past her fingertips. But she looked warm. Safe.

You stayed back, watching quietly from the door. Listening.

“I didn’t think I’d meet you like this,” She admitted softly. “This early. I wasn’t ready.”

Bucky didn’t respond right away. Just nodded once, slow and heavy.

“You remind me of her,” She glanced up at the stars. “Not just the way you look at people, but the way you don’t. The way you… hold back. Like you’re always waiting for someone to decide you’re worth staying for.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “And did they?”

She looked at him. “Mmm, maybe.”

He turned toward her. “Did I?”

There was a heartbeat’s pause before she whispered, “You never left.”

Then she flinched, realizing again what she’d said. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

But Bucky didn’t press. He didn’t need to.

The silence that followed was full of things neither of them could say.

You all started tiptoeing around the inevitable after that. Jules hadn’t poofed back yet, but every hour felt borrowed. She stopped sleeping as much. Kept checking corners for changes in the air. Listening for that hum she said she’d felt right before the breach opened.

On the fourth day, it happened.

You were in the kitchen, scrambling eggs again, same as the first day. She was mid-laugh, telling you something vague and harmless about a prank her “friend’s little brother” pulled once involving holograms and Steve’s shield. You didn’t even notice the shimmer at first.

Then Bucky’s face changed.

You turned and saw it. A distortion in the center of the room. Like heat rising off pavement, but colder. The air around it began to swirl. And her smile fell away.

“It’s happening,” She said quietly. Not surprised. Just… resigned.

“No.” You stepped forward. “Wait! We didn’t get to-“

“It’s okay,” She said, standing quickly. “It’s time. I knew I couldn’t stay long.”

Bucky took a step forward, fists clenched at his sides. “You said it would reset eventually. You didn’t say it would be this fast.”

She smiled at him, eyes glassy. “You never like goodbyes.”

You were about to speak, to say something, anything, but the light started pulling at her edges. Dust and static flickering around her limbs.

She looked at you both, eyes shining now.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I just… I wanted to see you. Before everything.”

“Before what?” You asked, your voice trembling. “What changes?”

But she only gave a tiny, knowing smile. And this time, she didn’t say anything else.

She just looked at Bucky one last time and softly said, “Don’t wait too long.”

And then she was gone. No flash, no thunder, just a breath pulled from the room. One second she was there. The next, empty air.

You stood frozen in place.

The bowl she’d left still sat on the table, cereal soggy in milk. Her mug still half full of cocoa. One of Alpine’s toys, she’d apparently been hoarding them in her pockets, sat on the floor near the couch, a little mouse with a frayed string tail.

Bucky picked it up slowly, didn’t say a word. You looked over at him and could see it in his face now, what she saw in him. The cracks. The strength beneath them.

Later that night, you and Bucky hadn’t said much since she vanished. There wasn’t much that needed saying. But the silence wasn’t empty anymore. It was full of what came next. Neither of you quite knew what the future held. But now, you both knew who it held. And someday sooner, maybe, than either of you thought, you’d meet her again; for the first time.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #marvel x reader #bucky barnes fic #marvel fic #thank you for the request!#thank you for the ask!

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yanderenightmare · 12 hours ago

Note

Okay this isn’t a request but I can’t stop thinking about what if yandere orc and captive human reader bonding over their shared hatred of elves? Because it’s the only thing they agree on since elves are assholes

♡ AN: This ain't what you asked for, but I had my own ideas. Hope you still like it!

♡ TW: nsfw, noncon, different from my usual stuff, evil-ish reader, dom reader, male domination, yandere-ish reader?, racism between humans, orcs, and elves, elf supremacists, slavery, sounding, threesome, male on male action...

♡ FEM reader

They levelled your town in one day.

Why? To build themselves a palace.

And to the people living there—your people—they had this to say: if you want to stay, you could come and work as palace servants.

The funny thing is, they hadn’t even meant it as some cruel joke—no, they were serious. To them, that’s not mercy, but charity, thinking that living in the lower levels of the palace and waiting on them hand and foot would give you a higher purpose than living in your cottages and tending to your farms.

They’re arrogant and selfish, the lot of them. They didn’t even build the palace themselves. No, they used Orcs they’d captured in the ongoing war. All wearing cuffs on their hands and feet, chained to each other like animals, parched and starved, breaking their backs in the heat.

To think Elves view themselves as noble creatures when they’re using slave labor is beyond you.

As the daughter of one of the families that were forced out of their home, you have no other choice but to accept work at the castle, doing so with gritted teeth and clenched fists. You’re one of the many chambermaids who tend to the Prince’s quarters.

It’s his palace. Or no… It’s his country palace. They levelled your town to build him a fucking vacation home.

He’s a real prick, too. You’re convinced the species is pretty just to hide the fact that they're decrepit on the inside, the way he uses the staff as his own personal harem. Bending you over anywhere he so wishes, any time he wants—treating it as though you should be flattered he even took notice of you as he fists your hair and sullies your insides with his spend.

For the chance of getting as far away from his stuck-up entitled ass as possible, you take on other tasks. Among many, one of them includes feeding the orc inmates in the dungeon.

Anything is better than catering to the Prince. And yet… despite those true words, you’d perhaps been a bit brave-faced when you accepted the task… While, despite your hatred of the Elves and your more than critical view of how they treat the Orcs, you can’t deny being a little scared as you walk the cold dungeon hallways with trays of slop made from whatever leftovers the Elves allowed. It’s not so different from feeding caged beasts, after all—you could easily have your arms ripped off.

But at the same time, you have to growl, seeing the way they’ve crammed four or five of the big creatures into the same cell, muttering under your breath as you stomp, “Can’t believe they made you build your own cages and still had the audacity to make you live on top of each other… fucking elves, pompous pricks can all go fuck themselves.”

“Why so angry, human girl?” one of them asks, standing ready behind the bars as you place a tray in the food slot. His voice is deep and grumbling, a little worn from labor—and so are his looks, though big and tough, his shoulders are slumped where he stands, green skin looking a little ashen, accepting the tray despite it having no meat.

It’s clear that the Elves plan on working them until they die—they’re not even feeding them their main food source. After which, they’re probably just going to fill the cells up with new Orcs they’ve caught in their unjust war for supremacy.

“I just…” You sigh, placing another tray in the slot, still just mumbling as if to yourself. “I just wish I could do something.”

The Orc hums, passing the trays back to his fellow cellmates, accepting the third one you put in the slot.

“How ‘bout you just focus on gettin’ us something better to eat than this pig mash.”

To your surprise, he doesn’t sound angry. Not at you, at least. If anything, he sounds friendly. As if… well, as if the two of you were on the same side.

And coming to think of it… You were.

The Orcs were in cages because they’re a force of nature, but the Elves hadn’t deemed it necessary for you. No, you weren’t even given the respect of being acknowledged as a threat. You were just… pets.

Yes… No different from the Orcs, dungeon or not, you were also unjustly held prisoners here.

You clench your fists, then nod your head. “I’ll see what I can do.”

That’s how it begins. After rallying your friends in the kitchens, you’re rounding up whatever you can find. Bones that hadn’t been picked clean, unsucked marrow within, parts of the animal the elves are too snooty to eat.

Elves are wasteful creatures, and so it doesn’t prove too hard to find more food. You get the Orcs looking like their old selves after a while. And suddenly, what had started as missionary work ends up with you at the helm of The Cause.

With your orc friend being the leader of the Orcs, you become the leader of the human side, both organizing the rebellion. You swipe the keys from the Elf guard on one of your food deliveries—vain as he and his kind are, he’s overrun with pride upon you complimenting his long hair, he’s completely blind to see your plan. He doesn’t even notice his keys are missing before you’ve already gone ahead and freed the Orcs.

Caught off guard, the palace is easily taken. It was actually a little anticlimactic. The Elves, drunk on wine and their own superiority, very nearly surrendered, the way they barely had the sense to fight back. By the time they fully understood what was going on, it was already too late for them.

And now, here you are. In the royal chambers once again. Though, this time, it isn’t you getting fucked against your will.

“Having fun, my prince?” you coo, admiring his pale porcelain skin blush with deep shades of pink and sweat, breathing in shivers before you, muzzled like an animal as he takes it like one too.

You have to smile—sultry voice soft and smooth, taking him in as you strip him of his pride. “Like taking thick orc cock up your lordly elven ass."

Strung up by his hands, hanging from the ceiling like a slab of meat, his toes can’t even so much as graze the marble floor as he all but sits on the member at his back.

You can see the fat outline of it in his slim waist, poking out as if he’s pregnant. But that’s not all….

“Mh, must feel good by the looks of you,” you tease, flicking his upright cock, watching it bob and beg for attention. “Just look at this tiny elven prick of yours—see how much it’s weeping?” You snicker, “Jealous your ass is the only thing getting played with…”

Snaring the head between your thumb and pointer, you tighten around it just like a noose and stare at the way it makes more pearls ooze out and dribble down the length.

“Tch, spoiled, aren’t you?”

You let go, wiping your hand on his nipple, looking him in his misty eyes, pretty lashes hooked and heavy with teardrops.

“But don’t worry, your highness, I have something for that, too.”

You bring out the silver hairpin you’d taken from his hair. About two inches long with a pretty crystal flower on the end—truly marvelous craftsmanship. You stroke it up and down the length of his dick until he understands what you plan on doing with it.

“It woudln’t be a real royal cock without some jewelry, right?”

He shakes his head, scared, eyes filled with terror and even fatter tears than before. Spurred by it, you continue stroking him in your hand, toying with him as you switch between looking him in his sparkly eyes and into his little cockhole as you carefully ease the pin inside it, blocking him from both cumming and pissing himself.

You have to sneer at the way it makes him shake, watching his thighs flex and his eyes roll back as if he fucking likes it. The thought makes you happy. To think, all this time he’s been asserting himself, and really, what he’s been longing for and needing is to get his guts rearranged and his cock put in time out.

“That’s not all, my Prince.”

Fetching two silk ribbons, you circle one around his base, capturing both his cock and balls, tying it up into a pretty bow—the other you use to wrangle his ballsack, noosing it tightly before finished it off the same way.

“There you go—all done.”

He continues to shake where he hangs. His cock in a silk prison—looking like a tamed animal. Twitching still, bobbing every time he gets his prostate massaged by the fat occupant making a home in his ass.

“No choice but to dry cum, my Prince.”

Keeping a fist locked around his cock while the other handles the crystal rose, you continue to gently prod and prop his urethra. Sadistically playing with it to your heart’s content, watching his face contort in a mix of pain and pleasure with a sick simper on your face.

“Let me see how much you love getting both your holes fucked.”

It doesn’t take long before his body shivers and seizes up. Muscles tight and nipples hard, he throws his head back and to the side, resting on your Orc friend's shoulder as he shamefully loses all sense, chest heaving as it takes him. Sounds leaving him like a kicked puppy, or a happy whore—you can’t decide. Somehow, he looks like both—the way his brows are cinched up while his hips do their best to ride it out, knees bending and toes curling in the air.

“There you go, good boy,” you praise in mockery. Watching the sweat pill on his cheeks as his head drops. You’re sure, if it weren’t for the muzzle, you’d even see his tongue fall out and pant.

You smile, looking at the way his thighs still quiver, looking downright pathetic.

“That’s a good look on you,” you say, taking a step back to further admire it. Cocking your head to the side, raking up and down his entire shivering body. Shaking your head. “But it wouldn’t be right calling you a prince no more…”

You lift your hand, thumbing your cheek as if in thought.

Humming, “No… right now you look more like…” Stepping up to him, you flick his dick again with a laugh. “Our bitch.”

Marching to the bed, you ball up your grey dress and lift it off over your head before casting it aside, naked as you snap your fingers.

“Cut him down and bring him to me. But don't stop fucking him.”

You make yourself comfortable in the royal bed while your Orc friend does as you say, cutting loose his hands, switching it out with a big hand wrapped around his neck—two fingers enough to choke the life out of him. He keeps him fully stuffed while walking him over to you.

Harshly, he drops him stomach-first down on the bed, then bends both his arms behind his back, using his grip on them to continue fucking in and out of him from behind, just like you ordered.

Gathering his silken hair, you make a ponytail in a fist behind his head. Holding him up by it and a mean grip on his chin.

“You make me cum, bitch-boy, and I’ll release your little dicky, okay?”

He just makes a sound like an animal. You have to scoff at the display before freeing him of the muzzle. And, desperate as he is, you don’t even have to explain it to him before he’s got his face buried between your thighs. Nose on your clit and lips sealed around your lips, tongue swiping through your slit before pressing inside you.

“Fuck—” Caught off guard, you throw your head back against the plush headboard, curling your toes into the soft sheets, but it’s a welcome surprise.

Tangling both hands into his silken locks, braiding them between your fingers while you moan. “Good boy…”

You look down at him with a bite to your lip, staring into those pretty eyes of his, all shiny like gemstones, while loose strands of hair cling to his dewy skin, looking more beautiful than ever, now that he’s on his knees.

Your smile returns. “What a sight—pretty elf getting his ass ploughed and his face used by us lowly creatures.” And then you laugh. “What would dear old daddy say if he saw you like this?”

That seems to bring some fight back into him, the way his face twitches. And yet, when he speaks, his voice is so airy and soft, you hardly even recognize him. “He’ll come for me... You... you’ll all pay.”

It isn’t much of a warning. In fact, the words sound more like surrender. And so, you just croon, “Will he now?” Amused by him where he lies, twitching in his own mess, wincing and moaning, barely able to talk and yet begging for more with everything except for words.

All in all, in no position to be making threats.

You tug on his hair a little tighter in your fists and grin savagely. “Well… if he wants his son back unharmed, he’s gonna do what we say, now isn’t he?”

The light in his eyes flickers, and oh, how pretty a sight it is.

“That’s right.” You grin—power you’ve never felt before rushing through your limbs, everything making your lower belly roar in demand of more. “So shut up and lick.”

You push him back in place. He lands with a “mmph,” and the look on his face goes back to that of a puppy begging for scraps.

It doesn’t take long before it all sends you over the edge. Screaming, “Oh fuck!” so loud it echos against the marble, while you cum on his face and ride it out against his tongue.

Left panting in the pillows as you come down, you lie there a minute before sliding off the mattress.

You get down on your knees at the bedside, reaching beneath him. You pull the tail of each bow, releasing his poor reddened dick, before lastly slowly easing the pin out of his dickhole.

He cums immediately. Whole body shaking. Tongue out, cheek mushed, drooling on the bedsheets with his eyes dazed and misty.

You cross your arms on the bed’s edge, resting your cheek against your arm, admiring him—or rather, admiring what had become of him, what you’d done to him.

“Just so you know…” Stroking his hair, you watch him continue to mew while his cock leaks, a new spurt each time his ass takes it balls deep. “After my friend here is done with you, I have another dozen angry orcs waiting their turn." You giggle. "They’re gonna make use of you like a toilet.”

You speak softly, intimately, whispering to him like a god would to their lover. “And you wanna know what more? I’m gonna make sure you cum until you like it.”

It’s funny, but you think you can spot a small smile on his lips, so lost in the pleasure as he already is.

“You’re not even gonna wanna leave when Daddy dearest comes for you.”

♡ BNHA – orc Bakugou & elf Shoto, orc Deku & elf Bakugou, orc Enji & elf Hawks ♡ JJK – orc Sukuna & elf Gojo, orc Toji & elf Gojo, orc Toji & elf Naoya, orc Toji & elf Geto ♡ HQ – elf Oikawa, elf Atsumu, elf Lev, elf Sakusa, elf Kuro ♡ BLLK – orc Shido & elf Rin, orc Kunigami & elf Chigiri, elf Reo, orc Aiku, orc Baro, elf Sae

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

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zomquette · 2 days ago

Text

Game's Night

Pairing: Dary Dixon x Redaer

Summary:

In Alexandria, bedtime gets competitive when thin walls and loud neighbors spark a challenge Daryl and his partner can’t resist. What begins as playful banter turns into a full-blown, no-holds-barred contest for the title of Loudest Couple in the Safe Zone. Between aching muscles, smug remarks, and Dog’s betrayed groans, one thing’s clear by morning: the scoreboard isn’t even close.

Genre: Fluffy fluff fluff / established relationship / Daryl and reader bantering like an old married couple / eventual smut.

Warnings:

Explicit sexual content (18+), graphic smut, light dominance, praise kink?, playful sexual teasing, strong language, domestic fluff, aftercare?, mention of other characters’ sexual activity, minor injury (Daryl’s shoulder), Dog is unfortunately present but emotionally resilient.

Era: post Saviour's War, pre-bridge

Author's note: Based on this idea by @dixondisease. Never written smut before but i've definetly read enough to like know what I am doing or at least i think i do anyway. This turned out to be wayy longer than i intented - i even had to put it in the smaller font hehe - so good luck finishing 💀. And before anyone bitches i know Dog isnt technically born yet but i wanted dog in this so shove it 🤭. This is just smut and fluff, very shameless. Enjoy 🙈

You closed the bathroom door with your hip, freshly brushed teeth still tingling, one hand dragging through your damp hair, the other tugging an oversized shirt down over your thighs. “You better not be getting crumbs in the bed again,” you mumbled through leftover toothpaste, the minty foam threatening to escape the corner of your mouth.

“Weren’t me,” Daryl called from the bed, already half-lounging, shirt open, one sock hanging on for dear life. He winced as he twisted to rub his shoulder.

You caught the motion immediately. “Mmm. Blame the dog all you want, but you were the one housing Carol’s cookies like you were in a hostage situation.”

He gave a soft, amused snort. “Least I ain’t the one leavin’ bobby pins in the sheets. Thought I got stabbed in the back last night.”

“Sounds like karma,” you said sweetly, coming to stand over him. “Karma for banning Dog from the bed when he’s clearly my emotional support animal.”

Dog, curled at the foot of the bed, lifted his head at his name and thumped his tail like he knew exactly which side he was on.

Daryl gave him a look. “He’s half a damn mattress. You’re the one always sayin’ you got no room.”

You crouched beside the bed, rummaging through a worn canvas bag until you found the tin Carol gave you. “Yeah, well, between him hogging the the bed and you flailing around like you’re in a bar fight with your dreams, it’s a miracle I get any sleep.”

You straightened and held the salve up. “And don’t even try that ‘I’m fine’ crap. I saw you breaking a sweat brushing your teeth earlier. Shirt off. Now.”

Daryl blinked at you. “Is this part where I get lucky, or the part where you put me in traction?”

“Both, if you play your cards right.”

He huffed and peeled the shirt off slowly. You stepped in and helped him when he winced, hands gentle but firm. The bruise was nasty, blooming purple over his shoulder.

You climbed up behind him on the bed, legs crossed, and dipped your fingers into the salve. The minty scent hit your nose first, sharp and clean. You worked it into the sore muscle, slow and steady. Daryl hissed, eyes slipping shut. “Told ya. Baby,” you teased.

“mkay this ain’t half bad”, he groaned, enjoying your touch.

You snorted. “That's right? Gonna start fake injuries now?”

He cracked one eye open. “Not if it means more of your talkin’.”

You softened, brushing your fingers gently over the angry bruise. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Only like me now?”

“I’m reserving love for when you stop dragging half the forest into the house with your boots.”

“That was one time. And it was your damn dog.”

“Blame the baby. Classic deflection.”

You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his temple as you finished rubbing in the salve. “There. all better. Now maybe you’ll stop sighin’ every time you roll over like you just filed taxes.”

“I don’t sigh,” he muttered.

"You do. Like a single father of two, workin’ double shifts.”

That got his attention. He turned toward you, as gracefully as his bum shoulder allowed, and gave you a flat look. “What?”

He glanced down at your stomach and back up at you again. “You got somethin’ to tell me?”

“…Oh right, yeah. I totally forgot to mention that I’m pregnant with twins and planning on leaving you for a guy who runs a gas station so you can raise little Daisy and Cameron in a shack by the river. Surprise.”

He squinted at you, deadpan. “The hell is wrong with you… A gas station?”

“Real fancy too. Slushie machine and everything.”

He tried to give you his signature scowl but couldnt help cracking a smile “Jesus woman-“

You raised an accusatory finger, ready to burst out laughing, “Wait, wait, hold up, you actually believed me there for a sec, didn't you?”

He huffed and reached to wipe your mouth with the pad of his thumb. “Yeah, well… you got toothpaste on your face, smartass. Ye done runnin’ yur mouth now? M’ tired.”

“Get in before Dog steals your spot.”

Daryl groaned as he eased under the covers, joints popping like bubble wrap. “If I throw my back out tryin’ to lie down, it’s your fault,” he muttered, pointing a finger at Dog who’d circled the bed twice and then parked himself at the very edge—smug, territorial, already snoring.

“You hear that?” Daryl told him. “No respect. Not from either of ya.”

“I respect you just fine,” you said, settling in beside him. “But only one of you farts under the covers.”

“Alrigh’, stop. Don’t gotta put up with this shit in ma own bed.”

You giggled. The room went still, soft and sleepy. He pulled you into him, arm curling tight around your waist, his nose brushing the curve of your neck.

“Better?”

“Much,” he murmured.

Perfect. Until the ceiling creaked. Loud.

You both froze.

Another noise followed. Rhythmic. Familiar.

“…Is that Michonne?” you whispered.

“And Rick,” Daryl muttered, glaring at the ceiling.

You blinked. “They are not—”

“Oh, they are.”

A beat of silence.

Then you grinned. “Wanna be louder?”

He groaned. “We’re not doin’ that.”

“Why?’ you teased, tuning your body to face him and leaning on your elbows to hover your face over his. “Scared you’ll lose?”

“I ain’t racin’ Rick.” He paused, deadpan. “Man sounds like he’s wrestlin’ a hog.”

You choked on a laugh. “Then prove it.” Oh god, he thought. You already had your crazy sex eyes on.

“You really wanna start that righ’ now?”

“Only if you’re gonna finish it.” You moved on top of him, straddling his torso, trying to read his expression for any sign of dismissal. You didn't find any. His hands flew to your waist like a reflex.

“You’re a damn menace.”

“And you’re stalling,” you hushed, brushing your lips against his

“Ain’t gonna be no damn competition,” he muttered. “Ain’t even gonna be close.”

Then his mouth was on yours.

It was the kind of kiss that knocked thoughts loose—hungry, open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth. You didn’t remember moving, didn’t realise your hips were grinding down on him until you felt the solid heat under you and his fingers dug into your waist.

“Jesus,” he groaned, voice ragged against your lips. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

You didn’t answer—just kissed him harder, messier, hands sliding up his chest to push him further into the mattress. He didn’t resist. He wouldn’t dare. Not with the way you were moving like you’d catch fire if you stopped.

His grip tightened as he bucked up against you, mouth dragging hot down your jaw. “Ain’t even been a minute and you’re already—”

“Yeah?” you gasped, rocking down with more purpose now, chasing friction. “You got a problem with that?”

“Hell no,” he growled, sliding one hand up under your shirt. “Just tryna keep up, woman—”

“Good,” you breathed, grinding harder now, needing more. “Then don’t fall behind.”

And just like that, the game was on.

He sat up to be parallel with you. His hands moved along your bare back from under your shirt, all while you moved deliciously against his crotch, your faces pressed together, lips moving in sync, and tongues crashing like tidal waves. You couldn't help but moan into his mouth pathetically.

He moved to take off his your shirt, and in one swift, powerful motion, he tore the flannel open, sending the buttons flying. Like a drowning man, he latched onto your bare chest as if it were his sole air supply.

“Christ Daryl…” you breathed, tilting back, enjoying the feeling of his hot mouth on your breasts. Well, more specifically, your rock-hard nipples. He leaned into his sloppy kisses, lowering you to your back while he climbed on top of you. Gradually, he moved lower and lower down your abdomen, making you so dizzy that the banging of the headboard upstairs was indistinguishable from your racing heart. Before you knew it, your underwear was gone, and its place was Daryl’s hand. Needless to say, you much preferred his hand there instead of your underwear.

His he moved up to nibble on your earlobe, his fingers rubbing your clit. Was this what hypnosis was like? He could tell you to do damn near anything and you would bark yes if it meant he wouldnt stop.

Your body had a mind of its own, grinding against his hand as you clawed at his boxers.

The short gruffs and ragged breathing in your ear sent electricity down your body and straight to where Daryl was apparently trying to summon a genie. You felt the heat pool there as the butterflies in your stomach failed to settle. It only made you even wetter. If you weren't so mind-numbingly turned on right now, you would shield yourself from the embarrassment that down there was like a Slip n’ Slide.

“You done makin’ a mess or you gonna keep humpin’ my hand like your tryna start a fire?”

Ugh, smug douchebag. You can practially see the stupid cocky face he has on now. It took a few tries, the breathe kept logdng in your throat as whimpers escaped your mouth, until you finally retorted. “oh screw you asshole.”

“Asshole, huh? Must be doin’ somethin’ right.” That earned a frustrated groan from you. Right now, you are sitting between cloud nine and hell with this teasing. You shoved his boxers down and wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him in his place. “Either you fuck me now or im going upstairs to join Rick and Michonne.”

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Lining himself up, he plunged into you without any warning. You couldn't breathe. Your body went limp with the feeling of him. You gasped for air as your body drank him in. God, he felt like he was up in your stomach.

“shit baby…” he groaned. It took everything in him not to completely lose it a drill into you right there, but he knew you needed a second to get used to the stretching feeling.

“Daryl…. “ you squealed a moment later. Oblivious to him, if he didnt move within the next 5 seconds you woud just about combust. “please move”

It was practically spoken as a cry, your face scrunching up in need. He pressed his mouth to yours not a second later while he did what you asked, setting a steady pace, one that had you clawing at his back, his ass, his arms, hell, anything to ground you in the overwhelming pleasure he was spoon feeding you with a ladle. But you needed more. He needed to pick up the pace like you both wanted him to, or else you really were going to impale him with bobby pins.

“Ain’t even gonna be close,’ huh?” you bit out, breathless and flushed. “Then why the hell are we still playin’?”

Daryl just smirked, hand dragging slowly over the curve of your hip like he had all the time in the world. “‘Cause I like hearin’ you talk tough,” he rasped. “Makes it real sweet when I shut you up.”

“You talk big, Dixon,” you growled, rocking down against him. “Now back it up.”

His hands flexed around your hip, yanking, moving you down to meet his thrust, causing you to yelp at the sensation. “You sure?” he murmured, eyes flicking up to meet yours, dark and hot. “‘Cause once I start, ain’t lettin’ you off easy.”

You glared, chest heaving. “Good. I don’t want easy.”

That did it. He moved his hand to your thigh and stretched it up to hook with his (good) shoulder, so you were completely sandwiched under him. The taster for what’s to come was one long, deep drag of his hips, which just about made your brain short-circuit. He chuckled at the fucked-out look on your face, “That mouth of yours’s gonna get you in trouble.”

“You promise?” you whispered, nails digging into his back. It didn't even sound like you when you said it, and yet you meant it.

He huffed a laugh against your throat. “You’re about to wish I was still stallin’.”

His hips began to pound into you, making you bounce with each unforgiving thrust. Your hair would be just short of a birds nest in the morning but all you could think about was daryls dick smacking into your pussy and making you feel like you had taken every recreational drug known to man.

“Fuck! Yes baby! Ohhh-“ The only way you could match the screams of pleasure that were coming from you was because after that, Daryl started muttering words of praise into your ears about how loud you were being. That’s great, buddy, just keep doing your thing, and ill gladly show this community the set of lungs I have on me.

The power with which he moved in and out of you, of course, had the headboard slamming against the wall so hard that Drayl would probably need to find some drywall tomorrow. The gross noises that your bodies made when joining together would have sounded like angels singing to you if it weren't for the noise of the headboard drowning it out… or your moans.

He dipped his head low, lips brushing your ear as your moan spilt out sharp and shameless.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he rasped, voice thick with approval. “Let ‘em hear it, baby. Let ‘em know who’s really winnin’ this little contest.”

You clenched around him. God, you were so not gonna last. You would have cringed from embarrassment, but all of your dignity had vacated your body when you started squirming like a fish out of water.

Daryl let out a groan in response, peering down at your chest to see your breast jiggle up and down from his movements. “Atta girl. Let 'em know who’s giving it to ye this good.”

You’d be lying if his words didn’t turn into mush, but who were you to take this lying down?

“Maybe I’m just fakin’ it so i dont hurt your ego—oh, GOD— Daryl right there!”

He delivered a particularly brutal thrust to the spot he knew would send you over the edge. His pace was relentless, like he fucking hated you. But that was far from the truth. The waves of pleasure he was single-handedly serving you said I love you better than any Valentine's note you had ever received in your opinion. The fricton between his pubic bone and your clit while he jammed himself into you repeatedly was a nice touch - to put it mildly.

“shit, shit, shit, baby your gonna make cum-“ it was so hard to speak full coherent sentences when he fucked you like this. The air from your lungs kept getting ejected every time he pounded into your cunt.

“That right?” Shit, you thought, he's using that voice he does when he speaks to judith. I'm done for. “Gonna come round this cock? Go ahead, baby, I gotcha”

“Ohhh fuck baby im cumming im cumming I’m- AH!”

Everything went white as every nerve in your body contorted with pleasure. It spread like a Mexican wave, starting from your lower abdomen and travelling all the way to your toes. The only thing reminding you that you hadn’t died and gone to heaven was Daryl’s erratic thrusts, which didn't falter; if anything, they sped up if that was even possible. He was chasing his own high. There were many things that turned you on in the world, but this was at the top of that list. Him going feral, using your body to guide him over the egde, hips stuttering and dick twitching inside of you. God, this was top-quality fuel for wet dreams.

He let out a few strangled moans before he came inside you, the feeling of him spilling inside of you made you grin with content, sighing like you were on a spa retreat. Except this retreat wasnt so much relaxing as it it was fucking mindblowing and would definitly reult in you walking funny.

His movements slowed, now just a soft rolling of his hips. You didn't want this to end. You wanted to stay like this forever. You were still breathless beneath him, and your heart was trying to remember how to beat in a rhythm that wasn’t wild. The weight of his body anchored you in place like gravity had finally done its job right.

Daryl was sprawled over you, chest heaving, forearm braced beside your head, trying not to crush you with the full weight of him, not that you minded. His skin was flushed and slick against yours, sweat cooling in the hollow between your breasts where his lips had been minutes ago.

He shifted slightly, lifting his head to look at you. Your skin was dewy, and you sported that after-sex glow that drove Daryl crazy. His hair hung down in damp, dishevelled strands, clinging to his temples. His eyes were heavy-lidded but alert, scanning your face.

“…You okay?” he asked, voice rough and warm, moving your hair from your face.

You couldn’t quite speak yet, so you gave a nod and a dopey smile. “Legs are noodles. Brain’s soup. So yeah. M’ great.”

That earned you the tiniest smirk, soft and crooked. “Good.”

His nose brushed yours before he leaned in to kiss you, slow and sweet this time. Nothing rushed. No competition. Just him, kissing you like he had all the time in the world. You melted into the kiss, humming contentedly, arms looping around his neck as he hugged you impossibly closer like you could disappear any second.

And above you, the ceiling had gone still. No more creaks. No more rhythmic thuds. No more Rick and Michonne ‘wrestling’ as they liked to call it.

You pulled back from the kiss with a dazed laugh. “Oh my god. They’re quiet now.”

Daryl blinked, then turned his head lazily to glare up at the ceiling like it had betrayed him. “Told ya. Ain’t even a contest.”

You giggled beneath him, threading your fingers through his hair. “Bet they heard us and got embarrassed.”

He huffed and rolled over you slowly, careful of your limbs as he settled at your side, immediately pulling you with him so you were nuzzled into his chest. You let him, splaying over him like it was instinct. His body was warm and solid and safe, the aftershocks of everything still tingling across your skin.

“I think I died for a minute,” you mumbled into his collarbone.

He chuckled against your hair. “Nah. Just blacked out. You’ll live.”

You swatted at him weakly. “Don’t be smug.”

“Too late,” he drawled. Then, quieter, brushing a thumb along your hip: “You’re real loud when you want somethin’.”

You grinned against his skin, your cheeks still flushed. “So are you.”

There was a moment of silence before you added, “Kinda proud of us.”

Daryl raised a brow. “Think we scared ‘em off?”

“Hell yeah, we did.”

You raised your arm in the air to gesture a fistbump, which he chuckled at, but nonetheless accepted. “Atta girl.”

You let out a happy sigh, his hand settling on your back again, moving slowly. Comforting. Claiming. Gentle in a way that made your heart grow a little.

From somewhere at the foot of the bed, Dog gave a low groan — the kind that sounded both scandalised and mildly betrayed.

You lifted your head, breath still uneven. “Oh Jesus, Dog, I’m so sorry—”

He was glaring. Or as much as a dog could glare. Ears flat, eyes narrowed, the judgment rolling off him in waves.

Daryl glanced down at him and snorted. “Don’t give me that look. You knew what this was.”

You buried your face in Daryl’s shoulder, laughing. “He’s mad ‘cause he’s not the favourite anymore.”

Daryl scoffed. “Was I even the favourite to begin with?”

You hummed, still grinning. “Don’t worry, baby. You’re both my good boys.”

Daryl raised an eyebrow, his voice low and smug. “Only one of us had you seein’ stars.”

You pulled back just far enough to give him a look. “Only one of you drools in his sleep.”

Daryl blinked, then smirked. “Says the woman who talks in her sleep.”

Your mouth dropped open in mock horror. “I do not.”

He shrugged, smug. “ I got woken up last week by you mutterin’ somethin’ about a peanut butter apocalypse.”

You chuckled, and Dog, ever the drama queen, flopped down with a heavy sigh, clearly done with both of you.

Daryl brushed your damp hair from your cheek, his thumb lingering at your jaw. “You alright?” he asked softly.

“Mhmm.” You leaned in to kiss him again, slower this time. “Better than alright.”

_______________________________________________________________

You sat at the table like someone recovering from a war injury. Every muscle in your body ached — wonderfully so, but they still hurt like a bitch — and breakfast was the last thing on your mind. Beside you, Daryl was the picture of serenity, casually sipping coffee like he hadn’t just destroyed your back six hours ago.

Rick gave you both a look. The kind that said he’d rather be literally anywhere else. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, poking at his eggs like they’d betrayed him. “Y’all don’t even try to be subtle, do you?”

“Didn’t know we had an audience,” Daryl said, not looking up from his mug.

Michonne arched a brow, clearly amused. “You didn’t need one. The walls are thin, Dixon. Thin.”

You winced and nursed your coffee like it could fix your dignity. You gave Daryl a knowing look and smirked, “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Don’t apologise,” Michonne said, smirking. “Just… damn.”

Rick looked between the two of you again, brow furrowed. “That wasn’t a competition, right? Like — there was no actual scoreboard?”

You glanced sideways at Daryl, trying to hide your grin. “What do you think?”

Daryl gave a faint smirk, eyes fixed on his plate. “Told you it wasn’t gonna be close.”

God damn, you could go for round 5 right here on thid counter.

Rick groaned. “Oh, come on.”

Michonne laughed into her coffee. “That’s it. I’m sleeping on the couch from now on.”

From the hallway, Carl appeared, bleary-eyed and deeply unimpressed. “Why are you guys being weird?” he asked, grabbing a slice of toast.

Rick straightened. “We’re just having breakfast. Sit down.”

Carl shook his head. “Not today. Not when the house sounds like a zoo at night. I’m taking this to my room. And since when did we bring back rules from the old world?”

He walked off without waiting for a reply.

You, Daryl, Rick and Michonne all burst out laughing.

You leaned into Daryl’s shoulder and murmured just loud enough for him to hear, “Guess we won the gold, huh?”

He didn’t answer — just rested his hand on your thigh under the table and squeezed, smug as hell.

#daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon #the walking dead #twd #twd daryl dixon #daryl dixon fluff #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl x reader #daryldixon #daryl dixion x reader #daryl dixion smut #daryl fanfiction

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revelboo · 1 day ago

Note

Am I self indulging 😀

Nah, they need love

Personal Space

Steve, Vehicons x Reader

• That’s not your bed. Staring at the metal frame that’s taking up most of your bedroom floor so you can’t get into the bottom drawers of your dresser and the two queen sized mattresses wedged into it, you have no words. The thing is piled with blankets, throws, and pillows. None of which are yours. Staring at it in dismay, you know the Vehicons had to have done this while you were at work. You just have no idea why and after a double shift, you aren’t motivated to go back downstairs and ask your alien squatters about it. Changing out of your uniform and pulling on a pair of shorts and tank top, you sprawl in your new bed. It’s plush at least, the mattress nicer than your old one.

• Moving carefully up the stairs mass shifted, his head tips slightly as he nudges your door open. And you’re sprawled on your belly in your new berth. Crawling in beside you, he eases down on his side facing you. Watching you rest. Your other berth too narrow to share. Head turning, he vents when one of his brothers steps over him and lays down on your other side. Hears another of his brothers joining them.

• Stretching, your toes brush something warm and you sleepily sit up. Staring at the Vehicons lying on either side of you, both recharging facing you on your new bed. Well. That explains the bed. Standing up, you awkwardly step over Steve. And over another of his brothers getting down from the mattress. There’s another sleeping propped up near your door. Two lying in the hall. Are they all sleeping in your house now?

• Picking your way through the house to get a glass of water, you stop counting them at some point. They’re everywhere recharging wherever. Lying in the floor, sitting against walls. One of them lifts his head and reaches, the backs of his servos brushing your ankle in passing as his head turns to track you. “Hi,” you murmur and a second one stirs, watching you. They’re always watching your every move.

• Venting, his hand reaches and finds only empty space where you should be and Steve lifts his head. Waiting until you return, picking your way over his brothers to return to him. And your eyes flick to him as you ease back down where you were. So close he can reach out and touch you. Wants to, but doesn’t want to spook you. You’re on your side facing him and it’s almost intimate. Can scent you, swears he can almost feel your breath on him. Wonders how soft you’d be against him.

• “There’s a lot more of you than I thought,” you whisper, trying to be quiet since his brothers are everywhere recharging and you don’t want to wake them. ‘Does it bother you?’ He asks studying your face as you wiggle to get more comfortable before you shake your head. Wondering if they’re here hiding or if they’re watching over you. “I like you guys.”

• Reaching out a hand, his servos stop just shy of touching your cheek. Unsure what he’s allowed. “We, I, like you,” he says and you smile faintly. Freezing when you reach and hook a finger with one of his servos. So close and not nearly close enough. Whispering softly to each other until you fall asleep and it’s over far too soon. Your soft finger still hooked with his servo.

#transformers x reader #vehicons #steve the vehicon #vehicon x reader

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barnesonly · 1 day ago

Text

˗ˏˋ ★ Little Dove ★ ˎˊ˗

bucky barnes x empath!reader

summary: You escaped Hydra. You got him back. Now, you’re free — learning how to live, how to love, how to be whole again. The world is quiet for once… but healing isn’t easy. Still, with James by your side, maybe softness isn’t something to fear.

word count: 2660

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: the original series contains dark themes which may be referred in the one-shot. read at your own discretion. hurt/comfort, trauma bonding, established relationship, curse words, smut; oral (f receiving), praising.

Sam’s BBQ — oneshot continuation of my “Little Dove” series although can be read on its own.

A/N: This happens before the very ending of “Little Dove”. Just after they got together and Dove finally met Sam in better circumstances. I said I’ll write a oneshot of this fic when I reached 1k followers so… here is the first one — cause yeah, I am definitely going to write more about them in the future. I just cannot let them go, they’re like my babies. Anyways I hope you’ll enjoy this! Also extra points If you noticed the changed banner (you definitely did) and the pairing title 🤭

You stare at the closet like it’s personally offended you.

Clothes are scattered on the bed. Jeans. Two dresses. One too casual, the other too much. You stand there in your socks, arms crossed, biting at the inside of your cheek.

It’s stupid. It’s so stupid.

It’s just a barbecue.

Just Sam Wilson.

Just other normal people.

Your chest tightens at the thought. The clink of silverware. Laughter that isn’t cruel. Children running around without fear in their eyes. People asking where you’re from, what you do, what you like. And you — with no answers, no practiced smiles, no idea how to be in this world.

You sit down on the edge of the bed and bury your face in your hands.

God. Why did you say yes?

You’re still spiraling when you hear soft footsteps behind you. Then the mattress dips beside you, and James’s hand gently covers yours.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Talk to me.”

You don’t lift your head right away. Your voice is muffled. “I shouldn’t go.”

He leans a little closer. “Why?”

“I don’t belong there.” The words come out too fast. “I don’t have friends, I don’t know how to talk to people, and Sam—he already met me once and it was awkward, and what if I say something wrong or weird or just stand there like a broken lamp?”

James exhales slowly. His thumb brushes the back of your hand. “First of all, Sam liked you. He told me so.”

You finally glance at him. “He pitied me.”

“No,” James says, gently but firmly. “He didn’t. You came looking for me. He respected it.”

You almost smile, just a flicker. “I was desperate to find you.”

“Exactly,” he says, lips quirking. “Very charming.”

Your face drops back into your hands, groaning softly. “James…”

He shifts, kneeling in front of you now so you have no choice but to meet his eyes.

“You’re not a broken lamp,” he says. “You’re not weird. You’re just… still healing. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

You blink at him, heart fluttering in your chest like a trapped bird.

“I don’t know how to be normal,” you whisper.

His expression softens. “Who cares if you’re normal?”

“You do. You’ll bring me around your friends and they’ll think—”

“I’ll bring you,” he interrupts, voice low and warm, “because I want you there. With me.”

You swallow hard. Your fingers curl in your lap.

“You don’t have to talk much,” he adds, like he knows exactly where your thoughts are heading. “Just stay close. Let them get to know this version of you — the one I see every day.”

You look at him, really look, and realize he means it. So you take a breath. Then another. And you nod.

“Okay,” you whisper.

His hand comes up to cup your cheek. His thumb strokes the edge of your jaw.

“Good,” he murmurs, and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “Because I already told Sarah you’re coming. She said she’s saving you a seat.”

You blink, startled. “She what?”

James smirks. “You’re part of the crew now, Dove. Better get used to it.”

You roll your eyes and let out a tiny laugh — shaky but real.

And when he helps you up and stands behind you as you try on another outfit, his hands resting gently on your waist, you start to believe — just a little — that maybe you can belong.

———

The car hums beneath you, windows rolled down just enough to let in the warm breeze. The sky’s turning golden, sun dipping low like it’s in no hurry to set. You watch the trees blur past outside, arms folded, fingers tapping your elbow in a steady rhythm.

You’re chewing the inside of your cheek again.

James glances at you from the driver’s seat. One hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift. He’s wearing that slightly-worn navy shirt you like — the sleeves pushed up — and sunglasses he definitely doesn’t need anymore now that the sun’s behind the clouds. But you don’t say anything.

He doesn’t either. Not yet.

Instead, his fingers nudge your knee gently.

“You okay?”

You hesitate. Then shrug. “Nervous.”

“You already said that three times before we left,” he says, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “You sure you’re not secretly going for a record?”

You shoot him a look. “I might be.”

He chuckles. The sound settles something inside you.

“I just… don’t want to embarrass you.”

“Dove.” His voice is warm, firm. “You couldn’t. Even if you tried.”

“You say that now,” you mutter, looking out the window again. “Wait until I freeze mid-conversation and forget what a fork is.”

James snorts. “Then I’ll remind you. Politely. Like, ‘Hey, babe, this is a fork. It’s for eating, not stabbing.’”

A laugh escapes you, unbidden.

He glances at you again — and smiles, wide and real this time, like it physically lifts the weight off his chest to hear you laugh like that.

“You’re doing great,” he says. “Really. Just… be yourself.”

You pause. Then glance over, a little unsure.

“And if I forget who that is?”

James’ fingers reach for yours, threading together easily, like they’ve done it a thousand times.

“Then I’ll remind you of her, too.”

You swallow hard.

The wind picks up just slightly, brushing your hair against your cheek. The sky’s turning a shade softer now. Golden-orange sun rays spilling across the hood of the car.

You squeeze his hand. He doesn’t let go.

And for the first time all day, you start to believe — maybe tonight will be okay.

———

The smell of grilled corn and barbecue sauce hits you before you even step out of the car.

Laughter echoes from the backyard — kids running, adults chatting over iced tea and beers, the crackle of meat hitting the grill. It’s warm, loud, alive. The kind of normal James once thought he’d never get back.

As you step out, you smooth the fabric of your dress — nothing fancy, just simple and comfortable, but James looked at you like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen before you left.

He leads you toward the backyard, his hand hovering at the small of your back like he needs to be touching you somehow.

“Heyyy!” Sam’s voice rises above the music and chatter as he spots the two of you stepping into the backyard. He’s by the grill, spatula in hand, wearing an apron that says ‘Grill Sergeant’ like he’s proud of it.

You try not to shrink under the sudden attention, but James squeezes your hand gently, grounding you. It’s you who speaks first.

“Hi again,” you say, offering a nervous smile. “We met that one time at the center. You, uh—“

“Oh, I remember.” Sam blinks — then breaks into a grin.

He looks at James now, eyebrows lifting with mock suspicion. “So this why you’ve been ghosting me all week.”

James rolls his eyes. “I haven’t been ghosting—”

“Don’t care,” Sam cuts in, already setting down the spatula and walking over. “C’mere.”

You’re caught off guard when he pulls you into a hug — warm, quick, and surprisingly comforting.

“Anyone who can put up with Bucky officially gets a gold star,” he says as he lets you go.

You laugh, your nerves loosening just a little.

Then Sarah appears behind him, towel slung over one shoulder and a lemonade in her hand. She eyes the two of you, then smiles.

“You’re Dove, right? Heard plenty about you.”

“Oh God,” James mutters behind you.

Sarah gives him a look. “Relax. It was all sweet. Except the part where Sam said you’re way out of his league.”

You let out an embarrassed laugh, covering your face. James just mumbles something under his breath and wraps an arm loosely around your waist — like it’s second nature now. Like he’s proud to have you beside him.

And just like that, the tension melts.

The rest of the afternoon is a blur of warmth and laughter. James softens in ways you don’t often get to see — especially when the kids tug on his hand and beg him to join their game of tag. He loses. On purpose. You can tell.

You help Sarah in the kitchen for a while, slicing watermelon and listening to stories about Sam’s terrible teenage fashion choices. And all the while, you catch glimpses of James through the window — the way he smiles at the kids, the way he sits in the grass with his knees up and lets the sun hit his face like he’s finally letting himself breathe.

As golden light spills across the yard and the grill dies down, you find yourself curled up beside him on the porch swing. His arm is draped over your shoulders, your head resting against his chest.

Sam walks over with a plate stacked with grilled peaches and homemade vanilla ice cream.

“You’re officially invited to every cookout from now on,” he says, handing you a spoon.

You smile, soft and certain.

“I’ll come to all of them,” you murmur, glancing up at James, “if he’s there.”

He doesn’t say anything but he presses a kiss to your temple — slow, tender — and that says more than enough.

———

The apartment door clicks shut behind you, the quiet settling like a blanket. You kick off your shoes and let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

James watches you from the doorway, his keys still in hand.

You glance over your shoulder. “That was… actually really nice.”

He raises a brow, teasing. “What? You thought I was setting you up for emotional ambush?”

You laugh, sinking onto the couch. “I thought I’d say something wrong. Or not say enough. Or be too weird, or awkward, or—” You wave your hand vaguely. “I don’t know. I just didn’t expect to feel… welcome.”

James moves slowly, setting the keys down, walking over. “I told you they’d like you.”

“They didn’t just like me,” you say softly. “They were kind. Like, genuinely kind.”

His hand touches your hair, brushing it behind your ear. “Of course they were. You’re impossible not to love.”

You blink up at him — startled, a little breathless — and before you can respond, he’s crouching down in front of you, resting his arms on your knees.

“You don’t even see it, do you?” he murmurs. “How easy it is to care about you. How strong you are. How much light you bring into places that should’ve broken you.”

Your throat tightens.

“I watched you today,” he goes on, voice lower now, rougher. “You laughed. You talked to Sarah like you’d known her for years. You helped the kids with lemonade and smiled like the world hadn’t tried to take everything from you.”

You’re blinking fast now, trying not to cry. But he doesn’t stop.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” he says. “And god—” His head dips slightly, forehead brushing your knee. “I’m so glad I get to call you mine.”

You reach for him before you even think, fingers sliding into his hair. He lifts his head, eyes meeting yours — soft, unwavering.

“I’m yours,” you whisper. “Always.”

His breath catches like the words physically struck him. Like they cracked something open inside him that he’d kept locked away for far too long.

James doesn’t say anything right away. He just stays there, on his knees before you, eyes fixed on yours like you’ve become the only thing in the world he believes in.

His eyes flicker, something molten pooling in their depths — and still, he doesn’t rush. He leans forward slowly, lips brushing against your knee, then higher. A trail of warm, aching kisses up your thigh, just beneath the hem of your dress.

Your breath catches as he lifts it gently, fingertips ghosting along the edge of your panties.

You don’t stop him. You can’t. You don’t want him to stop.

Your chest rises and falls in rhythm with his, shallow, uneven. You’re breathless already and he hasn’t even touched you properly yet.

His fingers graze your thighs, warm and steady despite the tremble in his breath. You feel him press the softest kiss just above your knee, then another, higher. The fabric of your dress bunches around your hips as he eases it upward, baring you inch by inch like he’s unwrapping something fragile.

“Can I?” he murmurs, voice low and reverent, like you’re something sacred.

You nod, already breathless. “Yes. Please.”

James leans in, pressing one last kiss against the inside of your thigh before carefully pulling your panties down. He’s methodical about it — almost ceremonial — sliding them past your knees, down your calves, letting them fall to the floor. He doesn’t break eye contact.

His mouth is soft against the inside of your thigh, and you feel it—how much this means to him. How much you mean to him.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice barely more than a breath. “I hope you know that.”

You reach down, card your fingers through his hair. He leans into your touch like it roots him, steadies him.

And then he’s kneeling fully between your legs, hands on your thighs, parting you just enough. You’re already warm, already wet, and he hasn’t even touched you yet — not really.

“I want you to feel how much I love you,” he says, voice thick. “Every second of it. I want to worship you.”

You exhale shakily. “You already do.”

But he’s not satisfied with just words.

His hands slide under your thighs, pulling you gently closer. The skirt of your dress is bunched around your waist now, and he moans — low, broken — at the sight of you, glistening, waiting for him.

Then he looks up at you—eyes heavy, devoted—and lowers his mouth to you. It’s not frantic. It’s not about chasing release.

It’s about you.

His lips brush over you — soft, tentative. Then his tongue flicks out, teasing your clit with a featherlight touch. Your hips jerk, a soft gasp spilling from your lips.

“Shh,” he murmurs against you. “I’ve got you.”

And then he dives in.

Slow at first, savoring it. His tongue moves in long, deliberate strokes, tasting you like he’s starved for it — like nothing else exists but the way you sigh his name, the way your fingers tighten in his hair. He flicks his tongue just right, then suckles gently at your clit, and your thighs tremble around his shoulders.

“James,” you whisper, voice cracking. “Oh my god—”

He groans in response, the sound vibrating against you. He’s messy with it now, greedy, like he can’t get enough. But every movement still feels controlled — not rushed, not careless. He’s worshiping you exactly how he promised: with every kiss, every flick of his tongue, every moan he gives like a prayer.

Your back arches, a broken sound escaping your throat.

He grips your thighs tighter. “That’s it. Let go for me, baby. I’ve got you. Always.”

Your orgasm hits like a wave — slow, then crashing. Your whole body clenches, your vision blurs, and you hear yourself cry out his name like it’s holy.

And even as you come down, he doesn’t let go right away — keeps kissing you, gentler now, like he’s soothing you through the aftershocks. His hands stroke your thighs, his mouth soft against your skin.

When he finally looks up, his face is flushed, his lips shiny, his eyes dark and full of something that looks like worship.

You’re still trembling when he leans in to kiss you — slow and deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He holds your face in his hands like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

And when he pulls back, he whispers it again.

“I’m so fucking glad you’re mine.”

tagging my little doves (tysm for ur love and support through the series, let me know If you still wanna be tagged in the oneshots! 🫶): @tfamidoingwithmylife @stell404 @shakysif @unicornqueen05 @carolinianmermaid @zoroforlife @beforemdnight @nicksolemnlyswears @mistalli @blazeflays @storystorktwo @its-in-the-woods @blv3rd @starkglory @diabolicaldinosaur @elisha-chloe @miyababbby @cats-chaotic-mind @brooklynadoresdior @madsmikkelsonlvr101 @ifuckwithyouanyday @taqmari @syupakingcowbaby @iamthatonefangirl @schlattslonghairytoes @bloodmocha @lavenderslace

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angelic-sawyer · 3 days ago

Text

Simple Pleasures

Summary: What happens when a billionaire real estate developer meets a stubborn environmental lawyer who'll do her best to keep an old bookshop protected?

Pairing: Harry Castillo x Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: This is inspired by Two Weeks Notice. Please, +18 ONLY.

Fics get updated sooner on AO3.

GIF by @a7estrellas

Chapter 1

Bouncing your leg up and down as your eyes quickly scan through the papers for the tenth time in the last twenty minutes, your name gets called four times before you actually hear a nicely dressed secretary telling you that Harry Castillo’s waiting for you. Palms sweaty, burdened from the worry of what’s to come, it takes a moment for your surroundings to get acknowledged by your brain. Even though you aren’t really hopeful, knowing how every single billionaire, privileged man feels about abandoned buildings and antique shops, you still stand up, smoothing your hands over your skirt and following the woman through the long corridor. The hall smells like those niche scents sold for thousands of dollars. In the end is the door of the billionaire developer who’s decided to completely change and mess up your plans with the oldest bookshop in town. The woman knocks on the door, then gets inside, closing the door right in front of your nose.

Letting out a sigh, you wait, looking down at your heels. They look silly. You borrowed them. You don’t have anything this fancy in your wardrobe and it makes you feel silly. All this… makes you feel silly, makes you bite on your lower lip. You dressed up to convince a famously arrogant developer not to let other famously arrogant men destroy the bookshop.

The woman finally opens the door again and steps out, holding it open for you to get into the room. You nod at her and step inside, clearing your throat as soon as you see him. Blue suit, light blue shirt underneath, holding something — maybe a plan for your bookshop in one hand, on the same hand is a gold ring with emerald. 18k? Most likely. You swallow.

You don’t like him.

He looks at you, eyes somehow sparkling, a polite smile lighting his features up as he stands up and holds his hand out. “Nice to meet you. Harry.”

You shake his hand, muttering your name as you sit down in front of him. It takes a moment for you to gather your thoughts, to actually speak, even though you’ve been practicing your speech all week. Telling him that you’re an activist and a lawyer, you hate how sincerely he nods at you, how he looks at the bracelet on your wrist, then at your skirt, then at your nails.

It’s what you do. It’s your thing. To know everything about everyone just by looking at them. You aren’t really a fan of being the subject.

“As I said, Mr. Castillo, this bookshop is practically a relic. The proposal to destroy the oldest bookshop in town and replace it with a modern commercial building is not only short-sighted, but also a disservice to the community and future generations.” You say, nervously glancing down at your papers before looking back at him. “This bookshop is more than just a building. It is a treasure trove of knowledge and tradition, a place where people have gathered for generations to share stories and ideas. It is a vital part of our cultural heritage, and it should be protected and preserved, not destroyed and made into something that you can see anywhere."

You stand up, putting the papers in your hand onto his table before returning to your seat. “These are the documents. There’s also a petition signed by hundreds of residents who share my belief in the importance of this historic landmark.“

He hums, looking down at the papers, his eyes moving from one page to another. He’s not really reading. He’s just being polite, carelessly moving his gaze on the text that you so cautiously typed. This feels almost humiliating.

Your eyes immediately meet his when he looks up at you. “You graduated from Harvard Law School?” He asks.

You blink. “I— Yes, sir. But that is not very relevant—“

“Environmental law.” He reads out of one of the papers that you gave him, the one that has your contact information, photo, and degree. He looks at you again, this time with brows furrowed. “Isn’t that the most boring one?

You scoff unintentionally. “Excuse me?”

“No offense—“ He starts.

“I believe this is a very important matter, Mr. Castillo. And I also believe I seem— I am very passionate about this.” You respond, angrily toying with your fingers.

Are there even windows in this office? Does he never open them? Why is it suddenly so hot?

“I appreciate your passion.” He says calmly, and you despise the kind expression he has on his face. He’s not kind. He’s taking the bookshop away from you. “I am appreciating your education too, even if it’s being used to argue over a bunch of books and dusty tables.” And before you can protest, he adds. “From what I heard and saw, you can work for me.”

You blink. Your hands stop fidgeting. “I didn’t come here for a job.”

He nods as if he understands. He doesn’t. He won’t. “Generous salary, benefits… You name the price.”

The nervousness that starts building up in your stomach makes your brows pinch together and your lips pursed. You hate this. You hate uncertainty, you hate how professional he is, even if he hasn’t comprehended what you were telling him at all.

You shake your head. “All you heard was my minute-long speech.”

“And that was enough.” He answers immediately, smiling again. “This is a good offer, I think. One that can improve your career, help you get… somewhere.”

You hate that it doesn’t sound like mockery. You hate how genuine he sounds, as if working for him was your dream and he’s giving you a chance. He talks about how messy his work is, how he constantly needs a lawyer, but his words act as background noise rather than actual, meaningful sentences.

Did he even hear you?

“I won’t sell the bookshop to the firm.” He says. “If you work for me.”

He heard you.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“So, I’ve got this big project, mostly my idea.” He says, sipping his coffee as he looks back at you. “You’re smart. You can surely help me navigate through all the regulations and permits required to make it happen.”

You’re not sure you understand.

Agreeing to take this job a day ago was… heroic. Except no one in your town will ever care. They probably don’t spend their nights worrying about the bookshop either. But it matters.

What you don’t understand, though, is why Harry Castillo is making you walk through the busy streets and practically yelling his words so you can hear him, instead of having a proper conversation in his office, or maybe in the bookshop if he agrees to actually come and see it.

Bumping your shoulder to a stranger, you quickly push through the people between you and Harry and rush to his side.

“Mr. Castillo—“

“Harry.” He says, brows furrowed. “I hate formality.”

Well, you don’t.

“Sir, I think we should discuss—“

“I also need you to attend the meeting, tell me if anyone’s bluffing. You lawyers can detect liars, right?” He looks at you expectantly.

“Well, I wouldn’t word it like that.” You answer, which earns you a dismissive shrug.

As he drones on about the project, you can feel your patience wearing thin. You can’t imagine anything you would rather do less than work for this man. But for the sake of your interest, the bookshop, you resign yourself to following him wherever he’s going. It’s your toying fingers that express how much you hate this, how angry you are at the fact that he didn’t even have a proper conversation with you. About the bookshop. About your past successful cases. About anything at all.

He stops and you do too, looking at what he’s gesturing towards.

A fancy restaurant.

“Figured we should talk.” He says, smiling.

There’s that smile. The I’m-not-as-bad-as-you-think, the I’m-actually-very-kind smile.

“In a restaurant?” You ask. He just nods. Casually.

Except a restaurant like this isn’t very casual for you. Except a man leading you to a secluded booth in the corner and ordering the most expensive wine on the menu - isn’t really your everyday thing.

If you had to pick one word at the moment, it’d be opulent.

A true haven of elegance and sophistication. Soft, ambient light casting a warm glow over the interior, highlighting the rich dark oak furnishings and decorations. White linens on the tables, and the walls adorned with unique-looking pieces of art. The air is filled with the rich scent of fine cuisine, and the clinking of silverware against the plates can be heard throughout the room.

He looks at you. Your lips. Then your hands. Then your bracelet.

“We haven’t had a chance to talk.” He says.

You nod slowly, still looking around subtly. “You could say that.”

He nods too. “So, Harvard.”

You shake your head. “You dwell on that too much.”

“It’s impressive!” He chimes in. “On a full scholarship too.”

You hum, carefully taking the glass. “Well…”

You actually appreciate things when you taste the wine. It’s the most aromatic, pleasantly sweet and sour flavor you’ve ever tasted. It makes you look at him as he looks at you like he’s awaiting your reaction.

You nod approvingly, setting the wine glass on the table. “About the bookshop. It’s really, really important to me. To everyone. It used to be a great gathering place, a safe space for kids and the elderly and everyone. I can make it into that again. If you don’t sell it to the—“

“I won’t.” He says. “I promised. I’m not an ass. Although the money they’re offering because of its location will get you a place twice as big.”

“But it’s not the same if it’s somewhere else.” You protest, making him raise his hands.

He sighs, looking at you. There it goes again. Looking there, then somewhere else, as if he’s searching for something in your clothing, in the way you did your hair this morning, in your thoughts.

“Do you like movies?” He asks, making you nod with a confused expression on your face. “What’s your favorite?”

You shrug. “Anything Humphrey Bogart is in.”

His nose scrunches. “Isn’t that… outdated?”

That draws a gasp from you, so loud that for a second you worry that others in the restaurant hear you. “Excuse you?”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “You’ve certainly got a special thing for old stuff.”

You shake your head, not believing his words. “How can someone not love old hollywood movies?”

He sips his wine, then speaks. “I don’t have anything against them. Just didn’t expect you to be so… I don’t know.”

“For a man your age, I’d think this conversation would go the opposite way.”

“For a man my age.” He repeats with a chuckle. And then he looks at your bracelet again.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the night is in full swing. The city lights glitter against the windows of the building, providing a kaleidoscope of color that dances and twinkles like a symphony of stars.

Harry leans against his desk, brows furrowed as he watches you edit the text for his speech tonight at some fancy event. You shouldn’t be doing this at all, it’s not your job. He has editors and writers in the building, but for some reason, it’s you who has to stay for an extra hour. He claimed that no one talks as confidently or passionately as you, especially after seeing you glamorize and defend his ideas during the most recent meeting.

You let out a sigh, handing the paper to him. “I don’t really know what you expect from something that I wrote.”

He takes the paper, smiling at it like a kid who just got the toy he’s been asking for. “You’re a pro at speeches.”

“I’m not.” You say. “I write words the day before but then I still say what comes to my mind. Speech is most powerful when said with emotion.”

Harry scoffs. “Try being emotional about a building getting a renovation.” He says, then glances at you. “Well, actually, you wouldn’t have to try very hard.”

You squint. The audacity.

He sighs and walks to his chair. He’s wearing a dark brown suit, has one hand in his pocket. His eyes carefully move from one word to another and his lips are pouty. He does that, you have learned. He does that a lot when he’s concentrated.

“Won’t you come?” He asks, his sparkling brown eyes moving to your face as he wets his lower lip.

You shake your head, standing up, fixing the buttons of your light pink jacket. “Why would I come?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” He asks. The expression on his face would be enough for you to agree if you weren’t a homebody. Or if that event was actually something you were interested in, for that matter. It’s the way his eyes sparkle so unfairly. It’s the way he looks so kind, as if he oozes light in the darkness. It’s the way he smells too — like vanilla combined with honey and tobacco, a powdery aroma swirling around him when he’s standing in the same room as you.

Not that you actually eagerly take in the smell. He just smells nice.

But you shrug. “I’ve got plans.”

You don’t.

“A date?” He asks immediately. Weird question. He’s weird.

“Why is that your concern?” You furrow your brows.

He glances at your hand, at your bracelet, then looks back at your face. He looks like he’s trying to make you feel a tug of sympathy for him, as if he’s attempting to communicate his emotions through his eyes.

But Harry just nods. “Have a nice evening.”

When he gathers his things and walks past you, your brows furrow and you look behind, your eyes fixed on his broad shoulders as he walks away. His smell fills your nostrils.

Honey. Cloves. Anise.

#Harry Castillo #harry castillo x reader #pedro pascal #harry castillo fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom #materialists #harry castillo x you #harry castillo x female reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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strawbairicake · 2 days ago

Note

RIRICAKES RIRICAKES!! I'VE FINISH SPINNING THE WHEEL! And this idea won LMAO! Anw, I hope u're doing great today!! (Fear not, for i will protect you from misfortunes! 🤺)

May I request Mydei with a reader who really adores him and loves to shower his face with kisses? Others think he's intimidating but they think he's cute(and pretty— mhmm gorgo's genes are really something<33), they can't help it!

I think that's all... I keep forgetting, I might be the real life Dori LMAO

Have a wonderful day, riricakes! Sending u the best and warmest huggies and kissies with full of love!(⁠*⁠˘⁠︶⁠˘⁠*⁠)⁠.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡

your silliest supporter,

seraphie

i can’t help how much i love you! -mydei x reader

synopsis: you can sometimes get touchy, and you just pepper kisses to Mydei’s face when you think he’s not listening. he is.

warnings: none, it’s all fluff!

word count: 262

author’s note: Seraphie, this idea is so precious and sweet! thank you for requesting, and feel free to send more in! hope you enjoy! <3

taglist: @axolotsofluv, @strwbrydreamz, @sqgeism, @vyyper, @your-sleeparalysisdem0n, @cmiru, @unriding, @sheyfu, @chokifandom, + @m1ckeyb3rry! lmk if you’d like to be added to the taglist!

Mydei was pretty, really pretty. to you, anyway. everyone else thought he was scary and intimidating, except for the kids that would sometimes hang off his arms like they’re monkey bars, and you! you just adored your boyfriend so much! you may not hang off Mydei’s arms like a little gremlin monkey, but you did show your love in various ways. for one, you had the tendency to be a little touchy sometimes, which Mydei didn’t know how to respond to at first, but then he kinda just mellowed out and expected it at this point.

so how did you get to where you are now?

you’re both in your shared home, you’re sitting on the kitchen counter while Mydei stands in between your legs and listens as you ramble about your day. anytime you think he’s not listening, you stop your ramble and pepper a lot of kisses on your partner’s face. does this make him grumble and complain (lightheartedly. not that he’d admit it.)? absolutely, but it makes him smile just the slightest bit, so you think it’s worth it.

“what for?” he asks after your third pause of your ramblings.

“i just love you a lot!” you say as you press a kiss to the tip of his nose. Mydei smiles just a bit, just a little bit.

“keep going, i was waiting for you to tell me what happened to Barbara after HR said some shit.”

“OH MY GOD, MYDEI! let me tell you—“

and you two had a gossip and kiss session for the next two hours.

#airi writes #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #mydei x reader

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kathlare · 1 day ago

Note

Hii I love your stories!! could we please get a chapter with Lando and Amelie back on stream since Lando streamed last night? Pleasee with a lot of fluff and cute moments

Thank you so much for your request and all the love!! 💖 Here it is — a new chapter with Lando and Amelie back on stream together, full of fluff and cute little moments just like you asked 🫶 I really hope you like it!! And as always, if you have any other requests or ideas you’d like to see, feel free to send them my way anytime! 💌

close to you

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: A lively evening unfolds as Lando hosts a high-energy game stream with his friends, filled with teasing and laughter. Amidst the chaos, a calm, tender moment breaks through when a special guest quietly joins him, shifting the night’s mood to warmth and closeness.

Wordcount: 5.1 k

Warnings: none

full masterlist // request over here!

June 4th, 2025 - Barcelona, Spain

liked by stelladayman, georgerussell63, and others

ameliedayman: 🍎

View all 195,009 comments

stelladayman: me n my fav tomato 🍅 → ameliedayman: @stelladayman never letting you leave my suitcase again

stelladayman: red set supremacy 🔥 → chilliwilli19: @stelladayman you were SERVING in that pic too ok don’t be shy → sunnyamelie: @stelladayman stella’s back in her wag era and i’m here for it

landonorris: the red set should be illegal → maxfewtrell: @landonorris bro be real she had you tripping in sector 3 after that mirror selfie → landonorris: @maxfewtrell i’m in my lover boy era let me live

elysiadayman: that white dress pic is HELD ON MY FRIDGE → ameliedayman: @elysiadayman that’s because you’re obsessed with me

lanmeliesupremacy: literally she could post crumbs and i’d still eat them up → f1girlmads: @lanmeliesupremacy we’re all just peasants in the dayman monarchy → lanmeliesupremacy: @f1girlmads she’s queen of my serotonin

chaoticwags: this is a “my bf just won monaco and i’m glowing in spain” soft flex → noricharm: @chaoticwags her WAG aura is unbeatable rn

carlosisfast: ok but did she even go to watch the RACE or just do an editorial → sunnygridgirl: @carlosisfast she did both. some of us multitask ✨

floralsinsector1: the fruit stand pic feels like an indie film still

gridbabieee: RHODE PRODUCTS, RED HANDBAG, WHITE DRESS = she’s a color-coded queen → pitlaneprincessa: @gridbabieee i see the vision and the vision is glossier meets ferrari

oscarpiastri: i was there and i didn’t even get a jamón plate invite → ameliedayman: @oscarpiastri bc i like you but not that much

hatepage323: she’s only relevant bc of lando lol → lanmeliearmy: @hatepage323 say that louder so we can all block you faster 💅 → sunshineandsector2: @hatepage323 babe she literally has more range than your wifi

alex_albon: tapas were mid → ameliedayman: @alex_albon alex you ate like 4 plates

georgerussell63: where’s my invite to the fruit stand → ameliedayman: @georgerussell63 earn it 🫶

ninalando44: her taking script notes on the floor in her little yellow dress?? WIFE → downshiftangel: @ninalando44 she’s multitasking like she’s not breaking the grid with her outfits too

lando4evaaa: she’s not a wag she’s the whole grid → pitlaneeditor: @lando4evaaa wags wish. amelie runs the paddock rn → amelieislife: @pitlaneeditor respectfully? they all just guests in her spanish era

monacowasbetter: this is why no one took her seriously before lando → softamelia: @monacowasbetter and now? she’s getting paid to do what you tweet from your mom’s couch about xoxo

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

The sun was warm in that perfect early-June way, kissing the cobblestone streets of Barcelona with golden light as Amelie walked beside Sav, oversized sunglasses perched on her nose and a cold bottle of water in hand. Her hair, freshly dyed back to that bright, signature blonde, caught the sun with every step, bouncing as she laughed at something Sav had said.

Two security guards trailed discreetly behind them, letting the women wander freely down Passeig de Gràcia, popping in and out of boutiques, while the city buzzed quietly around them.

Savannah—Lando’s sister-in-law, unofficial big sister #3 in Amelie’s growing collection—linked her arm with hers as they stepped out of a shop, a little Zara Home bag swinging from her fingers.

—Okay, but hear me out,— Sav started, giving her a pointed look, —you need that linen set from Mango. It’s giving "I live in Monaco and make fresh orange juice for my hot boyfriend while he sleeps off a Grand Prix win."—

—Okay but I do live in Monaco with my hot boyfriend now,— Amelie grinned, eyes sparkling as they crossed the street, the warm breeze ruffling the hem of her sundress. —I just don’t make him orange juice. Yet.—

—Yet,— Sav echoed dramatically. —Look at you, all domestic and shit. You know I was actually surprised it didn’t happen sooner.—

Amelie flushed lightly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. —I think I was scared. Not of living together, just… how real it makes everything, you know?—

Sav gave her a knowing look. —Ames. You’ve been in love with that man since, what, 2020?—

—Don’t,— Amelie laughed, shoving her gently. —He was just a really cute friend who made me laugh and looked good in a headset.—

—Babe. You used to smile so stupidly at your phone when he texted that even Checo noticed. That man misses nothing.—

Amelie groaned, hiding her face behind her water bottle. —This is bullying. Public bullying.—

—It’s sisterhood.—

They passed a flower stall, the scent of peonies and sun-warmed roses drifting around them. Amelie slowed, eyes catching on a bouquet of wildflowers that reminded her of the little ones growing on the edge of the cliffs in Monaco. Her new home. Their home.

—But I’m really excited,— she said after a moment, voice softer now. —Like, waking up next to him every day? Coming home and finding his shoes in the middle of the hallway even though I told him not to leave them there? I want all of it.—

Sav smiled, a little misty-eyed. —You deserve it. Both of you. I watched Lando go through some very dumb years, but he’s never been more himself than he is with you. And I’m not just saying that because my kids are literally obsessed with you.—

—They’re my girls,— Amelie grinned, eyes lighting up instantly. —Mila asked me last week if I could be her "real tia" now. I almost cried in the middle of FaceTime.—

—Athena said she wants to live with you when she grows up. Sorry to break it to Lando, but you’ve officially replaced us.—

Amelie laughed, biting her lip. —They’re so… pure. Being around them makes everything quieter. Like the noise in my head slows down.—

Sav’s smile faded just slightly, warmth still in her voice as she asked, —Is that why you’re doing better? With the food?—

Amelie blinked, surprised, then nodded. —Yeah. That and… Lan. He’s really patient. Like, annoyingly so sometimes. He knows when to say something and when not to. I feel safe with him. In ways I didn’t think I’d ever feel again.—

—You’re glowing,— Sav said softly. —Not just the hair, although that blonde is back, bitch.—

Amelie laughed again. —Thanks. Primavera’s this weekend, so you know I had to go full power-blonde.—

—Iconic behavior. You know Mila’s going to try to sneak into the festival, right? She said she wants to “be backstage and wear sparkles like Ames.”—

—She can. I’ll smuggle her in my dressing room.—

—You’re gonna be such a good mum one day,— Sav said suddenly, surprising her.

Amelie’s breath caught.

—I want to be,— she said, almost shy. —Not now, but… yeah. I do. Especially if they look like Lando did when he was little. That baby picture of him in his gokart? My weakness. He had these big cheeks and that serious face like he was already plotting world domination.—

Sav laughed. —He really was a grumpy little old man in a toddler’s body. No wonder you’re obsessed.—

—It’s kind of embarrassing. I’ll just scroll through baby photos of him sometimes when I can’t sleep. And then I think, “Okay, but imagine that but like… ours.”—

—Stop, I’m gonna cry in the middle of Barcelona.—

Amelie smiled at her, then looked down at her own fingers, toying with the edge of the paper bag in her hand.

—I know it’s not time yet. We still have dreams, y’know? He wants that championship. I have tours, movies, music. We’ve only just started figuring out how to be together after all these years of missed chances. But the idea’s there. The maybe. And that’s enough right now.—

Sav looped her arm tighter through Amelie's and gave it a little squeeze, her smile fond and proud all at once.

—That’s the best kind of maybe,— she said gently. —The kind that doesn’t rush you but still makes your heart race when you think about it. And you’re right, you guys have so much life to live just the two of you first. But I’m not gonna lie, Amelie… I can already see him holding your hand in a delivery room with tears in his eyes and you threatening to break his fingers.—

Amelie let out a loud laugh, drawing the brief attention of a couple passing by. —God, that is so us. I'd be like, “Lando, if you say one more word I will murder you right here in front of the nurse.”—

Sav was laughing too, almost doubled over. —Exactly! And then three hours later you’d both be crying and swaddling a baby girl who looks just like you but has his pouty little mouth and dramatic eyebrows.—

Amelie made a face. —Don’t say that. I can feel my ovaries plotting a coup.—

—Join the club. I got pregnant with Mila just because Oli looked at me like he wanted a dog and then said, “Or we could try for a baby?” Men are too powerful when they know we’re in love with them.—

They stepped into a little artisan jewelry shop, the air inside cooler and smelling faintly of wood and lavender. Amelie drifted toward a display of delicate gold rings, turning one over between her fingers.

—You think we’re moving too fast?— she asked suddenly, her voice soft, not really looking up.

Sav shook her head. —No. You’ve been circling each other for years, Ames. I think this is exactly the pace you need. Not a sprint, not a crawl, just… finally walking together in the same direction.—

Amelie’s heart swelled with that. She slipped the ring onto her finger, testing the fit absently. It sparkled a little too perfectly under the light.

—He keeps calling the new place ours. Not “my place” or even “the apartment.” It’s always ours. I didn’t think that would matter so much but… it does.—

Sav smiled. —He’s never shared anything like this before. That boy lives out of suitcases and hotel rooms, and suddenly he’s hanging up art and asking if the kitchen needs new pans. He’s not just making room for you, he’s making a home with you. There’s a difference.—

Amelie swallowed, emotions catching in her throat unexpectedly.

—And I know you’re scared,— Sav added, reading her without even looking. —Because it’s big. And when you’ve been through the kind of pain you have, letting someone all the way in feels like handing them a loaded gun and saying “please don’t shoot.” But he won’t. He won’t, Ames. You’re safe with him.—

Amelie nodded, blinking quickly. —I know. It’s just… sometimes I catch him looking at me like I’m made of glass and I want to shake him and tell him I’m not going to break.—

Sav’s smile softened. —That’s not fear. That’s reverence. You’re the girl he dreamed about long before you ever called him Lan.—

They paid for the ring—Sav insisting on gifting it to her with a wink and a “pre-engagement present, don’t tell him”—and stepped back out into the sunlit street, bags swinging on their arms, the sounds of Barcelona rising around them.

They turned into a little café with white awnings and a scattering of tables under lemon trees. Their guards took positions nearby, giving them space. Amelie sank into her seat, resting her sunglasses on top of her head, eyes glinting in the afternoon light.

—You know, I used to think I wasn’t cut out for forever with someone,— she said suddenly, looking at the little lemon slices floating in her water. —Like I was too complicated or too much or not enough. But with Lan… I don’t know. He makes forever feel simple.—

Sav reached across the table, linking their pinkies for a moment. —That’s how you know it’s real. Not when it’s easy, but when it’s clear. And you two? You’ve been endgame since 2020. You just took the scenic route.—

Amelie smiled, radiant and content. She could already imagine herself curled up on their sofa in Monaco, Lando half-asleep beside her, Benny climbing over his lap while Björn knocked something off the kitchen counter in protest.

The maybe would wait. For now, this was everything.

And honestly?

She wouldn’t change a thing.

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

liked by mclarenmama, wagscentral, and others

ln4champion: LANDO IS LIVE ON TWITCH. OH MY GOD.

View all 89,108 comments

landofthelanmelie: he streamed once and immediately mentioned “my girlfriend” like boy we KNOW 😭 → ameliespinkbag: @landofthelanmelie he missed us but missed her more be fr 😭🫶

chaoticwags: him giggling at his phone every 5 mins like we don’t know it’s Amelie texting → norismilf: @chaoticwags the way he lights up is so unserious 😭 let them be obsessed

wagscentral: lanmelie coded twitch streams are my love language

quadrantcrush: WHO LET HIM BE THIS CUTE AGAIN → lanmeliesupportgroup: @quadrantcrush amelie. amelie let him.

daymaniac: twitch chat if amelie joins: 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️ → stellaapproved: @daymaniac Lando will log off so fast lmao

fruitplatefan: if he says “babe” out loud i’m throwing my laptop → wagsarewinning: @fruitplatefan same girl i got my funeral playlist ready 💀

softforlan: remember when he pretended he was too busy to stream? it was always her. it was always amelie

chaoticwags: if she walks in on stream wearing his hoodie i’m gonna bark → norisimp: @chaoticwags the lanmelie jump scare we’ve been WAITING for

quadrantdoll: he said “hi guys” and my depression cleared for 0.2 seconds → notmclarenadmin: @quadrantdoll same but then the mic glitched and it came back

lanmeliearchives: someone in chat just asked if Amelie’s there and he BLUSHED i’m gonna throw up → camupdates: @lanmeliearchives he was like “maybe 😳” BOY BE SERIOUS

mclarenmama: how is he still a gamer when he has a whole literal goddess girlfriend?? → crashqueen: @mclarenmama dual wielding mouse + gf hand 😭

norrispilled: he really chose us over date night with Amelie… we won → mclanmelie: @norrispilled no bc he’s lowkey scared of her and still said “just for a bit guys 🧍‍♂️” 💀

chaoticwags: he just said “she’s at dinner” bro you miss her say it with your chest 😭

wifey4lando: he keeps checking his phone mid-stream he’s def texting her → formulapookie: @wifey4lando the “yes i ate” text is being sent in real time

amebbyfanclub: lando without amelie on stream feels like when your friend’s gf can’t make it to the group hang → pitwallpsycho: @amebbyfanclub like yeah it’s fun but… where’s the sparkle

n4rryfan: no Amelie, no hoodie, no vibes 😔

amesinparis: he said “she’s busy” like he’s not down bad and missing her every 3 seconds 😭 → lanfan888: @amesinparis he was THIS close to playing her music on stream don’t lie

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

The stream had been live for barely twenty minutes, but the chat was already unhinged.

landonorris: 🟢 LIVE - im gamin Viewer count: 132k

Lando was sat in a black hoodie, hair a little messy and headset slightly crooked, with Connor next to him, both hunched over their screens, Escape from Tarkov in full chaotic swing.

—He's behind the box! He’s behind the f... CONNOR, YOU’RE BLIND,— Lando yelled, slamming a fist on his desk as shots exploded through their headphones.

—I’M NOT BLIND YOU DIDN’T CALL IT— —YOU WERE LOOKING AT HIM— —HE WAS CROUCHED LIKE A LITTLE GOBLIN—

Max’s voice crackled through Discord, dry and amused from wherever the hell in the world he was playing. —You two sound like a married couple. I'm gonna mute you both.—

Lando was mid-eye-roll when the suite’s door opened.

His head whipped around.

The chat caught it immediately.

DID YALL SEE HIS HEAD SNAP 🚨GUEST ALERT🚨 oh he heard THE voice AMELIE??????

—What the fuck was that reaction— Connor started, already turning in his seat to look toward the door too.

But it wasn’t Amelie.

It was Oliver first, Lando’s older brother, stepping inside with a bottle of sparkling water and a half-eaten bag of popcorn. Niccolò followed close behind, tossing his keys into the bowl near the entrance like he lived there. Which, to be fair, he kind of did whenever Amelie and Lando were in town.

—Oi, you’re streaming?— Oliver asked, already grinning as he stepped into frame, catching the webcam’s angle.

—Mate, warn me next time. I’m not dressed for 130k people,— Nic muttered, though he looked perfectly fine in his linen shirt and that Italian nonchalance he wore like cologne.

Lando shook his head, smiling even as he flicked a glance at the screen. —Say hi to the internet, lads.—

—Sup, internet,— Oliver said, giving the camera a little salute. —Connor still blind?—

—Absolutely,— Max deadpanned from Discord.

Connor threw both hands up. —I literally saved your ass last round, don’t even start.—

Before the argument could continue, the door creaked open again and Sav entered, pulling off her earrings as she kicked her shoes off by the door.

—Hellooo boys,— she said with a lazy wave, walking in behind the others. —God, I forgot how loud you lot are when you’re trying to kill pretend people.—

Lando laughed. —You survived dinner, then? Where’s Ames?—

And that was it.

All three of them—Oliver, Niccolò, and Sav—exchanged glances, immediately smirking.

Sav leaned against the back of his chair, eyebrow raised. —Of course that’s the first thing you ask.—

—Didn’t even say hi to me,— Oliver added with a mock pout.

—She went to the bathroom, loverboy,— Nic supplied, plopping down on the edge of the bed. —Relax. You’ll see her in like two minutes. Or are you gonna combust before then?—

The chat was having an absolute meltdown.

WHERE IS SHE HE’S SO GONE FOR HER I REPEAT, HE SAID ‘WHERE’S AMES’ BEFORE ‘HI SAV’

Lando flipped them all off—both in the room and on stream—without looking away from his monitor.

—I literally just wanted to make sure she didn’t fall into the hotel pool or something. Chill.—

Sav snorted. —You mean the same pool that’s twenty stories below us and locked behind two gates? Right.—

They were still teasing when Connor got gunned down in-game with a scream.

—DUDE! NO! I was organizing my inventory!— Connor groaned, throwing his head back dramatically.

Lando barely survived five seconds longer before a grenade exploded nearby and took him out too. —Fuck’s sake. Max, you better clutch or I’m banning you from the group.—

—You die every time and still act like this is my fault,— Max replied dryly.

Now dead, Lando and Connor spun their chairs toward the others as they waited for Max to either finish the round or die.

Oliver tossed a pillow at Lando. —So. Dinner was chaos. Amelie couldn’t take two steps without someone asking for a picture.—

—Not kidding,— Nic added. —Even the chef came out and asked for a selfie. Then the manager brought her a plate to sign. A fucking plate.—

—She signed it like a rockstar,— Sav grinned proudly. —Gold Sharpie and everything. I think they’re gonna frame it in the kitchen.—

Lando chuckled, but his eyes flicked toward the hallway as footsteps padded closer.

And then, finally, the door opened again.

The chat exploded.

BLONDEEEEEE SHE’S BACKKKK MOTHER IS MOTHERING LANDO IS SILENT. SILENCED. GONE. look at his FACE bro

Amelie walked in, glowing from the day—blonde hair falling in soft waves past her shoulders, skin sunkissed from the Barcelona sun. She was still wearing the outfit from dinner: a silky champagne-toned mini dress with a low back, hugging her just enough to make Connor whisper “oh my god” under his breath before Sav smacked his arm.

—Hi,— she said casually, like she wasn’t derailing the entire stream with her presence. She made her way to the dresser, grabbing the hoodie she’d left earlier and shrugging it on over her dress.

Lando swiveled in his chair, staring like a man in a trance. —You look…—

—Hot, yeah, we know,— Amelie grinned as she leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to his lips, her hand brushing his jaw. —Hi, baby.—

He blinked, visibly flustered. —Hi.—

—Hi chat,— she added, peeking at the camera over his shoulder and giving a small wave. —Please be nice to him. He’s sensitive.—

The comments were flying.

HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII HE’S SENSITIVE 😭😭😭😭 she kissed him I’m gonna die actually what do we call this look? devour era? AND SHE’S BLONDE AGAIN WE WON

—Just grabbing clothes. You boys keep yelling at each other, I’ll be back in a sec,— she said, already halfway to the ensuite.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, Lando exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the entire time.

Connor laughed. —Jesus Christ, dude. You need a glass of water? Or a minute alone?—

—Shut up,— Lando muttered, cheeks tinged red.

—Can’t wait for your sim card to fry when she walks back in wearing your hoodie and nothing else,— Max deadpanned from the headphones.

The boys howled with laughter.

Lando just grinned, the kind of smile that said yeah, he’d gladly combust for her.

And judging by the chat, the entire internet would go with him.

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

liked by gridgirliee, hazefangirl, and others

lanmelieupdates: SHE’S HEREEE 😭😭 Amelie just popped up in Lando’s stream, gave him a kiss and dipped like nothing happened 😭 the way he blushed??? we're not okay. LANMELIE LIVES FOR REAL 💻💋🍓

View all 103,175 comments

streamsimp_: that little kiss? i’m throwing myself into the ocean → softforlanmelie: @streamsimp_ she owns that man AND his twitch stream

gridgirliee: why does lando look like a golden retriever in love i’m— → lanmeliefluff: @gridgirliee bc he IS a golden retriever in love 🥹

quadqueen: Lando forgot what game he was playing after that kiss i fear → chaoslane: @quadqueen he was buffering IRL 💀

tifosiwitch: it’s giving wife behavior → zaddiesunite: @tifosiwitch it’s giving husband reaction too 😭

mcluvmelie: their domestic era is so soft i’m crying in the club

blondeamelie: SHE KISSED HIM ON CAM AND HE SHORT-CIRCUITED 😭

softlaunchqueen: she said “hi baby” and lando’s soul left his body 😭 → gamerwifey: @softlaunchqueen he’s not coming back. rip.

chaoticwags: if MY gf looked like that i’d never stream again → norifangirl88: @chaoticwags he was fighting for his LIFE to stay focused bro 💀

wheelsonfire: the way he looked at her??? that’s “she holds my soul in her tiny little hands” energy

blessedbybjorn: did anyone else feel single watching that or was it just me → hazefangirl: @blessedbybjorn it was a personal attack actually

streamsniffer: connor, sav, oliver, and nic witnessing a romcom unfold live is the energy I crave → cringecorequeen: @streamsniffer AND THEY ALL JUST LET IT HAPPEN LMFAOOO

lanmeliesupremacy: she wore THAT dress, kissed her man, bullied the chat, then vanished. queen behavior.

blessedbybjorn: did anyone else feel single watching that or was it just me → hazefangirl: @blessedbybjorn it was a personal attack actually

streamsniffer: connor, sav, oliver, and nic witnessing a romcom unfold live is the energy I crave → cringecorequeen: @streamsniffer AND THEY ALL JUST LET IT HAPPEN LMFAOOO

lanmeliesupremacy: she wore THAT dress, kissed her man, bullied the chat, then vanished. queen behavior.

streamsnaccs: the way the boys just accepted their third wheel status instantly → thirdwheellando: @streamsnaccs even max muted himself outta respect 💀

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

Hours had passed.

They were deep into their fourth or fifth round of Tarkov, the suite dark except for the harsh glow of their monitors and the occasional flash of muzzle fire. Lando was still locked in, headset on, Connor next to him arguing over loot, Max crackling through Discord.

The viewer count hadn’t dropped below six digits all night.

Lando’s hoodie sleeves were pushed to his elbows now, hair a mess from running his hands through it every time he died. His voice was a little hoarse from shouting, but he was still going strong, leaning into the chaos like it was fuel.

Connor was mid-rant about dying to a camper when the door opened again.

No one looked at first—too focused, too loud—until Max said, slightly amused —Uh. You might wanna check six, Lando.—

Lando glanced over his shoulder.

And didn’t even flinch.

He just… smiled.

The stream caught it. The little upward curl of his lips, the way his eyes softened like muscle memory, like they were programmed to respond to her.

Amelie stepped inside, barefoot and sleep-tousled, wearing one of his oversized Quadrant shirts and a pair of old McLaren shorts that had definitely been stolen from his closet. Her hair was a little messy, her face bare, cheeks flushed from sleep.

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t have to.

Lando didn’t break focus on the game. He just leaned back slightly in his chair and nudged it out from the desk, making space.

She padded over, climbed into his lap like she’d done it a thousand times before—which, to be fair, she had—and curled into his chest, arms around his torso and face tucked into the crook of his neck.

Lando’s arms wrapped around her automatically, controller still in hand, continuing to play over her back.

—Were we too loud, baby?— he mumbled, one hand brushing lightly over her hip.

She hummed something that sounded like mmhmm and nuzzled deeper into him.

The chat went feral.

DID SHE JUST— OH MY GOD SHE’S IN HIS LAP. HIS LITERAL LAP. this is the softest stream in history “were we too loud baby” IM UNWELL the way he made room for her 😭😭😭 WHO LET HIM BE THIS BOYFRIEND

Connor didn’t even flinch anymore.

He just rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, —Here we go again.— Then louder, to no one in particular —At this point she should just have her own gaming chair.—

Lando smirked, barely glancing up as his thumb moved over the controller. —She does. It’s just... my lap.—

—Disgusting,— Max chimed in through Discord, though he sounded more amused than annoyed. —Can you two wait until I’m not bleeding out in a stairwell to be gross? Cheers.—

Lando chuckled, low and breathy, barely audible under Amelie’s sleepy murmur of —You’re warm...—

The chat went insane.

THE MULTITASKING IS CRAZY he’s cuddling and shooting people i’m crying this is what peak male performance looks like I THOUGHT THIS WAS A VIOLENT GAME WHY AM I CRYING protect her at all costs. and him. and their cats.

Amelie shifted a little, her legs draping over one of Lando’s and her hand slipping beneath his hoodie like she was trying to crawl inside his skin. Lando didn’t even blink—just adjusted slightly so she could be more comfortable, controller still perfectly in place, fingers moving with practiced precision.

—You want water or anything, Ames?— he murmured, dipping his head toward her ear.

She mumbled something again, a little incoherent, before managing: —’m good. Just needed you.—

He smiled, like that was the easiest thing in the world. —I’m right here, angel.—

Connor groaned. —Okay. Yeah. No. I’m leaving. I’m done. I’m taking fall damage just from the secondhand affection.—

—You were already trash this round anyway,— Lando said, grinning.

—You’re trash. Your KD is trash. Your girlfriend is the only good thing about this stream,— Connor snapped, gesturing toward Amelie’s very unconscious form in his lap.

Lando didn't even argue.

—True.—

The chat lost its mind again.

he didn’t even deny it 😭😭😭😭 “true.” THE CONFIDENCE she’s literally SLEEPING ON HIM mid-stream he’s GONE connor: ur trash | lando: yeah but look at my life rn 🫶 and THAT’S how you win at life

Max, ever the deadpan voice of reason, chimed in from wherever he was in the world. —I swear if she starts snoring, I’m clipping it and sending it to her label.—

—Do it and I’ll leak your DMs with that Twitch mod from two years ago,— Lando shot back without missing a beat.

Connor choked on a laugh. —OH MY GOD—

Amelie barely stirred, her fingers flexing lightly against his stomach like she was dreaming, and Lando’s entire focus momentarily flickered away from the screen and down to her.

The smile he gave her then—quiet, reverent, gentle—was caught by the webcam.

And every single person watching knew:

This wasn’t a bit. This wasn’t for show. This was real.

Lando Norris was utterly, hopelessly, stupidly in love.

And she was asleep in his lap, safe and wrapped around him like she belonged there.

i’m not crying you are love is real actually. i believe again someone check on the fan accounts they’re probably flatlined how do I uninstall feelings. this is too much. what’s the ship name again? lanmelie? it’s giving endgame.

The stream continued.

But the tone had shifted—still chaotic, still full of grenades and shouting—but somehow softer, warmer, like everyone was playing under a blanket now.

Connor sighed dramatically and leaned back in his chair. —Okay, whatever. I’ll third wheel. Again. As usual. Can we please raid the resort this time without Lando getting distracted by his literal sleepover girlfriend? Thanks.—

Lando just smiled, adjusting his grip on the controller and settling into his chair a little deeper—one arm still around the girl he loved.

—Let’s do it.—

The hours stretched on, the night deepening outside the suite’s windows, but inside the world was just theirs — pixels, laughter, and the quiet rhythm of Amelie breathing against Lando’s chest.

Connor, still trying to keep up, was muttering complaints but mostly just smiling at the scene, now thoroughly resigned to being the third wheel. Max’s voice cut through the tension from Discord one last time.

—Alright, man, I’m calling it. I can’t concentrate with your personal cuddle puddle hogging the best spot on your lap. Someone’s gotta go to bed eventually.—

Lando’s grin was lazy, warm, the kind that made the screen glow softer. He glanced down at Amelie, still nestled against him in one of his old McLaren shirts and those impossibly short shorts that gave no hints of modesty.

—Yeah, yeah. We’re done here.— He hit the ‘end stream’ button, the viewer count freezing before dropping as the broadcast went offline.

Turning to Connor, he laughed. —You’re a trooper for staying this long. But yeah, time to call it. I’ll carry Ames back to bed.—

Connor raised an eyebrow, half teasing, half impressed. —Carrying her like a princess or like she’s a sack of potatoes?—

Lando smirked, scooping Amelie carefully into his arms. She stirred a little, mumbling something indecipherable but snuggling closer.

—Like she’s the most precious thing in the world.—

Connor shook his head with a grin. —Alright, I’ll let you two be mushy. Catch you tomorrow, yeah?—

—Definitely. Good night, Connor.— Lando waved him off as the door clicked shut behind the retreating gamer.

Lando’s voice softened, eyes warm as he looked down at Amelie’s peaceful face.

—Let’s go to sleep, love. Big day tomorrow.—

She smiled sleepily against his chest, the kind of smile that said everything was exactly where she wanted to be.

He carried her down the hall, the quiet hum of the city far away, their own little world sealed tight behind the door.

And finally, the only sounds were the soft steps and the promise of rest.

151 notes · View notes

shurisneakers · 2 days ago

Text

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.

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