#unless like.... someone gave him a reason to

[buckysleftbicep]

for better or for worse (1) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, sexual tension, one bed trope,

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 2.5k

author's note: hi my loves! this is one of my uncompleted series, and i'm posting in hopes i could be motivated to complete it! if you'd like for a chapter two, let me know! your support means a lot to me <333

series masterlist

“You can’t be serious.”

Your voice cut sharply through the room, echoing off the concrete walls of the team's briefing room. The table was scattered with dossiers, mission files, half-drunk coffee, and exactly zero logic as far as you were concerned.

Val didn’t even blink. She just sat there at the head of the table, calm as ever, the faintest glint of amusement betraying her otherwise impassive face. “Dead serious.”

You folded your arms, glaring. “Out of everyone here… him?”

“I’m flattered,” Bucky muttered beside you, tone flat as a dry desert. He didn’t even look your way, probably didn’t want to see the way your eyes narrowed like you were about to throw something sharp at him.

Val’s smirk deepened. She leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, fingers steepled under her chin like a cartoon villain with far too much power. “You two have unresolved issues, so congratulations. You’re married now.”

Yelena let out a full snort of laughter, clapping a hand over her mouth like she was watching a slow-motion car crash.

John gave a low, gleeful whistle. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

“Why can’t you send Walker?” you snapped, jerking a thumb at him. “He already looks like he belongs on a honeymoon with his ego.”

“He have emotional capacity of wrecking ball,” Alexei chimed in, voice thick with his Russian accent, waving a hand dismissively. “Very destructive, not subtle.”

“No, I don’t—” John started to protest, indignant.

Yelena rolled her eyes. “You cried at Fast and Furious 7, and it wasn’t even the sad part.”

John scowled. “It had layers.”

She dropped a thick file onto the table. Glossy surveillance photos slid free, including a few charred, smoking blueprints and a shot of Raskovic toasting champagne in a cabana.

“His last shipment,” Val continued, “levelled half a research compound in Tunisia. I need charm, subtlety. Not testosterone."

You let out a disbelieving huff and gestured vaguely in Bucky’s direction without looking at him. “And you think this has charm?”

“I ooze charm,” Bucky said flatly.

You finally turned to glance at him. “Yeah, I can see that. Real honeymoon material.”

Yelena grinned wide, leaning across the table toward you like she was settling in for the drama. “This is going to be so entertaining.”

“Better than reality TV,” Ava added, her boots kicked up on the table, legs crossed lazily.

Alexei clapped his hands together, beaming like someone’s very drunk uncle at a wedding. “Marriage is beautiful thing, bond of love. Trust."

You turned your gaze back to Val, still hoping against reason that she would crack and admit this was some twisted, long-game prank. “There has to be another way.”

She gave you that look. The one that always meant: I could have you killed and get away with it. And then she smiled, teeth sharp and polished.

“Not unless you want to tell the weapons dealer you’re siblings who sometimes make out.”

You blinked, as John gagged audibly in the background.

“…Fine,” you muttered, jaw clenching.

Bucky didn’t even react. He just let out a grunt, pushing his chair back slightly. “Let’s get this over with.”

With a dramatic flourish, Val produced two small velvet boxes from her bag and slid them across the table. “Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Barnes. Honeymoon begins in twenty-four hours. And if either of you screw this up, if he suspects anything, you’re both done. There are no second chances with Raskovic. None.”

You flipped open your box. Inside, a slim platinum band gleamed under the overhead lights. It looked delicate, elegant, like something a real wife would wear, if she didn’t want to commit murder against her husband before check-in.

Val’s voice was cool as steel. “Play the part. Laugh. Kiss. Look like you can’t keep your hands off each other. Be convincing.”

“Oh, we’ll be convincing,” Bucky muttered as he slid the ring onto his finger, his voice almost too casual. “Won’t we, sweetheart?”

You didn’t answer.

You were too busy imagining what it would feel like to punch your fake husband in the face.

Six Hours Later

“Tell me again why I agreed to this,” you muttered, yanking your suitcase behind you as the team's transport SUV barrelled down a sun-drenched coastal road, the ocean stretching endlessly beside it like a taunt.

The scent of saltwater mixed with the heat of the asphalt, the resort town glinting in the distance like something out of a luxury magazine ad you would never willingly sign up for.

Bucky’s voice cut through the silence from the driver’s seat. “Because you have a hero complex,” he said, one hand firm on the wheel, the other draped lazily across the armrest like he wasn’t wearing a metaphorical wedding ring that made your eye twitch. “And you like pretending you don’t.”

You scoffed, adjusting your sunglasses as you shot him a glare. “Because I was assigned to this.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Because you’re reckless and don’t listen to orders.”

Your head snapped toward him, the suitcase thudding into your shin as you turned in your seat. “Because you're a controlling jackass who never takes the stick out of his—”

“Children,” came John’s voice through the SUV’s overhead comms, the speaker crackling just enough to ruin the moment. “Behave. Uncle Walker’s listening in.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.

“I’m placing bets,” Yelena chimed in, the sound of chewing echoing faintly behind her smug tone. “Three days before they fuck. Two before they kill each other.”

“Both, maybe same night,” Alexei added almost cheerfully in the background, as if he were discussing weather patterns.

You let out a long, exasperated breath and turned back to the road, jaw tight, sunglasses hiding the slow blink of disbelief at your life choices.

Bucky didn’t look at you, but you could feel the smugness radiating off him like heat from the dash.

“You should rest,” he said, casting a sidelong glance your way. “You’re crankier than usual.”

You crossed your arms, slumping just enough to make your annoyance known. “Maybe I’d be in a better mood if I wasn't married the most aggravating man on the planet.”

Bucky smirked like you’d handed him a trophy. “I didn’t realise I outranked Walker.”

“I’m flattered,” came John’s voice again, low and mildly wounded. “Thanks, guys. Warms the heart.”

Twenty Minutes Later – Resort Arrival

The second your foot hit the ground, you nearly choked on the air.

The resort was obscene—like someone gave a billionaire an unlimited budget and said, go nuts.

The entrance was framed with cascading white orchids, marble walkways that looked freshly polished gleamed under the golden tropical sun, and an honest-to-god quartet played soft jazz somewhere near a sculpted garden arch.

Fountains bubbled lazily with rose petals floating on the surface, and in the distance, gauzy white silk cabanas shimmered beside an infinity pool that looked like it led directly into the ocean. Uniformed staff moved like clockwork, trays of champagne glasses catching the light like diamonds.

Bucky stepped up beside you, duffel slung over his shoulder, and took it all in with an arched brow. “Great,” he muttered under his breath. “We’re in a Bond villain’s wet dream.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “Try not to glower too hard. We’re supposed to be happy newlyweds, remember?”

His gaze flicked to you, mouth twitching like he wanted to laugh or maybe bite. “Try not to stab anyone with your heels.”

You didn’t reply. Not because he was right, but because the stilettos Val made you pack could absolutely be used as a weapon. And likely would.

Inside, the air conditioning hit like a blessing. The check-in lobby was all white marble and gold accents, with soft lighting that made your skin glow unnaturally perfect.

A stunning concierge greeted you with the kind of practiced smile that made you want to start lying immediately.

“Welcome to El Alma Dorada, Mr. and Mrs. Barnes,” she said, hands clasped over a sleek tablet. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Before you could even fake a smile, Bucky’s hand slid into yours.

It was warm—calloused, solid, and entirely too steady. You blinked down at the contact just as he turned on a grin so smooth it knocked the wind out of you.

He leaned in a little, close enough that you could smell his cologne, feel the press of his thumb brushing slow, affectionate circles against your knuckles.

“Couldn’t wait to get here,” he said easily, voice pitched low and full of some fabricated warmth. “Isn’t that right, babe?”

Your mouth went a little dry.

“…Uh—yeah,” you stammered, smile slow to appear as you forced yourself to lean into his shoulder like it was second nature. “We’re just so excited to start our new life together.”

His hand squeezed yours—subtle, but firm. Reminding you.

Play the part.

You turned your head just enough to rest lightly against his bicep, stretching your grin until your cheeks ached. “So excited.”

The concierge giggled, clearly charmed. “Your honeymoon suite is ready, and the champagne has been chilled. You’ll find rose petals and—”

“Perfect,” Bucky cut in smoothly, his voice suddenly thick with something intimate, possessive. “Can’t keep my hands off her.”

Your stomach flipped so fast it made you dizzy.

There was a cough—stifled, but unmistakable through the comms. Someone was definitely listening.

Probably Yelena. Or John, trying not to laugh himself into an aneurysm.

“Aw,” Yelena cooed through the comms, voice syrup-sweet. “You two are so cute I’m gonna throw up.”

And told yourself not to murder your fake husband until at least after the complimentary breakfast.

The suite was ridiculous.

Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around half the space, bathing the room in warm, golden afternoon light. The ocean shimmered beyond the glass in postcard perfection, the view so breathtaking it too pristine to be real.

The ivory stone floors gleamed under your heels, each click echoing faintly as you stepped further inside. Silk-draped furniture was arranged like a magazine spread, and on the private balcony, a plunge pool glistened like a sapphire.

A bottle of vintage champagne waited on ice by the sitting area, and just past that, a trail of red rose petals led delicately toward—

“Oh, hell no.”

You stopped in your tracks, eyes locked ahead, body gone still.

Bucky stepped in behind you and raised a brow as he followed your line of sight. He didn’t say anything, just strolled past with calm and tossed your suitcase beside his own like the room didn’t feel like a honeymoon-themed fever dream.

The bed, if you could even call it that, was massive. King-sized, or maybe some custom size beyond your comprehension. It was piled with pristine white linens, oversized down pillows, and a tufted headboard that screamed expensive sin.

The rose petals continued onto the mattress like an arrow pointing straight to your worst nightmare.

Just one bed.

Of course.

You let out a slow, withering breath. “Real polite of you,” you muttered dryly as Bucky moved toward the closet like this was just another mission and not the set of some soft-core romance movie.

“I’m your husband, remember?” he shot back without looking at you, voice dripping with sarcastic charm that made your eye twitch.

You stepped further into the room, suitcase wheels clicking softly across the marble as your gaze remained stubbornly on the bed. “One bed,” you said, mostly to yourself. “Of course.”

“I’ll take the couch,” Bucky said immediately, nodding toward a chaise lounge in the corner.

It was upholstered in gold-tinged fabric, delicate and ornamental. Clearly decorative. Barely big enough for one leg, let alone a super soldier.

You turned and stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “What are we, five?”

His brow rose. “I just figured—”

“We can share the bed,” you cut in, voice quieter now, trying not to sound as reluctant as you felt. “It’s not like we haven’t been in worse situations.”

He paused. Something flickered in his eyes, too quick to name. Surprise, maybe. Something unreadable, something that made your stomach tighten for half a second.

But then it was gone, shuttered behind the same mask he always wore when things got a little too real.

“Sure,” he said, easy as anything. “Whatever you want, princess.”

You rolled your eyes and turned toward the vanity, focusing on unpacking anything just to keep your hands busy. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

The words came out smooth, sarcastic, like everything else from his mouth—but the undertone lingered. He moved toward the bathroom, muttering something under his breath about needing a shower.

And then—like he knew you were watching—he reached up and began undoing the top button of his shirt.

Your fingers froze on the zipper of your bag.

One button. Then the next. Then the next.

You watched—damn it, of course you watched. It wasn’t the first time you had seen Bucky shirtless, but this wasn’t mid-mission or after a fight.

There was no adrenaline. No distraction. Just him, standing in honeyed sunlight, undoing each button with casual ease like he wasn’t setting your pulse on fire.

He shrugged the shirt off one shoulder, then the other, folding it neatly before placing it at the edge of the bed. His left arm remained wrapped in a sleek black compression sleeve, but the shimmer of gold vibranium still peeked through.

His chest was broad and solid, scarred in places, inked in others. Each line of muscle moved with practiced grace, abs flexing slightly as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

You tried not to stare. You really tried.

And then, just to finish you off, the bastard looked at you.

“Want me to leave the door open while I shower?” he asked, tone light. Innocent. Too innocent.

Your mouth went dry. “Why the hell would I want that?”

He smirked, eyes glittering with amusement as he tilted his head. “Thought you might want to join me. Water pressure’s supposed to be incredible.”

You narrowed your eyes, but the heat rising up your neck betrayed you. “You wish.”

“I do, actually.”

You jerked your gaze to the minibar, to the flowers, anywhere that wasn’t his bare chest or that infuriating mouth. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He stepped closer as he passed—barefoot, because of course he was—his voice lowering to a near whisper. You could feel the warmth of him as he brushed by, feel the smugness radiating off every inch.

“Just say the word.”

Then he disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him with frustrating calm.

You stood there for a long beat, staring at the etched floral pattern on the wall. Your heart thumped uncomfortably, your skin too warm, your thoughts, well, they didn’t belong anywhere near a mission file.

This was going to be a problem.

Your earpiece crackled to life.

“Hey lovebirds,” Yelena said sweetly, voice soaked in amusement. “Remember the comms are still on, yes? We can hear everything.”

You groaned, ripped the tiny device from your ear, and tossed it onto the nightstand like it had personally betrayed you.

“What the hell have I gotten myself into?”

a/n: here is me hoping you enjoyed this chapter! love ya and stay safe out there!

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which your court vision will always have her back

Wings vs. Sky. Packed house.

It’s physical from the tip.

Not in a dirty way. Just relentless. Elbows, hips, pressure defense. You’ve got your tablet in hand, clipboard under your leg as you track every Paige rotation.

So far, she’s holding her own. You can see the fatigue in her legs—second night of a back-to-back—but she’s still moving with intent.

And then, it happens.

Paige is curling off a high screen when Courtney Vandersloot turns too fast on help.

CRACK.

Head to head. A collision that echoes through the arena.

Both players go down. But Paige stays down. Flat on her back. Clutching her head. Knees drawn in, fingers in her hair. You stand instantly.

Your clipboard falls off your hands as you step forward—only stopped by the out-of-bounds line. You're not allowed on the court unless summoned.

But the bench?

The coaches?

Coach Koclanes just… stares.

He’s barking orders. Trying to call out a substitution. Not once looking at her.

Not one fucking time.

Your voice cuts through the noise. “Hey.”

He ignores you.

The ref glances at Paige, who’s slowly pushing herself upright, dazed. A trainer finally jogs out late. Paige waves them off, wobbling to her feet.

You stare at Koclanes.

“Are you serious right now?”

He doesn’t turn.

You step closer behind him, voice low but shaking.

“She hit the floor hard. She held her head.”

“She’s up, isn’t she?” he snaps back.

You blink. “So that’s the bar now? She can stand, so who cares how bad it was?”

“Back off, Assistant,” he mutters without looking.

“Oh no,” you say, stepping fully beside him now. “Don’t you dare pull rank with me when your point guard just collapsed on national TV and you couldn’t be bothered to check on her.”

He finally turns, face tight.

“I’m the head coach. I manage the rotation. If she wants a sub, she can say it.”

You take another step. “She was holding her head, Chris. That’s not about rotation. That’s a player safety issue.”

“She waved off the trainer.”

“She was dazed. You saw the hit!”

“You’re way out of line—”

“And you’re not protecting your players!”

A couple staffers behind you start moving. The assistant next to you puts a hand on your arm, sensing the energy shift.

Koclanes leans closer, voice dropping venom.

“You know I could fire you, right here, right now?”

You don’t flinch.

“Do it.”

That stuns him.

You say it again—louder.

“Go ahead. Fire me. But I’ll walk out of this arena knowing I gave a damn when you didn’t.”

The bench behind you is dead quiet.

Arike is standing now. DiJonai has a hand half-raised like she’s ready to step in. Maddy's eyes are wide. Someone mutters, “Yo…”

Two staffers grab your arm, trying to pull you a step back. You don’t budge.

“She is not just your franchise piece,” you growl. “She is a person. A person who’s taken more hits this season than you’ve acknowledged, and all she gets in return is a stare and a substitution?”

Koclanes clenches his jaw. “Let. This. Go.”

“There’s a concussion protocol for a reason,” you fire back. “You’re lucky she’s upright at all.”

“Assistant L/N—”

“She is not going to keep sacrificing her body just because you’re afraid to sit your starters for two goddamn possessions!���

A whistle blows from the refs. Time-in. The game resumes.

But you’re still standing. Face-to-face with the head coach. Seething.

Only when Paige walks back toward the bench, face pale, head still shaking off the hit—do you back off. You meet her eyes. She gives you a small nod.

She’s okay.

For now.

You sit down. Not because you’re done.

But because she needs you calm again.

“Oof, looks like there’s some heat on the Wings bench. That’s… Coach Koclanes and Assistant Y/N L/N—yep, that’s definitely not just a standard rotation conversation.”

“Y/N has a long history with Paige Bueckers, dating back to high school. She’s not just a development coach—she’s been Paige’s personal trainer, recovery coordinator, and from everything we’ve seen, something much closer than just staff.”

“You hate to see that kind of public tension, but… she’s not wrong. Paige went down hard. Someone had to say something.”

@/user Y/N L/N is fighting for her life on that bench and honestly??? I’d take her as head coach right now

@/user She was HOLDING HER HEAD. That wasn’t a foul. That was a fucking red flag. Thank god Y/N stepped up

@/user Y/N: “Fire me then.” Me: “oop—”

@/user I’ve never wanted to be protected by anyone more in my life than I want to be protected by Y/N L/N

@/user Paige doesn’t need a bodyguard. She has Y/N

The room is tense. No music. Just a dull, quiet hum of postgame routine. Paige is sitting on the floor with ice on her neck, head resting against her locker.

You crouch down slowly beside her, finally away from the spotlight.

“You good?” you ask, eyes scanning her carefully.

“I’m alright,” she whispers. “Just… saw stars for a sec.”

You nod. “You told the trainer?”

“Yeah. They’re doing protocol now.”

You pause.

“I almost got fired.”

She turns, brows raised.

“Coach said he could fire me. I told him to do it.”

Paige stares for a second.

Then she reaches out, curls her hand around yours, and squeezes tight.

“You always fight for me.”

You lean your forehead to hers, quiet. “Every time.”

You're barely through the front doors when your phone buzzes again. It’s the third message this morning, this one from your department lead.

“League office just requested footage of last night’s hit. They’re reviewing it for unsafe play and delayed medical response. FYI.”

You stop in your tracks.

You stare at the message.

Then you exhale, mutter “Finally,” and keep walking.

The entire coaching staff is present. Assistant coordinators. Player development. Medical team. Even media relations.

Coach Koclanes walks in last, drops his notes on the table like nothing’s out of the ordinary.

But the tension is different today.

Because the email came from the league office.

The head of player safety.

And it wasn’t just about a Vandersloot’s head butt.

It was about him.

“The league is conducting a formal review of last night’s on-court incident,” says the director of team operations, adjusting his glasses. “They want full sideline audio, player testimony, and post-concussion clearance reports from our staff.”

Everyone’s quiet.

Then one of the assistants asks, “Are they looking into the contact… or the way it was handled?”

“Both,” the director replies. “And specifically, whether proper protocol was followed.”

Coach doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at you.

But you’re already sitting straighter. Ready.

“Do they want staff witness accounts?” you ask calmly.

“They do.”

You nod once.

Coach finally speaks. “This is being blown out of proportion.”

You turn toward him slowly. “She hit the floor hard.”

“She waved off the trainer.”

“She shouldn’t have had to.”

Another assistant murmurs, “It was a concussion risk play. That’s automatic review.”

“And the broadcast picked up your argument,” the team director adds. “Social media lit up.”

Coach leans back in his chair, clearly annoyed. “I’m more concerned with winning basketball games than internet drama.”

You stare at him flatly. “I’m more concerned with protecting the players you rely on to win them.”

The room stays silent.

You lean forward, hands on the table. “If we’re not protecting our franchise players—our rookies—especially when they’re visibly shaken, then we are failing them. Period.”

No one interrupts you this time.

And this time, Coach doesn’t fight back.

@/user The league has confirmed it is reviewing the on-court collision between Paige Bueckers and Courtney Vandersloot. Sources say the investigation includes the Dallas bench's handling of the aftermath

@/user SAY IT LOUDER! we do not normalize letting elite players get concussed mid-game and left to shake it off. The league stepping in is the bare minimum

@/user So we all agree that Y/N L/N was the only adult in the room last night right?

@/user She said “fire me” while protecting the only rookie carrying the backcourt and the league listened. Icon behavior

You’re sitting on the floor of your living room, tablet on your lap, rewatching the collision in slow motion. Frame by frame. Over and over. You’re memorizing the exact second Paige’s head hits the floor, the way her hand goes up, the dazed blink, the delayed bench reaction.

You’re so locked in you don’t hear the front door open.

“Still watching it?” Paige’s voice is quiet behind you.

You glance over your shoulder.

She walks toward you slowly, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Her eyes are tired. She’s still on watch from the medical team—symptoms mild, but present.

“I couldn’t let it go,” you admit. “Not when no one else said anything.”

She sinks down beside you on the carpet, shoulder to shoulder.

“You didn’t let them look past it.”

“I couldn’t,” you say. “You could’ve blacked out. You could’ve gone down harder. It could’ve been worse.”

She rests her head against your shoulder.

“But it wasn’t. Because you stood up.”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you turn your face toward her temple and press a kiss there.

“I’ll never stop standing up for you.”

Her voice is softer now.

“I think the league knows that.”

You exhale. “They should.”

She smiles faintly, murmuring into your shoulder, “And if they don’t… you’ll make sure they do.”

The apartment is too quiet for a game day.

The only sound in the living room is the faint hum of the pregame broadcast coming through the TV speakers and the soft pop of an ice pack settling against fabric.

Paige is curled into the corner of the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands, the drawstrings tied in a loose knot under her chin. She’s got a pillow behind her neck, and one bare knee propped over your thigh. Her eyes are locked on the screen, but her focus is scattered.

You sit beside her—shoulders straight, arms folded—wearing a Wings staff tee and warm-up joggers that feel more like salt in the wound than uniform. You haven’t worn anything else since the league issued the notice two days ago.

Temporarily removed from bench duties pending internal review.

Which was protocol, they said. Nothing personal. Nothing disciplinary.

And yet.

It felt like exile.

The game is minutes from tip-off.

The broadcast cuts to the court.

Blue lights dance across the hardwood. The crowd is on their feet, music thumping through the arena. The camera pans the bench, scanning down the Wings sideline.

You’re not in the frame.

Neither is she.

“The Dallas Wings are without two major pieces tonight. Rookie guard Paige Bueckers is officially in concussion protocol following last game’s collision with Courtney Vandersloot—”

“And for the first time this season, development assistant Y/N L/N won’t be on the bench either. The league is still reviewing the aftermath of that play, and how the coaching staff—well, how it was all handled.”

“There’s been a lot of conversation about that. Video of their sideline confrontation went viral. And I think what you’re seeing now is the fallout of a team trying to walk the line between accountability… and silence.”

“We’ve talked a lot about how close Y/N and Paige are. What that chemistry looks like on-court. What we’re about to see tonight is what happens when that link is missing.”

Paige reaches for the remote and turns the volume down.

“I can’t listen to them talk about it like that,” she says softly.

You glance at her. “Like what?”

“Like you’re a problem.”

You shift, laying a hand gently on her thigh. “I’m not worried about how they frame it.”

“You should be,” she mutters. “You were the only one who gave a damn when I hit the floor.”

“You gave a damn, too.”

She huffs. “Yeah. I gave a dazed thumbs up. Very heroic.”

You shake your head. “You just wanted to keep playing. You always do.”

Paige looks at you then. Really looks.

“Do you think they’ll fire you?”

You pause, then answer honestly. “I don’t know.”

She’s quiet.

You squeeze her leg gently.

“They might sideline me. They might suspend me. They might decide I crossed a line.” You exhale. “But if I had to do it again? I would. Exactly the same way.”

Her voice is a whisper. “Even if it costs you this?”

You nod. “Especially then.”

The first quarter tips off.

And from the very beginning, you both see that the team is off.

Spacing is clumsy. The pace is slower. The ball sticks longer than usual.

The rhythm’s broken.

Because the one who commands it—and the one who reads it—isn’t there.

“It’s worth mentioning, that even when Paige isn’t scoring, she orchestrates spacing. And Y/N’s feedback on the bench—non-verbal corrections, in-time tweaks—you can’t replicate that mid-season.”

“They’re not just player and coach. They’re… a feedback loop.”

“And the loop’s cut tonight.”

Midway through the second quarter, Paige shifts uncomfortably, eyes fixed on a missed defensive rotation.

“She would’ve had that,” she murmurs.

You nod. “I would’ve told her to switch early.”

She leans further into you.

“You’re really not okay, are you?”

You glance at her. “No.”

She hums. “Me neither.”

She adjusts the ice pack on her neck, then pulls your arm around her shoulder, tucking into your side like a puzzle piece. The screen glows quietly in the dark.

On the court, her teammates grind out the half. But here—on this couch—you both sit quiet. Bruised. Benched. Watching the game you love play out without you.

It’s a text.

From an unknown number.

“We heard you. The review is almost done. Hang tight.”

You show the screen to Paige. She doesn’t say anything. She just takes your hand in hers and threads your fingers together like she's anchoring herself to you—because if you're not on the court, not on the bench, then at the very least, you’re here.

And here? You’re still hers.

The meeting is private, unscheduled, and dead silent when Paige Bueckers walks into the room.

Her steps are soft, but her expression is anything but. She’s in a Wings hoodie and black sweats, hair pulled back in a bun. No press-ready smiles. Just the cold, steady fire of a player who’s tired of watching everything go down from the sidelines.

Across the table, General Manager Curt Miller. Two assistant GMs. And Coach Chris Koclanes.

None of them expected her.

“Paige,” Curt says, standing politely. “You shouldn’t be up. Protocol says—”

“I’m not here for a physical,” Paige interrupts, dropping into the empty chair like she owns the room. “I’m here to talk about Y/N.”

Coach Koclanes shifts uncomfortably beside the GM. “This isn’t—”

Paige turns her head sharply. “Don’t interrupt me.”

The room stills.

No one speaks.

Paige’s voice stays calm—but there’s weight behind every syllable.

“I’ve played this game since I was six. I’ve taken elbows to the face. I’ve blown out my knee. I’ve spent more hours with athletic trainers than my own family.”

She locks eyes with Curt Miller.

“But the only person who has ever watched over me like it mattered—on and off the court—is Y/N L/N.”

Curt exhales. “We understand your connection to her, and the review—”

“No, you don’t,” Paige says, louder now. “Because if you did, she’d be on the bench tonight. Not sitting in our apartment pacing the floor with a game plan that none of you even read.”

“She escalated a sideline situation,” Koclanes cuts in. “That could’ve—”

“She defended me,” Paige snaps. “Because you didn’t.”

That shuts him up.

Paige leans forward.

“I was clutching my head after a violent collision, and you didn’t even glance my way. You were too busy managing your substitution flow to check if your rookie could stand up straight.”

“You waved off the trainer,” Koclanes mutters.

“I was concussed,” she hisses. “I shouldn’t have had to make that call.”

Curt interjects, gentler now. “We hear your frustration, Paige. And we want to be sure you’re feeling safe within the team structure.”

Paige turns to her again. “Let me make it clear, then. If Y/N loses her job over protecting mine, I walk.”

The silence is immediate.

No one blinks. No one breathes.

Lisa finally clears her throat. “You’re serious.”

Paige nods. “Dead serious.”

Koclanes scoffs under his breath.

“She doesn’t get to dictate personnel decisions,” he says.

“She knows this roster better than you do,” Paige fires back. “She watches our feet, not just our stats. She tells us what’s off before the film catches it. You’re reckless with our bodies, Chris. You push starters past warning signs. You gamble with rotations and call it ‘intensity.’ But Y/N? She works to preserve us.”

Curt looks between them.

“Paige… you’re one of our franchise pieces. This team has invested heavily—”

“Then listen to me. Because I’m telling you now. If Y/N’s not here? Neither am I.”

The room is tense.

And Paige? She’s not backing down.

“She’s not your assistant,” she finishes. “She’s our protection. Our voice when we’re too scared or too trained to speak.”

She stands slowly. Her head is still aching from the concussion. Her balance isn’t perfect. But her voice never wavers.

“You want to talk about trust? I don’t trust a single system that punishes someone for giving a damn.”

Your badge scans in clean again.

You're back.

Officially reinstated. No fine. No reprimand. No apology from the league — but the silence is as good as an admission.

The rest of the staff pretends like nothing happened. You get polite nods. Familiar claps on the shoulder. Even a “glad you’re back” from one of the interns.

But you don’t come back for the pleasantries. You come back to do your job.

Paige isn’t cleared to practice yet, but she’s there — sitting off to the side with her arms crossed and a soft smile in your direction every time she catches your eye. She looks better. Brighter. But you still check her hands every time she stretches. Still watch her pupils when she blinks too long.

Because now more than ever, you’re watching what no one else does.

You’re mid-cone setup near the baseline, clipboard under your arm, when you hear it.

“Coach L/N.”

You turn, slow and sharp.

It’s Koclanes.

Standing just off the court. Neutral expression. Neutral tone.

But you know better.

“Got a second?”

You glance at your watch. “We’re two minutes from footwork warmups.”

He steps closer. “It won’t take long.”

You exhale through your nose and follow — just far enough off the court to give the illusion of privacy. But Paige is still watching. So are the assistants. The players may not be listening, but the energy around you shifts.

You keep your stance open, but your face is a locked door.

Koclanes speaks first.

“I just wanted to say I respect your fire,” he says. “What you did? It came from a place of care. I didn’t see it then, but I see it now.”

You don’t move.

“You’re a passionate voice for the team. For Paige. It was a heat-of-the-moment thing. We both lost our cool.”

He waits. Watching you. Hoping for a nod. A hand-shake. A let’s-move-on.

But you give him nothing.

“Are you finished?”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

You tilt your head. “Was that supposed to be an apology?”

“I said I respect what you did.”

“No,” you say. “You said you see it now. Which is cute. But it doesn’t erase what you didn’t see when she was laid out on the floor.”

He stiffens.

You step closer — not aggressive. Just tired of holding it in.

“You want to patch this up? You want to shake hands and pretend we’re good?” You lean in slightly. “You should’ve done that then. You should’ve cared then. When your franchise rookie was blinking through a possible concussion and you didn’t move.”

Koclanes crosses his arms. “You don’t need to drag this out.”

You smile coldly. “I’m not dragging anything. I just don’t pretend.”

He exhales, trying to keep his voice even. “You’re not going to win anything by holding a grudge.”

You shake your head once. “This isn’t a grudge. This is a memory.”

You take a step back.

“And I don’t need to win. I just need to protect my players.”

You turn and walk away.

Paige watches the whole exchange.

Doesn’t hear every word. Doesn’t need to. She sees your shoulders square. Your jaw tighten. The way you walk back toward the court like nothing touched you.

She smiles to herself.

Because she knew you’d come back stronger.

And this time? They all saw it.

It was the second week of February and the third game in five days.

Hopkins was undefeated. Paige was averaging 26 points per game. She was already on the national radar, already getting SportsCenter highlights and whispered UConn promises. But that week? She looked… slow.

Not bad. Just off.

You noticed it before anyone else did. The slight hitch in her landing after every Euro step. The way she winced when she rotated off her left foot. She hadn’t said a word. Of course she hadn’t. Not Paige.

But you’d been training with her long enough by then to know her body better than she did.

So when Coach called another full-speed scrimmage the day after a back-to-back, you spoke up.

At first, it was just a glance.

You caught her limping slightly off a cut and you looked at him. Expecting him to notice.

He didn’t.

“Keep pushing!” he barked from across the gym. “You want to play D1, you play tired. No excuses.”

Paige’s jaw clenched.

You took a step forward.

Coach blew the whistle again. “Run it back! I want more pace!”

“Coach,” you said, calmly. “She’s limping.”

He waved you off. “She’s fine.”

“She’s not.”

Now he turned. “Y/N, this isn’t your lane.”

“She hasn’t planted off her left clean in ten minutes.”

“She’s tougher than that.”

You stepped between them.

“No one’s questioning her toughness. But if you keep pushing her on that leg, she’s not going to finish the season.”

Coach’s expression shifted — more annoyed than concerned.

“She said she’s good. That’s all I need.”

You turned back to Paige.

She wouldn’t meet your eyes. You watched her swallow, force her shoulders up. That brave little smile she wore like armor when she didn’t want to be seen through.

So you said it for her.

“She doesn’t have to say it. I’m saying it. Pull her.”

The gym went quiet.

Later, she found you outside the locker room, hoodie over her head, limping a little more now that the drills were done.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she muttered.

You leaned against the wall. “You always say that.”

“I would’ve been fine.”

You tilted your head. “No, you would've played through it. That’s not the same.”

She didn’t answer. Just scuffed her shoe against the hallway tile.

“You were protecting me,” she finally said.

You shrugged. “Always will.”

Paige looked up at you then. Really looked.

And her voice came out quiet, almost too vulnerable for her.

“Even if I don’t ask you to?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Especially then.”

[rnelodyy]

I just figured out what made Spamton and Jevil go insane

SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER 4

It was the Prophecy.

Let's start with Jevil, which mostly turned into talking about Seam, since it's hard to get a coherent word out of Jevil himself.

Talking to King in chapter 4 and picking "Jester" nets you the following dialogue:

The phrasing here is what I specifically want to point out, because it's framed less like Jevil gave King instructions on how to rise to power, and more like Jevil was PREDICTING King's rise to power.

But like most things Jevil, our bombshells when it comes to him come from Seam.

This dialogue should be familiar, it's one of the first things we learned about Jevil outside of his bossfight, and our main hint connecting him to Gaster. Him saying things that both did and didn't make sense to me suggests the Prophecy, but that may also be confirmation bias.

But it's THIS dialogue that I really wanted to highlight here.

Seam's worldview is EXTREMELY nihilistic. While they don't outright discourage you from going on your adventures, they seem amused at the fact that you're even trying at all. On top of this, Seam has a lot of dialogue about stuff they could not reasonably know about, either because it happened nowhere near them, or it hasn't happened yet.

They knows about the super bosses and the Shadow Crystals you can collect from them:

They know about Mettaton designing Spamton NEO's body:

They know about the Knight ambushing you at the end of Chapter 3, and how you need the Shadow Mantle to beat it (unless you're a tryhard):

And they know about the Old Man as well:

(There's one more piece of dialogue that's relevant here, but I'm going to save that for when I talk about Spamton.)

This is a quality that Seam shares with Jevil, as Jevil neatly predicts Queen's appearance in Chapter 2 if you defeat him with violence:

All of this combined, to me, implies that the "strange words" Jevil told Seam were, in fact, the Prophecy he got from Gaster. The reason Seam is so nihilistic is because they already know exactly what's going to happen... specifically, the Roaring is coming, and there's nothing they can do to stop it.

There's only one thing that seems to genuinely surprise them: defeating the Knight in Chapter 3.

...which later prompts this dialogue.

The fact that we did something Seam, someone who knows the Prophecy, genuinely wasn't expecting, gives them hope. Because that could mean that the Prophecy isn't set in stone, and the Roaring may yet be averted.

Now lets move on to Spamton, because Chapter 3 gave us a LOT more to work with there. Spamton's backstory specifically gave me the idea for this theory, because a lot of things about it start making sense when viewed through this lens.

Spamton was an unsuccessful salesman who dreamed of making it big. One day, he was contacted by someone (Gaster) on the phone, and suddenly all of his businesses skyrocketed, becoming so successful that he got a room in Queen's mansion. However, one day the person who contacted him stopped calling, and his entire life came crashing down around him to the point that he ended up homeless and living in a dumpster.

This didn't make sense to me at first. If Gaster was just giving him business advice, taking that away shouldn't have allowed his empire to collapse overnight. What makes more sense is that Gaster was telling Spamton parts of the Prophecy, specifically the parts on how he was going to make it big. All Spamton had to do is follow Gaster's advice, and he'd become the BIG SHOT he'd always wanted to be.

As a bit of extra proof for this, here's seemingly random bit of dialogue from Seam.

Someone who knows the Prophecy using it to see the future in order to beat the Addisons specifically? That seems like a pretty obvious hint.

Chapter 3 also tells us more about Spamton's relationship with Tenna. Spamton and Tenna used to be business partners, with Tenna wanting to learn what made Spamton a BIG SHOT in the first place. But then...

It's implied that this is when Spamton stopped receiving calls. So why exactly did Gaster stop calling?

Because Tenna is in the Prophecy. Specifically, the part about him getting cut down by the Knight (I'd add a screenshot here but I cannot fucking find it, it is in there, trust me).

Gaster was most likely aware that, if Tenna found out about his pre-destined death, he'd try to find a way to prevent it, or at the very least get better at watching his back. So, he called Spamton to say he was cutting him off, and without the Prophecy giving him advice, everything came crashing down around him.

As a result, Spamton is obsessed with finding a way to learn more about the Prophecy, and how to use it to predict the future again. He wants to be big enough to see past the darkness obscuring that knowledge from him.

As such, he recruits Kris into helping him see past the bounds of reality and find the full Prophecy. That's what [Hyperlink Blocked] is. It's literally a broken hyperlink to the Prophecy.

But if you do the Weird Route, you're likely going directly against the Prophecy. Things that are specifically pre-ordained do not happen in the Weird Route - most clearly seen with Ralsei's reaction to Susie and Noelle not going on their ferris wheel ride.

Ralsei has full knowledge of the Prophecy, and is understandably freaking the fuck out when he realizes we have just done something that directly contradicts it.

And what does Spamton have to say about your Weird Route antics?

We don't need his Prophecy anymore, because we're making our own.

But that does leave a question though. If Spamton was destined to make it big, why did he need Gaster's help? Why did his empire collapse as soon as Gaster stopped helping, if his success was pre-determined? Why did Gaster need to tell Jevil how to get King into power, and to get him to worship the Knight?

Why does Gaster's involvement specifically seem to change the Prophecy?

Because Gaster is the one writing it.

[soft4changbin]

The line between us

Brothers best friend Hyunjin x reader

Summary: Hyunjin and Han Jisung’s little sister slowly fall for each other amid playful teasing, growing tension, and quiet moments in the Stray Kids dorm. Though she doesn’t live with them, her frequent visits make her part of the family—until feelings between her and Hyunjin get harder to hide.

Word count: 3,015

The Stray Kids dorm was always chaos. There were empty ramen packets on counters, blankets thrown over every surface, and someone always yelling in the background—usually Changbin.

You didn’t live there, but you might as well have. You visited often enough that the members barely looked up when you walked in now, unless it was to ask what snacks you brought.

“Jisung!” you called as you slipped your shoes off by the door.

“In the kitchen!” he yelled back.

You padded in, hoodie sleeves covering your hands, and paused when you saw Hyunjin standing beside him, hair up in a messy ponytail, licking tteokbokki sauce off his fingers. He looked over, met your eyes—and for a split second, everything around you faded out.

Then he smiled. Not the big, performative one he wore on stage, but the small, quiet smile he saved just for you. It made your heart thud uncomfortably.

“You brought the energy drinks?” Jisung asked, breaking the moment.

You blinked and turned back to your brother, dragging your gaze away from Hyunjin.

“Yeah. And gummies. And, for some reason, a single banana because the cashier said it was cute.”

Hyunjin laughed behind you. You hated how your ears warmed at the sound.

—————————————————————————

It had started slowly. Of course it had.

Hyunjin had been Jisung’s best friend for years—always at your house growing up, always teasing you, always lounging on your couch like he owned it. You hadn’t thought much of him then. He was pretty, sure, but he was Jisung’s friend. Off-limits.

And then you grew up.

Or maybe he did.

Somewhere between your visits to the dorm and their comeback schedules, he started noticing you differently. Or you noticed him noticing. You weren’t sure when it changed. Maybe it was the night he stayed up with you on the balcony at 2 a.m., passing a bag of sour gummies back and forth, listening to you ramble about how hard your first year of uni was. Maybe it was when you caught him watching you laugh at something Jeongin said, his expression unreadable.

Or maybe it was just always there, and you were finally admitting it.

Whatever it was, it made the air in the dorm feel different. Warmer. Charged.

—————————————————————————

You were curled up on the couch one afternoon, sketchbook balanced on your knees, when Hyunjin flopped down beside you.

“Draw me something,” he said.

You didn’t look up. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something that feels like… right now.”

You side-eyed him. “That’s vague.”

He shrugged, lips quirking. “So are most things I like.”

You rolled your eyes but started sketching anyway. Hyunjin didn’t say anything, just watched you work, head tilted.

“What are you two doing?” Jisung asked, walking in.

Hyunjin sat up straighter. “Nothing. Just bothering your sister.”

Jisung huffed. “Don’t distract her. She’s better at art than you are.”

Hyunjin’s smirk slipped for just a second. You noticed.

You always noticed.

—————————————————————————

It became a pattern. Every time you visited, Hyunjin gravitated to you like it was instinct. He lingered beside you during meals. Let you braid his hair while the others gamed. Gave you his hoodie when you said you were cold—even though you weren’t.

One night, when the dorm was unusually quiet, you found him in the practice room. You hesitated in the doorway, but he spotted you in the mirror and waved you in.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, sitting cross-legged near the wall.

Hyunjin shook his head, breath shallow from dancing. “You either?”

You shrugged. “It’s too loud in the room with Jisung. He talks in his sleep.”

Hyunjin laughed, wiping sweat from his neck with a towel. “He sings in his sleep sometimes.”

“I’ve heard.”

You both smiled, and then the silence stretched—not awkward, but full. Heavy.

“Come here,” he said.

You frowned. “Why?”

He reached out a hand. “I’ll teach you the chorus.”

You hesitated, but then your fingers were in his, and he was pulling you to your feet, positioning you in front of the mirror. You were too aware of how close he was, of his hand on your waist, the way his breath tickled your ear when he spoke.

“You’re stiff,” he murmured.

“That’s because I’m panicking.”

He laughed again, softer this time. “Don’t. I’ve got you.”

And he did.

—————————————————————————

That night, he walked you to the guest room and lingered at the door.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “You know I’d never do anything to hurt Jisung.”

You blinked. “I know.”

“And I’d never cross a line with you unless…”

He trailed off.

“Unless what?” you asked, heartbeat thudding.

His gaze searched yours. “Unless you wanted me to.”

Then he left.

And you didn’t sleep.

—————————————————————————

Things changed after that. Not drastically—but enough.

The others still teased you both. Chan called you Hyunjin’s “shadow.” Seungmin raised a brow whenever he saw you two whispering on the balcony. But no one knew anything. Not really.

And you weren’t even sure what there was to know.

There were no kisses. No confessions. Just… moments. Looks. The brush of his hand against yours when no one was watching. The way he memorized your coffee order. The way you always sat beside him now, like your bodies couldn’t stand the space between.

It was unspoken.

And unbearable.

—————————————————————————

One evening, you were helping Lee Know prep dinner while Jisung and Hyunjin debated over which movie to watch. You were slicing green onions when you heard your name.

“She’s cool, okay?” Hyunjin was saying. “She’s funny. And thoughtful. She listens better than anyone I’ve ever met.”

You froze.

“Yeah,” Jisung replied. “But she’s my sister.”

“I know.”

“And you’re my best friend.”

A pause.

“I know that too,” Hyunjin said quietly.

You didn’t hear the rest. You excused yourself to the balcony and stayed there, heart twisting.

—————————————————————————

Later that night, Hyunjin found you outside, arms wrapped around your knees.

“I didn’t mean for you to hear that,” he said.

“I know.”

He sat beside you, close enough that your thighs touched. “You’re important to me. And I don’t know how to stop it.”

You turned your face to him. “Do you want to stop it?”

Silence.

Then: “No.”

Your breath hitched.

“But Jisung—”

“I know,” he said. “He’s the reason I haven’t done anything more. The reason I only look when he’s not looking. The reason I’ve memorized the sound of your laugh instead of asking to hear it on a date.”

You didn’t say anything.

His hand inched closer on the bench. Not touching—just there.

“If this is wrong,” he whispered, “then why does it feel like the only thing that makes sense?”

You didn’t answer.

You just slid your hand into his.

And stayed.

—————————————————————————

You didn’t label it.

You didn’t kiss him.

But something shifted that night.

There was a new weight to your visits now. A thread pulled tighter between you and Hyunjin. And the risk of discovery made every look burn brighter.

You came over less, at first. Trying to cool things down.

But it only made seeing him worse.

The next time you walked into the dorm, Hyunjin was on the floor playing cards with Jeongin, but the second his eyes landed on you, it was over.

He stood.

Didn’t say a word.

Just hugged you.

Longer than he should’ve.

And you let him.

—————————————————————————

That night, while everyone was asleep, you found him in the hallway.

“Hyunjin.”

He turned. The dim light caught on his cheekbone.

“Can we stop pretending?” you asked.

His chest rose with a sharp breath. “I thought you were trying to.”

“I was.”

“Did it work?”

You stepped closer.

“No.”

His fingers brushed your wrist. “Then tell me what this is.”

You pressed your forehead to his. “It’s us. And I don’t want to hide anymore.”

He didn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

He just held you.

But it felt like everything.

—————————————————————————

A month later, Jisung found out.

Sort of.

You were standing too close in the kitchen, Hyunjin’s fingers lightly tapping your arm, your laughter too soft to be casual—and Jisung’s eyes narrowed.

Later that day, he cornered Hyunjin.

“Just tell me the truth,” he said. “Do you like her?”

Hyunjin didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

“Are you… dating?”

“No.”

“But you want to.”

“…Yes.”

Jisung ran a hand through his hair. “You’re lucky I trust you.”

“I know.”

“And if you hurt her—”

“I’d never.”

Another beat passed.

“She’s the better Han anyway,” Jisung muttered, shaking his head.

—————————————————————————

When Hyunjin told you, you nearly cried.

“Really?” you whispered.

“He gave me his blessing. Reluctantly. But it’s there.”

You grinned, heart full.

Then you finally kissed him.

On the same balcony where it all began.

And it was soft.

Warm.

Like the end of waiting.

—————————————————————————

Now, you’re back on the couch, legs tucked under Hyunjin’s, your sketchbook open on your lap. The rest of the group is yelling about something on TV, but you barely hear it.

Because Hyunjin is looking at you like you hung the stars.

And you know this time, he’ll never look away.

[writingfics-passingtime]

Can you write a prompt where Bucky finds out you're ticklish and won't stop because he loves your laugh?

At Ease

pairing: bucky barnes x gender neutral reader (romantic)

wc: ~2300

cw: MINORS DNI, swearing, mentions of ptsd + combat trauma, some tickling

note: just a wee tender & emotional fluff bomb. thank you anon!

You don't remember the Compound ever feeling like home.

Not when you first got there - stiff-backed and scarred, still tasting blood and ash from whatever had dragged you through the last hellhole.

Not when you opened your duffel and dropped it beside your bed, too used to living out of it to bother with the closet, or feel like the dresser was necessary.

Not even when the others started to treat you like part of the... whole thing... the family - Steve with his quiet nod, Tony with his casual conversational inclusion, Sam with his grin and kind words, Natasha with a knowing glance that said: I see what you’ve been through, and you’re still here. Good.

But, no. It didn’t feel like home.

But it felt like something now.

And so did Bucky Barnes.

The first time you were partnered with him, you clocked the tension in his shoulders before he said a word. Caught the storm-blue eyes that scanned exits before they scanned your face. The way he stood too still. The way he didn’t speak unless he had to - and even then, it was with the low, measured weight of someone who didn’t trust his voice to stay steady.

You didn’t treat him like glass. You weren't built like that. Not... made for that kind of tenderness.

Instead, you gave him space without giving him silence. You cracked a few dry jokes during recon, handed him coffee in the mornings without asking how he slept. You didn’t flinch when he drew his weapon beside you. You watched his six and, by action alone, let him know when he could drop his shoulders.

Eventually, he started to.

You didn’t know what to call what was growing between you two. It was too quiet to be flirting. Too charged to be nothing. You kept your distance, mostly out of respect - but also because you knew Bucky was still trying to stitch together who he was when no one was looking; he didn't need your fingers in the seams just yet.

You weren’t going to be another thing he had to figure out.

But you watched him.

And you saw the way certain noises made his jaw tick. How a sharp clap or someone dropping a plate too hard would shudder through his body like a muscle memory he hated. Never a full-blown panic, not a scene - just the careful freeze of someone pulled halfway into a memory, one foot in the past.

Especially at the Compound, where he was supposed to feel safe.

That was the worst part - the guilt in his eyes after. Like he’d failed some kind of test.

You never brought it up. Never told him you noticed.

You just watched.

And then one night, Sam cracked some dumbass joke in the common room and it hit you just right. You lost it. Full-body laughing, falling to your side on the couch, tears in your eyes. The others were laughing too, but you couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t stop.

When you finally wiped your eyes and sat up, trying to apologise through hiccupped breath, you caught Bucky looking at you.

He wasn’t smiling. Not really.

But he was soft. Muted. Like something uncurled inside him just from the sound of you.

He muttered, playful, "He’s not that funny. You’re gonna give him a complex."

And your breath caught for a whole different reason.

Because he was still looking at you.

Like he remembered something. Or someone. Or a feeling.

After that, you watched for it.

Every time you laughed, he relaxed. A little looser in the jaw. A little less rigid in his stance. He wouldn’t always smile - he’s not built like that - but he'd watch. And you could feel the way his body eased just from hearing you lose control for a second. Like your laugh gave him permission to stop scanning the room. Like, if you were laughing, things had to be safe. Had to be okay.

Like he trusted your instincts more than his own.

Then, one day, you were standing in front of a drawer in the kitchen, spaced out thinking about some briefing Sam had led earlier. Your hand hovered over the handle, not moving. You didn’t even hear the footsteps.

Then a finger gently poked your ribs.

You twitched, let out a small, involuntary sniffle of a giggle.

"Hey," Bucky’s voice was low and innocent, but when you looked at him, his brows were lifted, his mouth twitching.

He poked again, just a little, testing. You sniffled again, lips quirking, and shifted away.

And there it was.

That look again. Like softness cracking through stone. And a glint. Something mischievous, as he opened the drawer you'd been blocking.

You coughed, cleared your throat. "Still thinking about that tactical brief," you explained, a little flustered, grabbing an apple and walking out too quickly before he could see your eyes glaze in warmth.

But after that, it became a pattern.

Small moments - barely-there touches. Little pokes when he passed behind you. Brushing fingers when you both reached for a mug. One time, you were curled up reading on the couch and he sat behind you, arm draped casually - and his thumb pressed right into your side, just once, just enough to make you squirm. Not enough to draw attention. But enough that you knew.

And every time, you let him.

Because you knew.

He didn’t need much. Just a reason. Just a moment. Just softness he could give, not just endure.

The night he took it further was after a days-long mission that left most of you battered and bruised.

It was late at night.

The Compound was quiet in the way it only is when everyone was too tired to keep performing for the day. No buzz of banter. No kitchen squabbles. Just low lights and sore bodies.

You were sunk deep into the couch, muscles humming, wearing sweatpants and a tank top that still smelled a little like gunpowder. Sam and Nat had already vanished. Steve said something about paperwork.

It was just you and Bucky now. The couch. The dark.

You were tucked into one corner, legs stretched out across the cushions, muscles half-seizing from exertion. Bucky was sprawled near you, one arm draped along the back of your shared couch, the other resting on his stomach. His head was tilted back, eyes half-lidded, mouth twitching at some nonsense on the screen. His knuckles grazed your shin now and then when you shifted.

There was a pulse between you. Familiar. Worn in.

You said something. Maybe about the mission. Maybe about the way Sam yelled mid-air like he forgot you could hear him through the comms.

Bucky grunted. "He’s always yelling. So dramatic."

"Says the guy who rolled off a shipping container like it was a stage cue," you muttered, grinning.

"That was a necessary."

"It was theatrical."

There was a beat of silence. "You making fun of me?"

Before you could respond, something wrapped around your ankle.

A flash of cool metal.

Your laugh jumped from your throat a second too late - he pulled, not hard, just firm, just enough to unbalance you, to catch you mid-shift and make you gasp as your body skidded across the couch cushions.

He was behind you before you could stop it, wrapping around you, that steel forearm pressed against your stomach as you twisted and squirmed and tried to claw away - but it was already too late.

His hands slipped under your shirt.

Not far - just high enough to find the bare skin at your waist, fingers splayed, searching. One warm and rough, one cool and precise.

And then he started to tickle.

You dissolved.

A breathy giggle burst out of you before you could stop it. Your hips squirmed. Your knees lifted reflexively. You curled in on yourself, gasping, laughing, helpless in a way you’ve never allowed yourself to be around anyone.

But you let him.

You let him have this.

You could've fought. You could've twisted and shoved and thrown your elbow into his ribs. You could've turned those years of survival into teeth and fury, use the scars of your life to make him back off. You knew exactly how to wound someone who touched you without permission.

But you didn't.

Because it wasn't like that.

You’d never let anyone make you soft like this. Not because you couldn’t - but because you hadn't trusted you'd be okay after softening yourself in someone's hands. Never had faith you wouldn't be crushed.

But Bucky’s hands were gentle. Purposefully gentle. Like he was terrified of misjudging the line between fun and fear. And there was something beautiful about that.

Something devastating, too:

He was careful because he knew what it was like to be mishandled.

Your ribs were sensitive from the mission, from training, from always - and he was relentless in the most careful way. His fingers danced over your sides, pressing just enough to tease, never enough to hurt. He was always mindful. Always pulling his strength back like he was afraid of breaking the world.

And while you weren't going to stop him, you couldn't help but react.

You folded inward, arms clamped tight over his forearms, body trembling with giggles, and Bucky’s breath was at your ear - low, amused, and fond.

"Thought you said you were tough."

You choked on a laugh. "I am!"

"Oh yeah?" His voice dropped. "You’re squirmin' like a punk."

"Sh-Shut up-"

You couldn't finish. His fingers dug gently into the sweet spot just above your hips and you crumpled, laughing so hard you couldn't open your eyes. It was helpless. Embarrassing. Real.

You felt your face and neck flush as he laughed quietly behind you - really laughed. The sound brushed warm against your spine.

You hoped he knew. That he'd figured it out.

That you’d been letting him do this. Not just enduring it, but giving it to him. Giving him something he never asked for out loud. Softness. Trust. A reason to smile that had nothing to do with survival.

That you let yourself laugh. For him. Loud, messy, full-body laughter that shook you to your core. Because you knew your laugh was something he drunk in like oxygen.

You’d never laughed like this before. Not in front of someone. Not without checking the exits. Not without feeling like it was going to cost you.

But with him, like this, you felt…

Safe.

And that was the kicker.

You felt safe because of him.

And he could let his guard down because you felt safe.

You were each other’s litmus test. Somehow, against all odds, in all the jagged mess of your lives, you had become the proof that the other could still be human. That you didn't have to stay sharp all the time. That softness didn't mean weakness.

That maybe you wouldn't break each other.

And that should've scared the shit out of you.

But it didn't. Not with him.

Because he wasn't breaking through your defences; he was walking in through an open door you never thought you’d leave unlocked.

His hand skimmed lower, brushing over the curve of your stomach, and your laugh twisted higher, sharper. You writhed against him, caught between the urge to run and the instinct to stay exactly where you are.

You were laughing so hard now it almost hurt, euphoric endorphins spiralled around your spine, down to the base of your toes. You curled even tighter, hand smacking against his forearm, feet twitching, squealing through a breathless grin.

And then his thumb pressed into the juncture of your hip and thigh - your spot, and-

You snorted. Loud. Unfiltered. Stupid.

You slapped a hand over your mouth instantly, eyes wide, the laugh caught somewhere between horror and surrender.

Bucky froze.

Just for a beat.

And then he lost it.

Not a quiet huff or a fond exhale - he actually fucking laughed. His head dropped to your shoulder, face half-hidden, the sound was low and rough and surprised, like it had cracked out of him without warning. His nose brushed your neck, his jaw grazing skin.

He'd stopped tickling but you were giggling helplessly through the gaps in your fingers. "Fuck," you whined. "That was so unfair."

He was still laughing.

You turned your head enough to catch the look on his face - eyes crinkled, cheeks soft, lips parted in genuine delight - and it hit you so hard in the chest you forgot how to breathe.

The sight and sound of him laughing like that... it felt like something came right in the world. Like a small justice had been done.

You dropped your hand from your mouth, breath stuttering, and you both laid there on the couch, tangled and warm, laughing quietly to yourselves in the flickering light of the television. His scruff grazed your jaw again. His hand splayed gently across your stomach, not tickling anymore - just holding. Anchoring.

He exhaled against your shoulder. You felt it - warm and slow and shaky.

"Fuck," he murmured, voice lower now, heat curled around the word. "I love the way you laugh."

Your breath caught. Your toes curled into the couch cushion, body still trembling a little from the aftershocks. There was something in his voice - something dark and golden and wanting.

It didn't need a name.

It didn't need a label.

It could just be what it was.

And tonight, it felt like everything that had been aching to break through the cracks; a small, precious thing, held gently between two people too bruised to ask for more.

Your body was still buzzing from the aftershocks of the tickling when his breath brushed your neck. And that was when you felt it:

Him. Relaxing behind you. Shoulders settling. Chest rising slow. A deep, steadying breath like he was finally safe. At ease.

Because you were laughing.

So your guard was down.

And if your guard was done, it must all be okay.

.

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Primal (Part 6)

Summary: The team finally confronts Hunter in an effort to take him down. In the aftermath, the gang heads to Boston to help with the investigation by the Marshals and Y/N and Tim have a heated discussion about what the future holds now that Y/N's mated to Beau. But things aren't so simple and danger still lurks under the surface...

Primal Masterlist

Pairing: Alpha!Beau Arlen x Omega!reader

Word Count: 5,300ish

Warnings: language, angst, violence, drugging, serial killers, death, kidnapping, mention of human trafficking

A/N: I absolutely love the end of this part for so many reasons! Enjoy!...

Reader POV

“Well Brock’s a piece of walking human garbage,” said Lucy as you walked through the parking lot around mid morning. 

“Lucky me. Two piece of shit father’s,” you said, leaning against the side of your rental car, Lucy throwing an arm over your shoulder.

“Hey. This whole thing sucks but at least you found out you and Tim are half-siblings. At least you got one family member on your side.”

You let a small smile onto your face. You honestly hadn’t cared about if you were related or not. But hopefully it was a comfort to him that at least someone in his family gave a shit about him. He’d sounded so damn…broken on the phone. His hormones were probably all out of whack after the Primal incident but you’d never heard him like that before.

When this was all over, you were having a serious discussion with him about getting some help.

“Are you worried about your mom at all?” she asked, pulling you back to the present.

“I should be but like, I’m not?” You crossed your arms, resting your head on her shoulder. “I have this awful feeling she knew about my dad this whole time. If she knew what he did to all those omegas…am I a monster for not caring if she’s alive or not?”

“What’s your gut say?”

“Y/N.” You both turned, Brock dragging an oxygen tank on wheels behind him across the wet pavement of the parking lot.

“Go back inside, Brock. I’d hate for you to catch pneumonia and die,” you said, narrowing your eyes. Brock ignored you, stopping at the trunk to catch his breath. You towered over him as he leaned against the metal, breathing hard, struggling to catch his breath. “I know what you did to Tim. What kind of monster hurts a child?”

He straightened himself up, staring as you balled up your fists.

“Unless you have something to share that will help us, get the hell away from me.”

“You really think your father could pull all those beautiful women by himself? He’s ugly as sin. Your mother had affairs all the time. Some he didn’t know about, some he did.” You held up a hand, Lucy walking around to your side.

“You’re saying Y/N’s mother helped Teddy with the murders?” she asked. “Why wouldn’t you say something?”

“Hey. I don’t know that they did anything for sure but I do know your mother and father would find women to join them in the bedroom. Young omegas. They used to talk about how much fun the first time they did it was with a Tina.”

“Tina Paxton,” said Lucy, pulling out her phone to text Beau. “Y/N-”

“Thank you Brock. Please contact Officer Wilde if you remember anything else.”

“You’re my daughter-”

“I have no need for any more parental figures in my life, Brock. Now please return inside and do Tim and I a favor. Make your end of life arrangements now and make damn sure we have nothing to do with it.”

You flipped him off, Brock grumbling as he headed back for the entrance slowly. You spun around and clapped your hands together, Lucy’s eyes full of concern.

“I’m good,” you said, forcing a smile on your face. “I got Tim and Beau and an old friend back in my life. I’m good.”

“Beau wants us to stay in Seattle,” said Lucy, shoving her phone away. “Says he and Tim are making a move on Hunter and are close. Once they grab them, he’s going to contact Boston PD to arrest your parents.”

“Sounds easy when you put it like that. I’m sure those boys don’t need us at all, right?” Lucy rolled her eyes, heading for the drivers seat. “I’ll call that army guy, see how fast we can get back to Helena.”

Two Hours Later

“How do we know where they are?” asked Lucy, handing you her phone as you drove through Helena. You tapped away on it, pulling up an airtag that was no longer sitting at the station. “You think that’s Tim’s?”

“We kept four in our go bag for emergencies. One is offline and is the one Beau shoved down his pants earlier. The other two are at the station. This is the only one that’s showing elsewhere. Looks like in the business district.” She drove as you directed her, coming to a stop outside a warehouse looking building.

“I can’t let you go in there,” she said, getting out of her patrol car and popping the trunk. You watched her pull on a vest and grab a shotgun. “Will you please stay in the car?”

“I promise. Go get the boys.”

You slid back in the passenger seat, ready to call for backup once Lucy texted that they had Hutner and his guys under arrest. Five minutes turned into ten which turned into fifteen. Why was it taking so long? You jumped up when your phone buzzed.

Call for backup. Bring the medical bag from the trunk inside asap.

Dread filled your gut as you did as told, getting a message out to the station and finding the orange bag in the back of the trunk. You ran inside the side door, looking all around. “Lucy?”

“Back here!” You followed her voice, startled by the amount of blood spatter everywhere. Hunter and his cronies were in various positions of death on the far side of the room. Tim sat on the concrete nearby, a bloody nose making his face look a mess and was holding his shoulder that looked just a tad too off to be normal.

“Beau,” you breathed out when you saw him on the ground, Lucy pressing blood hands against his shoulder. 

“I’m fine. Ain’t you ever seen a movie? Totally non-lethal,” he joked, wincing as Lucy pressed more of her body weight against him. 

“That’s a lot of blood,” you said, Beau grimacing. 

“He’ll live,” said Tim, sitting forward, tilting his eyes at Lucy. “Who the hell are you?”

“The person saving your ass,” she said. Tim raised his eyebrows, Beau chuckling as you cradled his head in your lap. “Got a problem with that Alpha boy?”

“You could have cleared the room a little less sloppily but other than that, nope.” 

“God it’s good you’re pretty with a mouth like that,” she said. Tim smiled, a strange look of adoration on his face.

“You think I’m pretty? Cause I ain’t got nothing on-”

“Timothy,” you growled. “She just saved your life. Behave.”

“We had it handled, right Barlen?” grunted Tim.

“Got a little dicey for my liking,” he said, wincing up at you. You sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You didn’t listen to me about staying in Seattle.”

“It was all Lucy.” She huffed, taking a wad of bandages as Tim scooted over and handed a package to her. “No it’s true. She dragged me back here against my will, wanted to save her boss.”

“I’m sure that’s what Officer Wilde’s report will say,” he said, sirens bouncing in the distance. “Wilde. When you get done keeping the blood in my body, contact Boston PD, let them know to move in on Y/N’s parents.”

You sighed, holding a hand over his wound when Lucy went to check Tim, that same stupid look on his face.

“Good god, he’s practically drooling over her,” mumbled Beau, chuckling when you giggled. You ran a hand through his hair, Beau smiling up at you. “You’re safe now, sweetheart.”

“You got hurt,” you said softly, Beau waving you off.

“I’ll be fine. Are you okay?” 

“Yeah. We need to have a talk about…everything when you get a chance.”

“We will,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “We don’t really have to live in Boston do we?”

You smirked, leaning down and kissing his forehead. “Helena is fine with me. Later. You just rest now.”

Two Weeks Later - Boston

“Hey, kiddo.” You stared at the wall of pictures in the foyer of your parents house, a heavy hand resting on top of your head as you sighed. “We don’t have to do this today.”

“I never want to come back to this house, Tim. Let’s get this over with.” He gently ruffled your hair, smoothing it out before he was standing next to the wall with a black storage tub, the yellow lid laying somewhere around there. By the front door were two more, already filled with objects from your parents home to go into storage.

Teddy was on the run and your mother was in custody. You’d been back in Boston for over a week to answer endless questions by the Marshals office but thankfully they’d cleared Tim of any wrongdoing and told him he was eligible to rejoin the agency.

“Leave the photos of my parents,” you said as you walked down the hall towards the front den. You knew Tim would ignore you. Someday you might want them. You didn’t have to sort through them right now he’d tell you. As far as you were concerned, they could sit in a storage container in Montana for the next few decades. Any of the ones you’d actually want to look at and put up were back at your shared townhouse.

“We cleared out your old room, pictures, basement,” he said, almost to himself as you leaned against the entrance to the den. “You want to steal any of your mom’s shit?”

“We could set it on fire?” He frowned. “You’re no fun, Barclay.”

“Your mom gave us permission to take what we want from the house, not burn the place to ashes.” He sat the bin down behind you, looking over your shoulder into the den. “Heard she’s claiming Teddy threatened her into helping him. Says she hasn’t helped kill someone in over thirty years. Still a life sentence at least.”

“Did she know Teddy wanted me dead? Wanted to frame you for it?” He shifted, eyes downcast when you looked over your shoulder. “Is that a yes? Did she even give a fuck about me?”

He scoffed, exhaling slowly. “I think in her own twisted way she cares about you. Maybe not other omegas but you she does. Her affair with my dad was just her having fun. Your dad will always be her priority though. She let herself get caught to give him time to get away.”

“Well, we’ve known that since I was a kid they cared more about each other than me. They’d have you babysit me while they went on their fucking murder dates.” You leaned your head against his shoulder, Tim wrapping his arm around your back.

“Yes but I gave you oreos and would let you watch horror movies far too scary for an eleven year old so I think you made out alright.”

“I hated watching horror movies,” you said, Tim smirking. “I didn’t want you to think I was some lame girl. I wanted you to think I was the coolest kid there was.”

“Hard fail there.” You punched his good arm, Tim feigning pain. “I’ll be sure to let Arlen know how much you love horror.”

“I’ll be sure to him know how much you like him.” You grinned wide, Tim rolling his eyes. “You’ve been using his actual name more often. I know you’ve warmed up to him.”

“He’s…not as awful as some of your past boyfriends. But that doesn’t mean I like him.” 

“Sure you don’t.” You hummed, peeling yourself away and spinning back around to examine the foyer. 

“Do you mind if I take the kitchenaid mixer?” he asked, nodding towards the kitchen.

“I mean go for it but we got one at home. You want to re-sell it or something?” He raised an eyebrow, looking at you like you were the weird one. “What is that face for?”

“Aren’t you taking the mixer at our townhouse to Montana?”

“Yes? Which again, why do we need another one?” you asked. 

“For the townhouse...” he said, frowning at you. You both stared at each other and stared and stared, your heads tilting so much if anyone came inside they’d take you both to be examined by a doctor. “You’re taking the mixer to Montana.”

“Yes…”

Therefore, I need a mixer.” You shook your head. “What is so confusing about that?”

“What are you talking about, Timothy? We’ve shared that mixer for the past decade. We don’t need two of them in Montana.” He closed his mouth, a wave of relief, perhaps realization, washing down his face. Meanwhile an unsettling feeling worked its way into your gut.

“Y/N, I’m not going to Helena. I’m staying in Boston at the townhouse.” You held up a hand, quirking your lip up.

“Ha ha. Very funny. Now help me-”

“Y/N.” His voice was quiet yet sharp. No. He was full of shit. He was messing with you. You crossed your arms, Tim’s eyes darting downwards. “I’m not moving out of Boston.”

“Why? You have nothing here.” You sucked in air the second the words left your lips, Tim looking up and nodding. “Tim, I didn’t mean-”

“You’re wrong,” he said, his tone flat, no malice behind it. “I can rejoin the Marshals. I can go to trivia night with my old friends. I can rejoin that baseball league. Hell, maybe I can even find myself a girlfriend that’ll stick this time.”

“You can do all those things in Montana though,” you said softly, Tim’s shrug starting to piss you off. “You never have a problem making friends or meeting women and they have the Marshals and baseball in Helena. Why would you stay here?”

“Because I’ve been following you around my entire adult life and I need some damn space from you. I gave up a year of my life for you. I was almost killed. I’ll be on thin ice with the Marshals the rest of my career not because of Teddy but because I got involved with you.” He wiped a hand over his mouth, resting his hands on his hips while your anger deflated like a balloon. You shook your head, frowning at him. No. This was him trying to push you away because he felt shitty and you weren’t about to let him get away with it.

“Bullshit. You’re being mean because you blame yourself for attacking me. You want me to get pissed and walk out on you like everyone else does. Not going to happen so be an asshole. You don’t get to-”

He stormed over, leering down into your face with a snarl. “Teddy was my boss. Do not confuse me doing my job to impress him with me caring about you.”

“Why don’t you be a real man and just tell me the truth, coward,” you snapped back, lifting your chin. He glared at you but you saw his facade starting to crack. “You’re scared that because Beau claimed me, I don’t need you anymore so you’re trying to cut me out of your life first because everybody you trust hurts you in the end. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re an insufferable know it all.” He walked away, heading for the stairs, pausing with one hand on the railing. “Go play house with Beau in Montana and we can both move on with our lives.”

“No!” You grabbed the closest object to you, a decorative wicker ball thing and chucked it at his back. He spun around, eyes flashed in alarm as you stormed over and yanked on his shirt collar on the steps, pulling down to your level. “You don’t want to move to Montana? Fine. I’ll learn to live with it. But you don’t get to walk away from me. I have always known I’m the only family you have and I always hated it. I wanted my parents to love you but I knew it wouldn’t happen.”

You took a deep breath, his face unreadable. Unfisting your hand, you found his, wrapping your smaller one around it. His eyes flickered, a vulnerability setting in.

“If you don’t want to live with me anymore, that’s okay. I know we annoy each other and I know you sacrificed a lot this past year. There were so many nights you stayed up so I could get a good night’s sleep. So many times I was a brat and argued with you about wanting to go out alone and you were right to protect me. So I’ll give you your space. But don’t ever think space means I’ve left. You’re still my family and now? You’ve got Beau and his family too.”

“You wanted me to live with you and Beau?” he asked quietly. You blinked a few times, holding up your finger. 

“That’s what you focused on in all that? I just told you-”

“Again, you want me to live with you and your boyfriend?” You rubbed your temple, trying to fight the twitch in your eye.

“No…I want you to live with me…in the townhouse I’m moving into in Helena.” He parted his lips, waiting a moment before tucking them closed.

“So…” He cleared his throat, glancing towards the ceiling. “You aren’t moving in with Beau.”

“Did you pull all this shit because you thought I was about to move in with a man I’ve known for three weeks and suddenly he would be my whole world?” 

“No?” he said, now staring at the chandelier over the foyer. You growled, Tim sighing in response. “He’s your mate, probably your true mate if we’re being honest. I didn’t want to get in the way of your new life. You know me.”

“And you know me.” His gaze traveled downwards, finding your stern face. “Someday, yeah, I will move in with him. Someday you’ll live on your own again. I was a brat last year but I trusted you’d keep me safe always. Trust. Me.”

He swallowed, taking a beat to breathe slowly. “Alright. I’ll go to Boston. I want the bigger bedroom though.”

“Fine.”

“And to keep your pots and pans when you move into Arlen’s someday.” You narrowed your eyes, Tim’s lip twitching up. “I’m joking.”

“You better be. I paid for those,” you said, stepping up two steps, wrapping your arms around him. He returned the hug, resting his chin on your shoulder. “You’ll come with me?”

“Would you help me find a good therapist out there?” You nodded, squeezing him tighter. Tim winced, a huff of air escaping him “Take it easy. I only got shot a few weeks ago.”

“Oh, that was a graze and you bruised your shoulder. You’re fine. Beau got hit worse” You leaned back and smiled. “By the way, we’re going to Houston for Thanksgiving with the whole extended Arlen family. It’s non-negotiable and I will have my boyfriend kidnap you to make you go if necessary.”

“If I say no, it’ll piss you off again, won’t it.”

“You’re so smart,” you said, pinching his cheek. He slapped your hand away as someone knocked on the front door. You jogged down the steps as it opened, a wisp of blonde hair entering view.

“Hello?” Jenny called out, looking to the left before smiling when she saw you. “Hey guys.”

“What are you doing here, Hoyt?” asked Tim, coming to your side. “I thought only Arlen was needed to do in person interviews in Boston.”

“Calm down, slugger,” she said, crossing her arms. “Lucy decided to visit her parents and do her interview in person. I followed her lead and came out to visit a college friend, do the interview here. Beau said you’re moving stuff and I got done early so I offered to help.”

“Thanks,” you said the same time Tim scoffed. You looked back at him, Tim standing there with a raised eyebrow. “What?”

“Come on, Y/N. She’s not here to help you move. She likes Arlen.” You couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped you, Tim tilting his head at Jenny. “Back at his place when Emily thought she smelled something between me and Hoyt? That wasn’t attraction. I knew something was up between her and Arlen and given the way he doesn’t seem to give you puppy dog eyes the way you do him, I’m going to say it’s one sided.”

Jenny frowned, glancing away, crossing her arms. “Fine. I like Beau. I won’t deny it. But I honestly did come here to help pack and get stuff in the pod outside because believe me or don’t, Beau is still my friend no matter who he’s with.”

She turned to you, her face softening. 

“I’m not stupid enough to believe you’d be cool with a woman you know that likes your boyfriend being friends with him. All I ask is you give me a chance to move on from him. If I don’t, I’ll transfer departments to the troopers or county or something.” 

“Alright, you can have your chance,” you said. Tim was about to protest but you beat him to the punch. “But if you do care about him, think about what he wants, okay?”

“I know,” she said, forcing a smile on her face. “So. What can I help with?”

“There’s some Christmas ornaments in the basement I think we missed. Tim, go show her while I finish with the upstairs,” you said.

He grumbled, waving Hoyt to follow after himself. When they rounded the corner and you heard their footsteps down the wooden steps you pulled out your phone, throwing your head back. Still no texts from Beau which meant he was still in his Marshals interview.

Hey. Hope it’s going good over there. Tim and I are almost done at my parents house. Thanks for sending Jenny over to help. Why don’t we get an early dinner after you get done and we can pack up the townhouse tomorrow? Text me when you’re free.

“Y/N? Can you come here for a second?” called Jenny. 

“Coming!”

Beau POV

I let out a deep breath as I exited the small conference room I’d been sitting in for the past seven hours. I cracked my back, nodding to the two Marshals that slipped out beside me. “Sorry to keep you in there so long, Arlen. This whole case is a shit show for us as you can imagine.”

“I understand,” I said to Springs, her junior partner taking a bundle of notepads back into a bullpen of cubicles. “Any luck on finding Teddy yet?”

“The fucker disappeared sometime that morning when you folks took down Douglas Evans and his friends. Evans’ phone indicated he had a check in to a burner, Teddy presumably. Looks like Evans got nervous and told Teddy to get out of Dodge.” Spings led me down a hall, further into their office area. “Teddy and Evans did a pretty good job of making Mr. Barclay look like Hunter.”

We stopped outside a tapped over door, Tim’s name on a placard outside of it. Springs swung it open to reveal a mostly clean office. “Teddy made a mistake though by targeting Tim. Do you see it?”

I looked through the door into the small room, glancing around. It looked like most other law enforcement offices. Files. Computer. Pens. A few awards and commendations on the wall, a picture of Tim and Y/N at the beach on his filing cabinet behind the desk. 

“Huh,” I said, cocking my head. “Didn’t know Barclay was capable of not looking like he’s got a stick shoved up his ass.”

Springs didn’t bother to try and hide her laugh. “He’s actually a pretty nice guy when you get to know him.”

I huffed. Just because he’d warmed up to me didn’t mean he still didn’t like to call me a dickhead every time we talked. A week and a half ago, he and Y/N travelled back to Boston. By the time I’d been discharged from the hospital, I’d found out the FBI and Marshals were in charge of investigating what the hell had happened. All of us had been separated and questioned over and over. Tim and Y/N were “escorted” back to Boston for more questioning while I’d been stuck back in Helena. Y/N and I needed to discuss things, in person, but thankfully the investigation cleared both of them after a few days. One six hour phone call later, Y/N had a lease agreement signed on a townhouse ten minutes from my house, a lengthy email in to her old job requesting her position back and she’d reassured me more than once that Tim was an idiot. She hadn’t cared at all about the age gap, that I was divorced or had a teenager. 

Apparently she had a thing for older guys so suck it Barclay.

“Yeah, well, you’re not mated to his sister either,” I mumbled, Springs snorting.

“Well, those two have been thick as thieves since she was a kid. Teddy wasn’t very present but Tim filled that gap for her,” she said, my eyes roaming over to another picture of Tim and Y/N in obnoxious orange shirts and numbered bibs. I raised my chin, nodding at it.

“The running picture. That’s what gave it away he wasn’t Hunter,” I said, Springs smiling.

“Good job, Arlen. Teddy was also so invested in his cases, he didn’t pay too much attention ot office crap. He never knew that Barclay was our Omega’s in Law Enforcement representative. Encourages them-”

“To join traditionally Alpha related careers. It helps them know that they have no limitations in those fields. We have it out in Helena too.” 

“He volunteered when our previous rep retired. He mostly would talk to middle and high schools, kids in clubs, that sort of thing. He’d always tell a story about how his omega sister beat up an Alpha that broke into their house one night and not to let anyone tell them they can’t do something because of what they present as.”

“You took that as proof of his innocence?” I asked. She shrugged.

“Not completely on it’s own but I’ve know Tim for nearly twenty years. I started a few years before him. He was a friend. Teddy saw him as an angry brute, a powerful tool on dangerous cases. Yeah, Tim is extremely skilled and lethal. But the rest of us knew deep down he was gentle. Above all else, he’s a protector, not an attacker. So no, there’s no world in which I’d have ever believed Barclay wanted to hurt Y/N, no matter what Teddy wrote in those stupid journals. The timeline doesn’t match up anyways.”

“Journals?” She hummed.

“Man was a grade A psycho,” she said, showing me across the hall where a few marshals were each sitting with a filled out notebooks before them. “Teddy was a journaler apparently. Kept daily logs from his teen years up until the day he fled a few weeks ago. He wrote about his kills. The wife is so screwed based on what we’ve found so far. She was a very active and willing participant. Sounds like she might have even been the one calling the shots.”

“Anything about Y/N in them?” She shook her head.

“No, we haven’t gotten that far yet. Still going through when Teddy was in his twenties. There’s a lot of deaths marked natural causes or accidental that he caused. Then there’s some girls who went missing. He wasn’t shy about details. Seems like sometimes the heat triggering went wrong and women with underlying conditions died a little more obviously. Only good thing is we know where the bodies are for the families.”

“Sicko,” I said. Springs handed me a pair of blue gloves from a nearby box. We put them on, Springs guiding us to the end of the table where a few boxes sat, all filled with notebooks. “You’ve been focusing on the earlier stuff?”

“Yeah, we figure start at the beginning, develop the timeline. I’m sure we’ll find information about his plans for Y/N and how he recruited Douglas Evans in the more recent years. Feel free to take a look if you got a minute.”

She checked in with her team as I went to the most recent dated box, peeling the lid off. Most of the notebooks were plain black with the year written on a little white box in the center. I fingered through them, going back in time, pouting at an unlabeled one stuck between 2000 and 2001. 

I pulled it out, Springs noticing. “Got something?”

“Not sure. The wear on this one is much worse than the others, like it was looked at and used a lot more.” I flipped it open, narrowing my eyes. “Springs. This isn’t a journal.”

I held up the first page, her eyes flashing wide at the heading written on top. “Primal candidates?”

“He was looking for his protegé for awhile it seems.” I said, scanning through the list of qualifications they had to have. Alpha. Law enforcement. Attractive. Unmated. 

“That does track. Teddy majored in biology in undergrad. One of his journals mentioned a class where a professor taught about early presentation evolution like heats, going primal, that shit. Seems like that’s when he fixated on it.”

“Probably where he learned about this stuff…” I flipped a page, a picture of a young smiling Tim taped inside. I frowned, glancing through the notes on him.

“Barclay’s on the list?” she asked, peering over my shoulder now.

“He was a potential candidate. Looks like Teddy wanted him,” I said, trailing my finger down to where words like “favorable” and “plan recruitment procedure”. But the most recent dated entry was all different, written in red ink from around the time Y/N met him. “Reject as candidate. Y/N likes the boy. Too suspicious to involve him now. Allow to remain family friend for her benefit. Good babysitter/protector for Y/N when her mother and I go hunting.”

Jesus christ. I stared at the page, shaking my head.

“Did Y/N save him from being a Douglas Evans without knowing it?” said Springs quietly.

“Barclay, you owe that girl more than you’ll ever know,” I mumbled to myself, flipping through page after page of young men and women, all Alphas. Douglas Evans picture popped up, a large PRIMAL written next to his name.

“We really got to find Teddy guy before he attacks again or turns someone,” said Springs, as I got to the end of the book.

“At least the good news is it looks like only Evans was turned,” I said, flipping one more page and freezing. Springs groaned, my heart in my throat.

“Well shit. That one is primal too,” she said, staring at the picture of the young woman. The young, blonde woman with her hair in a side braid, a soft smile on her face. The blonde woman I’d spent the past year working with. The woman I thought was my friend. The woman currently at the Y/L/N residence with Tim and Y/N.

“Jenny Hoyt,” I breathed out, standing up fast.”

“Who’s-”

“Get your Marshals to Teddy’s residence right now! Y/N and Tim are there alone with her,” I said, rushing out of the room and down the hall, nearly crashing into Lucy as she exited her own interview room. 

“Beau? What’s-” I grabbed her hand, pulling her with me.

“Hoyt’s one of Teddy’s protegés and I sent her straight to Y/N and Tim.” 

__________

A/N: Part 7 coming soon!

[bakibakideemon]

Ok so someone sent me this post. And like what?!

Like how do I explain that this is not what friendships are or how they work. While yes they had every right to leave (actually FX didn’t leave, XL literally told him to leave).

I’d agree to this if they said MQ and FX had every right to leave but XL has every right to feel betrayed.

Like the story is more than one situation… that’s what the book is about. The actions which are a culmination of thousands of others and its consequences. And how characters respond to these consequences.

The three were “friends” especially in XLs eyes. That’s the very reason he doesn’t blame either of them. This is so… Had every“right.” 🙄 If that’s what you think about friendships then I’ve got some news for you…

MQ was worried about his mother and saw the reality for what it was (their homelessness, their hunger etc). Ascending helped him help both his families (his mother and XL/FX). Also, at the end of the day what happened at the hill was betrayal (you can justify it all you like) MQ knew it too (I wonder if he actually discussed his thoughts with FQ or XL about ascending himself) and hence his immediate reaction. But XL was too far gone at that point (that’s one thing you wouldn’t expect your friend to do at that point).

But it was such a horrible time for all of them so afterwards (years later) even XL understood it was just awful circumstances so he never held it against MQ. AND THAT IS THE POINT.

Also, if I leave my friend during their worst time l (no matter what I’m going through) yes I’m not being a good friend. Like wise if I can’t understand my friends actions in that circumstance then I’m not being a good friend either. THAT IS THE POINT.

I wonder id MQ ever discussed with FX about his plan (may be he did because Id like to think so especially considering FX was accepting the food from MQ. On that note don’t forget after a while XL ended up eating the food MQ gave despite initially not wanting it. THIS IS THE BIGGEST HINT THAT THINGS ARE NOT SIMPLE BLACK AND WHITE). Hence yes, XL did feel betrayed after the hill. Whether MQs actions right/ wrong is irrelevant. Whether XLs reaction (right or wrong) to the betrayal (I think Jun Wu also made an appearance then and this was the beginning of XLs mental health crisis as well) is again Irrelevant. Especially 800 years later. SO GETTING HUNG UP ON THIS IS SOOO D*MB.

Which is why I get annoyed at MQs behavior in the first book (The weird smiles/ wanting to feel vindicated/ superior). Keyword “get annoyed” doesn’t mean I can’t understand why he’s reacting as such or rather it’s coming off as such (the latter part is what I like to believe). He’s still stuck in their early dynamics that he’s of a lower status than XL and FX. Honestly, he needed to realize that XL always considered him a friend. (Something he didn’t realize until the very end 800 years later). This comes from him still grappling with his own status while a human. He can’t even understand how XL would consider him a friend… Like he was shocked. All his actions in the first book point towards MQ believing XL thinks he (XL) is better than MQ bro is too stuck in his head (yes that come off as mean/ rude af. There is no denying at at all).

THESE THINGS DONT HAPPEN IN A VACCUM.

FX was more about blind loyalty. That he couldn’t see (for that part neither could XL) the reality of the situation that MQ did. Honestly FX needed to tone down his judgements towards MQ (guess who was cleaning and cooking and managing their finances even after their kingdom fell? MQ). No matter how right he was, he chose the worst way to say it. It was getting on my nerves as well. (MQ way better than me I’d have smacked FX). This is something both XL and FX realize after MQ is gone.

I don’t think FX would have left unless XL forced him to. But he needed that to see a different perspective outside XL. Likewise (the in case of XL he too realized he’d been very selfish as well)

XL, for that matter, let MQ go. He understood where the other was coming from. Period. He was betrayed at the hill (+ he was scared being abandoned). Not to mention the whole trying to steal arc… they were all desperate. And poor guy. Someone was playing a chess game-cum-roulette against him life without his knowledge. These people (you cannot seriously believe Jun Wu did not set up FX/ MQ ascending) were specifically put in the worst circumstances possible, repeatedly. One after the other…

But guess what? Despite everything MQ and FX still helped XL once they found him 800 years ago (no matter in disguise). XL recognized them after all this time no matter that they were clones. The trio made up in the end because they were friends. THATS THE POINT. THINGS WERE UNFORTUNATE AND THEY HAD TO SEPARATE BUT THEY DIDNT STOP BEING FRIENDS DESPITE EVERYTHING…

So if someone says XL was right or FX was right or MQ was right… neither of them was. There is no wrong or right. There is no saying one was more justified than other…

[chiyokococo]

Tokyo Girlbunker: Fem! Lucas Errant Headcanons

I may have yapped a bit too much, but I can only blame myself for loving Luca too much regardless of what shape or form he comes in. Yes, I will love him even if he was a worm. Thank you so much cloudcountry (I am not sure if I should be tagging or not. Please let me know, I have no clue ;^;) for hosting this wonderful event!!!

Lucille Errant is the eldest child of her family and being the eldest, especially a girl, meant she grew up handling a lot of responsibilities and heavier expectations on her shoulders. She took all of that with resolute and strength since this was the role she was presented with. 

Because of always carrying that burden (and sometimes scrutiny from others), she is even harsher towards herself to maintain and live up to the expectation as an heir than her male counterpart, if it was even possible. Yet, even after all of that, she still maintains the kindness and sincerity and always lends a hand to anyone in need. She has never considered any of the roles, duties, and responsibilities as a burden but has rather turned it into fuel for the ever-growing fire to help others and for self-betterment. 

Though it is better if she takes more breaks. No, meditation will not be considered as a break. She needs to go and have more outings with her friends in order to loosen herself up.

Please do not hesitate to call her Lucy! That's what her close friends and family call her by. She may not be able to properly pick up underlying intentions, but that does not mean that she will always take things at face value. It is just that she places a lot of trust on people around her, especially those she has come to respect and her friends (like fem!Kaito and male! MC). It is best not to break that trust since while she may forgive you, she will not forget why you did it. Her anger in those matters are not something to be provoked unless you have a legitimate reason to make her understand the situation. Or that you have a death wish.

She bounces between having a fluffy tomboy hair or her hair reaching her armpits, though she prefers having her hair cut short since it does not interfere when doing any heavy physical exercises. But for a while now, she is trying to take extra care in letting her hair grow long. She still wouldn't let it go further than what she prefers, but she is making sure that when she finally finds her twin, the two may play with each other's hair like they did before. So if someone catches her twirling her hair (which is rare) that's being kept in a high ponytail, it's a small indication of her thinking what her twin would style her hair in once they reunite.

Lucy wears her uniform with pants. Why? It's incredibly comfortable! If the girls are not allowed to wear pants in Darkwick (which is highly unlikely but still), then she would settle for a skirt that would almost reach her knees and wear shorts underneath, with socks that nearly covers her calves. She did fret over fem!Kaito when she saw her friend trying to shorten the length of her skirt, with Lucy hoping that fem!Kaito doesn't catch a cold and suggested a lot of comfortable cycling shorts to wear. Lucy even gave some of her own but was met with a lot of complaints and shouts of "You don't have to worry about trying to get attention from the boys!!!". 

She still wears those slutty interesting gloves. No further comments.

She always powers through her periods, no matter how painful it may get. Lucky for her, she doesn't have to endure a lot of pain most of the time since she has an active body and does yoga that help in better flow of blood during those days. She is more than happy to talk about the necessary diet and workout routine to those who would ask her about it. She has made fem!Kaito go through the yoga routine once and had to cut it short since fem!Kaito started to cry out of pain and misery. So Lucy tried her best to make up for it by giving her friend the comfiest quilt she asked her parents to send over as well as all the imported and branded chocolates.

She does not do a lot of cooking or baking, knowing only the basics is more than enough for her. She is more inclined to studying a new language or pulling out books to learn the history of a country, but she will never call an activity, that is perceived as feminine, as 'girly'. Instead, she is fascinated by people who are able to quickly and efficiently create such intricate patterns from threads or cook up the most exquisite food from simple ingredients. Lucy has once caught herself staring for a very long time at one of the old maid's in her house make the most beautiful laces she has ever seen when she was a young child. She has tried to dabble in it, but she has never been able to move past the beginner's project, but she is fine with it and is content with what she was able to make. She finds it best to know the basics to these stuff since it is incredibly useful such as mending torn clothes or knitting up a scarf.

If she has to pick, other than combat training and studying, what activity she prefers doing then her answer would be baking shortbread biscuits. It is not because she finds baking to be interesting or that she tries to add new things in it to make something different. She has always stuck to a particular recipe, made it in a particular way all according to the instructions and makes a small batch of it that would satisfy two people at most. These particular shortbread biscuits were the ones that her twin always loved the most, and Lucy has shared it with her two friends she became the closest with ever since she joined Darkwick. The main reason she enjoys making those biscuits is because seeing others enjoy what she made warms her heart to no end, and the soft smile she has on her face is the proof of that happiness she feels.

[satcnized]

"I don't care!" She nearly screamed in his face. "God, what don't you get? I don't care." Did he think she was so dumb that she hadn't considered that there was no way it had been a coincidence that someone so despised by the Marinos had crossed her path? Of course he did. Beautiful women couldn't be smart. They couldn't make their own choices for their own reasons regardless of the motives of those around them. Beautiful women were meant to be seen and not heard, to stand there looking pretty while other people thought. It was like he couldn't stand the idea that she'd just wanted to fuck someone. He had to lay the burden on his enemy because god forbid she'd made an informed decision and let someone else touch her because it had been for her, because she'd been choosing herself over the family that she wasn't a part of and really never would be. Not as long as they saw her beautiful and powerless. Consequences be damned. At least she'd be free of his family's grip when they came.

If she didn't run first, of course, which was very much the plan. She could fit whatever she needed to start a new life in the suitcase tucked away above them. Better to use it to start a new life that was hers and hers alone rather than to go on the performance of a honeymoon she'd have to with Adriano once they were married. And she'd get away from Luca. Fucking Luca who couldn't stop being so goddamned dumbfounded that she was a pawn to his enemies in one breath and condemning her for not wanting to be one in another. He wanted her to be his brother's pawn, his family's pawn, his pawn. That was acceptable to him, but she'd woken up again. Aiyla had discovered that there was fight left in her. Pawn wasn't a title that she was interested in bearing anymore.

So she hated Luca when he touched her like one. Even as her breath caught and her body betrayed her, she hated him. Bound and cornered in the back of her closet like a hostage, he dared to touch her? And probably expected her to left him. He thought she was a stupid whore, so why not treat her like one? "Do you even hear yourself?" Aiyla didn't bother answering his question. She only glared at him with tears welling up in her eyes, rage and betrayal over being touched like a thing stinging them. Then she reared her head back just enough to crack her forehead against his. Blinking her way through the rattling of her skull, she slid down and used the small gap she'd created to wedge her boots against his chest. The wall gave her enough leverage to shove against him and put at least some distance between the two. He didn't understand why she didn't comply? He thought she didn't get it? Well, she didn't. She didn't understand why he couldn't see that she was a person rather than an object to be owned, that she would never forgive him if he stole her while she didn't have to ability to choose him. "Unless you plan on untying me," her voice was all but trembling from anger. "Keep your hands to your fucking self,"

Luca had been holding it together by threads—thin ones, fraying fast. Her words were gasoline on dry brush, and she didn’t even flinch lighting the match. She just kept going. Accusing him. Dismissing him. Stripping his fury bare like it didn’t terrify her anymore, like she didn’t know what kind of man he truly was. Calling him a coward. That one landed sharp, right in his gut, where no fists ever could. And then she said it. She found someone to touch her like a human being. The red in his vision came fast. Instant. He didn’t think. Didn’t hold back. The toy dropped from his hand like dead weight just before he lunged at her. The suitcase overhead never had a chance to fall because his palm hit her chest and pinned her hard to the wall before she could move an inch more. Gone was the man who knelt with trembling hands and careful words. All that was left now was the storm—ripped free of its leash.

“You think that was being touched like a human being?” he snarled, voice guttural, words vibrating through his chest like thunder barely held back. “That lowlife had one job—to use you. And he did. Just like his family wanted.” He was inches from her face, jaw locked, eyes wild. “You didn’t win anything, Aiyla. You lost. You walked straight into a trap like a goddamn pawn in someone else’s game, and you let him take you like that meant something.” The disgust in his voice wasn’t for her body. It wasn’t even jealousy anymore. It was rage—at how she’d been played. How someone else got to touch her before he did. How someone else used her for a move on the board while she thought it was intimacy. “If you're proud of that,” he hissed, his palm still pressing into her chest, “then maybe you’ll be just as proud when the consequences come for your throat.” He shoved back just slightly—not to hurt, not to knock the air out of her, but to punctuate the last word. Final. Certain. A warning, a judgment, and a broken plea, all wrapped in one breath. His hand trembled now where it held her—not from weakness. From restraint. The last bit of it he had left. A deep, heavy sigh tore out of Luca’s chest as he pressed his palm into the wall beside her head. His eyes searched hers, as if there might be some trace of reason hiding in that firestorm behind her glare. But there wasn’t. There never was. Trying to talk sense into her was like arguing with a fucking brick wall. A beautiful, vicious, impossible wall that refused to budge an inch, no matter how close to collapse it already was. Luca raked a hand through his hair, jaw clenched so tight he felt his teeth grind. “I just don’t get it,” he muttered, voice thick with frustration. Exhaustion. “You could’ve just played the part.” He didn’t mean it like the others would’ve. Not like some misogynistic scolding. Not like some hollow lecture about dignity and duty. No—he meant it in the way a man does when he’s desperate to understand why someone would choose destruction over survival. “You could’ve waited for Ace like he wanted. Worn the lace. Said the right words. Ridden him until you screamed if that’s what it took. Forced yourself to cum and gotten it over with.” His voice dipped, cold and confused. She’d gone and done the one thing that couldn’t be cleaned up. Couldn’t be spun. Couldn’t be covered with diamonds and photo ops. She’d stained the family’s name. And for what? Some cheap thrill? Some temporary validation from a nobody who didn’t care about her soul, her fire, her rage? Luca couldn’t comprehend it. Couldn’t wrap his head around why this was the road she chose. Why she had to burn everything to feel the heat.

She was right. That’s what stung the most. Not her insults. Not her defiance. Not even the fact that she let another man touch her. No, what lodged like a splinter under Luca’s skin was the truth wrapped in her venom. He had been a coward. From the moment he first laid eyes on her—glowing in the dim hallway light, suitcase in hand, eyes full of challenge even then—he should’ve known. He should’ve acted. Should’ve taken what was already his before anyone else even had the chance to breathe her name. He should have made her his. The first night she slept in their house, curled up like a storm hiding in velvet, he should’ve gone to her. Should’ve claimed her. Not for power. Not for dominance. But because something in him had already decided. But he didn’t. Because of Ace. Because of loyalty. Because of this fucking code he never asked for but still carried like a badge carved into his skin. Duty. Family. Boundaries that no one else seemed to give a damn about, but Luca did. He always did. And for that—this—he was guilty. So he added it to the pile. Tucked it away in the same dark place he kept all the other guilt he’d collected over the years: the man he hit too hard. The innocent he buried. The moments he didn’t act when he should have. The ones where he did—and shouldn’t have. He wouldn’t lose sleep over it. Luca never did. But it would sit there. In that cold, steel box inside his chest where all his failures went. Where regret had no name, just weight. And now, her name lived there too. Not because he didn’t want her. But because he hadn’t taken her that first night.

Luca’s patience was gone. Burned down to ash. He didn’t want to talk anymore. The words were useless, circling the drain with every breath they wasted. He was done with logic, done pretending that this wasn't already unraveling between them. His gaze flicked to the door for the briefest second, mind racing—wondering how much longer until the rest of the family returned. Until the house was no longer just theirs. Until this moment shattered under the weight of expectation again. Then he looked back at her. And something in his expression shifted. "Is this what you want?" he asked lowly, voice cracking under the weight of what they both already knew. “You want me to stop being a coward and take what’s mine?” He didn’t wait for her to speak. His hand pressed her firmly to the wall, anchoring her there, and the other moved—sliding beneath the hem of her shirt, under the layers of heat and tension, until his palm met bare skin. She was warm. So fucking warm. His fingers found her breast, rough calluses grazing the softness like they didn’t belong, but oh, they did. She felt perfect under his touch—real, solid, his. And as his thumb and index finger rolled over her nipple, he felt it tighten beneath him. The hunger behind his eyes returned. This time it wasn’t masked, wasn’t denied. It lived there, openly. Dark and deep and consuming. And then, as his grip hardened, as his touch grew bolder, the stupid, jealous words slipped past his lips before he could stop them. “Did you think about my brother…” he rasped, leaning closer to her mouth, heat crawling down the back of his neck, “when he fucked you?” Luca needed a reaction. Something real. Something that wasn’t her sarcasm or her silence or that infuriating calm. So his fingers twisted harder.

[grimmshood]

denki cypress / aisha still is friends w dayoko i think but she's like a lot more subdued than normal. probably still works for takahashi as well but she doesn't really want to and he can reeaaally tell.

[tuesdayscanons]

Every now and then, I think about The Simpsons RPC and how there's an occasionally a spike of Simpsons muses that inevitably crumbles away and leaves me waiting for the next short lived Simpsons RPC Renaissance

[nyxypoo]

hair is so funny to me bc wdym that's the shape of ur head

[bizarrelovetriangel]

interruptions.

all he wants is to have you all to himself but everyone keeps getting in his way.

fluff and slightly suggestive. brief references to chaotic velocity and his myth.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

He groans against your lips as his hands caresses your hips, urging you to grind against his thighs.

His bedroom is silent apart from the sounds of your exchange of heated kisses, your heavy breaths in-between, as well as the rustling of your clothes as your bodies yearn for friction.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Sylus thrusted up to let you feel his excitement, and you responded by palming him through his pants, earning a low growl from his parted lips.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

You pulled away as the ringtone of his phone blares closely next to you. You gave him a look before he pinches his temples and reaching for the device on his night stand.

"You better have a good reason to interrupt me on such an important time."

This is the third time in just two days.

Sylus doesn't know how much more interruptions he can take.

"Looks like I'll have to cut our time short again." Sylus frowns as he gets up from the bed. "I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"Don't worry about it."

Being Onychinus' leader can be demanding, so you're not mad at him at all. In fact, at the moment, you're doing your best to hold back a laugh.

"Before you leave, maybe take a cold shower first."

Two days later, as you were leaving your workplace, you ran into your lover who's dressed in his favorite leather jacket, bathing in darkness.

"Sylus?! What are you doing here?"

It's the middle of the week. You usually don't get to see each other until the weekends, unless spontaneous plans come up. You figured this is one of those special cases.

"Do I need a reason to see my girlfriend?"

"No, but you do need to be cautious when picking up said girlfriend from her job, which may or may not be interested in catching some suspicious people who love lurking in the shadows."

There's not an ounce of worry in his eyes at all. "Luckily, I have a strong kitten who'd protect me should anyone dare to put their hands on me."

You playfully punched his arm as you walked next to him. "You could've at least texted me."

"A surprise usually works out only if someone doesn't know what'll happen." He then taps your head. "There's a restaurant that I've been meaning to check out. Want to come?"

Your heart and stomach cheered happily, deeming him as your savior. After all, you're starving after such a long day at work. "Of course!"

Around ten at night, dinner was done and you ended up relaxing at an empty, quiet park. You sat down on a bench surrounded by red flowers and you rested your head on his left arm while he holds your right hand.

At first, the two of you enjoyed the moment of silence and appreciated each other's warmth and company.

You could've fallen asleep then and there.

If only Sylus didn't start leaving kisses all over your face. He dropped them one by one, slowly and softly, as if you're something precious that could vanish at any second if he isn't careful enough.

As his lips pressed against yours, his right hand brushes up and down from your knee to your thigh, warming up your body during the cold night.

Sylus' ragged breaths urged you to deepen the kiss while caressing his face, though your makeout session was short-lasted as a group of chatty, cackling teenagers had decided to hit up the very spot that you two are in.

Clicking his tongue, Sylus stood up and reached out one hand for you. "I guess this is our sign to leave. Shall we?"

"Yeah."

You couldn't even bother to hide your disappointment that your time together was once again shortened.

He came with you back at your apartment, though Sylus couldn't stay the night due to plans he has later on.

He wasn't even supposed to see you tonight; he forced it in his busy schedule because his urge to see you was just unbearably strong during these past few days, and the constant interruptions are absolutely not helping.

It's as if the world is purposely getting in the way.

The next interruption came during dinner at a restaurant that you and Sylus have been wanting to visit for months. You made a reservation two weeks ago, and you got to enjoy all the delicious meals and drinks that made the place worthy of Sylus' attention.

You were given the best seats in the restaurant, which would be the special table on the rooftop, decorated with dimmed, beautiful lights to illuminate the dark night, and flowers for your eyes and nose to feast on.

As you were finishing up your wine, you walked towards the edge of the rooftop to observe the scenery around you.

For a moment, Sylus remained seated, only shifting his position so that he could admire you in your beautiful dress.

It's one of his favorite views — you facing away from him, eyes beaming with happiness and lips curled into a soft smile, completely lost in the scenery around you and unaware of how bewitching you are and the trance that you always put him in.

He'll never get tired of it.

"Sylus, look!"

At your call, he appears behind you and immediately wraps his arms around your waist. He gave you a light kiss on the shoulder before moving his gaze to wherever you were pointing at.

Unfortunately, Sylus never got to learn what caught your interest because suddenly, you received signals that a Wanderer is nearby.

And so, dinner ended early and you spent the rest of your energy jumping in action.

The Wanderers certainly became Sylus' punching bags for the night.

At last, you finally won some time to spend in the N109 Zone.

You're at his house and you've just finished eating the dessert that you two made together a few hours ago.

And now, you find yourself trapped against the counter table with Sylus blocking all the ways to escape.

"Can't run from me now, kitten."

His lips touched yours.

"Boss, look what we found!"

"...."

"...."

"....oops..."

"...sorry!"

Luke and Kieran were frozen by the entrance of the kitchen, almost dropping the fancy looking weapon they were carrying.

You let out a laugh to break the silence. "Hey guys!"

Sylus sighs defeateadly. He did acknowledge the twins and the gift they brought to him by giving them a quick but sincere "well done" before turning back to you with a certain glint in his eyes. "I hope you're up for a midnight ride."

"Wait what?!"

He took your left hand and started leading you out of the kitchen.

"Right now?!"

Luke and Kieran only gave you a wave of their hands, still feeling guilty about the interruption. Sylus didn't look mad at them, but he does look frustrated.

Whatever he has planned out with you, they know not to interrupt. Even Mephisto stayed still after giving you a look.

"Here."

Sylus helped you put on a black and red helmet that matches the one he's about to wear.

You eyed the motorcycle and couldn't hold back your excitement.

"Blackrose Archfiend!"

The half-black, half-pink motorcycle with the trademark of a golden crow made you recall the first time you and Sylus rode it and race against other motorcyclists.

"It's been a while!"

Sylus smirks proudly. "I modified it again. I meant for us to test it out tomorrow when we have more time, but this is gonna be our ticket to peace and quiet so we'll use it now."

"Ticket to peace and quiet?"

He ascends the motorcycle and turns on its engine before reaching out a gloved hand for you, inviting you to join him.

"Will you let me be selfish for a little while?"

With a soft smile, you took his hand and sat behind him, holding onto his waist.

You didn't care where he'll take you or how long it'll take to get there.

Your heart races at the adrenaline rush from the roar and speed of the motorcycle, and the cold wind dances all around you as you dart across the moonlit, empty roads of the N109 Zone.

A high mountain roadside, underneath the stars.

That's where you ended up in.

Other than the noises made by the animals that live in the surroundings, there's absolutely no other sounds that'll disturb the comfortable, peaceful silence.

The only light source you have is the full moon right above you, but that's more than enough for you to see the look of content in Sylus' face.

His features are highlighted in such a way that makes him look like an artwork that deserves to be admired by many, and yet you're the only lucky one to see him like this at this.

"You're staring, sweetie."

"And what about it?"

He smiled and scooted closer to you so that your arms are overlapping as you sit on a giant boulder planted deeply on the ground.

"That means I get to stare at you as much as I want in return, right?"

You held up one hand in front of your face and used it as a wall to block his intense gaze. "No!" The way he gazes at you makes your stomach want to explode with various emotions.

No matter how long you've been together, he never fails to make you flustered as if it's just the beginning of your relationship.

Sylus laughed at your hand before intertwining his fingers with yours and putting your conjoined hands on your lap.

"You're mine for the rest of the evening, sweetie. Any objections?

You shook your head, melting at his words. "Not at all."

Despite your playful rejection earlier, Sylus' eyes were unable to keep away from you, finding you more entrancing than anything around you. While he could look at the moon, the stars, and the city lights, he can always see them every night.

He can't say the same for you.

Once upon a time ago, he lost you and you lost him. It was like having your entire world ripped away from you.

The day he found you again... he'll never forget the way that it felt. It was like seeing light for the first time in forever. Like gasping for air after holding your breath for so long.

He's reminded of how lucky he is to be given a second chance of a life with you. Even though he complains about the distance between your homes and your jobs sometimes get in the way of your plans, he'll always be grateful that he can spend any time with you at all.

He'll always cherish every second with you, and he will never take you for granted.

You didn't keep track of the time at all. You two sat there and enjoyed each other's presence, talking about whatever comes up in your head while admiring the stars above and the lights of the N109 Zone from below.

There were times when you two would pause your conversations and just embrace the silence, bringing nothing but comfort that made you want to cuddle — and you did.

At some point, your body had been enveloped by his arms. You're seated between his legs and your back is against his chest. You could feel his steady heartbeat that would occassionally lose its rhythm.

You're spared from the wind's icy kiss, but not from Sylus' warm, gentle ones.

It started off with him casually dropping kisses on random parts of your face. Sometimes, while you're in the middle of rambling, his lips will linger on your skin and you'd forget everything that you were about to say.

Then, his kisses gradually became more fierce. From the moment he fixated on your neck, you'd become a mess that's unable to talk.

After leaving a couple of marks, Sylus wore a satisfied grin before diving into your lips with his own.

He kissed you over and over and over again, taking full advantage of the isolation. Finally, no one can interrupt.

No one can take you away from him ever again.

[the-booty-crusader]

SVSSS Bingyuan AU idea (if someone adopts this I will make art please please I wanna see this written out so bad and I do not have the time or spoons for it)

Shen Yuan is transmigrated into the body of an unnamed NPC in what he believes to be PIDW. The System wished him good luck and blipped out of existence almost immediately. Shen Yuan, of course, immediately wants to start preparing to go out and explore the world and maybe go see the protagonist from afar, only for the latter to appear about 4 minutes after Shen Yuan opened his eyes.

Without much rhyme or reason he is immediately swept off his feet by the (unfairly handsome and somewhat frazzled-looking) protagonist and deposited into a room deep within Luo Binghe’s palace without much fanfare with the promise that he will be back soon.

Shen Yuan, of course, is deeply confused. Why is he here, why did the protagonist abduct him, was he going to kill him (not that he should have any reason to, unless this body belonged to someone who wronged Luo Binghe in the past… but then why would be be brought to these lovely chambers?)?!

He starts investigating the room and finds a bestiary filled with the most interesting beasts he’d always wanted to know more of. The illustrations are beautiful, the bestiary lovingly crafted. Something about it niggles at Shen Yuan’s brain, but he can’t put his finger on it.

He’s interrupted by Luo Binghe showing up with a tray of absolutely delicious-smelling food… strangely, it’s all of Shen Yuan’s absolute favorite dishes (and everything he wasn’t familiar with on the tray ended up being a new favorite which… was that just a coincidence?) and he enjoys them immensely.

Luo Binghe watches Shen Yuan closely as he eats and smiles when he finishes. “I’m glad to see A-Yuan’s tastes haven’t changed.” he says, and Shen Yuan barely has time to wonder how Binghe knew his name before they’re interrupted and Binghe is called away by some “important business” (which, from the look on Binghe’s face, will not end well for whoever disturbed him).

Shen Yuan continues exploring the rooms and finds a nook with the exact type and amount of pillows he likes, with natural light coming in from a northern angle— his favorite light to read in. The room smells like jasmine and books— Shen Yuan’s favorite scent. It was like someone had taking every one of Shen Yuan’s preferences and put them into a room.

It wasn’t until he spotted the bestiary again that it clicks; it’s written in his own handwriting. Those drawings look like what his own art might look like if he got more practice.

How could he have written a bestiary he’d never seen before? How did Binghe already know him? What was going on?

So what’s going on is that for years now, Binghe kept encountering individuals that helped him unconditionally, assisting him in his darkest times and making his life more bearable. A fellow street kid after Binghe’s mother died who gave him scraps of food and shared blankets with him, a Shizun on Qing Jing that protected him and gave him a safe place to grow up, a demon in the Abyss that told him all the best places to rest and where to get food and water, a Huan Hua disciple that told him the best ways to gain a foothold within the sect, a demon that advised him in his efforts to take over the Demon Realm.

All of them died protecting him. Some of them made it a few months, others a few years. It wasn’t until meeting Shen Yuan in the Abyss that he realized he had the same quirks and traits as that odd little boy, A-Yuan, who had sheltered him on the streets, and his Shizun, Shen Qingqiu. How odd that his name should be a combination of the two who were dearest to him save his mother. How odd that he shared their interest in stories and shared a ranting style and doted on him and were weak to his tears and… Binghe had realized that it must be the same soul, coming back for him.

But Shen Yuan never remembered his previous lives or deaths. He always seemed excited to meet Binghe, but there was no familiarity in the recognition in his eyes.

And he just. Kept. Dying.

Binghe was on his 18th meeting with Shen Yuan; it had been so many times now that he knew exactly what to do and how to find him. He wasted no time in getting him somewhere safe (finding him that one time, an hour after his last death, only to watch him get killed almost immediately after their encounter had traumatized Binghe, so now he made sure to immediately use the soul-tracking amulet he had been using for the last 12 incarnations) and immediately went to cook his beloved dinner. He was working on a way to get his memories from his previous incarnations back, because… how else was he supposed to cope?

——

So. Do you think a new instance of Shen Yuan is plopped into the world every time one dies? Is it the same soul, given a quick reset and spit-spine and put into another body? Let’s discuss this idea please I am obsessed, it haunts me. Let’s brainstorm

[eleu22]

What Task Force 141’s Houses Would Look Like

John Price

- he lives in a cabin I cannot be convinced otherwise.

- very rustic, defo goes fishing or hunting for fun in his spare time

- likes to be away from the city

- its maximalist in kind of an organised chaos way he can find whatever he need’s immediately but to anyone else it looks kind of insane

- he’d be cleaner if he lived with someone - but yaknow #singledad

- very homey, warm vibes

- if the apocalypse ever hit you’d wanna be here, it’s decked out, secluded, he’s a bit of a doomsday prepper

- has once pissed outside to ‘mark his territory’ but you couldn’t torture that information out of him

- defo has that one room that is mysteriously locked and refuses to elaborate on when asked about it (Gaz secretly thinks it’s really cool) (it probably just has his fishing gear)

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

- very chic, cool tones

- screams “I did economy as an A-Level but I use pinterest”

- probably has had some type of dinner party with the 141 just to subtly flex to them that “in another life I was an interior designer”

- also defo cooks something with wine just, again to subtly flex his culture capital (he just wants some approval guys bless him)

- plant father - cannot be convinced otherwise

- very organised, keeps it pretty clean unless he’s feeling lazy which isn’t very often

- definitely has a record player - do not mention it or he will go on about how it “just sounds better” (with Price in the background nodding in agreement - but in an old man way)

- somewhere has a box of stuff that doesn’t fit his aesthetic but it’s shit he needs to keep anyways

John “Soap Mactavish

- messy as fuck, no rhyme or reason to it he just puts stuff down, forgets its there and thats just where it lives now COUGH man-child COUGH

- puts some of his drawings up on his walls

- defo has a comic book collection and some action figures

- bunch of childhood shit he refuses to throw away - criminal hoarder

- he likes the messy kind of boyish charm it has, every time his mom comes over she scolds him for it

- a bunch of stuff he’s collected from different places he’s gone, he’ll usually grab some stuff while on deployment if he has any free time, like snow globes or whatever

- went to Greece once and got one of those wooden dicks and finds it so funny, he says it’s the living room’s ‘conversation piece’

- he’s pretty clean when on base aswell, it’s just without the millitary’s structure or someone literally forcing him to clean up he doesn’t really care - it’s his house anyways

Simon “Ghost” Riley

- um

- yikes

- yeah you can tell he doesn’t really like spending time at home on leave

- the singular chair infront of the tv is so sad

- king of minimalism - if that’s what you wanna call it ig

- doesn’t bother decorating or getting anything past the bare essentials because what’s the point?

- doesn’t care it’s a shithole, he can afford a better house, but it kind of reminds him of home back in Manchester (crying)

- definitely chain smokes in his bathroom

- he’s got a treadmill there somewhere

- has a box full of his family’s belongings under his bed (crying again)

- no mirrors, only a small one in the bathroom to shave

- only item of decoration is a snow globe Soap gave him once, it sits next to his bed

[timmydraker]

Tim who can and will sleep anywhere.

It’s not just a matter of falling asleep at his desk or while at the dinner table, though those things do happen.

No, he’s fallen asleep in the middle of a sparring. He had a tired look on his face while going agasint Dick and then shrugged and said, “we’ll finish later.” Then laid down right there and went to sleep.

He’s been found in some odd places, most of which are not at all comfortable.

Some examples being:

The floor of the kitchen, with a packet of chips gripped in his hand like a lifeline and his legs tucked up under him like a frog.

Under Bruce’s bed and he was only found before sometimes he snores like a little kitten.

In the trunk of Dick’s car after he made it back to Blud. He even had a line of drool coming from his mouth as his brother promptly freaked out.

On top of the fridge during a big heat wave, half dangling off with his arms and legs over the side and head tilted at an off angle.

In the shower’s of the cave with the water running over his head as he curled into a ball, leaving Jason to go in and be faced with Tim’s pale ass staring at him. (He panicked and instead of Turing away he kicked Tim in the ass and was not sorry for even a second. He’s traumatised.)

In Barbara’s chair. She didn’t even notice him come into the tower until he was crawling into her lap and gave her a mumbled greeting before conking out instantly, somehow bypassing her security which he genuinely cannot do normally.

In the pool room with his feet in the water and socks on his hands for some unknown reason.

He doesn’t do it unless he feels safe, and he’s easy to wake up in cases of an emergency, and so everyone feels sort of proud when he chooses them. It’s not always he seeks someone out, but most members of the family start checking under their bed and in their closest (he got quite a few jokes after that one) just in case they have been Chosen.

Most people think it’s not often he sleeps without being exhausted, but he’s a power napper and will take any chance he has free to do so.

You must be careful moving him because he tends to smack people. He will push and whine at you if you try, grumbling like a petulant teenager about needing out ‘five more minutes’. Damian learnt this the hard way when he tried to move Tim from his bedroom doorway and Tim kicked him in the shin.

He can be calmed down if you put chamomile tea under his nose but this might wake him up in a mood as he demands more tea for being disturbed.

Bruce made it a rule that Tim must be checked on if he hasn’t said or done anything for a while after he was found under the Batmobile in a plank position.