#what things stay and what things were left behind

[ceilidho]

BIRD DOG | Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

MOODBOARD · AO3

A few times a year, Simon goes home to an empty apartment in a shithole city and counts down the days until he can leave. This time, there's someone waiting for him when he comes home.

Convenient. He was already planning on ordering takeaway.

Or: the live-in masseuse au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB reader - Freeform, Masseuse Reader, Forced Cohabitation, Strangers to Roommates to Lovers, Porn with Feelings

The mangled hand of fate lets him go but seldomly. 

He does, though, get a few weeks off a year. Bids farewell to his captain (the barest hint of a nod after leaving each other on the runway, chopper blades spinning faster and faster, the other man headed back out, his duties never finished; the world can never let them both rest at the same time) and then he’s gone, bags long packed and truck loaded the night before last. He drives a long, circuitous route after leaving the military base, the mask only shed when the paranoid prickle in his head finally abates. 

It never quite goes away though.

And then comes the drive back, the road long and the drudgery endless. One hand on the wheel, the other hanging out of the side of the truck, a cigarette pinched between two knuckles. Occasionally, he takes a drag. 

This is the part he always hates. The drive back. Roads winding through quiet towns and over hills, blue disappearing into black, streetlights piercing the darkness and demarcating the beginning and end of civilization. Manchester is a long drive north. He stops once for a piss by the side of the road and then carries on. 

It’s a wonder they let him go at all. He is violence forthright; setting him free does no one any good. It’s hardly even a reward for him, more of just a pretense of normalcy. A week to stretch his legs, so to speak. If he were anything other than human, maybe they’d force him to stay on base indefinitely, secured and contained behind barbed wire fences and reinforced concrete walls.

But a few times a year, they play this game and send him off into the world.

There’s an apartment in Manchester that he’s rented for as long as he can remember. A shithole flat in a shithole borough, and though Simon’s squirreled away enough money to buy a place of his own, the thought of owning anything makes his skin crawl. It’s not in his blood, he thinks. He’d sooner live in a shack in the woods, no fixed address or way to find him. Even his flat in Manchester is rented under a different name, and he pays his landlord in cash for the year. 

It’s dark when he reaches the city, the sky soot black and patchy with clouds. Moon nowhere in sight. Nothing beautiful ever visits Manchester. 

But there’s a light on in the window when he pulls up in front of his place.

Odd.

Would’ve remembered if he left the light on the last time he was in town months ago; filament would’ve blown out in at least that time as well. Still, there’s a light on in the living room window and a new curtain pulled across to keep anyone from looking in.

Simon stares at the light while he leans outside against the truck and finishes his cigarette. Stubs it out under his boot when it’s down to the filter and locks the car door behind him. Violence already itches under his skin, knuckles tingling like they know what’s coming if he opens that door and finds some junkie living in his flat. It’ll be worse if he finds out that his scumbag landlord moved someone else in after picking up on him being gone nearly half the year.

His key still works though. Fancy that. 

He finds you like that, sitting up from a nap on his couch, sweater slouched down a shoulder and groggily blinking open big doe eyes that widen when you notice him in the doorway, fear making you freeze up. 

You’re a pretty little thing; a pleasant surprise to find something like you sitting on his couch. It quells the violence simmering in his belly because it awakens another appetite instead. Like a meal delivered right to his door. He was already planning on ordering takeaway. 

He drops the duffel bag by his feet, propping the door open with it. “You lost, bird?”

Terror leaves you mute. He can only imagine; he must seem like something straight from a horror movie—defenceless girl waking up to the dead-eyed stare of a giant dressed in all black watching her sleep and blocking her only way out. That’s not completely true; there’s a backdoor through the kitchen that leads into a laneway behind the house, but the door sticks in the winter, not easy to open in a hurry. 

He has as much right to ask as you do to run at the sight of him though, considering it is his fuckin’ flat. 

You can’t seem to choke out a single word. Scared stiff, likely, heart slamming against your chest while the worst scenarios possible play out in your mind. Simon nearly rolls his eyes. 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he grumbles, finally kicking his bag out of the way so the door can shut behind him. “Cat got your tongue or somethin’?”

The sound of the door slamming shut must finally snap you out of it because you scramble off the couch, nearly tripping over the arm when you run for the back. Screaming too, just to piss him off extra. His back already aches something fierce from the long drive—he wasn’t expecting a headache on top of everything else. 

“Heeeeeeeeelp! Heeeeelp!” 

Your screams are borderline deafening, almost more aggravating than finding someone living in his flat in the first place. 

You scramble down the hall, so terrified that you go for the first open door, slamming it shut behind you. His eyes follow the shape of your bare legs and the way the muscles in your ass move as you run. 

“I’m c-calling the police!” you yell from behind the bathroom door. 

When Simon looks back down the hall, he notices your phone on the floor, bright side up. Must have dropped out of your pocket when you bolted like a scared cat.

“No, you’re not,” he says blandly, staring at the door. There’s a pause on the other side like you just noticed your missing phone, then a bleat of panic. “Don’t try going out the window either—thing’s been sealed shut since the nineties.”

On the other side of the door, the window rattles in its frame for a good few seconds before you give up on trying to escape that way. There’s a pause while you consider your options. Simon waits patiently on the other side of the door, his temper slowly but surely getting the better of him the longer he goes without a shower and a beer, locked out of his own bathroom. 

What a bloody headache. 

He pounds a fist against the door, bracing his feet in case you try to open it and scurry out around him before he’s had a chance to have a chat. “Gonna come out now?”

“Get out of my house!” you shriek instead of being polite. 

Figures. He should’ve known his landlord would pull some shit like this. “How long’ve you been living here, bird?” 

“I have a knife!”

Pretty thing that likes to lie. There’s not a shot you have anything better than a hair dryer or nail clippers in there. 

“Better get away from the door ‘cause I’m kickin’ it in,” he announces, taking a step back to give himself some distance and waiting a few seconds for you to realize that he’s dead serious before you start screaming at the top of your lungs again. 

Got quite a set on you. That doesn’t matter much to him though. The door caves in after only a few good kicks, the frame splitting right up through the lock when it finally gives, and the two halves—the door itself nearly snapped in half—banging against the wall when it ricochets open. 

You’re trembling between the toilet and the wall when Simon walks in, knees practically knocking together. The crotch of your shorts are wet and there’s a small puddle under you; must’ve pissed yourself in fear, and he’d almost pity you if you weren’t squatting in his flat. 

The closer he gets to you, the harder you wail. Full on bawling now, snot and drool dribbling down your face, and Christ, he sure picked a bad time to grow a heart. He’s not immune to a pretty girl in distress, much as he wishes he could be. 

He kneels in front of you, purposefully blocking your only way out, before knocking his knuckles under your chin, huffing out a breath when you flinch. “Ain’t gonna hurt you, bird. You’re just in my flat, is all.”

“Your flat?” you repeat in disbelief. “This is my flat. I pay rent!”

“Got a lease then?” he asks, and though your eyes are still bloodshot and your nose is still leaking, you nod. 

“Yes.”

“Show me then,” he orders. 

And you do when he steps back to give you some space, scampering shamefully to your—his—bedroom to rifle through the dresser until you pull out a handful of papers that look suspiciously like a lease. He skims it with a growing tick in his eye. It looks like one because it is one.

“See?” you mumble. He ignores the attitude in favour of reading until the end, where he finds his landlord’s name, the blotchy signature underneath it unmistakable. 

“Bullshit,” he grunts through his teeth.

“It’s not. You can call him and ask! Where’s yours?” 

His copy of the lease is tucked away in a drawer in the kitchen, buried under loose rubber bands, old batteries, and takeout menus from restaurants that went under years ago. When he returns with it and holds it up to your nose, you frown.

“Oh. I guess that explains some things.”

“Explains some things, huh? The clothes didn’t tip you off?” Simon asks, referring to the sweatpants and shirts still lining the dresser shelves. Your lips tighten. 

“I thought the previous tenant skipped town and left his clothes. I was gonna throw them out eventually.”

“Good thing you didn’t.” His voice is thick with sardonicism. 

It’s an interesting standoff to say the least. You, standing there in your soiled sleep shorts with tear-streaked cheeks, and him still decked out in his military gear and boots tracking dirt across the flat. You sway on your feet, the adrenaline crash likely intense. He catches you when you sway too close to him and you flinch when his hand clamps down over your shoulder, a new wave of adrenaline coursing through you. 

“I’m fine,” you snap, taking a step away.

For fuck’s sake. His mood darkens at the continued hostility. It’s not like you’re the one who came home to a strange man squatting in your flat—if anyone has a right to be hostile, it’s him. 

Skittering back into the bedroom, you shut the door behind you, likely to change into another pair of shorts. Simon’s mood festers the longer he waits for you to come out. The last string of his patience nearly snaps when you finally creep back out into the living room, the sour expression on your face pissing him off even more.

“I’m gonna call Tom,” you mutter, picking your phone off the coffee table.

“Go ahead.” He doesn’t bring up that it won’t change a thing. Not his problem if you’re so green behind the ears that you think your landlord will drop everything to answer a call, especially after dinner. 

No one answers when you ring, just as he thought. He plops down on the couch and rests a foot on the coffee table, ignoring the way you pace back and forth waiting for your landlord to pick up.

“No answer?” Simon asks rhetorically. 

“Aren’t you gonna try?” you ask.

“Yeah. Tomorrow. When ‘e’ll actually pick up.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do then? I’m not getting a hotel room for the night.”

“Me neither, birdie.”

He meets your stare with one of his own. It doesn’t take long for you to give in. 

There’s a pullout bed in the couch that you offer to take and he lets you because he is, at the end of the day, a selfish prick who won’t give up a week of decent sleep for anybody. Not when his back and neck have been acting up for the past month and keeping him from getting more than three hours at a time. 

The ache behind his eyebrow throbs as Simon sits on the edge of the bed. A slow exhale. 

Tomorrow can’t come quick enough.

In the morning, Simon rings his landlord and listens silently as the fuckhead blubbers on the other end of the phone about late payments and eviction notices.

“This ain’t a charity, y’know,” the other man sniffs. “I gotta pay my bills too.”

He lets the man make excuse after excuse and accuse him of this and that until he finally goes silent when he notices Simon hasn’t said a word in minutes. At which point, Simon icily reminds him of what he does for a living and the fact that he paid him for the year in full just a few months back. 

Not much to be done after that. There’s silence on the other end before his landlord tries to hem and haw his way out of it. He offers Simon one of his other properties currently sitting vacant on the other side of town, but that’s not the answer that Simon is looking for. 

“If anyone’s moving out, it ain’t me,” Simon growls into the phone. 

The wounded look that you shoot at him rubs him the wrong way.

His landlord’s still rambling on about moving costs and lawyer fees when Simon hangs up, no longer in the mood to try and talk things out. 

He doesn’t really understand the legalities here, but he knows he can’t just toss you out on your ass when you’ve also got a lease, same as him.  

“I have every right to be here,” you start up the second he hangs up the phone, not letting him get a word in edgewise, shoulders rolled back like you’re trying to be assertive. “I’ll take it to court if I have to.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Simon scrubs a hand down his face. 

“I’m serious. Rent is expensive and this is the only place close enough to where I work that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg—and I don’t have the money to hire a lawyer to get my money back—”

“I’m not gonna kick you out,” he finally snaps, fed up with your caterwauling. 

You pause, hope warring with disbelief. “You’re not?”

He gives a curt shake of his head. “Too much of a headache. I’m only…in town for a week anyway.”

“Oh. ‘Til when?”

“‘Til whenever I’m back.” Purposefully cryptic. He gives you a flat look when you open your mouth to pry some more. 

You reconsider, chewing your bottom lip until a better question occurs to you. “Are you in town a lot? Because I’m not sure how else we could make this work. I could sleep at my cousin’s until you leave?”

“Your cousin live around here?”

You hesitate. “No.”

“Then that ain’t gonna work, is it?”

“At least I’m trying,” you hiss, and Simon has to tamp down the amusement that swirls in his chest at the sight of your shoulders puffing up. “I’m not ripping up my lease and if you’re not either, then we have to figure out something unless you feel like taking this to court.”

While Simon wouldn’t usually take kindly to being threatened, his annoyance never quite develops into anything more substantial. 

“Just keep outta my way and I’ll keep outta yours,” he says. 

“Fine.”

The agreement you come to is that when he’s in town—seldom and erratic—he’ll take the bedroom and you’ll sleep on the couch, a fair compromise since you have the flat to yourself the rest of the year. 

He doesn’t explain himself, of course. Doesn’t explain why he’s allowing this instead of dragging you to court kicking and screaming. It’s no one’s business but his why he chooses not to go down that road.

He tells himself that it’s easier this way; that it’s easier just to run your lease out and spare himself the legal mess. It’s not like he’ll even be around most of the time anyway. 

What he carefully side steps, even in his own mind, is the sharp displeasure that accompanies the thought of forcing you out of his flat and onto the streets.   

Cohabitation is—

Easy wouldn’t be the right word. He certainly doesn’t make it easy on you, leaving his dirty dishes in the sink and his half-empty beer cans in the shower caddy, his cum drying on the wall over the tub spout. You try to do the same by leaving your dirty laundry on the communal furniture, but it doesn’t have the same effect. 

It’s interesting, at least. It’s not as though he’s never lived with anyone before—his memories of his early years in the service are littered with bunkmates packed into every corner of the room, and learning to sleep everywhere from moving caravans to while standing in formation, always surrounded by other people—but he’s paid his dues. Barring deployment, he thought he’d earned the luxury of his privacy. 

But it’s not all bad; it’s been years since he had fun like this. 

You try your best to annoy him in return, but you don’t realize that you’re playing chicken with a man who’s been buried alive. There isn’t much someone like you could do to break him. 

Living with another person doesn’t soften him up one bit. There’s a time for change and it’s not off the back of a four-month covert operation, his nerves still razor sharp and ability to sleep practically nonexistent. He gets precious few weeks to himself and he isn’t going to waste them trying to get in the habit of smoking on the porch instead of in his own living room. 

“I’m a masseuse.”

“Oh yeah?” Simon grunts, barely listening. There’s a match on the telly and a beer in his other hand—a perfect afternoon, if only you’d just stop yapping in his ear for five fuckin’ minutes. 

“Yes, and I can’t show up to work reeking like a chimney,” you explain, scooching closer to him on the couch while being careful to leave some distance between the two of you. For all your posturing, you’re still timid around him, like a kitten hissing and spitting around a much bigger cat. 

“What’s that got to do with me?” he asks rhetorically, not in the slightest interested in how it pertains to him. He takes another drag from the cigarette dangling between his index and middle finger, ashing it over the side of the couch. 

“It means I’d prefer if you didn’t smoke in the flat,” you say, hissing the last few words. 

He takes another drag, turning to look at you before exhaling right in your face. “That’s a shame.”

You cough and squawk, and he fights down a grin. 

For the most part, he leaves you to your own devices, intent only on enjoying his time off. He fixes the bathroom door at least, which you begrudgingly thank him for. 

A week and a bit, Simon reminds himself when you come in through the front door chirping into your phone, your voice effectively drowning out the TV on in the background. When you spot him staring at you from the couch, you go quiet as a mouse and slink off to the bathroom, locking the (newly installed) door behind you. He supposes it’s the only place where you feel any semblance of privacy since his bedroom is off limits until he leaves. It does leave him without a bathroom though. 

Pissing in the alleyway behind the flat half an hour later, he scowls into the darkness and reminds himself that he has no one to blame but himself for this mess.  

When his leave comes to an end, Simon doesn’t bother to give you a heads up. You’ll realize it in a couple of days when you notice his absence around the flat, the siege finally lifted. He supposes you’ll be grateful for his departure and grateful not to make you feign politeness.  

Duffel bag packed away in the car, he leaves with the bed still unmade. Knows that’ll ruffle your feathers later on when you come home, but it’s his parting gift. His reminder to you to enjoy the couple months reprieve his job allows you. 

And then the road slips away under him and he’s gone. 

The months away are just complex rearrangements of the same thing. Each time it drives his soul deeper into the gully, buffeted by katabatic winds. 

His daily life on base is split into brackets of time. Wake up, go to the gym, work, clock out, see the captain for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. Each day blending into the next. Back where he belongs, under the thumb of a system that he’s long sold his body and freedom to, and sent out God knows where to do God knows what. 

Then, again the rooster crows at first light and he lifts himself out of bed.

When he’s deployed, everything changes while everything stays the same. He doesn’t have the same freedom of movement as he does on base, but in truth very little changes from one deployment to the next if you zoom out enough. Limited time to sleep on the chopper before it touches down, body tensed for what’s to come, and then he’s off, his objectives clear. 

Driving a knife into a neck to the hilt and pulling it out one inch at a time. It’s the one he knows how to do, and he does it well. He doesn’t have to like what he does; he doesn’t even have to think about it so long as it gets done. 

Ghost exhales and slips the mask back on.

In [redacted city] in [redacted country], he sets his scope up in the window of a building across from one where his target is slated to be in twelve hours and then he waits. Flexes his fingers when they go numb and ignores the thirst clawing up his throat. Four hours later, his elbows ache something fierce from digging into the ground for hours on end, a sharp pain shooting up his arms, but Ghost pays it no mind. Mind over matter. 

Amidst the hours of laying there and waiting for his target to come into frame, his mind doesn’t wander. That’s a luxury for a different time—when the job is done and his target is executed. 

At the very edges of his consciousness though, something flickers. The skin around his eyes pinches as he pushes the half-formed thought away. 

Then his target walks into the room and everything else disappears.

You’re still there when he returns months later on another government ordered leave. Same petulant frown and wobbly lower lip when he walks in through the front door, dripping wet from the rain outside. When he tosses his duffel bag onto the couch, you scowl, nudging the bag onto the floor with your foot. 

“You could’ve rang,” you mumble, pulling the throw from the back of the couch over your lap to hide your bare legs. Pity to be deprived of a nice view, but Simon doesn’t take it to heart. 

“Didn’t think you’d still be ‘ere,” he grunts instead, shrugging out of his jacket and shaking it dry, suppressing a smirk when you start squawking about getting water all over the floor. 

That’s partly a lie, though not one he’ll ever admit to. Simon figured there might be a chance you’d be gone, but in the time since he last saw you, he’s done enough digging around online to know that you weren’t kidding about the lack of affordable flats in the area. There’s hardly a unit nearby that isn’t going for double what he pays, some even more. 

“Well, guess I’m sleeping out here tonight,” you grumble. You’re on your tiptoes in the doorway to the living room now, the throw wrapped around you like a security blanket. 

He doesn’t answer that. No point getting your hopes up when he has no intention of giving up the bed. 

In another life, he might be enough of a gentleman to let you sleep in the bedroom while he takes the couch, but in this one, his back is ravaged by sciatica and his dominant hand and wrist twinge with the beginning of carpal tunnel syndrome. Most nights, it’s a miracle if he can get five uninterrupted hours. 

So no, he won’t be giving up the bed.

But Simon toys with the thought of dragging you in with him. It’s been awhile since he had a woman, so long that the memory is fuzzy when he dredges it up, and though his hand does the job when the itch grows severe, he’s no monk. He could pull you in with little effort, sweet talk you until your knickers are around your ankles and your legs are in the air, hot cunt steaming when your legs part and he sinks his cock in deep. Wouldn’t take more than a half dozen thrusts before he busted, pretty pussy painted with his cum.

In the doorway, you eye him dubiously, scrunched nose expressing your discontent. 

It’s an idea, at least.

He still leaves his dishes in the sink and wakes to you pounding on the bedroom door, whining about having to scrub his plates with a pot scraper, but time and distance have mellowed any hostility in you. You treat him less like a stranger intruding on your space and more like a roommate you’ve grown to tolerate despite his many faults. 

The oddest thing is opening the fridge up to more than just a six-pack, a stick of butter, and three half-empty bottles of mustard. Fresh produce and meat spill from the shelves now, leftovers packed in tupperware and neatly labelled. He eats like a king now, takeout relegated to the days when you don’t feel like cooking. On those days, Simon heads down to the chippie a few streets away and gets enough for the both of you before heading back to eat on the couch with you. 

He still gets a kick out of leaving his cigarette butts in cups strewn around the flat for you to find. 

“So what do you do anyway?” you ask out of the blue.

“What’s it matter?” Simon grunts from beside you. He has to slow his usual gait to keep pace with you—which is irritating as all fuck—but you didn’t leave him much choice when you insisted on going to the store well after dark.

“I’m just making conversation. You always get so squirrely when I ask—what are you, some kind of secret agent?” 

He’d roll his eyes if he had any less self-control.

“No way. No way. You are?” you gasp, suddenly glued to his side, hands scrambling for purchase on his bicep and shoulder. 

Simon stares down at your hands clutching his arm, unconsciously tucking his bicep between your tits. “Best to not ask questions, bird.”

You pout. He ignores the impulse to lean down and sink his canines into that plump bottom lip.

His nose itches because the world is changing. 

He used to catalogue his time off base in much the same way. Wake up, workout, tinker with the junk pilfered from estate sales and scrap yards he’s frequented over the years, then head to the pub for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. 

That’s changed since you came into his life. Aside from when you’re out working, you unbalance his schedule. Upset his routines. The structure propping up his entire existence gets taken down in an instant when you open your mouth and ask him to the market with you, giving him no choice but to slam the door shut behind him and drive you there.

Each day comes with its new flavour, a new bite to it. 

“You’re not eating takeout again?” you ask him, aghast when you come home from work to find takeout containers all over the coffee table

“Always a fuckin’ lecture with you, huh?” Simon grumbles into his curry. Shovels another forkful into his mouth. 

Just as he expected though, you don’t let it go. He was a fool to think you would. It’s not so bad at first when all you do is cook for him—with the life he’s lived, he’s never been one to turn down a home cooked meal, so he accepts the proffered food happily—but it’s another thing entirely when you rope him into it.

He’s already pissed off when you wrangle him into the kitchen under the guise of needing his help—absurd after your subterfuge from the day before, his expectation being that you were happy to do all the cooking yourself, not force him to debase himself by chopping up all the vegetables and meat while being ordered around like a line cook. 

What really ticks him off though is that—

he grumbles to himself as he chops the mushrooms into thin slices

—you keep getting away with it.

The worst is when you catch the tremor in his hand at the breakfast table, quick eyes picking up on the subtle quiver instantly.

“Something wrong with your wrist?” you ask. Always prying into his business. 

Simon closes his hand into a fist. “It’s nothing.”

You frown. “Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’.”

“Well, it is.”

“Can you relax your grip? I just want to see that again.”

How he lets you talk him into massaging his wrist is beyond him. Then you press your thumbs into the meat of his palm and rub in smooth, circular motions, and his brain goes offline for half a second. The relief hits him like a cudgel to the head; knocks him upside. 

“Jesus fuck, bird,” Simon groans. His knee bangs against the leg of the table. 

“Feels a bit better, huh?” you ask, the corner of your mouth quirking up in a crooked, teasing smile.

And fuck if it doesn’t feel a thousand times better by the time you’re done. He snaps when your thumbs dig in too deep at his wrist and pain radiates up his arm, but all you do is laugh it off, smiling to yourself when you press down on a tender point on his wrist and his jaw goes slack.

Sometimes, he wishes he could study you like a bug. Pin your arms and legs down to get a closer look. Kneel over you and pin your shins down with his to keep you from squirming away, then tuck his fingers into the inside of your cheeks to pull them open. 

But he keeps his hands to himself. Just barely. 

He doesn’t stay long this time, called back from his katabasis before the week’s even up, Price’s voice urgent over the phone. His duffel bag is packed before the call is even over, boots laced up and mask folded neatly in his pocket for when he leaves the city limits. 

“You’re leaving?” you ask when you notice, and if Simon were less of a realist, he might think you sounded upset. 

“Need me to take out the trash?” he asks, his answer implicit. Yes, he’s leaving. Even if it weren’t for his job, he’s not the staying type; those kinds of decisions are out of his hands anyway, and even if it were up to him, he’d be long gone by now. Adrift; across the pond or somewhere down in the Balkans, far enough away that you couldn’t find him even if you wanted to. 

That’s what he tells himself. Whether he believes it anymore is another question.

You’re quiet for a second. “Sure. Thank you.”

Simon nods. Nothing more to say. The ache in his gut could be anything else. 

He lifts a hand on his way out, ruffles your hair once before he’s gone.

Rain soaks him down to his britches but still he stands in it without complaint, watching some of the privates unload a delivery truck parked outside of the commissary. Even the mundane parts of his job are his to attend to and he does so with little complaint.

When they finish around eighteen-hundred hours, he signs out for the day and heads to Price’s office for a drink. It’s so routine it’s practically part of his DNA. 

Price already has both glasses poured when Ghost arrives, two fingers each, and it goes down smooth when he rolls the mask up over his nose to take a sip. 

“Got out the pricey stuff just for me?” Ghost asks. He can tell by the taste and from the bottle sitting on the shelf behind Price, label facing outward. 

“What else am I saving it for?” Price asks rhetorically. “I’m not letting the good stuff go to waste.”

Ghost hums. It’s still raining buckets outside. He watches as it hits the windowpane behind Price’s desk, almost transfixed.

“Got time for a drink before you’re out on Friday?” 

He shakes his head. “No time. Gotta be out by six.”

“Six?” Price repeats, a mite surprised. “Why? Something waiting for you back home?”

Ghost doesn’t answer. 

Price lifts an eyebrow. “Well, spit it out.”

He shrugs. “Nothing to tell.”

“So there’s no one back in Manchester?”

“Didn’t say that.”

Price’s lips twitch into a grin under his mustache, eyes faintly amused. “Heard.”

Truth be told, he has started to think of you as someone waiting back home. Maybe not for him, but waiting all the same. Why else would you be back in his flat in Manchester in his bed if not to wait for him to come back?

It almost makes him itchy to leave. He can tamp down the urge when the situation calls for it, but it sits right under his skin most days. If he thinks about it for too long, his focus goes razor sharp and the edges of his vision go blurry. 

In the present moment, he brings the glass to his lips and tips his head back, letting it pour down his throat. 

He has some nascent idea of where this is going.

As always, you’re curled up on the couch watching TV when he walks through the front door, on the verge of sleep. When your eyes land on him, you blink away the sleep and smile so brightly that his chest aches. “Simon!”

In nearly forty years, no one has ever said his name like that. Brimming with brightness and warmth. Like for once someone has longed for him in his absence. 

All he can do is stare at you for a time. It should make his skin crawl, and it does, to an extent. He should be out the door already—lease broken, all his shit in the back of his truck, ties cut, and so many kilometers between you and him that he has no choice but to forget your face. 

Instead, he kicks the door shut behind him and ruffles your hair when he passes on his way to the bathroom to piss and scrub a towel over his face. 

It must be a form of self-punishment. That’s the only explanation for why he comes back every single time when he has more than enough money to fuck off down south for a week instead—he could be spending his leave in Costa Brava or sipping rakija in Kotor, but he chooses to come back to this hovel with its bleak weather and seedy underbelly every single time. What other urge would drive him to abuse himself like this other than masochism? 

Any attempt to answer that is swiftly dismissed. 

One day. One day is all he manages after promising to keep himself in check this time around. He manages to get through that first day largely because of the physical distance he puts between the two of you, playing chess with a couple old men in the park, rock doves pecking at the birdseed scattered under the wrought iron tables and benches. 

His restraint breaks when he catches you dozing off in front of the television, socked feet tucked under your thighs and head balanced precariously on your fist, elbow resting on the arm of the couch. 

He sits down beside you and his lip twitches when your head bobs, slumber briefly breached when the cushion under you dips with his weight. 

“C’mere, girl,” Simon grunts, pulling you onto his lap. 

You go somewhat willingly, only putting up a little bit of a fuss. Grumbling to keep up appearances. But that melts away the second he tucks your head into the crook of his neck, body going lax and fingers burrowing into the fabric of his shirt at his belly, gathering it together in your fist. 

Christ, Simon thinks, dropping his head back on the couch. What am I doing?

Even he doesn’t know these days, but his chest aches in a way it never has before. He makes a mental note to see a doctor when he’s back on base. 

His back aches too, but you pick up on that rather quickly, hounding him when you recognize the stiffness in his back for what it is. It takes you days to wear him down enough to agree to a massage, but eventually you do. He regrets it the second the words leave his mouth, leery at the thought of putting himself in such a vulnerable position.  

You lock him out of the bedroom while you set up your table and do all the little things that you need to do in order to set the mood. His nose wrinkles when the smell of incense hits him. 

“You can strip down to your comfort level,” you explain after letting him back into the room, patting the bed as if he doesn’t know where to lie down. “Then get under the blanket and let me know when you’re ready.”

He cocks a brow. “You trying to get me naked, bird?”

“Simon,” you sigh, a touch exasperated, hands on your hips to emphasize your weariness. 

His belt clinks as he unlatches it. “Don’t worry, birdie, just gimme a second to get these off.”

A frustrated growl and then the door slams shut behind you when you bolt out of the room. 

He spares you the indignity of having to repeat yourself, sliding under the towel and barking at you to come back in when he’s stripped bare and covered. You slip back in quietly and flit over to the dresser to press play on your music.

The first touch of your hands against his bare back almost makes him flinch. All his regret comes rushing back and he very nearly calls it off, and then you press the heels of your palms into the meat of his shoulders and the bottom falls out from under him. Then you drag them down the length of his back and he very nearly bites his tongue clean off. 

Simon doesn’t bother muffling his noises when you dig your hands into his back to work out the plethora of knots, huffing and groaning like he’s balls deep. When you get to his shoulders though, he has to fight to stay put, 

“Oh, your back is really messed up,” you note, a bit breathlessly. 

He doesn’t acknowledge your words, too intent on not vocalizing his pain. Not even a grunt passes his lips. 

You work years of hard labour and soreness out of his muscles, leaving behind a new man. The oil coating your palms makes your hands glide across his back. 

He must fall asleep at some point because he wakes to the sound of television in the other room. Groggy at first, cotton mouthed and sleep drunk, and when Simon stumbles into the living room, you’re sitting on the couch with your knees drawn into your chest. 

“Oh hi,” you say when you notice him standing there. “Sleep well?” 

Speech still beyond him, all he can do is nod and plant himself on the couch beside you. Shirtless still. Simon only notices it himself when he tips his head to look over at you and finds that you won’t meet his eyes, gaze steadfast on the TV. 

“Shoulda ‘ad you do that when you moved in,” he says. 

“I could give you another one before you leave,” you reply, still not looking over at him. He bets that if he brushed his knuckles over your cheeks, they’d be hot to the touch. “Just tell me when.”

Maybe he will. What use is there in depriving himself of life’s little pleasures when his soul bears all of life’s bruises? 

He reaches over to pinch your cheek, grinning when you yowl. Just as warm as he thought.

One thing Simon doesn’t take for granted anymore are his scarce moments of privacy. No stranger to a little exhibitionism (barracks walls and tent flaps hardly muffle sound, and he’s learned over the years that men will tolerate anything if it means they can rub one out in peace), he still appreciates the time he gets to himself to take care of things. 

He’s only just finished tugging one out, his jeans buttoned back up and his hand still wet with his spend, when you walk in the front door.

You start up the second the door slams shut behind you, steam practically billowing out of your ears. “Well, thanks a lot—one of my regulars just gave me shit because she said I smelt like an ashtray and she couldn’t ‘properly relax’ for the whole hour—” 

Afterglow proper scotched, Simon sits there and lets you cuss him out until the pounding behind his eyebrow becomes unbearable. 

You go quiet when he rises to his feet, unused to him actually reacting to your whinging. Sometimes you don’t realize how accustomed to him you’ve become—how ingrained he’s become in your everyday life. What continues to elude you for no good reason is that you live with a stranger, and a strange man at that. It would piss him off if it were anyone other than him. 

Practically chest to chest now, you nearly go cross eyed staring up at him. Jaw unhinged and mouth dangling loose, just the slightest gap between your lips like you forgot to close them. He lets you size him up for a second before lifting his hand to your mouth and slowly but firmly shoving his cum-covered fingers into your mouth.

Dumbstruck, all you can do is stare up at him with his cum-slicked fingers in your mouth, holding them there for a few more seconds and whimpering when he drags them out and then feeds them slowly back in. You even go a little glassy-eyed.

When he finally pulls his fingers out and lets his arm drop to his side, you sway on your feet a little, at a loss for words. There’s a creamy sheen on your bottom lip that disappears when you suck it into your mouth on instinct, eyes going wide when you recognize the taste on your tongue. 

“Thanks for cleaning that up, birdie.” And then he reaches down to zip his fly up, smug when your eyes flit down to his crotch. 

The stakes are different now than what they were all those months ago. It can’t be a carefree cohabitation when he’s playing for keeps. Whatever that means. 

But his time is cut short again, the world catching up to him and yanking him back. And when Simon goes this time, he can’t help but drag his feet on his way out.

You’re looking good. A comment made in passing, Price’s face barely twitching through it, but Ghost catches it and he lets it sit for a moment before responding.

“Yeah?” he grunts, looking away. The recruits round the part of the track closest to where they stand, panting through their seventh lap. 

“Put on a bit of weight since you left,” Price notes. 

“Calling me fat, sir?”

He rolls his eyes, huffing out an exasperated breath. “Give it a rest, you fuckin’ muppet. I said you look good.”

Price isn’t wrong though. He both looks and feels different. With increasing regularity, he watches the clock and counts the days down until he’s released from his duties again. His want has him circling like a bird of prey. 

All his life, he’s had to live in the moment, concerned only with the immediate, tangible present because that’s all that life let him have. And though it’s been decades since he’s needed to be in survival mode, those instincts have never quite left him. 

The shock to his system has left him forward-thinking for once. A girl in his house and food in his fridge; his body feeling better than it has in years—he’s still lucky if he gets more than five uninterrupted hours of sleep, but his expectations are different when he’s not at home. Even the concept of home is foreign, like a language he’s just starting to learn. 

The future isn’t some nebulous concept out of his reach but a real place that he gets to walk into. 

Desire tips him like a scale. There may not be any coming back from this.

Love shows him no mercy, so he doesn’t show you any either. 

Months pass before Simon’s leave comes around again, and when it finally does, he’s already packed and signed out before his last day on base is even up. He says his goodbyes to Price on his way out and the other man visibly suppresses a smile, eyeing the bag clutched tight in his hand. 

“Give her my best,” is all he says before getting back to the paperwork in front of him. Simon leaves without another word. 

Then the long drive back. A skein of birds in flight follow him for part of the journey. A train running parallel to the throughway follows him for the rest. Tree boughs bend under the weight of the last snowfall.

Then he blinks and when his eyes open, he’s home.

You’re still sitting on that blasted couch when Simon opens the front door, pretty as a peach in August, and his name rings like a bell off your tongue when you say it, summoning him to you. It’s not his fault that his urges prevail, that he has no choice but to throw his bag down onto the carpeted floor and stomp over to you, lifting you up by the collar of your housecoat and dragging you into a scorching hot kiss. 

“Mmf,” you squeak against his lips, eyes flying open. 

It’s messy and frenzied, spit dripping down your chin and his tongue halfway down your throat. No finesse or skill to speak of, only an incessant buzzing at the back of his head that only quiets when you give a helpless little moan, an instant balm to his suffering. 

Simon pulls back for a moment to let you breathe. “That’s my welcome ‘ome?” he murmurs. His lips brush against yours when he speaks. 

“W-welcome home?” you repeat, flustered, your lip catching against his. He sucks it between his when it does, cock throbbing in his pants when you gasp, hot breath billowing into his mouth and making his head spin. 

This is nothing like being high on pain meds or three sheets to the win. It pulses through him and makes his cock chub up, forcing him to shove a hand down between his legs to readjust himself. That gets you good when you notice. 

He kisses hungry and mean, ever greedy for your mouth, fitting his hand over the back of your head and angling you how he likes. Holding the delicate cradle of your skull in his palm and knowing that he could crack it if he squeezed his fingers hard enough. The thought sends a rush right through him, his violent underbelly scratched in just the right way. 

“W-where’s this coming from?” you gasp when Simon pulls back. You look thoroughly flustered, but he ignores you to hook a finger in your mouth and wrench it open. 

“Open,” he grunts, giving your inner cheek a sharp tug. 

You go cross-eyed when he spits in your mouth, the glob of spit landing right on your tongue, and your affronted little gasp hits him like an arrow shot straight through his heart. He’s considerate enough to seal it in with a kiss, making sure not to let you waste a drop. Tongue pushing in right after to lick it up, growling at you to suck it when you only nervously kiss back.

His patience isn’t infinite though and kissing barely wets his appetite. It’s not enough to plumb the depths of his hunger when there’s something uglier down there waiting with its jaws wide open.

He twists you around and bends you over the back of the couch, rucking your housecoat up to your waist. Your knickers get ripped clean off, tearing at the seams, and your ensuing shriek nourishes the hunger simmering low in his belly. Appetite never satiated, belly never full. 

He likes that you didn’t expect him back so soon. Fuzzy, unshaved legs and holey socks; pimple patches on your face and nothing under your robe. The lazy domesticity appeals to him in a way he never would’ve expected. 

Then his fingers split the seam of your pussy and the runoff of his appreciation cascades down the slopes of his shoulders and his back. Slick drips from your winking hole, gathering together into a tight bulb before a single drop drips onto the couch beneath you. 

“Fuck—now there’s somethin’ to come ‘ome to,” Simon grunts, and then drags his tongue between your dew-slicked lips.

His enjoyment was a foregone conclusion when he imagined this back in his quarters in the barracks, cock in hand, but the reality of having his mouth on your pussy exceeds his expectations a thousandfold. It’s all soft, pillowy skin and sweet nectar. He gorges himself on it, an almost pathological need to be tongue-deep in your cunt.  

“Wet little gash just sucks ‘em right in…” he murmurs, plunging two fingers into your hole slowly. The soft flesh of your hole bulges around his fingers when they sink in all the way to the knuckle. 

���Fuck—don’t call it that,” you bleat, so pathetic that he’s smitten. 

“Shouldn’ta wagged it at me if ya didn’t want me to touch it,” Simon teases, then crooks his fingers just so and your leg spasms. 

He keeps you stuffed full until your legs shake, on the verge of coming, and then he rips them out. 

You practically scream in frustration, twisting to look at him from over your shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“Somethin’ wrong, birdie?” He smirks when you arch your back, pushing your ass back in his face. 

“I want to come, Simon,” you whine, wagging your ass in his face again. Just his luck that a little slut like you dropped into his life.

“Alright,” he sighs, mock aggrieved. “Lemme see if I can ‘elp with that.”

Ungrateful little thing, he thinks when he turns you over onto your back and heaves you up into the air. 

“Simon—”  you keen his name when he has you pinned up against the wall, his arms scooped under your thighs to hold you in place. 

He plunges into that warm little honeypot between your legs in slow, measured strokes at first, savouring each punctured whimper and hiccup that drops from your lips. Each flex of his hips brings him that much closer to heaven and that much closer to hell.

“Didn’t think you could just barge in without consequences, did ya?” Simon asks rhetorically, voice gone brassy and tiger-stripped, thick in his chest. “Been sleeping in my bed for nearly a year, ‘aven’t ya? Ain’t I owed this?”

He means it too. 

“You’re—so full of it,” you retort, hiccuping through your words.  

Your arms hang limp around his neck, fingers twined at his nape and nails scratching at his hairline. The low ache in his back is barely a deterrent—he’d hold you up all night if it took that long to make you come. A distant voice at the back of his head reminds him that he’ll suffer for it in the morning, but he shakes that thought away. 

He chases the beads of sweat snaking down your chest and tits with his tongue, straightening back up only when that nearly makes you lose your grip around his neck and topple out of his arms. 

“Hey,” you pout when Simon chuckles, digging your nails into his back in retribution for laughing at you. It has the opposite effect though, the pain stoking his pleasure and sending a shiver down his back, his next thrust so rough that you bounce in his arms.

Your skin smells like sweat and musk this close, so heady that his head spins. It registers dimly at the back of his mind that he’s still dressed while you’re fully nude, housecoat and knickers in a pile on the floor in front of the couch, but he can’t pull away now, not with the need to come pressing into him on all sides, dick hard enough to split diamonds. 

He stares down between your legs where his cock splits you again and again, a ring of white cream at the base. He could paint that little snatch white with his cum or stuff it deep inside, both options appealing to his baser instincts. It’ll be a coin flip in the end.

When the ache in his back grows too significant to ignore, he lifts you up off the wall and drops you down on his cock, burying himself to the hilt before carrying you to the open door to the bedroom. 

“Sorry, pet,” Simon murmurs when he feels you clench around the thickest part of his cock, whispering a little oh fuck to yourself under your breath. He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel. “Back’s shit. Mind taking over for me?” 

The mattress squeaks under his weight when he sits down on the end. You blink up at him. “You want me on top?” 

He nods and hums his assent, digging his fingers into the muscle and flesh of your ass and kneading. “Yeah, bird. Still wanna see all the pretty bits though.”

The pretty bits being the globes of your ass facing him while you ride his dick, his hands pulling apart your cheeks to watch you take it inch by inch, thighs quivering with the strain.  

Your thighs are stretched out on either side of him, pretty calves resting perpendicular to his chest and toes curled into the mattress. He eyes those with some interest before your pussy distracts him again. There’s no angle that isn’t nice to look at, but this has got to be his favourite so far, tight bud between your cheeks clenching every time you drop down onto his dick. It’s easy to ignore the ache in his shoulder with a view this nice. 

“Fuck, birdie,” Simon murmurs, dragging his hand over your ass and then swatting it, grunting when that makes you clench up around him, inner walls squeezing his length and nearly milking him dry. “Coulda been doing this the whole time.”

You laugh a bit breathlessly. “No—you were way too annoying.”

Smack. You yelp when he backhands your ass and your shoulders go stiff, spine a taut line with your impending orgasm. Simon can feel it like a knot in his throat, pussy so hot that it nearly burns him alive. 

“Shit,” you gasp, hands on his legs the only thing keeping you upright. You nearly rip out the hair on his thighs when you curl them into fists.

His hands glide up and down your sides, touching wherever he wants. It’s his God given right after housing you for so long, and though Simon clings belligerently to that belief, like the foundation of his existence is built on quid pro quo, on doing nothing for others unless there’s something in it for him, there’s something else that burrows underneath that maxim. Something far truer and more terrifying, and if he were to look it dead on, it would bring him to his knees. 

Simon grunts, lungs pummelled when you squeeze around his length, tight as a vice.

Good thing you’ve got him on his back instead.

In the end, it’s not up to him whether he comes in you or not. When his cockhead bumps against your cervix and he feels teardrops land on his thighs, your shoulders shaking with the force of your sobs, the spigot loosens and his stomach aches with how hard he comes. His heels dig into the mattress, hips lifting up, trying to cram more and more of his cock into your cunt, tendons straining against his neck. 

“Take it, bird,” Simon snarls, teeth grinding together, his voice sounding wrecked even to him. “Take it nice ‘n deep, fuck—wanna see it leak from your hole when I pull ya off—”

Your nails sink into his thighs, cutting him off. 

He does too, when you flop down beside him onto the bed and he tucks you under his arm, spreading your legs so he can push his cum back into your cunt, fingers pearly white with your mixed juices. 

“Oh God,” you whisper, squeezing your thighs together around his hand until he’s forced to wrench them open again, hovering over you this time, the cudgel dangling between his legs already thickening up again. 

And that’s how he spends his week, in a suspended state of euphoria, no sense of time passing. It doesn’t matter where it goes as long as you crawl into bed with him at the end of the day, eyes sparkling with delight. 

The leaving is tougher than it’s ever been, claws scoring right through his chest when Simon tips your chin up and leans down to slot his lips over yours. He’s not made for this sentimental bullshit, but it finds him either way. 

His chest burns on the drive back to base, acid reflux a bitch as always. 

The next time his landlord calls, he comes bearing good news.

“I’ll cut you a deal on the first month to make up for the…mix up,” he starts begrudgingly. “But don’t worry—the girl’ll be out of your hair by the end of the month. Gonna tell her today that I can’t renew her lease.”

Simon hangs up without saying a word, swathed in anger. Nearly crushes the phone in his grip when his landlord calls back a second later. He ignores that call too.

If he were a different man, if this was a different world—

No one ever knows when their world is about to change until it does. 

But even if his walls have grown barbed wires in the years that he’s been alone, there’s always a way to dig out from under. 

The return home is different this time around, the wind under his sails all but lifting him into the air. 

A year to the date almost. Another month and time will wrap back around on itself, the seasons changing the same way they have for all thirty-seven years of his life. When fate lets him go this time, Simon heads over to Price’s office before taking off for the week, carving out time for one last drink before he hits the road. Over a whiskey and kretek, he tells Price his plan and only just keeps from rolling his eyes when Price barks a laugh, clapping his hands together.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” he chuckles, shaking his head. 

“Shut up.”

“It’s a big step, Simon. I’m proud of you.”

Simon rolls his eyes, pleased despite himself. “Stuff it, old man.”

And then he’s gone again, following the same winding road back, with one stop along the way this time. He stays overnight at a local inn after signing the paperwork, too exhausted to keep driving. Too much on his mind anyway. 

It means nothing to him that people do this sort of thing all the time. He has survived the locust years of his life and come out the other side. That should be enough to give himself some grace when he tosses and turns all night, back pain flaring up and immobilizing him for an hour. Only when the first rays of dawn pierce through the threadbare curtains does it finally abate, and he heads out after his morning piss, ignoring the cramp in his belly on the drive over.

You greet him at the door when you hear his car pull up, standing under the door frame while he gets out and rounds the car, bare toes curling at the cold air. And any effort to tamp it down now is in vain, his chest filling with something unspeakable and unsaid. 

“Put your shoes on,” Simon instructs, coming over just to pull you in for a kiss before nudging you back into the flat, shutting the door behind him. 

“Why?” you ask, lifting a brow. “Wanna go for coffee or something like that?”

“Something like that. Why aren’t you putting your shoes on?” 

Herded into the truck after getting dressed, you badger him with question after question the whole drive over while Simon keeps his mouth shut, focusing on the road in front of him. It’s not a long drive at least, but your incessant questions make it last an eternity. 

Until he pulls up in front of a house with a short gravel walkway and a garden in desperate need of attention, milkvetch growing near the front step. The outdoor sconces are new though, and though Simon already has a few things in mind to fix up around the house, it’s got good bones. Leagues nicer than the place you just left.

“Are we picking someone up?” you ask when he puts the car in park, confused. You stare at the door as if waiting for it to open. 

Simon doesn’t respond.

You look over at him and he takes one of your hands, holding it palm-side up and covering it with his own ugly mitt. You feel something cold drop from his hand into yours and he curls your fingers into a fist to hold it.

“No.” 

When his hand moves away, you uncurl your fingers to find a key. It means so little and so much all at once. If he could say it with words, it wouldn’t be the same so there’s no point in trying. 

“It’s ours?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

There’s a watery sheen over your eyes when you look up, and your lip wobbles. And in a way different than ever before, his chest grows tight, the ache in his heart a fresh and welcome pain.

[sooniebby]

an idea; a (bottom) male reader who’s apart of an indie jpop boy group. The members are just you, a childhood friend, and three other people you met through college/random events. Your group was lucky one of the members comes from a rich family that doesn’t mind spending some money to help you guys out—waiting until a company finds interest and asks to manage you.

The first month or so is rough so you all find part time jobs in the mean time. But regular jobs just don’t interest you so it takes you awhile to even apply for any… mostly getting fired after the first week or so because you end up showing late all the time.

You’re left wondering what to do when you come across a website of camboys and camgirls. Some of them show full nudity while others stay dressed for the most part.

It intrigues you enough but you don’t do it without running it through your members. They’re mostly shocked you even want to do that… but other than that, they just tell you to not speak and wear a mask.

Easy peasy. You chose a simple and almost silly name, “Shy Usagi” since your mask resembled a rabbit.

The first stream is awkward, you had to figure out a way to talk. Surprisingly, a few of the people that dropped in were intrigued by your refusal to talk. You had expected them to immediately want you naked but it seemed you attracted people that liked the teasing aspect of camboys.

Though you were 99% sure it was only men watching you. The first few weeks, you only wore skimpy clothing and did anything they requested. The most sexual thing you did was suck a dildo.

Occasionally you’d masturbate on live and that would always garner more attention. But there was always one person who would tip you no matter the stream.

“Hitachikoi”

You were sure he was probably an old man but you didn’t care, money was money. He knew how to flirt so you never felt weirded out with his attention.

Things were going reasonably well until after your group’s performance at a little festival. You had spilt away for a second to look around when you bumped into someone. He had his face covered with a mask and baseball cap.

You were going to apologize and go about your way when you caught that he was holding a poster of your group. He didn’t say anything as he simply held up a marker.

It took a second before you finally realized what he wanted. “Oh! Sure.” You were a bit excited, having never really signed anything before. Your signature was a bit messy but still legible.

“Here you go, thanks for coming to see us!”

“I only came to see you.”

“Hm?” You leaned in closer, wondering if you had heard him right. Only you?

The man let out a laugh as he reached up and pulled down his mask, leaning down so you could get a clear look at his face. “Mhm. Only you… (Name)… or ah,”

His hand reached up and cupped your face, his thumb pressing on your bottom lip. It was only when he pulled off his cap that you got a good look at his face.

He… he wasn’t some random guy. He was a famous actor… a famous actor knew about you?

“Shy Usagi? It’s nice to see your entire face… that mask never hid your lips.”

You could stare as he pushed his thumb into your mouth. The only thing you were thinking of was if he was about to ruin your career before it even took off? But why would he care? Why was he even—

“Don’t worry your pretty little head. Someone like you isn’t made to think so hard,” he said, a slight frown on his lips. “I just, well I got tired of watching behind a screen. I wanted to touch you…”

His other hand moved to rest on your hip, pulling you closer as he pressed his lips against your ear.

“To be inside of you instead of that dildo… I mean, I’m paying you so much money, it’s only fair I get to have you, right? Mhm? I can have you, yea? I’ve thought of fucking your mouth for days now.”

“(Name)! Where are you?”

He pulled away, rolling his eyes. You only watched as he slipped back on his mask and cap, pulling your shirt back down. “You’ll stream tonight.” He said, as if he was giving you an order, not asking.

“I’ll see you tonight, baby. Wear something red tonight… that’s my favorite color.”

With that he left you standing there, mouth agape just as one of your members walked over to you.

You… were so fucking screwed.

In more ways than one.

Tag list: @the-ultimate-librarian @secretivemessenger @chill-guy-but-cooler @star-3214 @tehyunnie @remdayz @cherry-blossoms-187 @tomoeroi @mello-life25 @kiiyoooo @ofclyde @smellwell @iwishtobeacrow @euthymiko @rhetorical-conscience @mooncarvers-world @love-kha1 @anchoredphoenix @yuzuukix @bensontrechic

I already made a face claim lol.



[cinnamorollcrybaby]

cw - yandere behavior, choso doing perverted stuff, bondage, problematic behaviors, smut, mdni, not proofread

imagining you and sick pervert!choso being roommates in an apartment together.

sick pervert!choso doesn’t like when you leave the apartment. he has some form of separation anxiety when it comes to you, but actually, he just loathes the idea that other people are getting to see you when he can’t.

sick pervert!choso who sets a curfew for you to help “ease his worries”. you agree because you like the fact that someone is watching out for you.

sick pervert!choso who ties you up to his bed when you break curfew one night. he doesn’t even touch you inappropriately. he just keeps you right where you belong: in his room.

sick pervert!choso who coos sweet condescending words to you while you’re tied up in his bed. “you know why i had to tie you up, don’t you?” you swallow thickly and nod your head. your eyes are glassed over from tears and the alcohol you had consumed earlier in the night.

sick pervert!choso who assures you that he forgives you for staying out past curfew. “it’s okay, baby. don’t cry. i just needed you to stay here with me for a little while, okay?”

sick pervert!choso who keeps you tied up until the next morning. he only unties you to lead you to the bathroom. he cares for you so tenderly as you shower and brush your teeth, but it’s right back to being tied down to the bed after your little break.

sick pervert!choso who admires you while you sleep. he loves how soft and vulnerable you look. it makes his dick twitch in his boxers, and he doesn’t understand why. he just knows he has to take his own bathroom break now.

sick pervert!choso who finally lets you go after a full day of being tied up, but he gives you big puppy dog eyes the moment you try to go to your own room, so of course, you sit with him and let him kiss the rope burns on your wrists.

sick pervert!choso who has a love/hate relationship with your job. he hates the fact that he has to share you with your job, and he hates that other men get to look at you while you work. what if they start getting the idea that they actually have a chance with you? then, choso will have to kick their teeth in :(

sick pervert!choso who also loves the time you’re gone sometimes because that’s when he gets to go shopping in your room! he breaks in, and he only steals a few things… like your used panties.

sick pervert!choso who will spray your perfume against his pillows while your gone. he will have a pillow with your perfume shoved against his nose while he chokes his throbbing cock with your panties.

sick pervert!choso who makes it a mission to fuck all of your used panties, leaving behind globs of cum in the crotch portion as he cries out your name however loud he wants to because you’re at your stupid job.

sick pervert!choso who noticed you’re taking far too long at work one evening. he’s blown up your phone with texts, and he finally checks the apple tag on your car that he accidentally left behind between the seats. you’re at a bar… without notifying him first.

sick pervert!choso who paces around the apartment all night, debating on just showing up at the bar, but he knows you’ll be upset with him for stalking you. his heart leaps into his throat as he hears the door open up.

sick pervert!choso has your back pressed against the door in record time. his nose is buried in your neck and shoulder as he’s trying to smell for anyone else’s scent on you. “where were you, baby? i was worried…”

“my boss brought us all out for drinks since we hit a big deadline, chocho. i’m sorry. my phone died.” you say as you rub his back, trying to soothe him from how tore up he was.

sick pervert!choso who leads you up to his room anyways to tie you up. you should’ve known better than to keep him worried and waiting like this! now he’s all pent up with too much possessive energy… he needs to see you bound to his bed to ease his anxiety.

sick pervert!choso forgot to hide the evidence of his activities all day. a few pairs of your panties are scattered around the floor, and he immediately tries to do damage control, but it’s too late. you already saw them.

“chocho, is this why my panties always go missing?” you ask as you pick up your favorite white cotton pair. you hold up the pair for him to stare at it with guilt in his eyes.

“i try to always return them!” he says with a small pout. “they smell like you. it helps me…”

sick pervert!choso who’s terrified that you’re going to give him a look of disgust. he knows that you’re going to hate him forever for being so sick and demented. he doesn’t want to have to, but he will drug you to keep you here with him. he loves that you stay willingly, but he’ll do whatever he has to do to keep you by his side.

“you do this while i’m at work?” you ask slowly. choso can’t see an ounce of disgust in your face.. only curiosity and something he can’t quite put his finger on.

after gathering his confidence, he finally nods his head, “and sometimes while you’re asleep…”

sick pervert!choso who’s awe struck when he watches you slide your panties out from underneath that sinful pencil skirt you wear to work. he’s nearly drooling out of his mouth as he looks at the pink lacy fabric.

“you want them?” you coax, and he’s quick to nod. the thought of being able to feel and smell them while they’re still fresh and warm… he’s about to cum in his pants from the thought.

“i’ll give them to you if you agree not to tie me up tonight,” you bargain with a knowing smile. “i also want to watch,”

holy shit. sick pervert!choso’s heart is hammering through his chest. this is like a fantasy come true. he reaches out and takes the panties from you, and he’s quick to hold them over his nose.

he groans and palms his throbbing dick through his pants as your scent fills his nose. he takes another deep breath, committing the scent of your pussy to his memory. he’s never experienced anything this divine in his life.

you sit on his computer chair as you watch your roommate fall apart over a simple pair of your panties.

you cross your legs together, watching as choso’s eyes are resting on you. he pulls out his massive cock, and be strangles the lacy pink fabric over it. he then slowly wraps his hand around the pace, and he fucks himself into your panties.

it’s truly a sight for sore eyes. choso’s leaned against his bed, whining and whimpering pathetically as he claims your panties again and again. he wishes he could shove the pillow over his nose, but then, that would block his perfect view of you.

sick pervert!choso would’ve never expected for his sweet roommate to react the way you do to the sight of him fisting his cock with your panties.

“fuck,” he growls, and he pumps his dick faster. the fabric is becoming slick with his own pre-cum. “you want me to mark your panties like this, baby?” he asks, managing to dirty talk you without stuttering or whimpering.

“yes,” you barely whisper. you’re so caught up in the sight of him — you almost forgot to reply to him.

his hips start to raise with each pump, and he feels himself getting close. he grips his cock tighter, imagining it was you gripping him like a vice while he fucks your tight pussy until you forget your own name.

a moment later, he groans as he quickly aims his cock, and he cums all over the crotch of your panties. rope after rope of his cum cover the pink fabric until it’s a sticky mess.

he pants as he looks over at you, and his heart is elated by the fact that you look just as desperate as he feels.

sick pervert!choso knows he could he making a mistake, but he takes a leap of faith based off your facial expression. “put them on,” he roughly demands, holding out your freshly ruined panties to you.

your eyes widen, and you look up at him with a little bit of uncertainty. however, you know you two are on a path of depravity now that you watched him claim your panties. you slowly take the panties from him, and you carefully slide them up your legs.

a moan escapes your lips as you feel his warm arousal press against you. it’s sticky and wet. it’s slightly uncomfortable, yet you’ve never been more turned on in your life. it was like a raw act of deprivation as you wore your panties that he had soiled.

“you like that, baby?” he asks, and he can’t help the small tremble in his voice. he desperately wants you to like it as much as he likes it. he’s enamored by the sight of your thighs clenching together. he might just make you wear the panties for the rest of the night.

you nod shyly with a small hum.

sick pervert!choso who never knew his roommate was a secret deviant freak until he watched you sit in panties filled with his cum all night long.

sick pervert!choso who falls even more in love with you after feeling so raw and close to you, and he has no idea that you have plans to ask him to use your panties while you’re wearing them next time <3

[leaderwonim]

THE WORLD NEVER ENDED | JACK HUGHES

pairing. jack hughes x fem!reader (ft. platonic quinn & luke hughes x fem!reader + male!oc x fem!reader)

genre. childhood best friends to lovers, ANGST, fluff, hurt to comfort, reader & jack are both 18-19 in this!

synopsis: Y/N and Jack Hughes have been inseparable since childhood, spending every summer at his family’s lake house—until his hockey career takes off and leaves her behind. As Jack’s life moves forward and Y/N tries to do the same, the distance between them grows in ways neither of them expected. But when their paths cross again at a breaking point, they’re forced to confront everything they never said and the feelings that never really went away.

The lake house never changes. It still smells like pine and sunscreen, the same old dock creaking under your feet, the same late summer breeze curling through the trees. But this time, you’re the only one here.

You let the beer bottle dangle from your fingers, the glass sweating against your palm as you stare at the still water. It’s late. Too late to be out here alone, and your mom would probably kill you if she found out you were underage drinking, but you’ve been doing this since you were kids—sneaking down to the dock past midnight, toes dipping into the water, whispering about everything and nothing at all.

Except this time, Jack isn’t here. Not really. Not anymore.

The last time you saw him was months ago, after another whirlwind season, after Team USA, after everything. He’d come back, same easy smile, same stupidly messy hair, same Jack. And yet, he wasn’t.

He moved too fast, talked too much about things you weren’t a part of, laughed at jokes from teammates you didn’t know. He had an entire life outside of this town, this lake, this dock. A life that didn’t include you.

It wasn’t his fault though, you couldn’t blame Jack for being excited about this whole new chapter in his life, not when he’s worked his ass off so he could secure a spot in the NHL in the future.

You took a shaky breath, watching as the wind blew the waters back and forth, your thought raced with Jack, Jack, Jack. It wasn’t anything new; you had been in love with him since you had learned what the word love even was, when Ellen and your mom teased you two endlessly after your eighth birthday, declaring that you’d two get married when you were older.

And then he left, at age fourteen to go train at some hockey camp over the summer and you started seeing him less and less. Then he left again for USA Hockey, and all that was left of him was the little times he’d pop up on your screen for a FaceTime, or a quick selfie.

You never told him that it felt like the world had ended whenever he left.

❥

The first time you met Jack Hughes, he was seven years old, standing knee-deep in the lake, grinning like he had owned the world.

“You scared to jump in?” he teases, squinting up at you from where he’s splashing around.

You cross your arms, standing barefoot on the dock, the sun burning hot against your skin. “I just don’t wanna get my hair wet.”

Jack laughs like you just said the funniest thing in the world, and before you can react, he launches a handful of water in your direction. It splashes against your legs, cool and shocking, and you gasp.

“You jerk!” you shriek, but Jack’s already laughing, already diving into the water, swimming just far enough out of reach that you can’t get him back.

You don’t know it then, but that’s how it starts.

The Hughes family’s lake house becomes your second home. Your parents are close friends with Ellen and Jim, and summers are spent tangled in sunburns, mosquito bites, and the smell of bonfires. Jack, being just a few months older, quickly becomes your shadow—or maybe you become his.

You race bikes down dirt paths, climb trees until your hands are covered in splinters, and stay up late whispering under blanket forts in the Hughes’ living room, trying not to wake Luke and Quinn.

“You think we’ll still be best friends when we’re older?” you ask one night, voice sleepy, cheek smushed against your arm.

Jack frowns at you, like you just said something ridiculous. “Duh. Who else am I supposed to hang out with? My brothers?”

You grin brightly, shoving him. “You promise?”

He holds out his pinky. “Promise.”

And that’s that.

As you both get older, things don’t really change. Not at first.

Winters are spent at the Hughes’ house in Michigan, watching Jack skate for hours at the rink, your fingers numb from gripping a hot chocolate too tight. Summers are still for the lake house, where the days blur together in a haze of sun, water, and laughter.

Jack is your best friend. The one who sneaks you extra s’mores when the adults say no. The one who ties your skates when your fingers are too cold. The one who always picks you first for street hockey, even when Luke complains about it. The one who knows everything about you.

And you know everything about him, too.

That he gets grumpy when he’s hungry. That he has to listen to music before every game, or else he feels off. That he’s already dreaming about the NHL, about Team USA, about everything that seems so far away but somehow already feels like it’s coming too fast.

You don’t realize when things do start changing.

Maybe it’s when Jack turns fourteen and starts spending more time away at tournaments. Maybe it’s when you turn fourteen and realize your heart speeds up whenever he looks at you a certain way.

Maybe it’s the summer you turn fifteen and see him talking to a girl from town, and something ugly coils in your stomach. You don’t say anything, though. You can’t.

Jack is your best friend. That’s all. Even if you wish it wasn’t.

When Jack is sixteen, everything does change.

It’s the Fourth of July. The lake house is packed, fireworks already popping in the distance. You and Jack sneak away from the party like you always do, climbing onto the dock and lying side by side, watching the sky.

“You excited for the USA team?” you ask, your voice light, like the thought of him leaving doesn’t make your chest ache.

Jack turns his head to look at you. “Yeah,” he says. “Kinda nervous, though.”

You smile a little, the same smile that had reassured Jack every time he saw it. “You’ll be fine.”

He shifts closer, his arm brushing yours. “You think so?”

“Of course,” you whisper. “You’re Jack Hughes.”

He laughs, but it’s softer this time, almost hesitant. The air between you feels different, thicker, heavier. His fingers twitch on the dock beside yours, and for a second, you swear he’s about to reach for your hand.

But then he exhales sharply, sits up. “We should get back.”

And just like that, the moment is gone.

You stare at the fireworks exploding in the sky, feeling like something inside you is breaking.

Jack leaves for Team USA at the end of the summer.

And you don’t know it yet, but nothing will ever be the same again.

❥

At first, you still talk all the time. He calls after practices, FaceTimes you from hotel rooms, sends you stupid selfies from road trips. And for a while, it almost feels normal. Almost.

But then the calls get shorter. The messages come slower.

You see his name on headlines, hear people at school talking about him like he’s some distant star instead of the boy you grew up with. And suddenly, he feels… far away.

Not just in distance. In everything.

And then one day, you realize you don’t remember the last time he called.

You don’t text him, either. You figured he was too busy anyways—too busy with hockey, with interviews, too busy for you.

His absence leaves a hollow space inside you, one you don’t know how to fill. So you try.

That’s how you end up with him.

Aiden West. Star quarterback. Tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy smile and dimples that should make your heart flutter.

You meet at a party—one you only went to because your friends dragged you out of your house, tired of you spending your nights holed up in your room, pretending you weren’t waiting for a text that never came.

Aidan’s nice. He’s funny. He buys you drinks and calls you baby and kisses you like he means it.

You tell yourself this is good. That this is what you need.

But when he holds your hand, it doesn’t feel the same. When he kisses you, you don’t melt the way you think you should. And when you close your eyes, it’s not Aidan you see.

It’s Jack. Always Jack.

Quinn comes home in December.

You’re not expecting to see him, not really. Ever since he was drafted, he spent all his time in Vancouver, busy with his own life, his own team. But one night, you walk into the Hughes’ house, and there he is, sprawled on the couch like he never left.

“Quinn?” you blink.

He smirks, sitting up. “Hey, kid.”

You roll your eyes but smile anyway. “You’re, like, a few years older than me. I’m not a kid.”

“You’ll always be a kid to me,” he teases, but then his expression softens. “How’ve you been?”

You shrug. “Good.”

He gives you a look, like he can see right through you. Because of course he can.

Quinn has always been quieter than Jack, more observant. He was the one who bandaged your scraped knees when you and Jack were too reckless, the one who ruffled your hair when you had a bad day, the one who watched you grow up and somehow always knew what you were feeling before you even said it.

And right now, you can tell he knows you’re lying.

“You still talk to Jack?” he asks casually.

You stiffen. “Not really.”

Quinn nods, like that’s what he expected. “He’s been busy.”

“I know,” you say quickly, too quickly. “It’s fine.”

He studies you for a moment. Then, his eyebrows furrow. “You dating that football guy?”

You hesitate. “Yeah. Kinda.”

Quinn tilts his head, his expression unreadable. “You like him?”

You swallow. “He’s… nice.”

Quinn leans back, crossing his arms. “You know, I’ve seen you happy before.”

You furrow your brows. “And?”

“And that’s not what you look like right now.”

The words hit deeper than you want them to. You look away, staring at your hands.

Quinn sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m not trying to tell you what to do. If you like the guy, great. But don’t force something that isn’t real just because—” He pauses.

You glance up. “Just because what?”

Quinn meets your eyes, and for the first time, his voice is gentle. “Just because Jack hurt you.”

Your throat tightens.

You don’t say anything. You don’t know what to say.

Because he’s right. And maybe that’s the worst part of all.

❥

Aidan is kind when he breaks up with you.

That almost makes it worse.

You can tell he’s been thinking about it for a while. The way he exhales before he starts speaking, the way his hands stay tucked into the pocket of his hoodie like he’s afraid if he moves too much, you’ll see how much this is bothering him.

“You’re not really here, Y/N,” he says, voice steady but laced with something bitter, something tired.

You don’t argue, because you know he’s right.

He sighs, shaking his head. “I like you. I really do. But I deserve someone who looks at me like I’m the only one they’re thinking about.”

Your stomach twists.

“Aidan—”

“It’s fine,” he cuts in, forcing a small smile. “I knew. I think I always did.” He swallows, glancing away before meeting your eyes again. “It was never gonna be me, was it?”

You want to tell him you tried. That you wanted to feel something more, something real. But the truth is, no matter how hard you tried, he was never Jack.

And that was never fair to him.

So instead, you whisper, “I’m sorry.”

He nods, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. “Yeah. Me too.”

A few days pass, and you still feel hollow, like you’re floating through life without really being in it.

You don’t know why you still go to the Hughes’ house. Maybe it’s habit. Maybe it’s because it still feels like home, even when things don’t feel the same anymore.

Maybe it’s because, deep down, you just need someone who knows you.

Luke opens the door, and before you can even say anything, his face twists in concern.

“Okay, what’s wrong?”

You pause. “What?”

Luke steps aside to let you in, closing the door behind you. “You have your sad face on.”

You frown. “Luke Hughes, I do not have a—”

“You totally do,” he interrupts, flopping onto the couch. He gestures for you to sit next to him, and after a moment, you do.

There’s a beat of silence before he says, “Quinn told me everything.”

You freeze. “Everything?”

Luke gives you a knowing look. “Yeah. And I’m not an idiot, Y/N. I’ve seen the way you’ve looked at Jack since we were kids.”

You open your mouth, but no words come out.

Luke sighs, leaning back against the couch. “Look, I know he messed up. Jack is kind of known for that. And I know you’re hurt. But…” He hesitates. “You still love him, don’t you?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Luke—”

“Just be honest,” he says gently.

Your throat tightens. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I do.”

Luke nods like he already knew that was coming. Then he pulls something out of his pocket and holds it out to you.

You frown. “What’s this?”

“Tickets,” he says simply.

You blink. “Tickets?”

“To Jack’s game against Finland.” His voice is casual, but there’s something behind it—something careful, like he knows he’s walking a fine line. “I was gonna go, but I think you should instead.”

Your heart stops.

“Luke…”

“Don’t overthink it,” he says quickly. “Just go. See him. Talk to him.”

You stare at the tickets in his hand, your pulse pounding in your ears.

This is a choice. A chance.

And to be completely honest, you aren’t sure if you’re ready.

❥

You end up deciding not to go until the last minute.

The plane ticket burns in your hands, Luke’s voice echoing in your head: Just go. See him. Talk to him.

So you do. You land in Finland, stomach in knots, trying not to think about what you’ll even say to him. If he’ll even want to see you.

But then the game happens. And Jack loses.

The scoreboard tells you everything—3-2, Finland. A brutal, heartbreaking end.

Jack stays on the ice, shoulders hunched, wiping his face as the Finnish players celebrate around him. You can see the way he’s blinking rapidly, how hard he’s trying to hold it together.

It doesn’t work.

By the time he’s in the tunnel for postgame interviews, it’s like the weight of everything finally crashes over him. The cameras capture everything; his red-rimmed eyes, the way his lips tremble when he speaks, the way his voice wavers when he says, “I feel like I let everyone down.”

Your heart cracks wide open. You don’t think. You just go.

You push through the lingering crowd, through the halls of the arena, heart racing. And then—there he is.

Jack is leaning against the wall, head bowed, gripping a water bottle so tightly his knuckles are white. His shoulders shake slightly, like he’s trying to get a grip, but he’s losing the battle.

You inhale sharply, willing yourself forward.

“Jack.”

His head snaps up, eyes widening. And for a second, he just stares.

Like he doesn’t believe you’re real.

“Y/N?” His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

You nod, stepping closer. But before you can say anything else, Jack clears his throat and quickly swipes at his face, straightening up like he’s trying to compose himself.

Then he blurts out, “How’s Aidan?”

You freeze.

Jack lets out a broken laugh, looking down. “Quinn told me you had a boyfriend,” he mutters, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I—uh, I’m happy for you. You deserve that.”

You swallow hard, your chest tightening. “Jack—”

“I mean it,” he interrupts, still not looking at you. “I always wanted you to be happy.”

He sniffles, pressing his thumb and forefinger against his eyes. He looks exhausted. Worn down in a way you’ve never seen before.

And suddenly, it’s too much.

The space between you. The months of silence. The fact that he still doesn’t know the truth.

You move before you can stop yourself, closing the gap and wrapping your arms around him.

Jack stiffens, sucking in a sharp breath.

But then—slowly, so slowly—it’s like something inside him gives in.

His hands grip your back, his face pressing into your shoulder, and he melts.

You feel his shaky exhale against your neck. The way his fingers curl into the jersey you’re wearing with his name on the back, like he’s afraid if he lets go, you’ll disappear.

And for the first time in a long time, you feel whole again.

“I don’t—” Jack’s voice cracks. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

Your throat tightens. “Then don’t. Just just let me be here.”

Jack exhales shakily, nodding against you. “Okay.”

Despite your reassurance, he still feels like he’s falling.

The weight of the loss, the pressure, the expectations, it’s all crashing over him, relentless and suffocating. But in the middle of it all, there’s you.

And when you pull back slightly, just enough to look at him, he realizes you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

Your hands stay on his face, thumbs brushing against his damp skin, and there’s something in your expression, something soft and certain that makes his chest ache.

Then you move closer, tilting your head, and suddenly, suddenly—your lips press against his.

Jack stills.

Then, all at once, he melts into you.

His hands slide to your waist, gripping onto you like you’re the only thing keeping him standing. Your lips are soft, warm, familiar, but new at the same time, like something that was always supposed to happen but never did.

It feels like breathing again. Like finally getting it right.

But then, Jack realizes and he blinks, something clicking in his mind as he pulls back abruptly, still holding onto you but panting slightly.

“Wait,” he says, voice hoarse. “Aidan.”

You shake your head quickly. “We broke up.”

His brows furrow. “What?”

You exhale, your hands sliding from his face to his wrists, squeezing lightly. “Jack, I tried to move on. I tried so hard.” Your voice wavers. “But it was never him. It was always you.”

Jack’s lips part slightly, his breath hitching.

Then, suddenly, he laughs—a broken, disbelieving sound before his face crumples, his eyes shining again.

And just like that, he’s crying.

He presses his forehead against yours, squeezing his eyes shut as his grip on your waist tightens.

“You have no idea how bad I wanted you to say that,” he whispers, his voice shaking.

You smile softly, brushing his hair back. “I think I do.”

Jack lets out a shaky exhale, his hands fisting the fabric of your jersey, like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go. But you don’t.

Because after everything—after the distance, the silence, the missed chances—you’re still here.

He sniffles, pulling you into another tight hug, burying his face in your shoulder.

❥

Later, when the chaos dies down and the arena empties, you end up in Jack’s car.

The heater hums softly, filling the silence, the city lights casting faint shadows across the dashboard.

Jack sits in the driver’s seat, head tilted against the headrest, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. You’re next to him, legs curled up on the seat, leaning against his shoulder.

It’s quiet.

Not awkward. Not heavy. Just comfortable.

Jack sighs, nudging his cheek against your hair. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”

You smile faintly, reaching for his hand. “Me neither.”

He squeezes your fingers, his grip warm and sure. “I thought I lost you.”

You shake your head, squeezing back. “You never did.”

Jack exhales, his body relaxing against yours, and for the first time in a long time, hfeels whole again.

❥

The lake house feels the same the next summer.

The scent of pine and sunscreen still lingers in the air, the dock still creaks under your feet, and the water still glistens under the late afternoon sun. But this time, Jack is here. And this time, he’s yours.

He had turned freshly nineteen last month, but still was the same annoying boy you had known since you were seven.

You sit on the old wooden dock, legs stretched out, the warm breeze tangling your hair. Jack is lying beside you, one arm draped lazily over his forehead, his other hand resting on your knee, tracing absentminded patterns over your skin.

It’s quiet, just the sound of the water lapping against the shore and the occasional laughter from inside the house, where Quinn and Luke are probably chirping each other over something stupid.

Jack sighs, turning his head to look at you. “I missed this.”

You smile, threading your fingers through his. “Me too.”

He studies you for a moment, his eyes soft, warm, completely yours. Then, without a word, he tugs you down so you’re lying next to him, your head resting on his chest.

“You know,” he muses, fingers trailing up and down your back, “last summer, I thought I’d never get this back.”

You inhale slowly, letting his heartbeat ground you. “Me too.”

Jack tilts his head, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “But we made it.”

You lift your head, meeting his gaze. “Yeah,” you whisper, smiling. “We did.”

He grins, the kind that makes your heart skip a beat, then flips you onto your back, hovering over you with that look—the one that reminds you he’s still the same Jack, the same boy who used to splash you in the lake, who used to steal your s’mores when you weren’t looking, who used to be your best friend before he was everything.

“Hey, lovebirds!” Luke’s voice echoes from the house, and you both groan.

Jack turns his head, scowling. “Luke, I swear—”

Quinn’s voice cuts in. “Let them be, Luke. They suffered enough.”

You laugh as Jack rolls his eyes. “I hate that he’s right.”

You shake your head, pulling Jack back down. “Just kiss me already.”

He smirks. “Gladly.”

And as his lips meet yours, the sun dips below the horizon and the lake glistens around you, making you realize everything is exactly the way it’s meant to be.

It isn’t until Luke pretends to fake barf that Jack removes himself away from you, opting to chase down his little brother.

“Boys, am I right?” Quinn says, giving you a grin.

You wrap your arms around him, never feeling as whole as you did now.

[thevibraniumveterans]

Bucky did have a point though. Let’s revisit what he said to Sam.

“He gave you that shield not because you’re the strongest, but because you’re you.”

Sam is a good man. We know this. We’ve seen this. There’s more than enough evidence to prove this. Here’s the thing — way back when, in The First Avenger, Erskine told Steve: “Whatever happens tomorrow, you must promise me one thing. That you will stay who you are, not a perfect soldier, but a good man.” Steve stayed a good man, and after meeting Sam, knew that Sam was a good man too. Steve recognized the great qualities that made Sam, Sam, and decided that those qualities were worth handing the shield to Sam for.

“You think if you had that serum, you’d be able to protect all the people you care about. Steve had it, and he couldn’t.”

Steve couldn’t even save Bucky when he fell off that train, couldn’t even save Peggy, couldn’t even save Natasha, couldn’t even save Tony. Couldn’t save half his friends that he lost when Thanos snapped his fingers. Again, Steve is not perfect. He did have the serum and couldn’t even save the people he truly cared about. Steve doesn’t have godlike qualities, he’s only human, but a super-powered human at that. That still didn’t help him, did it, other than making him stronger? Steve’s morals didn’t once change, but again, his morals didn’t save his friends.

“You’re a human being and you’re doing your best.”

True, Sam is doing his best in everything that he does, but sometimes in the eyes of certain other people, best isn’t good enough. There’s so much about Sam being a Black man wearing the Stars and Stripes (as he pointed out in TFATWS), that everything he does has to be twice as good, only to get half as far, so to even be as good, he has to do four times better than anyone else. Someone has said elsewhere that Sam was struggling to fill Steve’s shoes, to live up to the legacy he left behind, but — and spoiler (what isn’t spoiled by now anyway) — Joaquin is struggling to fill Sam’s shoes.

“Steve gave people something to believe in, but you… you give them something to aspire to.”

And speaking of Joaquin. First, Steve. Steve represented and symbolized the ideals upon which the USA was founded, but never once really symbolized the USA itself (evident in the comics, the MCU, and what Chris Evans and Anthony Mackie have said). Steve’s morals were something that people could look up to, being pure of heart, having your best interests in mind, and all that. Sam, in doing all that he can do, as an Avenger and now Captain America, really gave people something to aspire to. Which brings Joaquin into the equation. Throughout TFATWS (admittedly during which Joaquin doesn’t make that many appearances) and CA:BNW, Joaquin is excited to be working alongside his hero Sam Wilson. Joaquin is a little goofy at times but only because he’s Sam’s #1 fan. He’s trying to do his best to meet or even exceed Sam’s nigh-impossible standards, because he looked up to Sam for years. Joaquin even told Sam he wanted to be (like) him, be the Falcon that Sam once was. What must’ve been like for Sam to get told by his protégé, no less, that he’d set a very good example of the type of person to be? What Joaquin told Sam was basically that he hadn’t failed, that Sam was just being himself, doing his best, and inadvertently instilling hope in the younger generation. That is the highest compliment Sam ever needs.

earlier:

now:

Captain America: Brave New World

[elikajinnie]

Hi!!! Can you do the enhypen promo 2 and 5 with jungwon?? Down bad bff and oblivious reader? Thank youu!💙

P: Bff!Jungwon X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Minor Angst, Confessions, you are oblivious, won is desperate, some jealousy.

Synopsis: Jungwon has always been content being your best friend—at least, that’s what he tells himself. In reality, he’s been hopelessly in love with you for years, too afraid to risk what you have. But with Valentine's Day around the corner and whispers of other guys planning to ask you out, he decides it’s now or never. Instead of a direct confession, he drops small hints that should make it obvious. Should. Because somehow, you remain utterly oblivious.

a/n: I was supposed to post this on Valentine’s Day… but surprise, surprise—I ended up working all day. So here’s a (very) late Valentine’s Day fic! Sorry for the delay! special thanks to @cafekitsune for the divider! <3

2. "You’re dangerous, you know that? Every time you smile, I forget how to breathe." 5. "You don’t even realize what you do to me, do you?"

Jungwon had always loved being around friends—there was nothing he enjoyed more than having fun with the people he trusted and cared for. But as much as he liked it, there was one thing he loved beyond all else: being with his best friend.

Being with you.

You were everything he was grateful to have in his life. Smart, kind, and effortlessly fun. But also completely, hopelessly oblivious.

Oblivious to the way his gaze lingered a little too long when you laughed. Oblivious to the way his heart raced when you leaned against him, completely unaware of the effect you had on him. Oblivious to the fact that, out of everyone in a crowded room, his world only seemed to orbit around you.

He wasn’t sure when it started. Maybe it was the late-night study sessions when you fell asleep on his shoulder, or the way you always remembered the little things about him—his favorite drink, the songs he hummed absentmindedly, the way he tapped his fingers when he was nervous. Or maybe it had always been there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for him to realize.

And now, here he was, trapped in a cycle of wanting more but never daring to ruin what he already had. Because you—his best friend—were the one thing he could never risk losing.

So, he stayed quiet. Kept his feelings tucked away behind playful smiles and casual touches that meant everything to him but nothing to you.

Because if you never noticed, then maybe he’d never have to face the truth.

The truth that his heart ached in ways he couldn’t explain. That every moment with you felt like a dream he was terrified to wake up from. That he had memorized the way you spoke, the way you smiled, the way you existed so effortlessly in his world, completely unaware of how deeply he had fallen.

And yet, no matter how hard he tried to hide it, the truth had a way of creeping in. In the quiet moments when his name left your lips too softly, in the fleeting touches that sent sparks through his veins, in the nights he lay awake replaying every interaction, wondering if—just maybe—you felt it too.

But you didn’t, did you?

You still looked at him the same way you always had, like he was your best friend, your safe place, your person. But never anything more. And maybe that should’ve been enough.

Maybe it had to be.

Because the alternative? The risk of losing you altogether? That was a fate he wasn’t sure he could handle.

So he swallowed the words threatening to spill from his lips. He buried the longing deep within his chest. He convinced himself that being your best friend was enough.

Even if it meant breaking his own heart a little more each day.

But now, with Valentine’s Day coming up so soon, it had become a problem for him.

Jungwon had always been good at keeping his feelings in check, at pretending that being just friends was enough. But Valentine’s Day was different. It wasn’t just another day—it was a reminder. A reminder that he wasn’t the one you were looking at with hearts in your eyes. That someone else could sweep in, buy you flowers, and call you theirs while he sat on the sidelines, pretending it didn’t hurt.

And the worst part? You weren’t even thinking about him.

You had been talking about Valentine’s Day for days now—who might ask you out, what kind of date you’d like, what flowers you preferred. Every time you spoke about it, excitement lacing your voice, Jungwon could only smile and nod, pushing down the ugly twist of jealousy in his chest.

“Maybe I won’t get anything this year,” you had joked one afternoon, twirling a pen between your fingers. “Guess I should start preparing myself for a lonely Valentine’s Day.”

Jungwon had almost laughed at how absurd that sounded. You, alone? Impossible. If anything, there were probably a handful of people already planning to confess to you.

And yet, for a brief second, he let himself imagine what it would be like if you were his. If he could be the one to show up at your doorstep with flowers, the one you looked at like he was your whole world.

But that wasn’t reality.

Reality was him sitting here, dreading the day, wondering if this was the year you’d finally fall for someone.

And then it happened.

It started with a name. A name Jungwon hadn’t expected to hear from your lips in that way, with that softness, that quiet curiosity.

“So… do you think it’d be weird if I said yes?” you asked, tapping your fingers against your notebook as you glanced at him. “I mean, he’s really sweet, and I never really thought about it before, but… maybe I should give him a chance?”

Jungwon didn’t know what hurt more—the fact that you were considering saying yes to someone else, or the fact that you were asking him about it, like his opinion mattered, like he wasn’t the one who had been hopelessly, helplessly in love with you this whole time.

His heart sank. But his face? His face stayed the same, the perfect mask he had spent years perfecting.

“Yeah,” he forced out, offering you a lopsided smile. “I mean… if you think he’s sweet, then why not?”

You smiled, nudging his arm. “See? That’s why I asked you. You always give the best advice.”

And just like that, it was decided.

Jungwon should have been used to it by now—watching you get excited over someone else, watching as you completely missed the way he looked at you, the way his hands twitched at his sides, itching to reach for you but never daring to.

But he wasn’t used to it.

And this time, it hurt more than ever.

Because this time, he was starting to wonder if he’d lost his chance completely.

Jungwon didn’t do anything.

Not really.

But somehow, he was still the problem.

It started small—your new “almost” boyfriend growing stiff whenever Jungwon was around, the way his laughter faded whenever you leaned into Jungwon’s space like you always did. The subtle looks, the hesitation, the way he never really joined in on the jokes you and Jungwon shared so effortlessly.

Jungwon wasn’t blind. He could see the tension in the way the guy held himself whenever he was near. The way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes whenever you mentioned Jungwon’s name.

And it only got worse.

“You guys are close,” the guy had said one day, casual, but not really. “Like… really close.”

You had laughed, oblivious as always. “Well, yeah. Jungwon’s my best friend.”

And just like that, Jungwon had known.

It wouldn’t last.

Because no matter how much the guy liked you, he hated Jungwon more.

And Jungwon? He didn’t even have to try.

He just kept being himself. Kept being the person who knew you better than anyone else, who could read your moods with a glance, who you ran to first with every little thing. He didn’t have to say anything, didn’t have to do anything.

The cracks in your almost-relationship formed all on their own.

Small disagreements. Awkward silences. The way the guy started pulling away, his insecurity gnawing at him until it consumed whatever chance he had with you.

And then, one day, it was over.

You barely looked upset when you told Jungwon. More confused than anything.

“I don’t get it,” you admitted, pulling your knees to your chest as you sat beside him. “He just… said he didn’t think it would work.”

Jungwon stayed quiet.

He could’ve told you the truth. Could’ve told you that the guy had been jealous, that it had always been doomed from the start because no one would ever be okay with how much you leaned on Jungwon.

But instead, he just shrugged.

“Guess he wasn’t the right one, then.”

And you nodded, sighing before resting your head against his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jungwon closed his eyes for a brief second, allowing himself to soak in the moment. Because even if he didn’t have you the way he wanted, at least, for now, he still had you.

And that was enough.

Or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

But as the days passed, Jungwon started to realize something—maybe "enough" wasn’t really enough anymore.

Because even though you were still here, still laughing with him, still resting your head on his shoulder like you always had, something had changed. Not between you, but within him.

For so long, he had told himself that being your best friend was enough, that having you in his life in any way was better than risking losing you altogether. But now? Now, he wasn’t so sure.

Because watching someone else try to love you—watching them fall short because they weren’t him—had planted a dangerous thought in his mind.

What if he stopped holding back?

What if he stopped pretending?

What if he told you the truth?

The thought terrified him. Because if you didn’t feel the same way, if you laughed it off, if you looked at him like he was crazy, then everything he cherished between you could shatter in an instant.

But at the same time, wasn’t he already breaking a little more each day by staying silent?

The doubt clawed at him, restless and demanding. It lingered in the moments he caught himself staring at you for too long, in the way his heart skipped a beat every time you said his name, in the way jealousy twisted in his chest when someone else looked at you the way he wanted to.

And with Valentine’s Day nearing more and more, and you still feeling down after the whole situation with that guy, Jungwon felt conflicted.

Part of him wanted to use this as an opportunity—to finally say something, to be the one to make you smile again. But another part of him, the part that had spent so long holding back, told him it wasn’t the right time.

You were sad. Not heartbroken, not devastated, but still hurt. He could see it in the way you sighed more than usual, in the way your usual excitement about the upcoming holiday had faded into indifference.

“I don’t even know why I care so much,” you muttered one evening as the two of you sat on the bleachers, watching the empty field stretch out before you. “It’s not like we were even dating, not really. But still… it sucks, you know?”

Jungwon nodded, even though he didn’t fully understand. Not in the way you did, at least. Because to him, the pain wasn’t in almost having someone and losing them—it was in never having you at all.

“I just thought, maybe this year would be different,” you admitted, pulling your jacket tighter around you. “Maybe I’d actually get to experience one of those cute Valentine’s Days you see in movies.”

Jungwon swallowed. His hands clenched into fists in his lap, itching to reach for yours.

He could do it.

He could say it.

He could tell you that you weren’t alone, that someone had been looking at you that way all along. That if you let him, he’d make sure you never had to feel unwanted again.

But then you sighed and leaned against him, your head finding his shoulder in that familiar, comfortable way that told him you still saw him as your best friend.

Just your best friend.

So he did what he always did.

He stayed quiet.

And maybe that was his biggest mistake.

Because as Valentine’s Day crept closer, and as you started smiling again—started acting more like yourself—Jungwon couldn’t shake the feeling that he was running out of time.

And if he didn’t do something soon… someone else would.

So he planned to start small—show you, in quiet, genuine ways, that he liked you as more than a best friend.

But it was easier said than done.

Because you were oblivious as fuck.

Normally, Jungwon found that trait of yours adorable. The way you never seemed to pick up on people’s feelings, how you always assumed the best in every situation, how completely unaware you were of the effect you had on others.

But now? Now, it felt like torture.

Because how was he supposed to show you he loved you when he had such a hard time saying it?

He tried little things first. Thoughtful gestures, things he had always done but with more meaning behind them now. Walking you home even when it was out of his way, holding doors open for you even when his hands were full, remembering your coffee order down to the smallest detail and getting it for you before you could even ask.

But none of it clicked for you.

"You're such a good friend, Won," you'd say, smiling up at him like his heart wasn’t unraveling in his chest.

Friend.

Jungwon bit back a sigh, pushing down the frustration. He told himself to be patient.

So he tried again.

He started being more obvious—giving you his jacket when it was barely cold, brushing his fingers against yours just to see if you'd notice, complimenting you in a way that should’ve meant more than just friendship.

"You always know how to make me feel better," you had told him after one of his compliments, nudging him playfully. "What would I do without you?"

Jungwon had forced a smile, ignoring the way his heart twisted painfully.

Because none of it was working.

You still weren’t getting it.

And maybe… maybe you never would.

Because maybe, deep down, you had never even considered him as an option.

That thought scared him more than anything.

So with Valentine’s Day only days away, Jungwon realized something.

If he wanted you to know—if he wanted any chance at all—he couldn’t keep waiting for you to figure it out on your own.

He had to do something bigger. Something you couldn’t possibly ignore.

Something that would make you finally, finally see him.

So, he did something bigger.

With Valentine’s Day here, he made sure you wouldn’t come home too soon. He got some of your mutual friends to keep you company—texting them to stall you, make up excuses, anything to buy him enough time. And while they distracted you, he let himself into your house with the spare key you had given him long ago, “just in case of emergencies.”

And in his case, this was an emergency.

Because if he didn’t do this now, he might never have the courage again.

Carrying the bags inside, he wasted no time.

First, the decorations.

Red heart-shaped balloons filled your bedroom, some floating against the ceiling, others scattered on your bed. On the wall, carefully arranged, were balloons that spelled out "Be My Valentine?"—a question he never thought he'd be brave enough to ask.

Then, the gifts.

A teddy bear sat on your bed, soft and plush, with a box of your favorite chocolates nestled in its lap. Next to it, a bouquet of your favorite flowers—fresh, vibrant, just like you. And a basket filled with everything he knew you loved. Your favorite snacks, little trinkets, things you had casually mentioned wanting in passing—things he had remembered, even when you had forgotten you said them.

And finally, the finishing touch.

Rose petals, carefully placed, leading from your front door all the way to your bedroom. Alongside them, fake candles flickered softly, casting a warm, intimate glow around the space.

By the time he was done, his heart was pounding in his chest.

It was now or never.

So he took a deep breath, sat on the edge of your bed, and waited.

Waited for you to come home.

Waited to see if this would finally, finally make you see him the way he had always seen you.

And for the first time in his life, Jungwon was terrified.

When you finally got home, you were tired.

You had spent hours with your friends, confused as to why they were suddenly so insistent on keeping you out so late. They had dragged you to cafés, stores, even a last-minute movie, all while exchanging suspicious glances. But now, finally, you were home.

And the moment you stepped inside, you froze.

Rose petals.

They stretched out before you, leading down the hall, soft and delicate against the floor. And lining the path were small flickering lights—fake candles, glowing warmly in the dimness of your house.

Your heart skipped.

“What the—” you whispered, slowly stepping forward, following the trail.

Each step felt surreal, like you were stepping into something straight out of a romance movie. Your fingers brushed against your chest as you tried to steady your breathing.

By the time you reached your bedroom door, your heart was hammering.

And then you saw it.

Balloons—so many of them—floating and scattered all around your room.

And then, there was him.

Jungwon.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, looking nervous but determined.

The moment your eyes met, you felt your breath catch.

“Jungwon…” You blinked, glancing around. “Did you…?”

He swallowed, standing up slowly. “Yeah. It was me.”

Your gaze darted to the teddy bear on your bed, the chocolates, the bouquet, the basket of all the things you loved.

Your chest tightened.

“This is… I mean, you…” You trailed off, shaking your head in disbelief. “Why?”

Jungwon took a step closer, hands clenching at his sides. “Because I had to.” His voice was quiet, but firm. “Because if I didn’t, you’d never notice.”

Your brows furrowed. “Notice what?”

He let out a soft, almost breathless laugh, shaking his head. “See? That’s what I mean. You’re so—” He stopped himself, exhaling deeply. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

Jungwon took another step forward, closing the space between you. His eyes held something deeper now—something vulnerable.

“I love you.”

Silence.

Your breath hitched.

Jungwon swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep going.

“I’ve been in love with you for so long,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve tried to show you, in every way I could, but you never noticed. So I figured… maybe this time, you would.”

Your mind was racing, heart pounding.

Jungwon? In love with you?

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You didn’t even know what to say.

And Jungwon—seeing your silence, your wide eyes, your stunned expression—felt his heart sink.

Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe you really never had considered him that way. Maybe he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

So before you could say anything, before you could reject him and break him completely, he let out a shaky breath and whispered, “Say something. Please.”

You kept looking around the room, your mind struggling to process everything, every single detail Jungwon had put together, just for you.

Your chest felt tight, your throat dry. Your lips parted, but the only thing that came out was a shaky breath before you finally asked, “For how long?”

Jungwon took a deep breath, his eyes focused on you as if he were summoning all the courage he had kept buried for so long. He wasn’t sure what he had expected—maybe for you to stop him, or maybe for you to just… understand. But this was real now. There was no going back. “For so long,” he murmured. Then, like a dam breaking, the words just spilled out.

“I’ve been falling for you. Not just once, but over and over again.” He shifted, his hands twitching by his sides as if he didn’t know where to put them. “It wasn’t some instant, magical thing. It was a million little moments. Like the way you scrunch your nose when you’re confused or frustrated, like when you’re so focused and you don’t even realize how cute you look. Or how every time I’m with you, I feel like the world is just… better. The way you always give me the first sip of your drink without me asking. I never wanted to take it, but I always did, just because you were offering. You’re just…”

He shook his head, unable to fully explain, but his eyes locked onto yours. “And your laugh…” He laughed softly, almost to himself. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. I can’t even describe it. Every time you laugh, it’s like everything in my world falls into place. Like nothing else matters, just you and that sound. It’s like… nothing else could make me feel more alive than hearing you laugh.”

His voice faltered slightly, but he pressed on, his emotions pouring out faster now.

“And every time I’m around you,” Jungwon said, his eyes darting to the floor for a moment before meeting yours again, “my heart races. It feels like it’s beating so hard, like I can’t breathe. And I’ve tried to hide it, to play it cool, but I can’t. I can’t stop it. Every time you’re near me, it’s like everything else disappears, and all I can think about is you.”

You could see the longing in his eyes as he continued.

“I memorize everything about you,” he added, his voice trembling. “Your favorite food, the songs you hum under your breath when you’re in a good mood, the way you scrunch your eyes when you’re laughing so hard you can’t control it. I know all the little things because I’m always paying attention to you. Always.”

He took a step closer, his eyes searching yours desperately, his words tumbling out even faster now.

“And when someone else shows interest in you… when they look at you the way I want to, it just… it suffocates me. I feel like I’m drowning, like you’re slipping away from me. But I’ve never told you. I’ve never said anything because I didn’t want to ruin this, ruin us—whatever we are. But I couldn’t keep pretending anymore.”

Jungwon’s hands trembled as he reached for yours, his voice softer, almost a whisper now.

“I love you,” he said, his heart on his sleeve. “I’ve loved you for so long. I didn’t know what to do with it, but I can’t keep it in anymore. Please… don’t turn away from me.”

Jungwon had done it. He had confessed.

He had done the very thing that had terrified him for years.

And now… you weren’t saying anything.

The silence stretched between you, unbearable and deafening. His breaths came out uneven, his chest rising and falling as he looked at you, waiting, begging for a response.

But you just stood there, staring at him—wide-eyed, shell-shocked, silent.

And that silence broke him.

Jungwon let out a shaky exhale before his legs gave out beneath him. He collapsed onto his knees, his head hanging as his shoulders trembled. The weight of everything—the nerves, the fear, the exhaustion—finally crushed him.

Tears slid down his cheeks, slow and quiet.

This is it, he thought bitterly.

He had been so scared of confessing. But now, he realized, this was what he should have been scared of.

Not rejection. Not heartbreak.

But this.

This horrible, gut-wrenching silence.

This feeling of being completely exposed, completely vulnerable, waiting for the one person he loved the most to either take him in or turn him away.

He squeezed his eyes shut, already preparing for the worst—

And then suddenly, you were on your knees in front of him.

Jungwon barely had time to react before your hands cupped his tear-streaked cheeks, tilting his face up toward you.

And then—

You kissed him.

His breath caught, his entire body freezing in place. His mind couldn’t keep up, couldn’t process that this was actually happening.

You—his best friend, the person he had spent years hopelessly in love with—were kissing him.

But he was so stunned, so overwhelmed, that he didn’t even kiss you back.

The seconds stretched, and you hesitated. Slowly, you started to pull away, your hands loosening their hold on his face—

And that’s what finally snapped him out of it.

Before you could fully retreat, Jungwon grabbed you—one hand curling around the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist. And in a heartbeat, he slammed his lips against yours again.

This time, he kissed you back.

Desperately.

Fiercely.

Like he had been starving for this.

Like he had been waiting his entire life for this moment.

His fingers curled tighter around you, pulling you impossibly close as his lips moved against yours—messy, feverish, full of all the emotions he had buried for so long.

And for the first time in years, Jungwon wasn’t afraid anymore.

Because now, he knew.

He wasn’t losing you.

He had you.

And he wasn’t going to let you go.

As the kiss broke apart, both of you breathless, Jungwon’s hands still gently cupping your face, he couldn’t help but let out a quiet laugh—a mix of disbelief and relief.

And then, you smiled at him.

That smile.

The one that made his heart race every time.

Jungwon stared at you for a moment, his chest tightening again, his breath hitching in his throat.

“You’re dangerous, you know that?” he murmured, his voice low, full of admiration. “Every time you smile, I forget how to breathe.”

Your smile only grew wider, and a warmth spread through him, almost overwhelming. He had never wanted something more than to see that smile, to feel the way it made his heart flutter and ache all at once.

You swallowed, your heart thundering in your chest. This felt like a dream, and yet, you knew it was real.

With a deep breath, you found the courage to speak, the weight of everything finally coming out in the words you’d been holding back for months.

“I love you too Jungwon,” you confessed, your voice shaking just slightly. “I’ve loved you for months now… but I didn’t want to tell you, in case… in case you didn’t feel the same.”

The words hung between you, and for a moment, everything was still.

Then, Jungwon’s expression softened, his eyes bright with something you could only describe as pure relief and adoration. He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead before pulling back slightly, his fingers still lightly resting on your face as he looked at you with such intensity.

His voice was barely above a whisper as he reached for your hand, his thumb gently brushing over your skin. “So, you… love me, too?”

You nodded, your eyes soft but filled with determination. “Yes. I always have.”

Jungwon’s heart swelled with relief and joy, the weight lifting from his chest. A soft smile spread across his face, and before he could think too much about it, the words tumbled out of him, filled with hope.

“Do you want to be my Valentine?” he asked, his voice low but full of sincerity.

“Yes,” you replied, without hesitation, your heart pounding as the world seemed to settle into place around you.

Jungwon took a deep breath, still holding your hand as his gaze locked with yours. He had taken the plunge before, but this moment felt different—bigger.

“Then,” he began, voice soft but steady, “do you also want to be my girlfriend?”

You blinked, your heart fluttering wildly as your chest filled with warmth. This was the moment, wasn’t it? The moment you had both been waiting for, yet too afraid to ask for.

Without hesitation, you nodded. “Yes. I’d love to.”

Jungwon couldn’t hide his smile, the relief flooding through him as he leaned in, his eyes soft but filled with adoration. And then, he whispered the words that had been on his mind for so long.

“You don’t even realize what you do to me, do you?”

You blinked, your heart pounding as you tried to process what he meant.

“You’ve got me falling for you harder than I ever thought possible.” And then he kissed you again—this time slow, gentle, full of everything that had been left unsaid for months.

Jungwon finally had you, finally knew you felt the same, and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t have to wonder.

Because you were his.

And he was yours.

a/n: well this sucked ass... i havent been feeling romantical since boyfriend troubles.

══════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹══════

Perm taglist: @ilyunjina @nshmrarki @laylasbunbunny

@wensurr @immelissaaa @simj4k3 @vegahrid @03sunoos

@hollxe1 @moonpri @cherriesfine @badtzsan @anushkaaaiaiiaiaia

@heeseungbabydoll @wondash @renjiishot @demigodmahash

@strawberrieswithchocolateo3o @honeybunnee @jjongstar111

@enhaprettystars @zorange13 @jiminie-08 @chocowonnie

@enhamonsterghoul @mrsjjongstby @bussolares @kiripimaspillow

@sumsumtingz @norucking @tunafishyfishylike @txnwvc

@jakeluvrrs @firstclassjaylee @xnatqq @arclviie @aussie-boys-wife

@vvenusoncasual @bamguetismee

[butterflyscribbles]

Wachowski Family HC List

Part 1: The Wachowski Origins

Buckle up bc I’m going way back straight out of the gate….the Wachowski family wouldn’t exist without two certain soulmates coming together after all.

- Let’s start from the very beginning….Tom and Maddie have at least known each other since grade school. In high school, they were part of the same friend group but Maddie had been dating someone else at the time. Tom had girlfriends “come and go” as his mom put it, but was single most of senior year.

- Tom was already en route to becoming a sheriff, having it run in the family and with his other two “lunatic” brothers on their way in to very different directions, he was on the way to being the lone and youngest Wachowski left to “defend Green Hills” once his dad retired. I lowkey feel like it’s actually something he never really wanted to do. It was more of a family obligation. However, he did like helping people (and he didn’t want to go to college) that was really the biggest draw for him lol.

- Maddie was the resident biology and animal nerd in her class. Her dad was a park ranger that worked closely with Tom’s dad at the sheriff’s office, especially for hunting/fishing license issues and animal control type calls. Watching her dad work was where she developed a love for nature and decided she wanted to be a vet.

- It wasn’t until one night senior year at a house party, Maddie’s boyfriend at the time dumped her just before prom. Tom, being a close friend and the upstanding “punch first, questions later” kind of guy we know he is, started a fight with the jerk that broke her heart. He skeedaddled with her from the party before Tom’s dad showed up to break everything up. ✨That was spark #1✨ They continued talking and hanging out more after that (it was also since then Rachel has been giving Tom the side eye).

- High school graduation came and went, Maddie went off to college and Tom stayed in Green hills and started training to become a deputy. He and Maddie kept in touch even when she was off studying. When she came back into town to visit her family, they would hang out and catch up.

- Tom’s dad passed away not long after he graduated and things were a bit rough for Tom at this point. His oldest brother didn’t even show up to the funeral and his other brother didn’t help much with the process. Maddie was a beacon of light in this darker point of his life.

- One weekend while he’s out driving with her during this time, they come across a fawn by the side of the road that (very clearly) lost its mom. Tom was an emotional wreck, not wanting to leave it behind. Maddie calmly helped scoop it up in some spare blankets in the back of his car and they took it to her dad so he could find the proper wildlife rehabilitator to send it to. ✨That was spark #2✨ They started dating the next day.

- Skip ahead a bit, they’re big in love. They move into a small condo type deal together once Maddie graduates college and starts veterinary school. Tom is working his three jobs to help her pay tuition: as a police officer, part time at a local sewing shop his mom used to work at, and taking odd jobs around town mowing, doing car repairs, landscaping work. He’s exhausted, she’s exhausted, but they love each other sm….they’re married 2 years later after he proposes on a camping trip (guess who was already on Earth and witnessed the proposal but was too young to even know what it meant at the time).

- Jump again, they buy their house after Maddie has been working as a full time vet for a while and Tom is promoted to sheriff.

- Maddie’s parents are both still alive and together though her dad is retired. Her mom wrote for the Green Hills newspaper for a good while on top of taking care of her and Rachel. Tom’s mom is also still kicking. She left her job at the locally owned sewing store when Tom’s dad passed and mostly just makes her living selling crafts and vegetables from her garden at the local farmers market while also giving local children sewing lessons. Tom is doing most of the supporting for her while getting some help from his one older brother who actually got his life together a bit and got a job in insurance. He moved back to Montana, but not to Green Hills. Tom hasn’t heard from his eldest brother in over a decade.

- They’ve been living in their house for about 8 years before the events of Sonic 1. They’re “too busy for kids” but they adopt Ozzy from a litter that was dropped off where Maddie works.

- Then we all know what happens next…

[yourmomsfavouritegirl]

Paige Bueckers x Reader

Warnings; smut, pure filth, strap, subpaige, domreader,

A/N; our valentine's day special is here!! A bit late...but here! It is a bit long because i am late so i figured you might want a long ass chapter. I hope y'all enjoy this and if you want anything different requests are open!!

Reader's pov

I was walking around in the mall trying to find my last present for Paige since today is valentine's day. I already have bought many stuff to decorate our dorm before she gets home from the team hangout. We have been dating for two years now and honestly they are probably the best years of my life. I finally made my way to the shop i was looking for the past hour and went inside. Me and Paige had...quite an interesting sex life and we may or may not have talked about upgrading things a little. Spice them up. I made my way around the store searching for the toy she has been talking about nonstop and once i found it even though it was in a pretty big size i took it and made my way to the cashier. I had no problem with paying it myself i am not a shy person.

Once my job here was done i quickly left seeing i had one hour left before paige returned. I opened the door and entered the dorm before getting right to work. I placed the roses allover the living room and bedroom and made sure the food was practically ready for when paige got here.

I placed the box with the toy in the bedroom and changed into a long black dress that hugged my curves perfectly. It was a new dress and i had bought it a few days ago just for this day along with the black lingerie i wore underneath. I smiled to myself already knowing that paige loved to see me in black.

I sprayed some of Paige's favourite perfumes before i went back to the living room getting two glasses of wine set on table and sat there waiting for her scrolling through my Instagram feed. A couple of minutes pass by when i heard her keys jingle before the door opened revealing a Paige who had a white pair of pants and button up shirt with a black blazer.

Her eyes wandered around looking at the atmosphere i had created making a smile appear on her face before her eyes landed on mine. She studied me closely as she pushed the door to close behind her not daring to look away. She looked at me from head to toe as her eyes darkened. "Happy valentine's day baby" i said sweetly before standing up and making my way towards her. "Happy valentine's day beautiful" she replied bringing her other hand in front of me handing me a big bouquet of orchids. I gasped at her gesture before pressing my lips against hers softly before saying 'thank you' in the crook of her neck.

"Wait for me here. I'll go put this in water and I'll be back" i said and she nodded making her way to the couch. Once i had the roses settled i returned to the living room staying just a bit behind to look at her reaction. She was studying the room with a huge grin on her face.

"You like the atmosphere baby?" I asked as i walked in making her jump a bit drom her surprise. We both laughed at her reaction before ahe extended her hands to rake a hold of me. "I love it. I love you" she whispered before pulling me in for a soft kiss. "I love you too baby" i breathed before kissing her once again.

Although the soft kiss turned into a deeper one. I circled my hands around her neck before pushing my tongue deeper trying to taste her better. She let out a soft groan before we pulled away dor air. We sat down and i gave her the glass of wine. We both smiled at eachother and took a sip before placing them back on the table.

Her hands were back on my hips as she studied my appearance. "You look beautiful" she muttered her eyes getting lost in mine. "And you haven't seen nothing yet baby" i whispered back at her making her blush. I placed my hand on her cheek caressing it softly before i kissed her again. Only now both mine and Paige's hunger for one another was much deeper. Much stronger than what we cared to admit.

She slowly guided my hips on top of her lap before i was completely on top of her. My dress riding up a bit revealing much more surface of my thighs. Paige's hand held onto my thigh tightly as i bit her lip pulling it back with me. A soft moan escaped from her lips turning me on even more.

I pulled away slightly studying her features biting my lip at the thoughts of what would happen in a bit. "Don't stop. Please just do something. Please" she whined breathlessly. A smile tugged at my lips as my palm circled her throat. I always loved how submissive she would get for me. Adorable.

I pushed her back before i got up slowly heading to our bedroom. Midway i stopped and turned around seeing she hadn't gotten up yet. "Come on baby. Be a good girl and follow me". She didn't need to be told twice. She shot up and with a couple of long strides she had come up behind me. I giggled as i felt her hands cup my ass before i grabbed her by the collar of her shirt and made her follow me further. I sat her down on the bed and straddled her before slowly lifted up her shirt tossing it somewhere in the room. A gasp left my mouth at the sight of her breathtaking body. I leaned down and peppered kisses allover her leaving her a whiny mess. I got back up to her lips kissing her deeply making her moan at the kiss. Her hands made their way on my ass tightening their grip on it making me yelp a bit. I sat back up and turned so she would face my back. "Help me with this" i said knowing that she would do as I said. And i was right. She sat up and slowly undid my dress helping me slip off of it. She threw it somewhere else while her eyes were devouring me whole. A smirk stayed on my lips as i saw her looking at the lingerie. "I love you in black. You know i do" she muttered standing up now towering over me. "I have one more present for you. And it is in the bathroom. I'm sure you'll love it" i whispered in her ear before i laid on the bed steadying myself on my elbows.

"You did not.." i heard her say from the bathroom making a smile come to my face. She run out shocked looking at me and the toy. "You want me ..to use this?" She asked and i nodded biting my lip. Her eyes darkened even more if that was possible. She slowly put it on after she discarded her clothes. She bit her lip as her hands roamed throughout my body studying every curve and every muscle. I straddled her as she attacked my neck leaving bites and kisses everywhere. "Oh fuck baby" i breathed as she placed her fingers at my entrance. A smirk was placed on her face not daring to come off. She slowly inserted them inside me making me go feral "OH mh fuck-" i whimpered as she slowly pumped them inside me creating a chaos inside me.

"Yes baby just like that. So good for me" i praised Paige as my hand cupped her cheek while knowing damn well what my complements did to her. She looked at me pleading to go faster. With a quick nod she started going faster and faster not letting me take a breath. "Oh yes. Yesyesyes fuck Paige" i moaned out feeling my high coms closer and closer. "Cum for me ma" she husked and needless to say that i didn't need anything else. I felt the string tightening in my stomach finally snap making me see stars. "Oh yes Paige. I'm cumming fuck". A bunch of moans left my lungs trying to make me come down to the face of earth after my first orgasm of the night.

As she slowly pulled them out of me she brought them up to my lips making me suck my cum off of her fingers. I kept eye contact as i licked them off of her letting out a moan at the taste. I slowly turned us around making her lay down. "Sit down baby. Let mommy do the work" i said and straddled her. She bit her lip at how i sat on her stomach. A shaky breath left my lings as i felt the clear ups and downs of her abs. "So fucking pretty all for me hm?" I asked her to which she nodded rapidly. I chuckled at her reaction before i lined up my hole with the toy that was fixated on her waist. "Are you ready baby?" She asked looking as impatient as ever. I nodded as she slipped the toy slowly inside me. My mouth hung open as a loud moan left my lips. "Oh my- Fuck" i groaned as i felt the vibrator at the other side of the strap. Paige placed her hands on my hips slowly making me grind against her. I started going up and down on her as my hands circled her neck for stability as I kissed her passionately.

My eagerness to reach my high got the best of me making me move faster and faster. "Oh yes fuck. So tight for me mommy" Paige moaned in the crook of my neck. I was too stunned to speak so i just took a hold of her face before i smashed my lips against hers. Moans and groans could be heard as we kissed. Only the sounds paige let out made me hornier by the second. I could feel by the impatience of her moves that she was getting closer to reaching her orgasm and so was i.

I pulled away gasping for air as breathy moans left my lips. "I'm so so close baby. Fucking me so good" i whine and almost immediately her movements sped up. Doubling her efforts. "Fuck me too. I'm gonna cum mommy. Please let me cum with you" she pleaded her voice raspy. How could i say no to her?

"Cum with me baby. Let go for me" i breathed and after i said it i felt my whole world crush upon me. "Oh my GOD" I screamed at the top of my lungs closing my eyes not being able to concentrate in anything else other than my orgasm. Paige followed suit letting out the cuntiest moans i have ever heard. My movements started to slow down before we finally stopped trying to regain our breath. Paige's lips left tons of kisses allover my neck and breasts as her quick breath hit my skin sending goosebumps allover my body.

I made her look up at me and felt a lazy and tired smile come up to my face looking at how cute and tired she looked like. "You good baby?" I asked softly caressing her cheek. She smiled at me before giving me a quick peck on the lips. "I'm feeling a lot more than just okay. This was the best present ever" she said making a blush come up to my cheeks. "Well I'm glad. I knew you would love this" i replied motioning to the toy that was still inside me.

She slowly made me sit up sliding the toy out of me and placing it on the bathroom telling me she would clean it later. She came back and held me on top of her. Paige always loved skin to skin contact. "You hungry?" I asked hearing her stomach growl basically. She laughed before nodding. "Great cause i had prepared us a really nice and romantic dinner for before this act but someone got carried away.." i said side eyeing her making her laugh. "I mean come on! Can you blame me? You looked-and still do- like a literal goddess" she said making me laugh and burry my head in the crook of her neck. "Okay superstar let's get you to eat. Them muscles ain't gonna stay strong if I don't feed you" i said slowly getting up still feeling a little weak in the legs.

We got changed into comfortable clothes and made our way to the kitchen. We sat down and ate dinner holding each others hands from time to time. Stealing soft kisses from one another. It was perfect. She is perfect. I can't imagine my life without her.

[cozmowrites]

KRBK x You

The evening was warm and quiet, the perfect setting for unwinding after a long day. Kirishima had invited you and Bakugou over to his place to hang out. You didn't need to be coaxed—spending time with your boyfriend, Kirishima, was one of your favorite things. And Bakugou, though rough around the edges, had become something of a constant in your lives.

The three of you lounged on Kirishima's couch. You were tucked comfortably under his arm, your head resting on his shoulder. Kirishima had an arm draped protectively around your waist, his thumb absentmindedly stroking your side. It was cozy and safe—everything you needed after a long day.

Bakugou sat on the opposite side of the couch, pretending to be engrossed in the movie Kirishima had picked, though his clenched jaw and furrowed brow told a different story. His ruby eyes darted to you and Kirishima every few seconds, a storm brewing behind them.

He hated this.

It wasn't the movie. It wasn't the fact that Kirishima had chosen something cheesy. It wasn't even the casual affection you and Kirishima shared. No, what Bakugou hated most was the gnawing jealousy in his chest—the tug-of-war of emotions that left him feeling raw and exposed.

He liked you. That much, he'd come to terms with months ago. How could he not? You were smart, funny, and you had this warmth about you that made him feel less... explosive. But then there was Kirishima—his best friend, his rock. Somewhere along the way, Bakugou realized his feelings for Kirishima weren't purely platonic either. And now? Now, he was stuck in this maddening limbo, wanting both of you but feeling like an intruder in your relationship.

"Bakugou?"

Your voice snapped him out of his thoughts. He blinked, realizing you and Kirishima were both looking at him.

"What?" He snapped, more defensively than he intended.

"You okay, man?" Kirishima asked, concern lacing his tone. "You've been quiet."

"I'm fine," Bakugou grumbled, crossing his arms.

You exchanged a look with Kirishima, but you didn't push. Instead, you leaned back into Kirishima, your fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on his arm.

Bakugou's eyes flicked to where your hand rested against Kirishima's skin, and his stomach twisted. He clenched his fists, trying to ignore the warmth pooling in his chest.

He hated this.

The movie played on, but Bakugou couldn't focus. He felt like a rubber band stretched to its limit, on the verge of snapping. And when Kirishima leaned down to press a soft kiss to your temple, something inside him did.

"Can you two not?" Bakugou blurted out, his voice sharper than he intended.

Both you and Kirishima froze, turning to look at him.

"Not what?" You asked, your brows knitting together in confusion. You and Kirishima was never a problem before so why was it a problem now?

"Whatever this is," he said, gesturing vaguely at the two of you. "It's annoying."

Kirishima sat up straighter, his expression softening with understanding. "Bakugou... are you okay?"

"I said I'm fine!" Bakugou snapped, but the crack in his voice betrayed him.

You reached out, your hand hovering near his arm. "Hey... it's okay if you're not. You can talk to us."

That was the last thing he wanted to hear. He didn't want your pity or Kirishima's concern. But the way you were looking at him, with so much genuine care, made his defenses falter.

"You don't get it," Bakugou muttered, his voice quieter now. "You wouldn't understand."

Kirishima leaned forward, his brows furrowing. "Try us."

Bakugou hesitated. He'd never been good with words, and the mess of emotions inside him felt impossible to untangle. But he was tired—tired of pretending he didn't feel anything, tired of watching from the sidelines.

"I—" He took a deep breath, his hands trembling slightly. "I don't know how to deal with this. With you two."

Your eyes widened slightly, but you stayed quiet, letting him speak.

"I—dammit," he growled, running a hand through his hair. "I like you, okay? Both of you. And it's driving me insane because you're together, and I'm just... here. Third-wheeling."

The confession hung heavy in the air. Bakugou's chest heaved as he tried to steady his breathing, his heart pounding like he'd just survived a battlefield.

Kirishima's expression softened, and he reached out, placing a hand on Bakugou's shoulder. "Bakugou... we care about you too. A lot."

Bakugou blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Kirishima said gently, "that this doesn't have to be as complicated as you think."

You nodded, your hand finally resting on Bakugou's arm. "We're not saying we have all the answers, but... we don't want you to feel left out. Or like you don't matter to us."

Bakugou stared at you both, his mind racing. Was this real? Was it possible that the two people he cared about most could feel the same way?

"I don't..." He shook his head, his voice uncharacteristically small. "I don't know how this works."

"Neither do we," Kirishima admitted with a small laugh. "But we can figure it out."

You smiled, squeezing Bakugou's arm gently. "If you're okay with that."

Bakugou looked between you and Kirishima, his walls crumbling bit by bit. For the first time in a long time, he let himself hope.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I think I'm okay with that."

Kirishima grinned, pulling Bakugou into a one-armed hug. "That's the spirit, man!"

Bakugou grumbled something about "damn extras," but he didn't pull away. And when you leaned in to join the embrace, he didn't stop you either.

Kirishima leaned down to whisper in your ear, his voice soft yet warm, "What do you think? Should we give him a little of the attention he deserves?"

You pulled back just enough to meet Kirishima's gaze. His red eyes sparkled with sincerity, and you knew he was thinking about how much Bakugou needed this—needed to feel wanted and cared for. With a small nod, you gave him permission.

Slowly, you reached for Bakugou's hand, threading your fingers with his. His entire body tensed, his crimson eyes snapping to yours in surprise.

"What are you—?" He started, but the words died on his lips as Kirishima leaned over, his fingers threading gently through Bakugou's blond hair.

"You're always so tough, man," Kirishima murmured, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. "But you deserve to feel good too."

Bakugou's cheeks burned red, his free hand clenching into a fist. "You two are insane," he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

Giving his hand a gentle squeeze, you mumbled, "But we mean it, Katsuki."

Bakugou's lips parted, but no words came out. His eyes darted between you and Kirishima, searching for the punchline to some cruel joke. But neither of you were laughing. If anything, Kirishima's expression softened further, his hand still idly playing with Bakugou's hair.

"Hey," Kirishima started, his tone careful but sure, "I've been thinking about this for a while. What if... we tried bringing you into this? Into us? Since you kind of confessed to us, and we feel pretty much the same way."

Bakugou stiffened. His hand trembled slightly in yours, but he didn't pull away. "What the hell are you saying?"

You shared a look with Kirishima before turning back to Bakugou. "What he means is, we care about you. A lot. And we don't want you to feel like you're on the outside looking in anymore."

Kirishima nodded. "Yeah. I mean, I've liked you for ages, man. And I know how much you care about both of us, even if you suck at showing it."

Bakugou's face flushed a deeper red, and he let out a frustrated groan. "You're both idiots," he muttered, though his voice cracked slightly.

"Maybe," Kirishima said with a grin, leaning closer. "But we're your idiots, if you'll let us be."

+++

masterlist ⟢

more bakugou ⟢

requests ツ

[keeryhours]

nothing’s gonna hurt you, baby - chapter one

DBF!older!Eddie Munson x female! Harrington! reader

Main Masterlist

Eddie Munson Masterlist

Summary:

You’re new to Hawkins, and your dad’s best friend helps you move in. You have…complicated feelings about each other right away.

Warnings:

(18+), masturbation (male and female) and smutty fantasies, perv!Eddie, this is just really horny tbh, pining, age gap (reader is 19 Eddie is 45), dad’s best friend trope

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N:

I know, I know, another series. But this one popped in my head and had to be written down! Thank you @punkrockmlchael for my banner and for being amazing, @the-witty-pen-name for reading over it for me, and @fizzing-imagines for pretty much talking through this whole series with me. Dividers by @/sisterlucifergraphics

Your parents divorce hadn’t exactly come as a surprise to you.

There were a lot of fights near the end. Endless screaming match fights, mom coming home late, dad demanding to know where she’d been, even though deep down he already knew. When they had sat you down and told you about the divorce, it had been a relief.

You wanted to stay with your dad. You were 19 and had taken a gap year to try to figure out what you wanted to do with your life - which you still had no idea. But this involved living at home while you worked at a local bookstore.

The worst part of the divorce was when your dad sat you down and told you you were moving - from beautiful Colorado, to…Hawkins, Indiana? Your dad’s hometown, which you’d never visited. A town where nothing much seemed to happen, just farmland and small town life. You were not thrilled.

You still weren’t thrilled as you packed up the last of your stuff into the moving truck and began the nearly 20 hour drive. Your dad tried to keep you in high spirits, telling you all about his good memories in Hawkins, and you appreciated the effort, but it didn’t help.

You stopped along the way to spend the night in a hotel. Your dad was trying his best, but he couldn’t drive that long without a rest. And you were ready to get out of the truck and stretch anyway, sending texts to your friends about how bummed you were to be leaving.

The next day you finished the drive, finally passing the small Welcome to Hawkins sign. Your new home.

“Here we are, sweetheart,” your dad said, looking at you with feigned enthusiasm. You smiled softly back at him.

“Yeah, it…it looks great,” you managed.

Your dad’s smile faltered, and he reached a hand over to squeeze your knee. “It’s going to be alright, honey. I know you’ll get used to it here. I know it’s not home, but it’s not all bad. And I’m sure you’ll make lots of friends at college.”

You wanted your old friends. You wanted to go to the same college together, the way you’d planned. You wanted to make the most out of things, find something to love about Hawkins, but it was hard when you were mourning the life you left behind.

As you reached the part of town where your new house was, your dad pulled out his phone. “Hey, Munson! We’re just down the road.”

Eddie Munson - your dad’s best friend. They had met in high school here at Hawkins, and had remained best friends all these years, even with the distance. They talked on the phone regularly. You’d never met or even seen the guy, but he was coming over to help you move in.

Your dad finished his phone call just as you pulled up to the single story white house, cute but much smaller than the one you’d lived in before. You hopped out of the truck the second it stopped, stretching your stiff limbs. Your crop top raised higher with your arms in the air, your tiny shorts not covering much but keeping you cool from the end of summer heat.

“Munson!” You heard your dad yell from behind you, sounding much happier than you’d heard him in months.

You turned in time to see the hottest guy you’d ever seen walking your way.

The first thing you noticed was his long, wild curly hair hanging down past his shoulders. He was dressed in a tight pair of jeans with a chain hanging from them and an Iron Maiden tee - his style nothing the way you’d imagined him with being your dad’s best friend. You were thinking more…boring, polo shirts and khakis. But no, the man in front of you was hot. He had a little facial hair, a strong nose, and big chocolate brown eyes that had lingered on your frame before snapping towards your father.

“Harrington!” He greeted him, and they pulled each other into a tight hug. “What’s up, man? Haven’t seen you in 20 years.”

“I know, I know,” your dad said with a laugh as they pulled away. “It’s good to be back in town. Oh!” He turned behind him, reaching for you. You moved to stand next to him, seeing Eddie up close for the first time. “Ed, this is my daughter,” he said, introducing you by name.

The second those big brown eyes met yours, you were doomed.

He gave you a suave smile, holding out a large hand adorned with multiple silver rings. “Hi. I’m Eddie.”

You took his hand in yours, feeling the rush of electricity up your arm so intense you almost dropped it. You told him your name and he repeated it back, his other hand coming to rest on top of yours. You had never heard your name sound so beautiful, as seductive, as it had when it came from Eddie’s lips.

Oh, you were fucked.

“Let’s get started, yeah?” Your dad said, already opening the back of the moving truck. “I’d like to sleep in my own bed tonight.”

The three of you stayed busy moving furniture and boxes all day, until it got dark and your dad sat down on the couch with a groan. “Okay, I think that’s good for today. Pizza and beers, anyone?” He asked, before turning to point a finger at you - “Soda for you, little lady.” You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help a smile.

“Sounds great,” Eddie said, taking a seat on the recliner.

Your dad ordered the pizzas, and before long you were relaxing as you ate, your dad and Eddie buzzing a little from the beers they’d had. You listened to them reminiscing on their years in Hawkins, updates on all their old friends, talking about their current life.

“How’s the shop?” Your dad asked, taking another swig of his beer.

“Oh, it’s going great,” Eddie said, a smile on his face as he relaxed in the chair with his drink. “I’m about ready to hire someone to help out part time.”

Your dad immediately turned to look at you.

“What?” You asked. “Me?”

“You’d love it,” he said. “Ed owns…basically a nerd store. Music, books, D&D stuff…”

Eddie huffed a short laugh. “Yeah, my nerd store.”

“But seriously. You would love it.” Your dad gave you a hopeful look. “What do you say?”

“Um…sure,” you agreed, to which your dad looked victorious.

“Cool,” Eddie said, relaxed and casual. “You can start Monday.”

After eating, Eddie helped you unpack some of the boxes. Your dad waved him off - “I’ve got it, go help her in her room.” So, Eddie followed you to your brand new bedroom, your heart thumping in your chest.

“Um, just pick any box, I guess,” you said, grabbing one of your boxes of books and opening it. You began unpacking the books and placing them on your shelves. You heard Eddie working behind you, until you heard a surprised little “Oh!”

You turned to see Eddie had opened a box of your clothes, with all of your underwear right on top - oh yeah, and your vibrator. You blushed furiously, grabbing the box from him and shoving it into the closet. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

Eddie chuckled. “Hey, it’s okay.” But you couldn’t even look at him, your cheeks heated like flames kissing your skin. Of course he had to open that one box.

“You have good taste in music,” he said as he moved on to another containing your record collection. He flipped through the different artists - Bowie, Metallica, The Beatles, Iron Maiden. “I didn’t know you were into records.”

“Oh, yeah,” you smiled. “Dad gave me his old collection, and then I just started collecting them myself.”

“Cool,” Eddie said again, a small smirk on his lips. “You’ll get a discount at the shop. On records, books, whatever.”

That was excellent news. Records weren’t exactly cheap, and you loved to read, too. Working at this shop wasn’t going to be so bad.

When you’d all finished for the night, Steve gave Eddie a hug at the door. “Thanks for coming, man. You coming over tomorrow, too?”

“Yeah,” Eddie agreed. “I’ll see you guys then.”

He gave you a lingering look as he left, one you weren’t sure if you imagined or not. Maybe you just wanted him to look at you in that way.

That night, Eddie drove himself home, fingers white knuckled on the steering wheel. Fuck, this was bad. There was no denying he was attracted to you. He wanted you bad. But he could never act on it, and he knew this. You were completely off-limits. Forever.

But god, your body. When he had walked up and saw you stretching, those tiny little jean shorts, the expanse of the skin of your back as your shirt rode up - that little crop top that already did very little to hide anything - he prayed that you weren’t Steve’s daughter. He prayed that you were some neighbor, some girl he could flirt with and bring home - but of course not.

Eddie was still thinking about you when he pulled up at his own trailer. He thought of you as he walked up to the front door and unlocked it, thinking of pushing you up against it and kissing you frantically as he attempted to open the door. He walked inside and thought about having you on his lap on the couch, feeling you grinding down on his hard cock, letting him get his mouth all over your tits.

He walked into the bathroom and was still thinking of you as he started the shower and slipped out of his clothes. He was rock hard from the thought, just thinking about you in any way had his cock aching. As he climbed into the shower, he thought of the box of your sexy little panties and bras, the vibrator sitting right on top. He thought you must use it pretty often to want to keep it so accessible - maybe you were using it right now.

He thought about you turning it on, rubbing it around your hard nipples to tease yourself just like he would before moving it farther down your body. He wrapped his hand around his cock as he thought about you teasing your clit with it, the pretty little moans that would be spilling from your lips as you pleasured yourself. He began stroking his cock to the thought, hand moving slowly at first as he pictured you just barely teasing yourself, then speeding up as he thought of you bucking your hips up, desperate for more pleasure as you neared your orgasm.

Eddie placed a hand on the shower wall to brace himself, his right hand vigorously pumping his cock, legs beginning to tremble as he thought about you slipping your other hand down your body and pushing two fingers into your needy little cunt. You’d be thinking of him, thinking of how he’d fill you. Your hands wouldn’t even compare to the way he’d stretch you out with his cock.

He ran his thumb over his tip, collecting the precum there and rubbing it down the rest of his shaft. He squeezed the base of his cock, absolutely throbbing in his hand, so desperate for you. God, what if he came over and snuck through your window, found you pleasuring yourself to the thought of him, slipped inside to crawl between your legs and lick at your soaking wet pussy, tasting you-

Eddie cried out as he came unexpectedly, ropes of cum shooting out and covering the shower wall as he moaned your name. He continued pumping his cock until every drop had been spent - completely drained, he had cum harder than he had in years. All to the thought of you

He was fucked.

In your room that night, alone, you thought of Eddie. You flicked your vibrator on, thinking of how hot he had looked, the way he looked at you, what you wish he’d do to you. You made yourself cum over and over to the thought of him between your legs, pleasuring you, being the one to make you feel so good.

The next morning, you felt a little awkward facing your dad.

He made breakfast for the two of you and you sat at the small table together, digging into your eggs and bacon.

“How are you settling in?” Your dad asked. “Your room comfy enough?”

“Yeah,” you answered casually. You had been plenty comfortable last night. “So, uh…Eddie’s coming back over today?”

“Yep,” he answered. “Should be over after breakfast.”

You thought for a moment. There was much you wanted to know about Eddie, but you had to ask without raising suspicion. “How did you guys meet?”

Your dad smiled as he took a bite of bacon. “Spring break ‘86. Aunt Robin introduced us. Speaking of Robs, she’ll be over today, too.”

You smiled at the mention of your aunt, who was your dad’s other best friend. “Is he…married?”

Steve laughed lightly. “Ed? No, never got married. Did date one girl pretty seriously for a while, but never married. Single now. He needs somebody.” Your dad looked lost in thought. “Maybe I can set him up with someone.”

You wanted to say no to that, but held your tongue. “Does he have any kids?” Your dad gave a strange look to that question, so you quickly added, “You know, that I could hang out with?”

“No kids,” he said. “But you and Eddie have a lot in common. I’m sure you’ll get along working at the store.”

After breakfast, you hurried back to your room, looking for something to wear that might catch Eddie’s attention. You knew it was silly, like a crush on a teacher. It was forbidden and you knew he would never look at you in the way you wanted him to. But still…

You dressed in a sundress this time, the top low cut and the skirt showing most of your thighs. The kind of dress you couldn’t bend over in. When you walked out of your room and down the hall where you could hear voices, you stood up straight, fixed your hair, and walked into the room.

His gaze went to you immediately. Within a matter of seconds his eyes trailed over your frame, taking in your cleavage, the way the dress hugged your curves, your thighs disappearing beneath the short skirt. He wanted to bend you over and lift that skirt, push your panties to the side and-

“She’s finally here!” Your dad exclaimed dramatically, as if you hadn’t just gone to get ready. “Ready to get started?”

Your dad and Robin worked in the living room while he sent you and Eddie back to your room to unpack. You had made sure there were no more embarrassing boxes for him to uncover.

The way you’d bend over in front of him did not go unnoticed by Eddie. The slightest flash of your white lace panties, the swell of your perfect ass. He wanted to dive in, to taste that pretty little pussy. I bet it tastes so sweet, he thought to himself, practically drooling at the sight. I bet it would be so tight around my cock.

You weren’t sure if your little show was working, but you hoped it was. You wanted Eddie to notice you, badly. You wanted to know how he tasted, how he fucked. If he could make you feel like a real woman.

So you and Eddie unpacked your room together, both pretending like you didn’t want to rip the others’ clothes off right then and there. You weren’t a virgin, but you’d never been with a guy so much older before. The thought thrilled you, made you impossibly wet as you thought of Eddie and all the things he could do to you, the things he could show you.

When you were done unpacking for the day, your dad ordered out for everyone again. As Eddie left your room behind you, he spotted a pair of light pink panties on the floor by the door. He looked around, making sure no one was paying attention - then swiped them, stuffing them in the back pocket of his jeans. Something to hold onto.

Back in the kitchen, you watched your dad and Robin filling their plates at the counter as you stood back, waiting for them to be done.

“Excuse me, princess,” a low voice sounded right in your ear, making you shudder as Eddie’s hand sat right on your hip, slid around to cup your ass for only a moment before he was letting go and slipping past you. You weren’t even sure if you’d imagined it or if he’d really touched you like that. Maybe it was an accident? Your mind was swimming.

Your dad and Robin went back into the living room, bickering over the living room paint color as you moved towards the food. Eddie gave you one last knowing smirk before he grabbed his plate and beer, winking at you as he left.

After dinner, you said your goodbyes for the night. Your mind was still swimming with thoughts of Eddie as you took your shower, fingers dipping between your folds as you thought of how hot he’d looked today, the way he’d looked at your body, the way he touched you. His name was on your lips as you came.

At Eddie’s house, he pulled the panties out of his back pocket as soon as he got home. He went into his bedroom, stripped his clothes off, pushing his boxers down to release his aching cock. He laid back on his bed, wrapping the panties around his shaft as he stroked himself, thinking of you, thinking of your pussy. How badly he wished you were sitting on his face, letting him drink his fill of you, making you cum over and over again on his tongue. He thought of how you’d worn these panties, how they’d look on you - how he caught the slightest glimpse of your panties today, how he needed to see more.

Eddie jerked himself off faster, the soft material of the panties providing delicious friction against his dick. It was throbbing in his hand, he had just cum the night before to the thought of you and now he was aching to do it again. He felt like a fucking teenager again, so desperate for you, so desperate for relief. He hadn’t felt so desperate for a woman in years. Maybe ever.

He had it bad for you. And of course you had to be a Harrington - Steve’s daughter, even - you were totally off limits. All he could do was imagine the way he’d fuck you, the way tears would stream from your eyes as he fucked his thick cock into you for the first time, telling you you can take it, just a little more -

Eddie’s release spilled over his hand and all over the cute little panties, tainting them. Afterwards he felt guilty, like a real fucking creep.

Eddie was in trouble.

tag list

@ali-r3n

[daylighted]

DIG THE BLADE DEEPER / DEAN & READER & SAM.

winchester!reader ! the edit that inspired it; the muse behind the tragedy . . . can you even remember what he looks like, anymore?

you had two older brothers, growing up. one that raised you like his own, and one that protected you like he was. your life was untraditional. your father was absent in the few years he was alive, and then he died before he could ever make up that lost time with you.

you didn’t remember his voice, now. and you didn’t think that him existing in your memories was really what he wanted, in the first place.

so that left dean to fill those gaps.

dean, who potty trained you and kept you and sam, even when it meant he didn’t have dinner, himself. dean, who stayed up late at night to listen for any bumps in the night. dean, ten years old to sam’s six to your two, holding a gun bigger than his two hands, pretending that he wasn’t shaking so that his bravery alone could scare the monsters off, not just the weapons he was left to protect sam.

protect sam. raise you. but where did he fit? what was his role in his own life if it didn’t involve either of you?

countless times, dean winchester suffered and broke; went to hell, died, came back, was different than how you’d remembered from your first memories. not unkind, but whittled down, like he realized, too, that all his life added up to was those key things: dad’s rogue soldier, sam’s protector, and your guardian.

maybe he was too big for all of this, you’d thought, the time that the death stuck. when no deal could bring him back, and suddenly you were fatherless again, standing next to your other older brother who’d lost a father, too.

times get easier. death left permanent ink on your heart that didn’t wash away but it did dull and fade.

you have a family. sam has a family. sam brings his by for every christmas, and sometimes you go see his, too, when he can’t make it. time slips through your fingertips like sand, and you’re a mother to grown adults, and sam’s kids have lives, and the winchester name is punctuated by phd and doctorates now. ones that were legitimate, not forged. the times of forging things was done for. there was no one around to keep up that tradition with.

you sit by sam’s bed while he’s gray and tired, recognition in his eyes when he looks at you but hardly enough to count. you tell him what you remember.

dean, on his tiptoes at the stove, stirring the fourth mac and cheese meal of the weak. dean, sitting by the door, gun in his trembling hand, when someone knocks while the sun is down. dean, holding sam when he had nightmares, and rocking you to sleep on school nights.

there was so much dean in your head. permanent ink didn’t disappear but it faded, and every memory you recount is one in silence. dean’s voice has been stolen from him in your head. you don’t hear the familiarity of how he called you bug, even when you grew up and weren’t so small, you just know he did. you don’t hear his cries through the thin apartment’s walls, choking on his breath so you or sam don’t hear — but his eyes were red in the morning, you remembered that.

dean alexander winchester’s face was blurry in your head, and even blurrier in sam’s, with all of the tears and the age and the trauma weathering him thin. he listens, but he’s not fully there, as you tell him all about the hero your big brother was. every word you never got to say to him, but could say now, so maybe they reached him.

this will be the last time you see sam, you know it deep in your soul, the same voice whispering it in your ear that whispered that dean would not see you get married, or meet your kids.

you don’t remember dean’s voice, and his face has tv blur lines through it, not quite right but it’s all you know anymore.

sam’s hand holds yours in a vice, his expression made of exhaustion and sympathy. how were you supposed to live without the boy that raised you and the boy that filled in?

you sat here with sam, tears running down your face, terrified for the fact that you knew you’d forget his voice like you forgot dean’s. that sam would become another missing puzzle piece, stolen away from you, leaving everything misconstrued and unfinished.

there is no comforting words in your head for this loss. no one to hold your hand and keep you together like sam did after dean. there is no dean in your head to remind you of what he sounds like, there is only this bittersweet feeling that maybe sam would get to see him again. his faded memories would brighten. dean would get his voice again, in sam’s head, and sam would get to remember what dean’s nose looked like, and see if the speckles of gray really existed in his hair, or if that was a detail you put in place to cling to the idea that he was there, growing old with you.

it was all you had to get you through this. loss was a blade, digging deep between your ribs, etching another scar into your heart. but time would fade it and blur its edges, even if it all only seemed to dig the blade a little deeper.

notes. i gave dean a middle name because canon never did like they did with sam & that just made me cry harder. i rly don’t know what this is & also i’m on s2 so idek if this is how it ended, i’m just judging off of edits i’ve seen of the ending :’) so if it’s wrong … so sorry i’m out of my own league here.

tags. none just in case u guys read this & wanna take me out back to kill me for it i cannot be held accountable !!!!!!!!!! or liable !!!!!!

[novaursa]

A Lion's Folly (the hunter)

- Summary: A story where a lion falls for the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the choice

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @butterflygxril @lordofthunderthr @mrsnms @itisjustwhatitis @urdxrling @meowmeowmothermeower @nen-nyy @nestvrn

The village was small, little more than a cluster of thatched-roof cottages and weathered stone buildings lining a muddy road. It was the kind of place untouched by war, nestled far enough from the major roads that the conflict between kings and houses had not yet carved its scars into the earth. The air smelled of damp wood and livestock, of bread baking in unseen kitchens and the faint sting of ale gone stale.

You rode in slowly, keeping your head low, your cloak pulled tight around your shoulders. Winter had stayed behind, prowling the edge of the woods just outside the village. You had whispered for him to wait, to stay unseen. A direwolf would only bring trouble here—too many whispers, too many eyes watching. And you needed to disappear, not become a spectacle.

The horse's hooves squelched against the mud as you reached the center of the village, where a modest tavern sat tucked between two larger buildings, its wooden sign creaking in the breeze. The sound of voices spilled out from inside—laughter, grumbling, the usual melody of weary travelers and men who had spent their day breaking their backs in the fields.

You slid from the saddle, adjusting your cloak before tying the reins loosely to a post. The tavern door groaned as you pushed it open, stepping inside.

The warmth hit you first, thick and heavy, carrying the scent of sweat, ale, and roasting meat. The fire in the hearth crackled, sending flickering shadows dancing across the walls. It was not an unfriendly place, nor was it particularly welcoming. It was the kind of place where men sat in corners nursing their drinks, where conversations hushed slightly when a stranger walked in, where familiarity was currency and outsiders were met with wary eyes.

And you, alone, with the mud of the road still clinging to your boots and the weight of exhaustion in your bones, were very much an outsider.

The few who noticed you did not hide their curiosity. A woman, traveling alone, entering a tavern unescorted—there was no ignoring that.

You ignored the looks, stepping toward the counter where the tavern keeper, a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard, was wiping down a wooden mug with a rag that looked no cleaner than the cup itself. He glanced up, his gaze sweeping over you, assessing.

"Room for the night?" he asked, voice gruff.

You hesitated before nodding. "And something to eat."

He grunted, setting the mug down before turning to ladle something from a pot into a bowl. A thin stew, by the looks of it. You had eaten worse.

Coins clinked against the counter as you placed them down, a small sum but enough for what you asked.

The man eyed them before sweeping them into his palm. He set the bowl before you without another word, nodding toward a nearby table.

You took the hint.

Sliding into a seat near the corner, you kept your back to the wall, your hood still pulled over your hair. The wooden spoon felt heavy in your hand as you stirred the stew absently, staring into the murky broth without really seeing it.

Your body was here, in this small tavern, in this nameless village.

But your mind was elsewhere.

You had run.

You had left behind the life Jaime had bound you to, the walls of Casterly Rock, the golden cage he had placed around you in the name of protection.

And yet, sitting here now, with a bowl of lukewarm stew in front of you and the low hum of voices filling the room, you felt no relief. No freedom.

Only exhaustion.

You had told yourself you had no other choice.

But hadn’t Jaime said the same thing?

The thought twisted in your gut.

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to take a bite, the taste of salt and overcooked meat filling your mouth.

What now?

You had ridden away, but to where? To what?

Your family was gone. Your mother was a ghost of herself, if she still lived at all. Your brother had been murdered at the orders of Jaime’s father. You had no home, no allies, nothing but the name you carried—and that name had brought you nothing but suffering.

You could vanish. Change your name, disappear into the countryside, live as someone else entirely.

But was that truly living?

Or was it just another form of being lost?

A shadow fell across the table.

You looked up.

A man stood there, leaning against the chair opposite you, his grin too wide, his breath already sour with ale.

"Ain't often we see a lady ride in alone," he mused, tilting his head. "Pretty thing like you—must be lost."

You didn't flinch, didn't move, just kept your spoon in your hand, your expression unreadable.

"I'm not lost," you said coolly.

The man chuckled, glancing toward his companions at the bar. "Hear that, lads? She's not lost. Just wandering." His eyes flickered back to you. "You sure you don’t need some company? Roads aren’t safe these days."

Your fingers curled slightly around the spoon.

"I'm not alone."

The man smirked. "That so?"

From outside, faint but unmistakable, came the low, rumbling growl of Winter.

The smirk faded.

The man hesitated, glancing toward the door, as if suddenly aware of the presence lurking just beyond the firelight.

You smiled—small, cold.

"I'm not alone," you repeated.

The man swallowed.

And then, with a forced chuckle, he straightened, lifting his hands in mock surrender. "No offense meant, my lady."

He backed away, rejoining his friends without another word.

You let out a slow breath, your fingers unclenching.

Winter had always known when to make his presence known.

Finishing the last of your meal, you pushed the bowl away, your mind already racing again.

Tomorrow, you would ride again.

You just had to decide where.

The temporary camp was quiet, save for the crackling of the fire and the occasional murmur of the guards stationed at the edges. The Lannister banners hung limply in the still night air, a stark contrast to the chaos that had unfolded at Riverrun just days prior. The men had settled, weary from the chase, though their horses were still restless, their breath misting in the cool air.

Jaime sat near the fire, his golden hand resting on his knee, his other hand cradling a cup of wine that had long since lost its warmth. His thoughts were a tangled mess, his mind running through every possible outcome, every direction you might have taken. The hounds had picked up the trail, but you were clever, and Winter was with you. That beast was half-wraith, and you had learned well enough by now how to disappear when you wished to.

Across from him, Bronn stretched out, his usual smirk tugging at his lips as he absently whittled at a piece of wood with a small dagger. He had been watching Jaime for some time now, his expression unreadable, though Jaime knew well enough when the sellsword was winding up to say something he wouldn’t like.

"So," Bronn finally said, slicing off a thin curl of wood, "what’s the plan, then?"

Jaime exhaled slowly, swirling the remnants of his wine. "What plan?"

Bronn snorted. "Oh, I don’t know. The plan for when we actually catch her. You gonna throw her over your horse, drag her back to the Rock, and pretend none of this ever happened? Play the good little husband while she glares daggers at you over supper?"

Jaime’s fingers twitched against the cup.

Bronn’s smirk widened. "Thought so."

Jaime took a slow sip of his wine before setting the cup aside. "I don’t know what I’ll do."

Bronn raised a brow. "Oh, that’s reassuring. Real Lord of the West leadership right there."

Jaime shot him a look, but Bronn only grinned.

The fire crackled between them, throwing flickering light across Jaime’s face, the golden hand glinting with each shift of the flames. He flexed his fingers absently, lost in thought.

"You ever think," he said after a moment, his voice quieter, "that maybe I shouldn’t have done it?"

Bronn snorted. "Done what? Taken Riverrun? Pissed off the Blackfish? Married a Stark?"

Jaime’s jaw tightened.

Bronn let out a low chuckle. "Right. That." He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re really shit at being a family man."

Jaime’s head snapped up, his glare sharp. "I beg your pardon?"

Bronn grinned. "What? You thought just because you married her, that meant you knew how to do this? That a wife just magically makes you into a good husband?" He shook his head. "Face it, Kingslayer. You��ve spent your whole damn life answering to your father, playing your sister’s pet knight, and now, what? You’re just gonna turn around and be some devoted husband?" He scoffed. "You don’t even know what that means."

Jaime’s grip on his knee tightened. "I know what it means."

Bronn lifted a brow. "Do you? Because from where I’m sitting, all I see is a man who’s spent his whole life being one thing and suddenly doesn’t know what the fuck to do now that he’s been forced to be something else."

Jaime exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. "You think I don’t know that?" His voice was quieter now, almost tired.

Bronn studied him for a long moment, his usual smirk fading slightly. "I think you don’t know what you want, Jaime. And that’s why she ran."

Jaime stilled.

The fire crackled, the silence stretching between them.

"She ran," Bronn continued, "because she knew you couldn’t answer that. Because she knew that even if you dragged her back, even if you played the dutiful lord, you’d still be stuck between what you think you should be and what you actually are."

Jaime clenched his jaw, his mind a whirlwind of everything he had tried to push aside.

She had run.

And gods help him, Bronn wasn’t wrong.

The fire between them crackled, sending embers drifting up into the night air. The sounds of the camp had faded into the background—soldiers murmuring, the occasional rustling of armor, the distant howl of a wolf somewhere in the woods. But none of it mattered. Not really.

Bronn watched him, his eyes glinting with something that was neither amusement nor pity but some strange, unreadable middle ground.

Jaime exhaled slowly, barely above a whisper. “It was starting to go well for a while.”

Bronn’s brow lifted, but he didn’t interrupt.

Jaime shook his head slightly, his voice distant. “Back at Casterly Rock. She stopped fighting me at every turn, stopped looking at me like I was her captor. I thought… I thought we might have a family.” His throat tightened slightly, and he hated himself for it. “I thought she might stay. Want to stay.”

Bronn’s grimace was immediate. “Oh, fuck.”

Jaime glanced at him, brow furrowing. “What?”

Bronn let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he rubbed his temple. “Gods, you’re an idiot.”

Jaime’s irritation flared, but before he could snap a retort, Bronn gestured vaguely in his direction. “You thought? Thought she might just forget everything? Thought if you played the patient, dutiful husband long enough, she’d suddenly want to bear your golden-haired Lannister brats and settle into her new life?” He scoffed. “She’s not some courtly lady raised to play the part, Jaime. She’s a Stark. You don’t just tame a Stark. You either stand with them, or you fucking lose them.”

Jaime’s jaw clenched. “You think I don’t know that as well?”

Bronn leveled him with a look. “No. I don’t think you do.”

Jaime sighed.

“I did everything I could,” he murmured. “I gave her a home. I kept her safe. I didn’t touch her until she let me.” He swallowed hard, his fingers flexing again. “And for a while, I thought she wanted it. Maybe not me, but the life I could give her. The life that wasn’t being sold off to Roose Bolton like a fucking broodmare.”

Bronn tilted his head, considering. “Maybe she did want it.” He paused, then smirked. “But you know what happens when you put a wolf in a cage, Jaime?”

Jaime said nothing.

Bronn leaned back, stretching his legs out. “Eventually, it remembers it has teeth.”

The words settled heavily between them, sinking into Jaime’s chest like lead.

He had spent years thinking of himself as the lion, the apex predator, the one with the power to shape the world around him. But you had never been prey. You had been something else entirely, something he had never truly understood.

And now, you were out there—running, wild and free, with only the night and your direwolf for company.

Jaime exhaled, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “So what do I do, then?”

Bronn snorted. “Jaime Lannister asking me for advice on women. Again.”

Jaime shot him a glare.

Bronn grinned. “Look. I don’t know what you do. Maybe you chase her down, throw her over your horse, and drag her back like you wanted. Maybe you let her go and hope she comes back on her own.” He shrugged. “But you better figure out what the fuck you actually want before you do anything. Otherwise, you’ll lose her the moment you catch her.”

Jaime clenched his jaw, the words cutting deeper than he cared to admit.

He had spent his life being so many things—a son, a brother, a knight, a Kingslayer. He had never learned how to be a husband.

And now, he wasn’t sure if he ever would.

The village was small, the kind of place that barely warranted a name on a map, tucked between rolling hills and thick woodland. It was the sort of place war rarely touched, save for the occasional passing army or desperate deserters seeking refuge. The road leading into it was lined with weathered cottages, their thatched roofs sagging under the weight of time. A few wary eyes peeked from windows as Jaime and his men rode in, their crimson banners muted in the dusty morning light.

Bronn pulled his horse up beside Jaime’s, glancing around with mild disinterest. “Charming little shithole,” he muttered. “Bet the best drink here tastes like rat’s piss.”

Jaime ignored him, his eyes scanning the village. It was quiet, too quiet. A handful of villagers moved between buildings, tending to their morning routines, but there was an unease in the air. He had been in enough places like this to know when people were keeping their heads down, avoiding something—or someone.

They dismounted in front of the tavern, the only real gathering place in sight. The wooden sign above the door swayed slightly in the wind, its faded lettering barely legible. The stench of old ale and damp wood greeted them as they pushed inside.

The tavern was dimly lit, the hearth smoldering with the last remnants of a dying fire. A few men sat hunched over their cups, muttering amongst themselves, their voices tapering off when they saw the Lannister colors. The barkeep, a broad-shouldered man with graying hair and a deep frown, was wiping down the counter with the kind of deliberate slowness that told Jaime he didn’t particularly care for new customers.

Jaime stepped forward, his good hand resting against his belt. “We’re looking for someone.”

The barkeep barely looked up. “That so?”

Bronn leaned against the counter, grinning. “A woman. Riding alone. Few nights past.”

The barkeep’s frown deepened. His gaze flickered between them before he let out a scoffing breath. “Aye, I remember her.” He tossed the rag onto the counter, crossing his arms. “Hard to forget when someone causes a scene in a village like this.”

Jaime’s stomach twisted. “What kind of scene?”

The man snorted. “Came in here alone. Thought it was odd enough, a woman riding in without escort, but then she gets herself into a scrap with some of the local boys.” He shook his head. “Would’ve ended ugly if not for that beast of hers.”

Jaime’s brows furrowed. “Beast?”

“The wolf,” the barkeep muttered, like the word itself tasted foul. “Big as a damn horse. Made a show of it too, growling, baring its teeth, scaring the piss out of half the village. Sent those idiots running with their tails tucked.”

Bronn let out a low chuckle. “Seven hells, I almost feel bad for them.”

Jaime ignored him, his grip tightening against his belt. He could see it in his mind—the way you must have stood, chin high, refusing to back down. How many times had he seen that defiance in your eyes? How many times had you thrown his own power back in his face, unyielding in your stubbornness?

The barkeep exhaled sharply. “Didn’t stay long. Left not long after that. Took off before sunrise.” He shook his head. “Good riddance.”

Jaime’s jaw clenched. “Which way?”

The man jerked his chin toward the road leading south, past the tree line. “Didn’t ask her destination. Wasn’t my business.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. “But if she’s got half a brain, she’ll stay gone.”

Jaime held his gaze, cold and steady. “We’ll see about that.”

He turned sharply, pushing back out into the morning light. The village still had its eyes on them, whispers stirring between those bold enough to watch.

Bronn followed after him, swinging easily into his saddle. “So, what now?”

Jaime mounted his horse, his expression unreadable.

“We follow the trail.”

The air was crisp, the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves thick as Jaime rode through the dense woodland. The morning mist had yet to fully burn away, clinging to the undergrowth like ghostly fingers, making the world feel smaller, more confined. The only sounds were the rustling of trees, the occasional snort of a horse, and the low, eager growls of the hounds sniffing through the brush.

They had been riding for two days since leaving the village, following little more than vague tracks and the instinct that you wouldn’t simply disappear without a trace. And now—finally—the dogs had picked up something.

Jaime felt his pulse quicken as the lead hound, a large black-and-brown beast with a nose sharper than a blade, let out a deep-throated howl.

Bronn, riding beside him, lifted a brow. “Well, well. Looks like the bitch is close.”

Jaime shot him a glare, but Bronn only smirked.

Ahead, the handlers urged the dogs forward, their bodies low to the ground, sniffing, their tails stiff with anticipation. The pack veered slightly to the right, pushing deeper into the trees, their excitement growing.

Jaime’s grip on the reins tightened. “How fresh is it?”

One of the handlers glanced back, his weathered face set in concentration. “Few hours, maybe less.”

Jaime exhaled, his mind racing. You were close. So close.

Bronn let out a low whistle. “Gotta hand it to her, she’s got a good head start. Clever girl.”

Jaime said nothing, his jaw tightening. You were clever. Always had been. But even the cleverest wolf could be run to ground if the hunt was determined enough.

The dogs pushed onward, their paws kicking up leaves and dirt. The men followed, careful to stay within sight of the hounds while scanning the woods for any sign of movement.

Jaime’s eyes flickered through the trees, searching for any telltale sign of you—perhaps a glimpse of dark fabric between the branches, a stir in the underbrush that was not caused by the wind. But the forest remained still, save for the hounds forging ahead, their howls carrying through the morning air.

Bronn adjusted his grip on the reins, tilting his head toward Jaime. “So, what’s the grand plan here? You catch her and drag her back kicking and screaming like we talked?”

Jaime’s grip tightened on the reins. “If I have to.”

Bronn snorted. “Right. Because that’ll make her real eager to be your loving wife.”

Jaime ignored him, his gaze never leaving the trees.

Bronn sighed, stretching in his saddle. “Look, Jaime, you ever think maybe you ought to just let her go?”

Jaime’s head snapped toward him. “No.”

Bronn raised his brows. “No? That’s it? No consideration, no thinking it through, just no?”

Jaime turned back to the path ahead, his expression unreadable. “She’s mine.”

Bronn let out a short laugh. “And does she know that? Because from what I’ve seen, she seems pretty set on not being anybody’s anything.”

Jaime exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “She’s not safe out here.”

Bronn gave him a knowing look. “That why you’re after her? Or is that just what you keep telling yourself?”

Jaime didn’t answer.

The truth of it lay somewhere between the two, tangled and messy, caught between what he had been and what he was becoming.

The dogs suddenly surged forward, their barks growing louder, more frantic. The handlers struggled to keep them in check as they pulled against their leads, noses buried in the dirt.

Jaime’s pulse quickened.

The scent was fresh.

You were close.

Very close.

Bronn watched the hounds for a moment before shaking his head. “Well, fuck me. Looks like we’re gonna find out real soon how much she wants to be found.”

Jaime said nothing, only urged his horse forward.

His jaw was tight, his expression unreadable, but deep in his chest, his heart pounded like war drums.

This time, he wouldn’t let you slip away.

The pounding of hooves thundered through the trees, the wind whipping against your face as you urged your horse forward, faster, faster, branches tearing at your cloak, your heart hammering against your ribs. The shouts of the hunting party were too close now, the baying of the hounds cutting through the forest like a death knell. You didn’t look back—you didn’t need to. You could feel them closing in.

Winter was a pale blur at your side, his massive paws barely making a sound as he kept pace with you, his ears flattened against his skull, his breath coming in sharp, low growls. He knew. He knew they were gaining ground.

And then—

A figure shot past the trees, veering ahead of you.

Bronn.

You cursed under your breath, pulling sharply on the reins as your horse reared slightly. Bronn grinned, his eyes keen, calculating. “Almost had us there, love,” he called over the wind. “Gotta admit, I was almost betting on you making it a bit farther.”

Winter snarled, surging forward to intercept him, but Bronn was quicker, kicking his horse into a sharp maneuver, avoiding the direwolf’s attack just in time.

It all happened too fast.

You pressed your heels into your horse’s sides, forcing it into another desperate sprint, the wind tearing at your cloak, your heart a frenzied drumbeat in your chest—

And then the ground shifted.

A rut. A moment’s hesitation.

Your horse stumbled, its front legs catching awkwardly in the uneven terrain.

You barely had time to react before the world pitched sideways, and suddenly you were falling, hitting the ground hard, your breath knocked from your lungs as you rolled, the taste of dirt and blood filling your mouth.

Winter howled.

You barely had time to gather yourself before rough hands yanked you upward, dragging you onto unsteady feet. Cold metal pressed against your throat.

Bronn.

His grip was firm, the dagger cool against your skin. His breath was steady, not even winded. He had been expecting this.

Winter growled low, his body tensed, ready to lunge.

Bronn pressed the dagger just a little closer to your throat. “Easy there, pup,” he muttered. “Would hate to make a mess of her.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, your mind racing, your pulse wild.

“You should let me go.”

Bronn huffed a short laugh. “That so?”

You swallowed, the blade shifting slightly against your skin. “You don’t need to take me back. You could tell Jaime I fell into the river, drowned, anything. He’d believe it.”

Bronn was quiet for a beat.

And for just a moment, you thought—maybe.

Maybe he would. Maybe he would decide that whatever loyalty he had to the Lannisters was not worth the trouble of dragging you back to a life you never wanted.

Maybe—

Then Bronn sighed dramatically.

“Ah, see, that’s a real tempting offer,” he said, tilting his head, his grip never loosening. “But the thing is, Jaime’s got a real soft spot for you. And more importantly, his father’s got a real expensive soft spot for making sure you stay put.”

Your heart clenched. “Bronn—”

“Now, don’t get me wrong,” he continued, shifting his hold slightly as he began steering you back toward the hunting party, “I’m a man of practicality. If it were up to me, I’d let you run off and be done with it. But Lannisters? They pay real well. And I’ve been promised a very big castle if I make sure you don’t go running off again.”

Your chest tightened. “You’d sell me back to them for a castle?”

Bronn chuckled. “I’d sell my own mother for a castle.”

Your nails dug into your palms, your body stiff, furious. “You’re a coward.”

Bronn scoffed. “Darling, I’m alive.”

Winter’s growls hadn’t lessened, his steps slow, calculated, waiting for an opening. But Bronn kept the blade firm against your back, his other hand gripping your arm as he pulled you toward the approaching sound of horses and voices.

You felt it—the weight of inevitability crashing over you.

You had run. You had fought.

And still, you were being dragged back.

Back to Jaime.

Back to the cage.

And as the hunting party emerged through the trees, Jaime’s golden armor catching the morning light, his expression unreadable as he took in the sight of you in Bronn’s grip—

You knew.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Nothing Has Changed - 17

Summary: Returning home for peace, you're faced with your tormentor, Bucky Barnes, who is now involved in your family's business.

Character: Bucky Barnes

Warning: Dark, Mystery, Betrayal.

Nothing Has Changed - Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more. 💖💖💖

Knowing Ransom was heading straight into your personal hell made your stomach twist with unease. Something felt wrong—deeply, irreversibly wrong. And you didn’t want any part of it.

After the consultations with Tim, you rushed back to see your father, your mind racing.

Steve immediately noticed your tense expression when you returned. His brows furrowed. “Bad news?”

You exhaled sharply. “I have two jobs for you.” Your voice was firm, brooking no argument. “First, I need you to stay with my dad while I’m gone. And second, a lawyer will be coming to meet you both.”

Steve’s expression flickered with suspicion. “Wait. A lawyer?” He straightened in his chair. “No. I’ll go with you.”

“No.”

“Please.” His voice was almost desperate. “After everything you’ve done for me, at least let me do something to help you.”

“If you want to help me, then do this.” Your eyes locked onto his. “Stay here.”

Steve looked like he wanted to argue, but you continued, your voice low and sharp. “Two doctors. Two. Misdiagnosed both of you. If I hadn’t caught it in time, we’d be burying my father this year.” Your jaw clenched. “I will drag Tony to the deepest circle of hell for what he did. He treated my father like a disposable test subject, throwing whatever drugs he wanted at him.”

A sickening thought hit you—if you had been too late, would you be attending Tom’s funeral instead?

You turned back to Steve, voice cold. “And as for your doctor? He’s lucky we caught it early. If we hadn’t, I would’ve made sure no hospital on this earth would take him.”

Steve swallowed hard. He had never heard you talk like that before. A chill ran down his spine.

🌸🌸🌸🌸

You both entered Tom’s room. He lay on the hospital bed, his face no longer as pale as before. There was a visible difference now that he had stopped taking Tony’s damn medicine. He looked calmer. Healthier.

Seeing him like this made it easier to leave. At least here, he was safe.

You stepped closer to his bedside. “Dad, I’ll be gone for a little while.”

Tom’s tired eyes met yours. “Where are you going?”

“I need to go back home for a bit—to get your things.” You kept your tone light, masking the true reason for your trip. “You’ll be having surgery soon, and Allan said the recovery will take a while.”

For the first time in years, you realized you were saying goodbye like you actually wanted permission to leave.

Tom studied you for a long moment, then nodded. “Let me pray for you.”

“Pray?”

You hesitated.

As a mortician, your father had spent years witnessing grief, loss, and regret. Every day, he worked with the dead—people who could no longer ask for second chances. And before every funeral, he always whispered a quiet prayer for the departed, hoping their souls would find peace. He prayed for the families they left behind, too.

And, though he had never told you, he prayed for you. Every single day.

His biggest regret was never saying goodbye properly before you left all those years ago. Now, with his weakened body, this was all he could do for you.

Tom lifted his hands, looking between you and Steve, waiting.

You could refuse. Or you could take his hands.

You stepped forward, slipping your fingers into his. Steve did the same.

Tom closed his eyes and took a deep breath before speaking.

“God,” Tom began, his voice thick with emotion. “I am grateful for the time I have now, for the second chance to be with my daughter. For the truth that has been revealed.”

His grip on your hands tightened slightly.

“Bless her with strength and wisdom if she ever faces hardship.”

Your throat tightened.

“And help this young man recover. Amen”

Steve inhaled sharply. His lips parted slightly, but he said nothing.

Your chest burned. You almost cried right then and there.

“What hardship?” you scoffed, clearing your throat, trying to compose yourself. “I’m just grabbing your stuff. I’ll be back.”

Tom opened his eyes, watching you carefully.

“I know.”

As you stepped out of your father’s hospital room, the sterile scent of antiseptic clung to your senses, mixing with the tension coiling in your chest. Steve followed, his footsteps quiet but steady beside you. The hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit, eerily silent except for the occasional murmur of nurses in the distance. You glanced at him, your voice low but firm.

"There will be two lawyers coming to meet you."

From your pocket, you pulled out two sleek business cards, their embossed letters gleaming under the fluorescent light. You handed them to Steve. He took them with a furrowed brow, flipping them between his fingers. He had no idea who they were—yet. But soon, he would learn.

Harlan’s advice echoed in your mind: Make connections. Befriend everyone. You never knew what life would throw at you. Back when you were just a junior analyst, Harlan had dragged you and Ransom to every business seminar, every high-profile networking event. At first, you didn’t understand why. But then, you saw it—those rooms weren’t filled with people. They were filled with predators. Deals were silent battles, conversations were well-crafted traps, and everyone was there to hunt for their next big opportunity.

You had no family legacy, no name that carried weight. But you had something better—you worked in finance. You knew where the money flowed. And with Harlan’s bank behind you, you had leverage.

Still, blending in hadn’t been easy. The CEOs, the vice presidents—they wouldn’t even look at a junior like you. Ransom, of course, fit right in. He had the name, the presence, the confidence of someone born into privilege. But you? You had to adapt.

So you did.

Instead of chasing after the top dogs, you turned to the ones no one paid attention to—the young lawyers, accountants, auditors. You collected business cards like weapons, knowing that, one day, they would prove useful. Business was just another game of survival, after all.

And now, standing in this dim hospital corridor, those connections were finally paying off.

"I’m going to sue the hell out of the doctors who misdiagnosed my father and you."

Steve blinked, taken aback by the fury in your tone. You could feel your pulse hammering against your skin, the sheer injustice of it all threatening to consume you. If you hadn’t caught it in time, if your father had kept taking those damn pills… You swallowed hard. You wouldn’t think about that.

"But I need you to keep pretending to be sick," you continued.

Steve's brows knitted together in confusion. "Why? I can start making new art next month."

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. "Do it if you want, but keep it quiet. And whatever you do—don’t tell the gallery owner about your condition."

His expression darkened. "Why are you making this so secretive?"

Because you weren’t sure yet. Because there was something off about all of this—the timing, the misdiagnoses, the way the pieces were falling into place just a little too neatly. A cold shiver crawled up your spine.

"If I get proof, I’ll tell you," you admitted. "But for now, I need you to trust me."

Steve studied you for a long moment, his blue eyes searching yours. Then, he sighed, slipping the business cards into his pocket.

"Promise me you’ll come back."

You hesitated. Lying to him felt wrong, but you couldn’t make a promise you weren’t sure you could keep.

"I’ll try," you said softly.

It wasn’t a promise. But it was the truth.

🌸🌸🌸🌸

Sliding into the sleek interior of your sports car, you gripped the wheel, the leather cool against your palms. With a sharp turn, you accelerated onto the open road, the city skyline shrinking in your rearview mirror. The tires cut through the damp asphalt, the rhythmic sound of the engine steadying the unease coiling in your gut.

As the miles stretched ahead, the landscape darkened. The air grew heavier, the bright city glow fading into an eerie emptiness. The further you drove, the more suffocating it felt. That damn small town was waiting for you.

By morning, you were back.

The sun cast long shadows over the town as you stepped into the hotel lobby, the scent of polished wood and freshly brewed coffee thick in the air. You spotted them immediately—Ransom, dressed in his usual effortless elegance, and several employees from the bank, their crisp suits making them stand out in the rustic setting.

And there was Bucky.

He stood in the middle of it all, giving the bank representatives a tour of the property, his voice smooth and commanding. He fit here too well—too at ease, too comfortable.

Then, his gaze landed on you.

His face lit up, and before you could react, he was beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders in a casual side hug.

You shivered.

It wasn’t from the cold. It wasn’t from surprise. It was something else—something instinctive. You wanted to pull away, to put distance between you and him, but you forced yourself to stay still. Show nothing.

"How’s your dad?" His voice was warm, almost too warm.

You swallowed down your discomfort. "He’s getting surgery."

Bucky’s eyes widened slightly, feigning shock. "I’ll visit him soon."

"You should visit Steve too," you said, testing him.

"Steve?" His brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. "What happened to him?"

"He got into an accident. Hurt his hand."

Bucky let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Oh, boy. He should’ve listened to me. I told him he wouldn’t fit in the big city."

Your fingers curled into a fist behind your back.

Not a single trace of sympathy. Just that smug, knowing tone like he had been right all along.

You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to exhale slowly. "Why did you choose to work with this bank?" You kept your voice even, neutral.

Bucky met your gaze, and for a second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes. Then, he smirked. "Simple," he said smoothly. "Because it’s linked to you."

The way he said it—like there was something deeper beneath the surface—made your stomach tighten.

Silence stretched between you.

You needed to get out of this conversation.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Ransom looking in your direction. He had already noticed you, his expression unreadable but sharp. Without hesitation, you stepped away from Bucky, breaking the tension as you walked toward Ransom.

Bucky didn’t stop you.

As you reached Ransom, he gave you a slow, knowing smirk. "Didn’t think I’d see you back here so soon."

"Neither did I," you muttered.

Now, it was just the two of you walking together. And for the first time since you arrived, you could finally breathe.

Ransom walked beside you, his hands in his pockets, his usual air of arrogance softened by curiosity. “Do you think it’s worth investing here?” he asked.

You didn’t hesitate. “My advice? Don’t even waste your breath.”

His brows lifted in amusement. “Woah.” He let out a low chuckle. “I knew you hated your hometown, but this place actually has potential. There’s a lot of undeveloped land. And near the hospital, they’re planning to build a retirement home. Give it a few years—this town could be the getaway spot for people escaping city life.”

He was joking, clearly expecting you to roll your eyes or throw a sarcastic jab back at him. But when he noticed how still you had gone, how you weren’t meeting his gaze like usual, the humor drained from his face.

“Ransom.”

His expression turned serious. “Yeah?”

You exhaled slowly, keeping your voice low. “Don’t trust James Barnes.”

Ransom frowned, but before he could question you, you stole a quick glance over your shoulder.

Just as you suspected.

Bucky was still standing where you had left him, his hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored slacks, his expression unreadable. But he wasn’t talking to anyone. He wasn’t moving.

He was watching you.

Your stomach twisted. There was something about the way he lingered, something unsettling in his quiet observation. It wasn’t just idle curiosity. It was like he was studying you, waiting.

A slow smirk ghosted over his lips when he caught you looking.

You turned back to Ransom, your voice firmer now. “I mean it.”

Ransom’s jaw tightened, his gaze flickering between you and Bucky in the distance.

Something was off.

And you weren’t going to ignore it.

Join the tag list? 🩷💙🩷

@winterslove1917

@thezombieprostitute

@namoreno

@sagebarness

@tenaciousathleteoperatorgarden

@unaxv

@missvelvetsstuff

@kjah97

@hopeful-daydreaming

@freshlemontea

@eat-limes-bitches

@kandis-mom

@scott-loki-barnes

@winters1917

@differenttyphoonwerewolf

@arunabraganza

@ordelixx

@esposadomd

@sapphirebarnes

@cjand10

@bellabarnes1378

@thetravelingtyper

@buckitostan

@mostlymarvelgirl

@5upersoldiers1xt

@jjanereid

@cakesandtom

@queen2234

@learisa

@springsheep

@mrsstuckyboo

@read-just-cant

@loki-laufeyson68

@anixerz

@ghalouha

@jeremyrennermakesmesmile

@emerald-writes

@mcira

@barnesxstan

@bxtchboy69

@lokislady82

@mrsnikstan

@calwitch

@thedonswife13

@calwitch

@otterlycanadian

@bonkybarnes106

@tinkrogers

@chimchoom

@winchestert101

@raajali3

[belliexpog]

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Piercing on Your Lip is Perfect- Se-Mi

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Pair: Se-Mi×Reader

Part: Part.2 (part.1)

Warnings: none

Words: 3k

Playlist: POYLIP

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

If there was anyone who could have such a great connection in such a short time, it was you and Se-Mi. For the past 2 months you've been going out almost every weekend, to parties, cafes, ice cream shops or just a ride on her motorbike. She was the kind of person who could listen to you talk about what you love for hours and a year later she would remember everything. You could have the deepest conversations with her and the next moment have the best laughs of your life. She was a sweetheart, but she was such a woman.

At this moment you were at a party, which Se-Mi insisted on going to.You were with Dae-Ho, Thanos and Nam-gyu.You were quieter today, you didn't insist on dancing with Se-Mi so many times, you didn't drink or have your stupid arguments with Nam-gyu. Se-Mi noticed, obviously. She sat down next to you, putting her glass down on the table and putting her arm around your shoulders, tilting her head to look at you.

"What's up, pretty? Are you okay?" You nodded, placing your elbow on the table and resting your chin on the palm of your hand.Se-Mi let out a laugh, and put his arm around your waist, pulling you closer.She held your chin and gently turned your head towards her. Your eyes met and she smiled sideways and pressed your lips together. Kissing her was like going to another dimension. Your lips simply fit together perfectly, without needing much effort, and her lip piercing was just perfect, improving the kiss a thousand percent. You melted into the kiss, placing your hand on her cheek, and shivering as you felt the girl's cold hand on your warm neck.

When the air was lacking in both of your lungs, Se-Mi separated your lips, ending the kiss with a few pecks. "We can just leave, you know, right?" She asks, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You smile, biting your lips thinking Se-Mi watches with a smile, ready to leave. As you grab your coat, Se-Mi picks up her drink, drinking it all in one gulp, standing up. "Are you sure? Don't you want to stay a little longer?" You ask, adjusting your clothes as you stand up. "I want to be where you want to be. After all, I dragged you to this party, it's only fair that I take you away whenever you want."

And just like that, you and Se-Mi left that party, and the girl took you home safe and sound. Things with Se-Mi were like this: Simple and straightforward. There was no such thing as thinking twice.She wanted something? She does. And you loved that about her.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

This one is so bad, so sorry babies

But anyway babies, hope you liked it

Xoxo!

[lanadelreyscokewhor3]

okay... late night thot about dick grayson because i CANNOT sleep without writing this down... smut warning

imagine its the 50s (minus all the terrible shit that went down in that time period) and you work at this adorable little dinner. you always get the night shift, and you never ever complain because you always get the same man through your doors every single night for the same damn thing. dick sticks out like a sore thumb, always in a nice suit, or a dark turtleneck- clearly looking like he left some super fancy buisness job. the diner is soft pastels and pinks and blues and he looks like count dracula when he sits in the same corner booth. you always make sure to do your hair and makeup all nice and soft for him, and give extra care to your painted nails and that extra spritz of perfume. so you smell like sugarcakes all the time. flashing him a smile as you skate over with his coffee and sandwhich he always gets for a late bite, and then bumping the juxebox with yout hips so a nice tune will play while he eats (and watches you work). he always tips you super well and you leave your phone number on his bill one time, which was super bold for you because although you were outspoken and bubbly- your little southern drawl heard from the kitchen all the time, you were shy with him. cause he flirted with you like crazy and it made you so flustered sometimes you almost forgot how to skate. but he called you one night and yes you totally were in a little nightgown, laying on your bed, kicking your feet and twirling the phone cord while he gave you praises. dick grayson was such a flirt you were surpised he wasnt married. though he was young, like you- mid/late 20s. i can just imagine him sitting at the bar when its quiet and just staying while you work a slow night to keep you company :)) and he holds your hands in his large ones and just admires your nails whenever you switch them up, he loves every colour and design. his nickname for you was sugar, cause you smelt like a candy and cause he told you that you were sweet as sugarcakes. one night, his compliments were getting you so hot and bothered you met him outside on your break in the back of the dark parkinglot... and ya know. mmhm.

"yeah sweets that feel good? hittin all the right spots for my pretty little sugarplum?" he'd coo as he had your back arched in the back of his cadillac, moaning and fogging up the windows as he gripped your neck and pound into you from behind. "you like that pretty? gonna let me fill ya up, make you even sweeter? my baby.." and he'd pinch your cheeks (both of em) and make you cum so hard you saw stars, head getting foggy and going into subspace as he'd fuck his cum into you even though that fancy lil pill didnt come out until the 60s. oh well, it was dick grayson. and after he cleaned you up and praised you, kissing your face all over and the top of your head before fixing his tie, his glasses and the lipstick kisses all over his neck, he'd take you back before your break was over and get you a slice of pie.

okay idk should i make this a full length fic? the thot just came into my mind, i fear i had to write it... sabrina carpenter has inspired me...

mini moodboard: the people in the pics do not represent what reader looks like, simply the vibe!

[bunnyinvanilla]

fancy some old man company ceo!john price x young innocent little girl!personal assistant reader? (he’s in his late 40s and shes 21)

usually, ceos weren’t the ones in charge of hiring new employees, they left the boring job to their assistants or managers — but this morning, upon coming to his office, john price was met with the sight of a young, disoriented little girl, dolled up in heels and standing cluelessly like a lost little bunny in the main hall, curriculum file in hand, probably not having a clue where to go —

being the gentleman he was, as the boss, price welcomed you inside his office, telling you not to worry about the manager you were supposed to meet up with for the application, whom you had originally planned the appointment with…

“the file says you’re twenty one and fresh out of college,” his eyes briefly emerged from the paper he was holding with his thick, ringed fingers, slowly focusing on every inch of your sitting stance, taking you in with no hesitation nor costume mannerism, shamelessly staring, in a way that made you swallow nervously and nod politely, your hands neatly folded on your lap, right where the hem of your skirt hinted to your bare thighs.

”y-yes, sir, i-im actually looking for a job as a librarian, but i’ve been in need of financial assistance since graduating, so in the meantime i could really use a part time position.” you could feel every nervous beat of your heart vibrating through your chest as you spose, your cheeks like burning flames, bright and red as you barely manage to stay still on your seat, trembling like a shy bunny — how could you find yourself working for him if you can’t even meet his gaze? “this one would be my first job..”

price just hums, leaning back on his chair that crackles under his massive body, wrapped in a expensive tailored suit, bulk and buff muscles giving him an intimidating appearance — his thighs spread wide, legs parted.

you were a young, shy, pretty thing, sweet and polite, in the prime of her blooming youth and just eager to find her place into this world, to prove herself and make someone proud, earn their (his) praise. he had lot and lot of experience behind his back, even more years, and he was sure you would be the best, obedient good girl just by looking at you.

john price could be that someone, he was old enough to be your father, burly and exuded power and security, exactly what you needed — he could use a sweet, young personal secretary like you, all doe eyes and in need of praise and approval, make his exhausting job as the boss less stressful, you would get him lunch or coffee, print paperwork sheets for him, bring him new cigars, and even be his lap bunny, his trophy little girl, warming him up.

“you’re hired,” the words he muttered was so rough, gruff and low you had to blink twice, before opening your mouth and closing it right after.

“im sorry? oh- but— uhm, are you sure?” you feel a little dumbstruck by the rapidity of the interview, but you’re thankful nonetheless, “i thought I’d have to answer more questions..”

“we have a lot of work to do here and never enough employees, sweetheart, im sure your help will be..” he let his eyes trail down on your figure again, slower this time, his large hand coming to scratch his thick, dark and graying beard as he studied you “well appreciated and rewarded, little one”