#which makes taking comms on there harder

[venacoeurva]

If I'm gonna be completely real I am not signing up for another shitload of social media alternatives, probably like 1/2 of which die out super fast again or are astroturfed, if Tumblr goes down in the near future I'm meandering back to Twitter because I still have so many mutuals there who also moved over there from prior Tumblr exoduses and maybe cohost or pillowfort if they actually pick back up and keep momentum

[zaynessbeloved]

Tipsy, hard and needing you

Synopsis: Rafayel doesn’t drink often...but when he does, he drinks to forget how much he misses you. After one too many glasses and one too many thirst-heavy messages, you find yourself in his studio, still in your scratched-up mission uniform. He’s flushed, needy, and harder than he has any right to be. And his drunken mind can conjure one thing, and one thing only: showing you just how much he missed you.

Content warnings: Explicit sexual content, established relationship, rough drunk sex, desperate whiny begging, body worship, bratty dynamics, dominance/submission themes (soft switch energy), marking, fingering, oral sex (receiving), size kink, overstimulation, intense eye contact, dirty talk, alcohol consumption (consensual), rafayel sending a suggestive pic/public teasing (prelude), rough handling, cockwarming mention, possessive behavior, mild obsession, emotional vulnerability, and unprotected sex.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 7k

A/n: i am insane because he has so many 4star memories of him being tipsy (implied) so i had to write a lil something on how i personally see him being tipsy/drunk. this is just my personal take, enjoy! <3

The mission isn’t long, but it’s exhausting. Your arms are still sore from holding your weapon too tight, and there's a smear of Wanderer dust clinging to your boot. You want nothing more than to peel off your jacket, throw your comm onto the charger, and melt into your bed.

Your phone buzzes. And then again. And again. You don’t need to check the name, you already know who it is. The first few texts are nothing new.

Rafayel: i’m dying Rafayel: this canvas is my mortal enemy Rafayel: come eulogize me, cutie. bring wine

Dramatic, as always. But then the tone of his messages shifts.

Rafayel: need you Rafayel: no seriously. i need you Rafayel: i’m not even being poetic this time

You pause mid-step, boots clicking to a halt in the middle of the quiet sidewalk. Another buzz.

Rafayel: come ruin me. please.

Your heart stutters, because the following message is a photo. Your breath catches the second you see it. He’s shirtless, which, fine, isn’t unheard of—Rafayel has never been shy about his body, and he always knows exactly what he’s doing with that silver chain and half-lidded stare.

But this isn’t aesthetic. It’s desperate. His hair’s messy, mussed from his own hands. His chest is flushed, and the angle is a little off, like he tried multiple times and gave up. One arm is stretched above his head, the other lazily gripping the waistband of his sweats. Low, way too low.

There’s a hint of ink from one of his recent tattoos, the glint of chain, the barest shadow of want.And the message underneath the picture?

Rafayel: if you don’t come over i might start painting with my dick. your choice.

You don’t even laugh, you just pick up the pace. You’re half-jogging now, mission forgotten, boots pounding against the pavement. Because Rafayel doesn’t get drunk easily, not unless he’s trying. And he doesn’t beg. Not like this. Not unless he’s completely unraveling.

You fire off a single reply as you duck into a side alley and cut through toward his studio

You: Don’t you dare start without me, Raf

His reply is immediate.

Rafayel: hurryyy. i’m so hard it hurts. also i think i might have tried making soup and almost burnt the kitchen down???”

You don’t know whether to groan, blush, or sprint faster. Probably all three.

You don’t even knock when you come to a halt in front of his door. You’re too far gone for that. Too wired from the rush of his texts, the photo seared into your brain like a brand, the idea of him hard and messy and waiting for you.

The studio door swings open before your knuckles can reach it, and there he is. Rafayel. Shirtless, barefoot, flushed from the chest up, hair a mess of tangled curls, one side of his sweatpants riding dangerously low. There’s a line of color creeping across his collarbones, the telltale shimmer of sweat glistening beneath silver chains. And, oh…he’s hard. Very hard. Painfully obvious under the thin fabric of his pants.

He opens his mouth, but you’re already grabbing him by the front of those pants and yanking him forward into a kiss that shatters whatever clever line he was about to deliver.

He gasps into your mouth, stumbling slightly, both of you nearly crashing into the frame of the door. His hands fumble at your hips, gripping too tight, a little frantic.

“Getting straight…” he pants, voice thick, breath hot, “…to the point, huh?”

You groan against his lips, tugging him deeper inside, one hand already tangled in the damp strands at the back of his neck.

The door slams shut behind you but neither of you cares, really. His mouth tastes like vodka and heat and desperation—like Rafayel, but unfiltered. His tongue licks into yours with messy abandon, too much and not enough. He moans when your teeth scrape his bottom lip, then pulls back just enough to look at you, breathing hard.

“You’re…” His hand brushes the rough fabric of your uniform, and he squints. “You’re still in your hunter gear?”

“Obviously,” you mutter, panting. “You couldn’t wait?”

His brows furrow, soft and tipsy. “Shit. Did I interrupt something? You were on a mission, weren’t you?” His hand ghosts over a dirt-smeared scrape on your arm, slow, almost guilty.

You kiss him again, hard. “Don’t care.”

He makes a sound that’s half whimper, half relief. And then his fingers start tugging at your jacket, clumsy and insistent.

“Well then…” he murmurs, lips brushing yours, breath thick with heat and vodka. “It’s getting hot in here, don’t you think?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just starts peeling the jacket off your shoulders, dragging it down with exaggerated care, eyes locked on every inch of skin he reveals like it’s the first time he’s ever seen you.

You break the kiss as he pushes you backwards, deeper into the studio apartment section of his loft. Canvases and crushed tubes of paint blur in your periphery as your boots stumble over the rug.

“Raf,” you whisper between kisses. “Why are you drunk?”

He presses his forehead to yours, lips brushing lazily at the corner of your mouth, still breathing hard. “Tell me…” his chuckle is low, wicked. “…should I be a good, honest boy? Or should I play hard to get?”

You groan, rolling your eyes so hard your head tilts back, exposing your throat to him. He takes the bait immediately. His lips latch onto your skin, hot and desperate, teeth grazing just enough to make you shudder.

“God, even drunk you’re insufferable,” you mutter.

“And yet,” he pants, “you’re here.”

You drag your hands down his chest, nails leaving faint trails over his flushed skin. He groans again, deeper this time, and it vibrates through his chest like thunder under silk. Drunk Rafayel isn’t loud. He’s needy. Whiny, flustered, and just this side of unhinged. And you haven’t even undressed yet.

Your hands find the hem of his sweatpants as you kiss him again, just barely brushing beneath the waistband, the faintest tease of fingertips over heated skin. He gasps into your mouth, then groans, deep and needy, when your nails scrape softly just under his hips. You pull him with you as you both stumble backward, his footing a little clumsy, until his back hits the edge of the kitchen counter.

The moment jars him, just enough to bite at the fog in his mind. He leans there, flushed and panting, eyes half-lidded and gleaming like molten purple under the dim studio lights. Behind him, a bottle of alcohol, nearly emptied, sits beside a forgotten glass, the rim still coated in a faint pinkish smear from his mouth.

You glance at it, frowning slightly. “Why’d you drink so much?”

He doesn’t answer at first, just breathes, or more like pants, trying to regain some sort of self control because he can still feel your fingers beneath the hem of his sweatpants. And then slowly, softly, his fingers curl at the edge of the counter as his head tilts.

“Miss Bodyguard,” he murmurs, breathless, voice slurring playfully, “touching me wherever is rude.”

You raise a brow, lips quirking. “You’re saying that right now?”

But there’s no bite in your voice because beneath the teasing, you see him. His face is flushed to the ears, hair damp at the temples, sweat slicking down the curve of his neck. And his eyes, god…his eyes are drowning in something deeper than just alcohol.

He swallows slowly, lifting those stormy eyes to yours.

“I missed you,” he whispers.

You blink, heart lurching.

“I know it was just a few days,” he continues, voice hoarse, trembling at the edges. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you. All day, every minute.” He lets out a half-laugh, self-deprecating, breathless. “I tried painting. I tried walking. I even tried folding laundry, which—don’t look at me like that—but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop wanting you.”

Your heart squeezes so hard it hurts. You knew Rafayel was intense—loved intensely, wanted fiercely. But this? This is raw, cracked open and so honest.

He’s still leaning against the counter like he’s trying to hold himself upright. You close the distance, fingers still flirting with the band of his sweats, but now it’s softer, less teasing, more grounding. His hands twitch at his sides.

“Raf…” you breathe.

He doesn’t answer, not with words. Instead, he drags you into another kiss, deeper now, hungrier. You press into him, one hand sliding up his bare chest, the other still dancing just under the fabric at his hips.

His head falls back with a ragged gasp as your mouth trails from his lips down the slope of his neck. You taste sweat, vodka, and the edges of desperation, and he shivers under your tongue.

“I think you need to go…” he pants, voice low and wrecked and just a little daring, “…a little lower.”

You smile against his skin, lips ghosting over his collarbone.

“Is that a request?” you whisper.

His hips twitch.

“That’s a warning.” he growls, breathless and already falling apart.

You smile against the curve of his neck. Not sweetly and definitely not innocently. No, you smile like you know exactly what you're doing. Because you do.

Your lips trail down the column of his throat, warm and slow, brushing over the slick heat of his pulse. He tilts his head to the side instinctively, giving you space, almost desperate to feel your lips on his flushed, sensitive skin. His breath catches, shaky and high, when your mouth closes over his collarbone, planting a few kisses, then sucking, just hard enough to bruise.

His hips twitch. You feel it, feel the tension and the desperation. He’s so hard now it must be painful, the heat of his cock burning against your palm where your fingers still tease, just barely dipped under the band of his sweats.

He groans, head knocking back against the cabinet behind him, chains clinking softly against his skin.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me, touching me like this…” he whispers.

But you do. You press another kiss to his clavicle, then a mark just beneath it. “I missed you too,” you murmur against his skin. “Every second.”

His breath leaves him in a sharp exhale, like the words hit harder than he expected. His hands clench at the counter’s edge, knuckles white, body trembling from how close your touch is to what he wants. He needs you to touch him so fucking bad.

But you don’t move your hand, not yet. You pull back instead, just a little, enough to look at him. And fuck, the sight of him like this steals your breath.

Rafayel, flushed and ruined, his lips parted, throat marked red and blooming, hair falling wild across his forehead, eyes barely open, just enough to look at you like you’re the only thing tethering him to this world. His chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths. His sweats are tented so hard it’s almost obscene.

You don't even have to speak. You just watch him, his whole body radiates heat and want, and the look on his face is ruinuos, drunk on vodka and you.

His gaze falters under yours, then lifts again, wild and starving. His voice is wrecked when he speaks, low and teasing, but laced with something darker, more dangerous.

“Do not tease me,” he breathes. “If you keep looking at me like that…” he leans forward, just slightly, a tremble in his frame. “…I won’t show you any mercy.”

You smirk. And that drives him insane. His hips jerk, desperate for contact, but you still don’t move your hand. Your thumb brushes just along his hipbone instead, feather-light. The touch is teasing yet promising underneath.

Makeout sessions with Rafayel are always like this—heady, breathless, intense. Full of moans and shivers and pretty bruises. Because when he touches, he touches with everything he has. And you know that. You know what he’s capable of in bed. You’ve felt it, how he unravels you like a masterpiece he painted himself—slowly, deliberately, with obsession bleeding into every stroke.

Which is why now…you’re not giving him exactly what he wants. You want to keep him tethering on this very edge of madness just a little longer. The thought of what that will make of him makes you so wet, and you mentally hold yourself to the promise of him ruining you later on. As he never fails to do.

You kiss him again, harder this time, deeper, and his whole body reacts. One of your hands slides up, threading into his hair and tugging just enough to make him groan into your mouth. He doesn't grip the counter anymore. Now it’s you he holds onto, the side of your neck, the back of your shoulder, your waist—desperate hands clinging like he's afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn't press you close enough.

His cock grinds against you, hot and aching, and he whines—low in his throat, helpless—when your hand still doesn’t wrap around him.

He’s burning for you, desperate for your touch, and you know it.

Your breaths mingle, thick with alcohol, lust, and the kind of hunger that makes your knees weak. You can taste the vodka on his tongue, sweet and sharp and drowning in need. And you’re drunk on it, on him.

Finally, finally, your fingers dip lower beneath the hem of his sweats, just a little. Your knuckles brush the thick, hot length of him and he moans into your mouth.

“Someone’s intentions,” he pants, voice shaking, playful but desperate, “are as clear as day.”

You smile against his lips and pull back just enough to start trailing kisses down his neck again. His head falls back with a ragged exhale, eyes fluttering shut.

“Don’t stop,” he gasps, “keep going.”

You do. You kiss his throat, his collarbone, the chain that dips between his flushed pecs. His chest is warm and sticky with sweat. His hands grip your hair, but not to guide, just to feel you, to hold onto something.

And then you drop to your knees. The motion is smooth, controlled, and so deliberate. He looks down at you like he’s been struck by lightning. You glance up, hands slow and gentle as they curl at the waistband of his sweats. His breath hitches as you drag them down, kissing along the trail of skin you expose, until finally he’s bare in front of you.

His cock is very hard, leaking, flushed red and aching, begging for attention. Begging to be touched, to find release. But still, you don’t touch.

Your eyes lock on his.

“You’ve been such a good boy,” you murmur, voice soft and sinful. “So honest with me. Now tell me…”

Your nails trace up the inside of his thigh. “…how did it feel? Missing me these past few days?”

His jaw clenches.

“Did you think about me?” you ask, lips ghosting over the crease of his hip. “Did you touch yourself?”

His entire body shudders. His hands tighten in your hair, and his cock twitches in front of your lips, but still, you wait, watching him unravel. Waiting for him to break.

For a second, he just stares down at you silently. You see it in his eyes, the hesitation, the pride, the fragile ribbon of restraint he's always trying to keep from unraveling. But then he exhales, deep and shaky, and lets it go.

“I thought about you,” he admits, voice hoarse, chest rising and falling. “Every night. Every damn time I closed my eyes, I saw you, cutie.”

Your eyes glint, lips hovering right near the base of his cock. His hips twitch forward, subtle, like his body is betraying his mind, again.

You tilt your head, breath teasing against flushed skin. “And?”

He swallows hard.

“I touched myself thinking of your mouth,” he breathes, a flush creeping up his chest. “More than once. I imagined this…you on your knees, looking at me like this.”

Your tongue flicks out in one long, slow lick from base to tip. He gasps, head tilting backwards, and you hum—low, sweet, satisfied.

“You’re such a good boy,” you purr, lips brushing the underside of his cock as you speak.

Another lick, slower now, around the tip, then back down.

He moans, and you can feel his whole body shudder. You lock eyes with him as your tongue moves, again and again. You take your time, tracing him with reverent cruelty, just enough pressure to make him shake.

He grips the edge of the counter behind him, knuckles white.

“Fuck…” he pants, voice cracking, “…cutie, I—I—”

You lick again, this time with more pressure, swirling your tongue just beneath the head. His breath punches out of him. His eyes flutter and his head falls back in pure pleasure.

“Oh my god—” he groans, the sound full of broken want, “please…”

That’s when you finally wrap your lips around him. Just the tip, but it’s enough to make him go insane. He gasps so hard it’s almost a whimper.

Your mouth slides down—slow, sweet, maddening. You feel his hips buck slightly, chasing the heat, desperate to be deeper, and you let him. Because you love him like this. Messy. Needy. Yours.

Your mouth moves, pace steady and deep, tongue tracing the vein underneath as he throbs in your mouth. He moans again, long and low and wrecked, every sound of it tinged with alcohol and craving and utter devotion. His hands find your hair again, not guiding, just anchoring, because he’s barely standing.

And you don’t stop. Not when his hips start rolling. Not when he starts panting your name like a prayer. Not even when he chokes out something that sounds dangerously close to “I love you” under his breath, breathless and soaked in want.

Your mouth works him steadily, slowly—deeper with each glide, wetter with every moan that slips from his kiss-swollen mouth. You feel him twitch on your tongue, hear the desperate curse that falls from his lips when you hollow your cheeks just enough to make his knees buckle.

And still, you don’t stop. You relax into it, hands firm at his hips, your tongue tracing every inch you can reach, your throat swallowing every groan he offers you. Without words, you tell him exactly what you want. Lose control. Take what you need.

You feel it when he finally gives in. His hips begin to roll, rhythmic and frantic, the hand in your hair tightening. Not to force, never to force, just to anchor. Like he needs to hold onto something to keep from falling apart.

His head tips back. A low, broken moan escapes him, raw and breathless.

“Fuck—fuck, you feel so good,” he gasps, voice wrecked, thick with desperation. “I want you like this every damn day…”

Your tongue slides along the underside of his cock, and he chokes on a moan.

“I missed you so much—fuck…don’t ever make me miss you again,” he pleads, frantic now. “It’s not fair…you make me feel like this and then you’re just gone…”

You moan softly around him, the vibration making him stutter a thrust. His hips twitch forward, messy and aching.

“I can’t…I can’t, cutie, please…let me—fuck, let me finish—”

His head drops forward like the strength’s been pulled from his spine, his glassy eyes locking onto yours below him and that is what breaks him. The sight of you, kneeling before him, lips stretched around him, cheeks hollowed, eyes shining and so willing.

He lets out a sound that’s halfway between a sob and a curse. And then he thrusts forward one last time—deep, desperate—and comes. His whole body convulses, every muscle tensing as heat pours from him, his groan long and shattered, his fingers trembling in your hair.

You keep eye contact the entire time and you take all of it, every last drop. And when it’s over, when his body slumps against the counter behind him and his legs are still shaking, his chest heaving, he whispers something soft, breathless, stunned.

“…I think I just died.”

You smile and lick your lips as you rise slowly, warm palms tracing up the curve of his waist. His hand finds your jaw, the grip gentle but sure, and he pulls you up into a kiss that’s messy and hot and absolutely drunk with need.

He tastes himself on your lips and doesn’t care—if anything, it makes him groan louder, deeper, kissing you harder as his hands slide lower to your hips, clutching them like he’s starving for more, like the high of release wasn’t enough to dull the ache you left behind.

Somewhere between kisses and panting and hands roaming skin, he wiggles awkwardly out of his sweats the rest of the way, nearly stumbling. You catch him by the waist, laughing against his mouth, but he uses the momentum and spins you, backing you up until your spine hits the edge of the counter with a soft thud.

Now you’re cornered. Now he’s the one in control again. His mouth is on your neck before you can say anything—wet, open kisses trailing down your throat as his fingers tug at the buttons of your uniform shirt, clumsy but determined.

“You see, cutie…” he murmurs, voice breathless against your pulse. “You already made my life a beautiful, chaotic mess.”

The last button gives way, and he pushes the fabric off your shoulders, kissing down the center of your chest until he reaches your bra. He groans softly, brushing his nose against your skin as he mouths your breast through the fabric, fingers digging into your waist like he can’t get close enough.

You pant, fingers tangling in his hair again, head tipping back as your hips roll forward, brushing against his now half-hard cock resting heavy against your thigh.

Rafayel growls.

“I barely touched this,” he whispers, warm mouth brushing against your bra as he speaks, “and you’re already flushed.”

He kisses over the soft breast, slowly dragging his teeth along the edge, and you whimper. You are flushed, breathless now, and he knows it. He drinks in every gasp, every twitch of your body like it’s paint running down canvas.

“I missed you,” you gasp between pants, threading your fingers tighter through his damp hair. “God…I missed you so much, Raf. I would’ve come sooner, I swear, but—”

“Don’t care,” he cuts in, groaning into your skin. “You’re here now. You’re mine now.”

His kisses get rougher, hungrier, as his hands slide up your spine, finally touching you properly, and his mouth finds your collarbone, your throat, your shoulder, all the places he needs to mark.

His mouth never leaves your skin. Not when he slides his hands up your back. Not when his fingers fumble with the clasp of your bra—frantic, trembling, almost too clumsy with how drunk he is. But then it gives way, and he lets the straps fall, kissing down your throat, nipping the slope of your shoulder, like he needs to devour every inch of you.

Your bra drops somewhere on the floor, but his hands don’t stop. They hook under your thighs, gripping you tight and then he lifts. You gasp as he picks you up and plants you on the edge of the counter, the cool marble pressing against your bare thighs, shocking in contrast to the molten heat in his mouth.

He is still kissing your skin, still biting your neck and leaving matching marks for his own. He doesn’t even pause to catch his breath, just pants into your neck like he’ll drown if he stops.

And yet, he slows. He shifts the angle, presses soft bites just under your ear, kisses the same spot until your spine arches on instinct, begging for more. But he doesn’t move his hands, doesn’t touch you where you need him most. Just keeps teasing.

You whimper, arching your back again—an invitation, a demand—but all he does is hum against your skin, warm breath fanning over your throat like a confession.

“Silly girl,” he murmurs, chuckling against your pulse, his voice ragged and low.

You groan, rolling your hips forward. “Rafayel…”

Still, he doesn't move, he just sucks harder at your neck, his teeth scraping the shell of your ear.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” you whisper, breath breaking between frustration and arousal.

He laughs again, breathless, dazed, drunk on you.

“Yeah…” he pants, voice soft and cocky. “I am doing this on purpose.”

His hands finally slide up your ribs, palms hot and greedy, and then at last, he leans down and wraps his lips around your nipple. You moan, back arching hard, your fingers threading through his hair and holding him there as his tongue swirls, slow and sinful. His free hand drags down and slips beneath the edge of your uniform skirt.

But still, he doesn’t go where you want him. His hands only grasp at your thighs, caressing the soft skin just above your knees, then sliding upward in slow, possessive sweeps, fingers curling tight enough to bruise.

You shudder under his mouth, under his hands, under the weight of his teasing control. And he hums against your chest, smug and starved all at once. You arch harder into him, the curve of your back deepening as you press your chest to his mouth, your thighs tightening around his waist. Your hands stay tangled in his hair, desperate and pleading without words, because god…he’s still teasing.

His tongue swirls around your nipple in slow, wet circles, just barely flicking when he knows you want more. His hands are gripping your thighs, hard, sliding up to the edge of your panties beneath your skirt and then stopping.

“Rafayel,” you gasp, half-laughing, half-moan, the frustration laced through every syllable. “You said you missed me so fucking much…and now you’re bullying me?”

He groans against your chest, hips twitching where they press between your thighs. Sweat clings to his skin, flushed and shining in the low studio light. His silver chains stick to his neck and chest, tangling slightly as he lifts his face, breathless.

Then he bites lightly at the swell of your breast before meeting your eyes, voice wrecked and fond and maddening all at once.

“But you’re very, very cute right now,” he says, lips dragging against your skin as he speaks. “And I’m allowed to admire what I missed.”

You whimper. He moans again, this time into your mouth as he surges up to kiss you, devouring, hungry, his teeth scraping yours in a kiss that’s too messy to be sweet and too honest to be anything less than worship.

And then finally—finally, his hand slides under the edge of your panties and pushes them aside. You don’t even get to breathe. Two fingers slide into you, deep and unrelenting, and you moan into his mouth, the sound punched straight from your lungs as your body clenches around him.

He swallows it all—every sound, every gasp, every trembling exhale—kissing you deeper as his fingers start to move, slow at first, then harder. Slick. Hot. So fucking good.

You grip his shoulders now, your back arched against the counter, head tipping back as he pumps into you, his breath ragged against your jaw, his mouth dragging down your neck again. Your hips start moving without thought, chasing every curl of his fingers.

The world blurs around the heat building in your core, and Rafayel? He’s already drunk, already ruined, but he wants to see you break before he even thinks about stopping.

Your hips roll into his hand instinctively, chasing the rhythm of his fingers as they pump into you, slick and deep. You whimper as he curls them just right, and your legs spread wider on instinct, thighs trembling around his waist.

“Rafayel—ahh, fuck…”

He groans into your neck, mouth hot against your skin. His free hand clutches your hip now, grounding you, anchoring you to the counter as he fucks you with just his fingers, but it’s so much more than that.

He moves like an artist. Like he’s sculpting pleasure from the very deep center of you. And his mouth doesn’t stop—biting, sucking, trailing heat down your throat, over your collarbone, back to your chest.

“You always break so beautifully,” he whispers against your skin, voice rough with lust, soaked in alcohol and longing. “So flushed, so desperate…”

You moan, louder now, as his fingers hit that perfect spot inside you again. Your hands grip his shoulders tight, fingers digging into the sweat-slick muscle. Your thighs shake.

“Please,” you breathe, “don’t stop—don’t you dare…”

He laughs, low and breathless, and his pace quickens. The slick sound of his fingers inside you is obscene, wet and filthy and so fucking hot you feel your face burn with it. Your moans turn higher, sharper, punched out with every curl of his fingers, and he loves it. Loves you like this.

“Say it again,” he whispers in your ear, breath hot and desperate. “Say you missed me. Say you want me.”

“Mhm, missed you…oh, fuck, I want you—Rafayel, please…”

His teeth sink lightly into your neck and he growls against it. “Good girl.”

You fall apart around his fingers, whimpering, clutching at his arms like he’s the only thing holding you together. The heat’s building too fast—white and burning—coiling in your gut like it’s about to snap. And still, his fingers move. Still, his mouth wrecks you.

And still, he whispers, “Come on, cutie. Show me how much you missed this.”

The pressure inside you spikes—sharp, hot, unbearable. Every drag of Rafayel’s fingers feels like it’s made of fire, and you can’t take your eyes off him. His flushed face, sweat-slicked chest, dark hair sticking to his forehead. The way he looks at you while he ruins you, like nothing else exists.

Your body is trembling. Your hips are bucking into every thrust of his hand now. And he’s whispering filth in your ear, low and unrelenting, the kind of voice that makes your stomach flip.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he murmurs, licking up the side of your neck. “I can feel it…you’re clenching around me so tight—god, it’s perfect.”

“Raf—” You gasp his name like a prayer, your voice breaking.

He fucks his fingers into you harder, deeper, faster now. Every stroke grazing just right. Your thighs squeeze around his waist, your spine arches off the counter, and your head tips back as the wave inside you crests—sharp and wet and blinding.

“Let go for me,” he growls, voice breathless and wrecked. “Come, cutie.”

And you do. You cry out, thighs shaking violently around his hips, your hands clutching him, clawing at his back. Your walls spasm around his fingers as your orgasm slams into you, hard and messy and endless.

He doesn’t stop. He watches it all—eyes wild, jaw slack, drinking in the way your body falls apart for him. His fingers keep moving even as you whimper and twitch, overwhelmed and shaking.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he pants, voice full of reverence and lust. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you come. Look at you…look at you.”

You moan, half-broken, half-pleading, and finally he slows. But only just. His mouth is everywhere now—pressing kisses over your jaw, your cheeks, your shoulder. His hand stays buried between your thighs, still feeling every twitch and aftershock.

“You’re mine,” he whispers raggedly, soft and deadly against your skin. “You know that, right?”

You nod, barely able to breathe, much less speak. You’re still catching your breath, body trembling, chest rising in frantic waves when his mouth crashes into yours again—a kiss more desperate than any before it. His hand hasn’t moved from between your thighs, and when his fingers stroke your oversensitive clit, your entire body jolts in his grasp.

“Rafayel—!” you gasp against his mouth.

He moans, muffled and low, as if he’s the one being undone, not you. But that’s always been the truth of it—every time he touches you, every time he brings you to the edge, he breaks with you. Falls apart in tandem. Wants you in a way that’s feral and emotional and frighteningly deep.

You know this rhythm. You know what he likes. And you know what’s coming. He lives to drag it out. To keep you trembling on the edge again and again, his control laced with adoration and hunger until you’re begging him to stop and begging him not to in the same breath.

But tonight… tonight he’s drunk. He’s missed you badly. He’s hard and flushed and not even pretending to be composed anymore. And you feel all of it.

His cock is pressed hot and firm against your thigh, twitching each time you grind closer. The thin fabric of your panties is soaked, pushed to the side, clinging to nothing. Every breath is a moan, every kiss tastes like vodka and sin.

You clutch his hair and gasp against his lips, trembling from the overstimulation, the heat, the need building all over again.

“I need you,” you whisper. “I need you, Raf. I need my lover. Please…I need you inside.”

He growls. That’s all it takes. Something inside him snaps. He grabs you hard, almost rough, pulling you into his arms. One hand still clutching your ass, the other around your back, dragging your mouth to his over and over again as he stumbles blindly through the apartment.

You giggle against his mouth as he stumbles into the wall, swears, and then keeps going.

“Where—?” you start to ask.

“Shut up,” he pants. “I’m taking you.”

You don’t argue, not when he makes it to the edge of the bed. Your bodies stay tangled in the heat of that kiss, standing at the edge of his bed, tongues dancing, mouths open and hungry. His hand stays locked around your waist, his cock pressed hard against your thigh, twitching with every pulse of your moans.

You gasp against his lips, breaking the kiss just long enough to reach down between your thighs. Your fingers hook into the edge of your ruined panties, dragging them down quickly, wet and wrinkled from everything he’s already done to you. They fall to your ankles, kicked away without thought. Your skirt follows, bunched and rumpled, shoved down and off. You’re flushed and shaking and so, so exposed.

Rafayel groans as he takes you in, still in your half-open uniform shirt, still breathless, trembling, and flushed from your last orgasm, and now bare from the waist down.

“Fuck,” he pants, dragging you back into a kiss, deeper this time, desperate. “Not fair. You’re gonna kill me, cutie”

You giggle into his mouth and he turns you, suddenly, his hands warm and firm on your hips. He presses his chest to your back, caging you in, his breath hot at your ear.

“I’m going to show you,” he murmurs darkly, “exactly how deep this goes. How fucking much it hurt to be without you.”

His hand slides up your spine, slow and deliberate, until it settles between your shoulder blades, and then he pushes you towards the bed.

“Bend over.”

You do—panting, moaning, letting him guide you forward until your hands brace on the edge of the mattress, fingers curling into the blanket. Your back arches, instinctively, your ass tilted perfectly for him.

He stands behind you, groaning like he’s lost his mind. And maybe he has. Because from this angle, you’re all flushed skin and damp thighs and trembling anticipation.

“God,” he growls, voice ragged. “You’re so perfect.” he palms your ass, carresing it. “My perfect girl.”

You shudder at the praise, moaning softly as your hips roll back once, begging. And of course—of course—he teases you more, because he can’t help himself. You feel his fingers ghost over your inner thigh, then pause, just before they touch where you need it so desperately.

“I guess Miss Bodyguard is still wet…” he drawls, voice lilting with mock surprise, smug and dark and hungry. “Tsk.”

He chuckles low in his throat as his fingers circle your clit once. You jolt, gasping, legs nearly buckling. And then he pushes in, all the way. You cry out, body arching hard, hands gripping the bed as his cock stretches you deep and fast, no warning, no patience.

It’s just him, just Rafayel, hungry and raw, claiming you, filling you, like he never stopped needing you. He groans behind you, loud and ruined, hips grinding against yours as he bottoms out. His hand stays pressed firm on your back, holding you there, keeping you open for him.

He doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, buried so deep inside you it feels like he’s part of your heartbeat, your breath, your very bones. His palm is still pressed to the curve of your back, keeping you arched just right, keeping you his.

And behind you, you hear it. That breathless, broken sound—half a moan, half a laugh.

“Fuck, cutie,” he murmurs, the words slurred with want. “You feel like home.”

Your hands tremble where they grip the bed, legs already shaking just from the stretch of him, from the pressure of being filled so full. You roll your hips back just slightly, and that’s all it takes.

He groans, and then he starts to move. Slow, at first. Deep, dragging thrusts that pull almost all the way out before he pushes back in again with force that makes the whole bedframe creak under your grip.

You cry out, mouth open, head falling forward as he sets the pace—not gentle, not tentative. Raw. He thrusts harder, faster now, the sound of skin on skin echoing around the room, wet and filthy and perfect.

“God,” he pants behind you, his voice deeper now, more serious than it ever is, even when sober. “I missed this…I missed you…”

His hand slides up from your back, wrapping around your waist, pulling you tighter into each thrust. You can hear how wet you are with every slap of his hips, can feel his body curl over yours, sweat slick, chest against your back.

“Every fucking night,” he groans into your shoulder, still fucking you, harder with every word. “I kept thinking about this…about you, ah…about your body… this pussy…”

You whimper, his words sending fire straight to your core, making your walls flutter around him.

He gasps. “Shit, cutie…do that again.”

You rock back, meeting his thrusts, and moan his name this time. He loses it. He slams into you once, twice, hard, his fingers digging into your hips.

“You drive me insane,” he breathes. “You fucking ruin me, cutie.”

“Rafayel…” your voice cracks, moaning, barely coherent. “Please…don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. He pounds into you, frantic now, hips relentless, every thrust angled to make you feel every inch of what you do to him.

The room is nothing but sweat and moans and the scent of sex and the low, breathless rasp of his voice murmuring, “Mine, mine, mine…”

Your moans fill the room like music—high, wet, breathless. Each time his hips slam into you, you gasp, and his name pours from your lips like a spell. You can’t even think. You can’t breathe without feeling him, every inch of him buried so deep, stretching you wide and perfectly.

He leans closer, his body pressing to your back, his breath hot against your neck, lips brushing your shoulder in desperate, half-mouthed kisses. Sweat slicks his chest, gluing it to your spine, and you feel how much he’s shaking.

And then his voice—hoarse and frantic, trembling with emotion he never hides well when it comes to you.

“Do you want me to go faster?” he pants, thrusting deep and slow for just a moment. “Huh, cutie? Tell me…tell me how you want me.”

Your head lolls back, the tension coiling hot in your belly, your arms shaking where they grip the bed.

“Yes,” you gasp, voice thin and wrecked. “Yes, Rafayel, faster—fuck, please…don’t stop—”

He groans, a full-bodied sound that tears from his throat like he’s breaking apart.

“You want me to ruin you again?” he rasps, speeding up his pace, each thrust now wild and relentless. “Wanna feel it for days?”

“Please—yes…oh my god…”

His fingers slide around your front, finding your clit with practiced ease. He circles it once and you wail, your body locking tight around his cock.

“You’re so close, aren’t you?” he whispers, desperate now, breathless. “I can feel you… fluttering, gasping—mine.”

“Yours,” you cry, broken, gone. “Always yours—fuck, I can’t—”

“You can,” he snarls, drunk and feral now, hips slamming faster, deeper, perfectly brutal. “And you will. I’m not stopping until I feel you come again. I need it…I need you to feel me everywhere.”

You’re past words. Past thought. Every muscle in your body tightens as the edge hits again, full force, harder than before, shaking you from the inside out.

And he doesn't stop. Not when you start to tremble. Not when your voice breaks. Not when you scream his name and come hard all over his cock, body collapsing, arching, lost. He fucks you through it, breathless, moaning, yours.

“That’s it,” he gasps, eyes wild, lips parted. “That’s my girl—god, you’re so perfect.”

You clutch the edge of the bed like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Your body is trembling, your skin burning, your mouth wide open as helpless moans spill out between every brutal, perfect thrust.

He’s still moving. Still buried deep inside you, cock twitching with every pulse of your orgasm. Still holding your hips like they’re sacred. Still panting like he might fall apart if he doesn’t keep feeling you.

“Fuck—fuck, Rafayel—” you cry, voice broken. “I can’t…I can’t, I’m so—”

But you don’t tell him to stop. Even through the overstimulation, even through the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes from how good it still feels—you don’t tell him to stop.

You whimper, loud and high and wrecked, hips jerking with each thrust, and through the haze, you reach back, grabbing his wrist, holding him to you.

“Show me,” you moan, desperate, breathless, trembling. “Show me how much you love me… ah, how much you missed this pussy…how much you need me.”

He breaks. Completely. With a shattered groan, he slams into you harder, losing his rhythm, his hips stuttering with frantic, messy thrusts. His head drops forward, lips parted against your back, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your shoulder.

“Fuck…fuck, cutie—I’m gonna…” he pants, voice rough and wild, “I’m gonna come—oh my god…I missed you, I love you…I need you—”

And then he comes. Your name is the only thing he says as he unravels—half-moan, half-grunt, worship on his tongue—his cock buried to the hilt as he pulses hard inside you. Hot. Wet. All of him.

He thrusts through it, whining against your skin, chasing every last wave of it until he finally collapses—chest to your back, arms wrapping around your waist, his weight holding you both together.

Silence falls. Heavy, warm, trembling silence. Your knees give out first. He catches you, barely, pulling you down with him to the floor, tangled in limbs and sweat and ragged, open-mouthed breaths.

You both just breathe. There are no words yet. Only the echo of his moans still ringing in your ears. Only the slick warmth between your thighs, the tremble in your legs, the whisper of his lips on your neck as he presses kiss after kiss to your skin like an apology and a vow.

“Mine,” he murmurs again. “Never letting you go, cutie.”

And you don’t argue, because why would you? Because you are his, and you always have been.

© zaynessbeloved 2025

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

taglist: @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple

[astraeus-tree]

Chapter 2

『Wanna see you, wanna see you but I gotta resist』

Disparities Between Our Souls You and your husband fight the anomaly in your home-universe while attempting to avoid the gaze of your family Disclaimer(s): Fight scenes are definitely not my forte and Damian is the only batfam with a proper screen time in this

Chapter 1 <- Chapter 2 -> Chapter 3

You felt the wind on your body was you swung across the city towards the anomaly. The adrenaline coursed through your veins as you tried to clear your mind of your racing thoughts. In the corner of your eye, you see the familiar red of Miguel’s laser webs and you were able to fully focus on your task at hand and not your future problems.

Once the Doc Ock finally made his way into your full view, it was certain that he was anomaly. He looked like he came out of a steampunk movie, a stark difference to the modernity of Gotham.

You two went with your usual plan, Miguel would distract the villain of the day while you would transport the civilians or at least warn them. You made quick work transporting the citizens away from the expected vicinity of the fight.

You made your way back to your husband after dropping off the final citizen to safety. You were greeted to the sight of multiple pairs of mechanical arms reaching for Miguel as he avoided them with ease. You made eye contact with him, another silent agreement made between you two.

You shot a web towards the Doc Ock, taking his attention away from your husband, his rage now aimed at you. His barely coherent shouts weren’t a deterrent to you as you taunted him. While he was distracted with you, Miguel had easily snuck up on him and punched him square in the face.

But that wasn’t enough to take him down, it was never that easy. He was quick to get back on his feet and reach the tentacles out at both of you. You and Miguel jumped in sync, shooting a web at either side of the anomaly. You delivered a quick kick to the stomach and back flip out of the way before Miguel prepared to deliver another blow.

The fight felt almost one-sided, with the Doc Ock barely landing his punches on either of you. But this was good, the faster you finished this, the less chances that one of Gotham’s vigilantes would see you.

The comms were unusually quiet tonight, so Damian definitely wasn’t surprised to hear that a new villain was out to make a name for himself in Gotham. He was quick to move to the scene of the crime, but what he saw was something definitely not expected.

Two figures were fighting with this new villain— which speaking of, looked out of place in Gotham. The two new heroes were wearing skin-tight suits with an animal theme, specifically spiders, not unusual for heroes.

They moved expertly around the offender. like dancing around a ballroom. In fact, Damian had stopped himself from interrupting their fight in fear of ruining the clear rhythm they had together. Their moves were calculated, landing their punches and mostly avoiding getting hit themselves. These were not some vigilante or hero-wannabes. No, they were trained, their experience clearly showing through their movements, the way they took down the rogue with little to no difficulty. They fought with him as if they had gone head to head multiple times, moving as if they could read his mind.

“Robin, what’s the hold up?” Barbara’s voice snapped out of his daze. He remained silent for a few more seconds, attempting to examine the figures more closely and find out their identities. The villain itself was certainly going to be easily identified, with his face not even being covered. However, the two others would be harder. Not a single patch of skin was left uncovered.

“Oracle, does there happen to be two heroes that have been operating under our radar for a while? Say, for at least 2 years?”

“No way, that’s basically impossible.” Barbara said, in disbelief of the implication of Damian’s words.

“Apparently it is. There’s two people fighting against the rogue and they’re handling themselves pretty well. It’s almost as if it was the norm for them.”

“Hm… Let them handle the problem then. Follow and investigate them when they finish.”

“Duly noted.”

He stayed perched high above, watching and studying the two as best as he could. When the fight finally finished, he watched the two wrap the now unconscious rogue in a web-like substance and inject him with a liquid. They spoke to each other before one of them picked up the villain. The other swung in front of them, as if they were leading the way to some place. Damian stalked after them, making sure to stay as close as he could without getting noticed.

He was surprised to find that the one leading knew their way around Gotham, like they had gone past these streets multiple times. The place they ended up in seemed oddly familiar to Damian, but he wasn’t able to pin point what it reminded him of.

He watched as one of them pressed the doorbell hesitantly. When it opened, Damian was finally able to reason why this place seemed so familiar. It had been the place that you grew up in. The face of his only blood sibling’s aunt was practically engraved in his head after you had gone missing 5 years ago. Your aunt had called and visited the manor almost every day for a year after you disappeared. Now she was standing next to an opened door.

While you and the rest of the family hadn’t always been on good terms, they still cared for you and tried everything they could to find any traces of you, including Damian himself, albeit, a bit reluctantly. While they still hadn’t given up, the hope in finding you was slowly dwindling. After all, if the world’s greatest detective couldn’t find their own child, the who could? Your aunt had been distraught when she was given the news that you were basically a cold case.

So imagine his and your aunt’s surprise when he sees your face after one of the figures pulled off their mask. It wasn’t identical to the face he last saw 5 years ago, there were a few minor changes, like new scars, and you definitely looked older, but hew knew it was you. You had the same smile, the one he was greeted with when he was first introduced to the manor, the same one he always rejected because you were bound to be a liability with your softness.

Clearly, Damian’s assumptions were wrong. Clearly, you were able to not only defend yourself, but also other people, as shown form the fight he witnessed not even 20 minutes ago.

He was dumbfounded. You disappeared for 5 years and now you come back, suddenly having extensive knowledge in the battlefield, with another person fighting alongside you. He had so many questions. Where did you go? Who was this other person? Why return only now? But those weren’t the most important matter at hand. Right now, he had to inform the rest of the family about your status.

“Oracle, open communications to the whole group.” He could hear the words of the other members in his ears.

“Robin, report.”

“I’ve found the identity of one of the vigilantes.”

“Well? Why is it so important that the whole group had to listen?”

“It’s [Name].”

The silence was even more deafening than the usual chatter.

You stood in the aftermath of the battle, rubble everywhere. Bruce would probably pay to fix this later. Thankfully, the civilians got your warning and didn’t wander back into the vicinity of the fight, but you didn’t expect anything less from the citizens of Gotham.

You called out your husband’s name, catching his attention.

“I have a place we can go to. The person that owns it is someone I’ll trust with my life, don’t worry.” You shot down any possibility of arguments as soon as you could. Miguel grunted in response, injecting his venom into the anomaly before pinking it up and carrying it like a football under his arm.

“Lead the way.” You shot a web towards the roof of a tall building and started swinging in the direction of the place you grew up in, your aunt’s house.

Your nerves started acting up again. What would you aunt think of the new you? You may look the same but you weren’t the same person you were 5 years ago. So much has happened, what if she doesn’t approve of you? Or worse, not even recognise you?

You walked up to the door you knew all too well. Your mind raced with so many negative thoughts. In the moment, the realisation hit you like a train wreck. There was a chance that she didn’t even live here anymore; a lot can happen in 5 years, you would know.

You held up your hand to the doorbell, the one that you made her install after you moved into the manor. But instead of pressing it excitedly like you used to do all those years ago, your hand stood still right in front of it, as if your hand had been frozen.

“Mi corazón, it’ll be alright. Didn’t you say you trusted this person with your life?” Miguel’s words put an ease to your nerves. You smiled gratefully at him before taking a deep breath and pressing the doorbell.

The time it took for the door to open felt like centuries, but when it did, you couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief. Your aunt’s face was as beautiful as ever, aged but beautiful nevertheless.

The exhaustion and confusion was evident on her face when she greeted you.

“Hello? What do you need?” The cautionary tone and her rigid stance hurt your heart a little bit, but you couldn’t blame her, she lived in Gotham after all.

“Auntie. It’s me.” Her eyes softened when she heard you voice. When you pulled your mask off, you could see the tears welling up in her eyes.

“[Name]?” She asked, full of doubt, but a hint of relief as well. You smiled warmly at her.

“In the flesh.” You let out a small chuckle. Next thing you knew, a pair of arms enveloped your torso. You heard and felt your aunt’s sobs on your shoulders. You hugged her tightly in return, a few tears of your own rolling down your cheeks. When she let go, you instantly missed her warmth, but you pulled yourself together and prepared yourself for the myriad of questions you were bound to be bombarded with.

“Where have you been?!” Yep, you were correct.

“It’s a long story.” You looked to Miguel for help, but unfortunately for you he only smiled at your misery and on top of that, your aunt had seen the small interaction.

“We have all the time in the world. At least answer who this man is at first.” With that, you aunt allowed the two of you, and also the anomaly, inside her house.

Miguel placed the Doc Ock down gently, in fear of destroying any of your aunt’s items. He fixed his posture and adjusted his hologram suit to reveal his face ad he introduced himself.

“Hello. I’m Miguel O’hara, [Name]’s husband.”

“What?!” You expected this reaction. “[Name]! What have you been doing these last few years without me?!”

“Like I said, it’s a long story. It’s better if we get comfortable first.”

“Fine. You better explain everything, especially that… thing over there.” She pointed to the Doc Ock on the floor of her living room. As she did, he glitched, momentarily shocking your aunt.

“We will, don’t worry.”

...

After a long conversation and Miguel occasionally reinjecting the anomaly with his venom, your aunt was finally caught up with your life.

“So, let me get this right. You’re a superhero, alongside your husband, and you two use those watch things on your wrists to help you but they’re broken, which is why you’re here.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Why didn’t you visit me once? Will I ever see you again when they’re fixed?” Your aunt asked dejectedly. Your heart broke at her words. You had just learnt that although your other family had been providing her with money, she chose to stay here to preserve the memories she had with you and you mother, when she was alive. She also still had hope that one day you would return to her, and so she waited expectantly everyday for you, which ended up being worth it, for you were here in her house again.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to. Like I said, this return wasn’t even planned. I’ll try to come back when we fix our gizmos, but it’s not a guaranteed chance that we’ll figure it out.” Your aunt visibly deflates at your words.

“Well, if what you want is to return to your new home, then I’ll do my best to help you. Your happiness is the most important thing to me, sweetheart.” A new wave emotions passed through you at her words. You truly were lucky to have her as your aunt. You smiled at her and pulled her into another hug.

“Your the best family anyone could ask for. I love you so much.” Your words were shaky and mumbled as your poured your emotions out. Your aunt hugged you back, patting your back as you hiccupped onto her shoulders.

“I love you too.” She reaches her arm out towards Miguel. He seemed taken aback before hesitantly joining in the group hug. You couldn’t help but mentally laugh as you felt his stiff arms surround the both of you. Your aunt was the first to break apart from the group, with you and Miguel following soon after.

“Now, what do you need to fix that watch of yours?”

Taglist

@kik1010 @cxcilla @00hellohello00 @bluepanda08 @frankie-moon3 @guyfuitty @lumi320 @type-ink @kye-chen-r @sugasweettea @sillyheartmoonnyx @definitely-not-sammie @birbtweettweet @itsberrydreemurstuff @bellethesleepypotato @yaoizee @bat1212 @mybones537 @cim0nnin @ninihrtss @redkarmakai @a-lurking-fae @1abi @lettucel0ver @leeiasure @chericia @yotokx @amber-content

Asks are greatly appreciated as they give me motivation and ideas <3

And Chapter 2 is finally done! I really don't like how it ended, I feel like it was a bit too cheesy but oh well, the pen writes what it wants to write, not me

The aunt was never supposed to play this big of a role in the story but apparently she does now! If you guys want a name for her, let me know and I'll make a poll for everyone to decide

Also I lowkey wanna change the layout of my posts but I'm not sure, so let me know if you guys want me to

Sorry this came out so late, I got busy on the weekends and I thought I had time to do it in school but school's honestly been pretty bad. So far, I only understand like 3 of my subjects and that's cuz 2 of them are revision and the other is literature

You guys know the routine! Mistakes are free to point out and will be fixed as soon as possible

This weeks title comes from the song 'Cabo' by Rick Montgomery, go give him a listen if you haven't already!

[delilahsturniolo]

ᝰ.ᐟ NEW CLASSIFIED MISSION FILE . . .

★ secretagent!chris x secretagent!reader

⋆˚࿔ STAY WITH ME, SUNSHINE

in which . . . during a high stakes mission, you get shot, resulting in a worried chris who helps you

contains . . . mentions of blood, violence, use of weapons, reader getting shot, angst but comforting at the end

written by @delilahsturniolo, do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

requested by anon

view more of this au here!

the mission was supposed to be simple. get in. gather intel. get out. a quick sweep of a surveillance hub tucked beneath an abandoned airstrip in the middle of nowhere. quiet. clean. you should’ve known better. because now you’re bleeding. badly.

the bullet caught you in the shoulder, clean through, but it still burns like hell, and the world is starting to tilt sideways. you’re lying on your back behind a blown-out concrete wall, boots scraping against the gravel as you try to breathe through the pain. “fuck,” you gasp, clutching at the wound. “this wasn’t part of the plan.” a shadow drops beside you. chris. his hands are already moving, pulling off his jacket, shoving a compression bandage from his tactical vest against your shoulder. “you weren’t supposed to get hit,” he says, voice tight. “you’re too fast for that.”

“guess i slowed down.”

“don’t joke.”

you look up at him, blinking through the sweat beading down your forehead. “you’re not funny either, y’know.” he glares at you, but it’s the kind of glare that comes with wide eyes and clenched teeth and a little crack in his voice. you’ve seen him calm during car chases. unshaken in a firefight. even when the building was collapsing in madrid, he didn’t look like this.

but now? now he looks scared. he presses harder against the wound, and you hiss, grabbing at his wrist. “hurts,” you grit out. “good. means you’re still awake.” you laugh through the pain, breathless and dry. “you’re such an asshole.”

“you love it.”

“do not.”

his eyes flick up to yours, and for a second, neither of you says anything. your breathing’s shallow. his hands are red with your blood. the comms are silent, the evac team still thirty minutes out. you try to shift, but pain flares through your whole arm and you groan, eyes fluttering shut. “no, hey,” chris says immediately, tapping your cheek with his free hand. “no sleeping, sunshine. stay with me.”

“i’m tired.”

“yeah, well, you’re not allowed to die. i haven’t pissed you off nearly enough yet.” you try to smile, but it falls flat. “your flirting is terrible.”

“good thing i’m not flirting,” he mutters, looking down at you. “i’m trying to stop you from bleeding out.” you blink up at him slowly, voice quieter now. “you’re shaking.” he goes still. “…i’m fine.” you reach up with your hand, fingers brushing clumsily against the collar of his shirt. “no, you’re not.” he swallows hard, and for the first time, his voice softens. “you scared the shit out of me.”

“it’s just a shoulder.”

“it’s you.”

you blink again. and you wonder if the blood loss is making you hallucinate. because you swear you see something like fear in his eyes. maybe even something worse. something real. “you’ll be fine,” he says after a second, more to himself than you. “you’ve survived worse. you’re the toughest agent i know.”

“awwww, you’re being nice to me?”

“shut up,” he says, shaking his head, but his voice is rough. “you talk too much when you’re bleeding.”

you let out a soft noise, maybe a laugh, maybe a wince, and let your eyes flutter again. “hold on,” he whispers. “just thirty more minutes. then you can pass out all you want.”you don’t answer, but your fingers curl weakly into the front of his vest. “shhhh…” he speaks carefully. “stay with me, sunshine.” he tells you, trying to prevent you from passing out on him. the most surprising part is that he stays with you, silent, steady, and more terrified than he’ll ever admit.

© delilahsturniolo

[jamminvroomvroom]

die for you.

ln x driver!reader

in which you can’t stand each other, or so you say…

this took waaaay too long for me to hate it sm but she’s here! and she’s long! love this concept so much, thank you for this request. so many feels so many vibes, tell me what you think <3

loosely inspired by die for you by the weeknd

warnings: 18+!! minors dni!! smut, language, slight glimpses of she fell first, he fell harder, rivals to lovers/enemies to lovers, choking, hate sex? bar fight, mentions of blood

8.3k words (oop)

it’s rare that you miss a podium, so when you do, it tastes bitter and stings like a bitch.

the car has been on fire all season long, a thing of beauty in your calculated hands. so, the string of bad luck you’re enduring, small mistakes with big consequences, it’s quite the pill to swallow.

out of the car you jump, teeth grinding hard out of frustration. you could see the commotion ahead of you, members of the papaya team celebrating their driver. your eyes roll so hard in your head that you feel a lasting ache. you side step members of your team, dodging every single person that tries to talk to you, your comms officer knowing better than to try and engage with you. you know you’re being unreasonable, it was a p5 finish! but it isn’t a podium or a win, so quite frankly, you aren’t interested, and you certainly don’t have any energy left to hear how amazingly well he had driven.

lando fucking norris.

what was once quiet disdain had grown into fully fledged hatred and you fear you’ll be violently sick if you catch a single glimpse of him on the podium. sure, he’s talented, and sure, he’s beautiful, you suppose. that doesn’t mean you have to like him. not anymore. he lives under your skin, inescapable.

you struggle through every interview in the media pen, most of which dissect your recent fall from grace, your mouth forming a hard, unimpressed line every time they mention the orange goblin and his recent streak of podiums and good luck. you wish the journos would bring up his string of women and the probable plan b receipts that went with them. that, you would love to talk about.

you drive in silence back to your hotel, leaving the track as soon as possible, and quickly find solace in your bed for the night. the idea of seeing the inside of a club makes you nauseous after your epic downfall. as your eyes are drooping, your body going limp under the thick duvet, a knock sounds from the door.

“no.” you shout flatly, but the only response you get are giggles from the hallway. for fuck sake, you mutter, groaning as you shift out from beneath the covers and trail apprehensively towards the door.

george and alex appear before you, and you throw your head back is exasperation.

“mate, it’s 9:30.” alex laughs, taking in your fancy attire; pyjamas that you’ve had since you were 17.

“what’s your point?” you croak, glaring up at your obnoxiously tall friend.

“why aren’t you getting ready to go out?” george questions, leaning against the doorframe. he, too, was obnoxiously tall, you thought, feeling the strain in your neck as you move your glare onto him.

“if it wasn’t obvious, i’m not going.” you deadpan, crossing your arms over your chest. “i thought that was clear after i ignored all 77 of your texts.” you smile sarcastically, rubbing sleep from your eyes.

“don’t be boring! you’re an f1 driver, you’re in a cool city, you’re rich and, let’s face it,” he sasses. “you need to get laid.” alex says, like it’s the most causal thing in the world. your eyes bulge out of your head at the utterance of the last bit. george bites back laughter.

“choosing to ignore that.” you hiss. “i’m sorry but i refuse to go out and celebrate that arrogant, whiny little bitch.”

they both know exactly who you’re talking about.

you and lando have simply never seen eye to eye. your karting days were spent pushing one another off the track or into a muddy puddle if things got a bit heated out of the car. sure, olive branches were extended, and maybe adolescent feelings were secretly harboured, but he never gave you any reason to tell him that. you’d grown out of the childish violence when you graduated into formula 1, but you hadn’t been able to shake the rage he made you feel.

it didn’t matter how many dinners you attended where others had conspired and forced you to sit next to each other. it didn’t matter how many times you turned up to play padel and were met with the same lame excuses of ‘oh, did we not mention lando would be here?’ it didn’t matter how many times you’d hugged it out on the podium while adrenaline and tensions were running high.

it didn’t matter how many times he’d watched you from across a crowded room and you’d found his eyes, watched him back. it didn’t matter how many times he’d smirked at you at the start of a race weekend, made you blush. and it certainly didn’t matter what happened last time you found yourself in a club with him.

you just don’t like him. not anymore. you sleep better at night when you lie to yourself.

~ the last time

you sink shot after shot, cocktail after cocktail; the taste of fruity liquor stains your lips and burns your throat. you feel electric, sizzling with ecstasy and the heat from the flashing lights above your head.

it’s approaching 4am and you can’t recall a time in your life where you’d felt so fucking good. the high of your first win is indescribable.

you’ve lost track of the guys, alex and george have packed it in and gone back to their hotels with their girlfriends. pierre and kika are somewhere in a corner, you’re certain. you’re pretty sure you’ve even seen lewis with his entourage and a brick wall of a bodyguard trailing behind him. and at the bar, a set of eyes watch you.

lando isn’t even listening to oscar anymore, no. he is too entranced in the way your hips move to the beat, lost in the carefree lines your body makes in the crowd. he’s itching to go to you, put his hands in places that would stay between you, him, and god, but he doesn’t think a broken nose would be good for business.

everything changes when you spin around, facing his direction. then, it begins: the same thing that happens every time you end up going out in the same group. you watch one another, pretending you’re not both achingly desperate to find out how the other tastes.

but lando is feeling bold. he tells oscar he’ll see him in the morning, and then, egged on by a moscow mule and a few too many shots, he makes his way towards you. it is instinctual, magnetic, the way he is drawn to you.

hands on your hips, lips on your neck. the song changes. you recognise the weeknd’s voice. you are disappointed in yourself but it feels too good to stop.

you know what i’m thinkin', see it in your eyes
you hate that you want me, hate it when you cry
you’re scared to be lonely, 'specially in the night
i’m scared that i’ll miss you, happens every time

the lyrics sober you up. you’re in the first taxi you can see when you finally get outside.

alone.

~

as much as that memory makes you shiver, for several different reasons, you find yourself putting on some makeup and raking through your suitcase for something to wear. george and alex are waiting downstairs for you at the bar, and when you finally make your way down there, they have a martini waiting for you. they watch in impressed horror as the alcohol disappears from the glass mere seconds after it touches your lips.

“let’s get this over with.” you sigh.

-

it could have been worse, you suppose.

the club is packed, hundreds of faces blurring into nothing. you feel better knowing that there is a one in a million chance of running into lando.

you’re tucked into a booth with alex and george, carmen and lily, a few faces you can’t quite place, and charles and pierre. you’d conspired to sit on the outside, prepared to make a quick getaway at the first sign of tension.

you’d been in a state of fight or flight since your last run in, nails bitten down every time you thought about his hands on you, how good they felt on you. it scared you more than anything had in a long time, how your desire had festered.

you go to take a swig from your glass, only to find it empty, aside from a few sad ice cubes. you watch jealously as they melt into nothing, wishing they would take you with them, shoving your glass across the smooth table top when your frustration boils over.

you’re on edge, ridiculously afraid of bumping into a curly haired man. it wasn’t him you were scared of, per-say, more yourself. god knows what you’d do if you felt those warm, calloused hands pulling your hips into his again.

“you okay?” pierre calls across the table. he and charles abandon their conversation as soon as your glass goes flying towards their side of the table. you’re broken out of your trance, caught off guard like a deer in headlights.

“tired.” you reply, shrugging it off like it was nothing. it’s clear immediately that they don’t buy it.

“she’s hiding.” alex chimes in from beside you, and your elbow goes straight into his ribs. he feigns pain for a moment, cackling at your reaction.

“from who?” charles inquires. you roll your eyes, blush spreading down your neck already. you hate everything about the conversation, and yet you need to see where it goes. you’d planned your escape, and now was the opportune time to make it, but you seem to be glued to the leather of the booth.

“lando.” george smirks into his drink as a he speaks, wiggles his eyebrows.

“oh yeah, we know all about that.” pierre laughs, his head tipping back in amusement.

“what?” you spit, eyes wide with confusion.

“don’t think me and kika didn’t see you two before the summer break. that night you won? we thought you’d finally cave.” pierre explains, his grin conveying pure evil.

several “what?!”’s sound from around the table, and now all eyes are on you.

“nothing even happened.” you mumble. “he came over to me and then i left.” you look away, twisting your hair around your finger. you are sweating.

“you looked like you were minutes away from being arrested for public indecency.” pierre smirks. you almost launch yourself across the table, intent on strangling him, and then perhaps throwing yourself in front of an oncoming uber outside.

“well, well, well. i fucking knew it.” alex is giggling beside you.

“come on guys, leave the poor girl alone.” lily winks at you, but even she has a twinkle in her eye. “there’s obviously feelings there.” and just like that she betrays you. her sympathetic smile doesn’t make you forgive her.

“i think you guys just need to get it out of your system,” charles starts, pausing to take a sip of his drink. “just fuck.” he waves his hand, like it was the most causal thing in the world.

the table erupts in laughter and you decide that you are well past the end of your tether. you shake your head, declaring that you need another drink, or ten, and strut away from the table. a chorus of ‘love you’-s and ‘get some’-s sound from behind you. you reply simply by raising your middle finger and refusing to look back.

the bar is in sight, just about in your reach when your evening goes from mildly bad to aggressively worse.

“fuck sake.” you sigh.

“and good evening to you too.” lando replies. he’s blocking your path, materialising before you out of nowhere.

“get out of my way, lan.” it sounds like you’re pleading and you cringe internally.

“don’t you wanna congratulate me?” he feigns a pout and you almost swing for him.

“no, not particularly.” you say dryly. “all i want is a drink, so if you’d just…” you gesture for him to move. of course, he doesn’t.

“haven’t seen you in a while, though. thought maybe you’d missed me.” he takes a step closer; goosebumps litter your bare skin.

“you are such an entitled prick.” you spit, moving to step around him but he catches you, gripping your wrists and pulling you in. you feel heat radiating off of him, expensive cologne overwhelming you in the best possible way.

“and you, honey, are such a fucking brat. but you don’t hear me complaining, do you?” lando whispers, cool breath hitting your face, minty, laced with champagne and cockiness. you almost fold, thighs clenching so tight that he must have noticed.

“move.” you grumble through gritted teeth. you are crumbling painfully, embarrassingly fast.

“make me.” your underwear is damp, but you are fuming.

“don’t fucking test me, lando.” something in your chest sets on fire and you’re over him and his bullshit, and the way he makes you feel.

“i know you want me.” he dips his forehead down to rest gently against yours. his grip on your wrists tightens, thumbs swirling circles into the flesh, right where your pulse is.

you lean in, mere centimetres separating your lips. his eyes darken, the assumption of victory over you tugs his lips into a smirk.

“all i want is my fucking drink. come find me when you’ve managed to navigate your gigantic, stupid head out of your arse.” you catch him off guard, wriggling out of his grip. you’re shaking when you walk away, thoughts of doing things with him that would get you both fired invading your foggy brain.

you try to disappear into the crowd, finally breathe a sigh of relief when your hands meet the cool surface of the bar. you order your drink, putting it on your tab and drum your nails against the marble top. you’re lost in your own world, watching as concoctions are mixed, as shots are downed. you finally feel at ease, until your evening takes yet another turn, one that was somehow even more unfortunate than all the others.

your attention is rudely stolen by the guy stood next to you.

“can i get that for you?” the random man speaks, in a way that he must of assumed was smooth. slimy, you think. he’s gesturing to your drink, clearly having watched you add it to your bill already.

“no, thank you. it’s already paid for.” you smile politely, turning on your heel. it seems he wasn’t quite done with you. you feel a clammy hand tug on yours, a wave of sickness washes over you.

lando’s hands are bigger, warmer, softer.

“where are you rushing off to, babe?” the sweaty man asks, his tone fake in a way that makes you uneasy.

“i need to get back to my friends.” you try to pull your hand free, but he won’t budge. “can you let go-“

“i can show you a good time. always thought you were kinda hot.” you’re panicking now, looking every which way for a familiar face, a security guard, anyone.

“take your hands off of me.” you snap, still wrestling to pull yourself free.

“one night with me would pull you out of that little slump you’re in.” he leers. you visibly gag, white hot rage blurs your vision.

“okay you piece of shi-“ you snarl, interrupted by a flash of curls and tanned skin.

“she told you to let go.” lando stands in front of you protectively, rigid and furious. you’ve never been so happy to see his annoying(ly beautiful) face.

“and what are you gonna do?”

“hands. off.” lando stands up even straighter, looking bigger than you’ve ever seen him.

“okay, mate, whatever.” the stranger rolls his eyes, shoves your hand away.

lando turns to you, opening his mouth to speak when…

“keep that stuck up bitch all to yourself.”

and then, everything goes to shit.

lando whips around, fists are flying, the stranger topples to the ground, amassed to nothing in the face of the mclaren drivers rage. lando doesn’t stop there, makes sure he is sufficiently dealt with, flat on his back on the sticky floor. you don’t know what to do, calling out for lando, begging him to stop, as satisfied as you are. lando hears your shouts, pulled out of the chaos and back to you. always back to you.

“are you okay?” he has his hands on your face searching for any remaining fear or upset. a crowd has formed and you see alex and george towering above the other club goers, jaws agape.

it’s as if he dj has it out for you, and you realise that the song has changed to something moodier, slower, one that gives you whiplash.

even though we're going through it
and it makes you feel alone
just know that i would die for you
baby, i would die for you

“we need to get out of here. security are coming.” you mutter, keening into his touch.

“i have a car outside.”

“well, let’s use it then.”

-

you can’t help but stroke over his knuckles mindlessly in the car, an unlikely comfortable silence settling between you. they look raw, cracked slightly and you have an overwhelming desire to kiss them better. your head is fuzzy, and you’re unsettled with confusion, but at the same time, you feel lighter.

“why did you do that?” you murmur, disrupting the quiet that has settled over the backseat of the town car, the question burning desperately on your tongue.

lando turns his head so that he’s looking down at you, his good hand comes up to cup your jaw softly.

“no one can talk to you like that.” he’s staring so deeply into your eyes and you almost squirm at the intensity. you feel exposed, bare.

“but why did you step in before that?” you reiterate shakily. lando hums in understanding.

“i’ve known you since we were 10 years old. i know when you’re scared.” he whispers, breath dusting your cheeks. you almost lean in, then, something about his words pull you even closer towards him. you feel warmth creeping over your chest, sinking into the pit of your belly.

“we’ve arrived.” the driver calls from the front, signalling that you need to get out of the car. it was like an elastic band had snapped, and you spring away from lando, scrambling to undo your seat belt, the moment of weakness long gone.

you sneak into the lobby, on the lookout for any angry PR teams or incognito photographers that are scoping for their next pay check. the coast seems clear, so you manage to scurry discreetly into the elevator. you hit the button for the third floor.

“can you hit the button for five?” lando asks, leaning against the opposite wall.

“you’re coming to my room.” you state, offering no other explanation, even when he raises his eyebrows.

the ding of the lift has lando pushing himself off of the mirrored wall, trailing behind you into the corridor. the lights are low as he follows you to your door, hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. he watches in anticipation as you rifle through your small bag for your keycard. the green light gives you the go ahead to open the door, and he awkwardly follows you inside, peering around the room.

you notice the slight apprehension in his features, eyes blown wide from alcohol and adrenaline. they seem to sparkle more than you’d seen in a while, a hazel-y blue twisting with secrets and unspoken thoughts.

“let me find my first aid kit.” you tell him. you guide him towards the foot of your bed, gesture for him to sit. “make yourself comfortable.”

“you don’t need to do this.” lando replies, sitting down anyway.

“and you didn’t need to get between me and that dickhead but here we are.”

your words elicit a low chuckle from him, and you’re glad you have your back to him while you dig through your suitcase. he can’t see your smile at the wholesome sound, and he doesn’t need to.

random pieces of clothing fall out of the bag as you rummage through it, your attention taken up completely by your mission to find the small box. you don’t notice the pile of garments littering the floor.

“wow, didn’t take you for that kinda girl.” lando teases. your cheeks flame red when you catch sight of the cherry red thong that has managed to get caught in the wheel of your suitcase.

“shut up, i’m helping you.” you grumble, balling up the lace and burying it at the bottom of the case.

“why is it ferrari coloured? something you wanna tell me? do you think charles is… foxy? or is it fred? oh, i bet it’s fred, isn’t it.” he’s laughing now, loud and boisterous, and if it wasn’t for the butterflies erupting in your belly at the sound, you would have throttled him.

“i’ll leave you to bleed out.” you tease back, pointing at the dried up blood across his knuckles.

“of course, i am in urgent need of medical attention!” he exclaims sarcastically, clutching his hand. you roll your eyes.

“you know where the door is.” you stand from the floor, carrying a little square antiseptic wipe with you.

“yeah, i do. feel like staying now, though. i’m just so comfy.”

and with that, he throws himself back on your bed, closing his eyes as he sinks into the mattress.

you stare at him for a second, noticing the way his eyelashes dust the tops of his cheeks, his tanned, thick neck peeks out from in between the undone buttons of his dress shirt. you exhale shakily, moving to sit beside him on the bed.

“give me your hand.” you instruct him, tearing the packet open and unfolding the wipe.

“romantic.” lando snarks. you shove his shoulder in response. he holds his hand out.

“whatever.” you sigh, avoiding eye contact as you run the wipe over his knuckles. you can see how they are already tinged purple, wincing at the idea that it is your fault.

“what is it?” lando asks, noticing.

you don’t respond. this proximity is odd, you can’t quite tell yet if you like it. what you do know is that you certainly don’t know how to handle him now that the alcohol is wearing off and you’re left tending to the wounds of a man that you could have sworn you didn’t like.

“so that’s how it’s gonna be? we’re going back to the silent treatment again?” lando scoffs.

“don’t know what to say.” you mutter, keeping your eyes trained on every line and indent of his knuckles.

“why do you hate me so much?”

“i don’t.”

“yes, you do.” he scoffs.

“i don’t think about you enough to hate you.” you lie. it’s cruel. he winces.

that shuts him up.

“i’m gonna go. thanks for this.” lando waves his hand and you feel a wave of guilt hit.

“no, fuck, i’m sorry.” you apologise, bowing your head. “stay.”

“i’ll stay if you tell me why you hate me.”

“i’ve never hated you, lan. haven’t always particularly liked you but i never, ever hated you.”

“okay.”

that’s all it takes for him to flop back onto the bed. some unexplainable instinct that you loathe has you crawling onto the bed beside him. you wrap your arms around your pillow, watching him watch you.

“i used to have such a big crush on you, you know.” lando says. you stare at him blankly.

“what?”

“yep. i think i was about 15. you were the first girl i ever really liked that way.” he smiles, recalling the memory. “it kinda sucked because i knew you wouldn’t even look at me twice but it’s funny thinking back to that time.”

~ 15

he watches the way her hair gets caught in the breeze as she takes off her helmet. two messy braids are shaken free, and his heart skips a beat or two, or seven, when she turns around with the biggest grin on her face.

she’s just won a race, another one, and he’d be so jealous if it wasn’t her.

he thinks she’s the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. george and alex go over to her, congratulating her, hugging her. he wishes he could do that. he definitely can’t.

she doesn’t see him, the only times that she does are when they argue, when they push eachother off the track and scream at one another across a gravel trap. the times when she plants her pointed finger in his chest and calls him dirty, the times he gets heated and calls her something he doesn’t mean under his breath. and she always hears him. always. he watches her eyes pool with tears every single time.

he wants her, in a way he’s never wanted anyone before. he’s never felt like this, wonders how he can make it go away. she hates him. she must.

he can never have her, so why even try?

~

“i had no idea you ever felt that way.” you’re quite shocked, really. you knew that you had this intensely charged sexual tension between you now, but you had failed to realise how far back this all went.

mutually, at least.

“i’d say i’ve done a pretty good job of hiding it.” his smile changes slightly. it was now a sad smile, one that conveys disappointment in himself, and that you hated to see. it reminds you of the one you’ve gotten used to seeing on your social media feed after he’d had a shitty race.

you sigh, bracing yourself for what you are about to say.

“you’re not the only one who hid it.” you raise an eyebrow, your face says ‘guilty!’

“no?” lando’s eyes widen at your revelation.

“i think we were 13. you gave me half a cookie to apologise for pushing me off track.” you smile coyly. “it’s kinda sad but 13 year old me died inside.” you laugh.

“so, we’ve both… liked each other.” lando assesses. you nod.

“when did you stop?” you inquire, scanning his face. you take in each detail, each individual freckle, the curve of his lips. he seems closer, all of the sudden, and that’s when you realise you’ve closed the space between you. lando is within reach now, it would have been so, so incredibly easy to shift even closer still; it was like you were in his gravitational field, reeled in by pretty, pretty eyes.

“who said i stopped?”

“oh.” you breathe.

~ 13

he snaps the crumbly biscuit between his fingers, trails towards her awkwardly. he feels bad, feels a strange pang in his chest that he doesn’t recognise.

he finds her around the back of her parents car, arms crossed, eyebrows scrunched, pouting hard. he thinks she’s cute.

“why are you here?” she whines.

“this is for you. i know it doesn’t make up for the race. i didn’t mean to take you out, i swear.”

he sounds panicked, sincere. her tummy turns funny.

he’s holding out a cookie, the children’s equivalent of an olive branch.

her face softens. she accepts it. they bite into their cookies at the same time.

it’s not the worst day in the world anymore.

~

messy kisses and soft whispers lull you to sleep.

his nose bumps yours every time your lips meet, gentle and plush.

you feel delicate in his arms, treasured. his lips press gently to your hairline. he’s different, softer than you’ve seen him since you were teenagers splitting cookies.

it’s the easiest thing in the world to curl into his side, mould together until you’re part of him, and drift off.

-

the heat wakes you up.

you stir, eyes fluttering open, searching for the source of the onslaught of warmth. it clicks quickly, and you realise that you hadn’t dreamt the events of the night before.

lando is in your bed.

lando had protected you.

lando had wanted you since you were stupid kids who didn’t know any better.

he is the heater that had woken you up, and suddenly you don’t care that you’re far too hot. you curl back into his side, head rests on his chest. it rises and falls softly, his heartbeat thrums beneath your ear. you are jealous of how pretty he looks when he’s asleep, relaxed and infatuating. you lose track of time, gazing up at him.

a sharp pain in your side makes you groan. you had fallen asleep in your dress, lando in his jeans and his shirt, and now you’re paying for it, your fingers searching for the zipper that was now digging into your side. your movements draw him out of his slumber, and when you look back at him, he’s watching you, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“you okay?” lando croaks, his voice deep and sleepy. it sends shockwaves through you.

“mhm. how did you sleep?” you ask, mindlessly running your hand over his jaw like it was the most natural thing in the world. a smile breaks out across his face, eyes fluttering shut once more.

“really fucking well.” he laughs, almost in disbelief.

“yeah, me too.” you smile at him, shy.

“what’s bothering you?”

“well, a human heater woke me up and now this fucking zipper is killing me.” you joke. it’s weird that this doesn’t feel weird.

“i am pretty hot i guess.”

“yeah, yeah.” you roll your eyes and stand from the bed.

lando sits up, resting on his elbows. his eyes follow you as you walk around the room. you take a bottle of water, drinking half of it before passing it to him. his lips wrap around the bottle and you have to turn away, the ache between your legs that you’d been fighting for months rearing it’s irritating head. you clear your throat, composing yourself.

“need to get this dress off.”

lando pulls himself off of the mattress, stalking towards you. you stop in your tracks and he meets you at the foot of the bed. his hands find your cheeks, thumbs smoothing over your skin in little circles, and then kisses you deeper than he did last night.

it’s impossible not to melt into him, hands running over his chest, his shoulders, and finally finding solace tangled in his curls. if someone told you the morning before that you’d wake up in lando’s arms, you would have cackled, urged them to seek medical attention, and probably spat in their face. how things change.

“i think you should keep it on, look so pretty.” lando breathes, staring down at you. you blush hard, leaning into him.

“but i’m uncomfortable.” you grin coyly. and then, a surge of confidence has you whispering: “i’ll let you take it off if you want.”

“let me make you comfortable first.” lando murmurs, dipping his head down until it rests in the crook of your neck. “want me to get you nice and comfortable, baby?” he kisses up your neck.

you cave, finally.

it takes him all of thirty seconds to have you spread out on his face, laying himself down on the mattress and pulling you on top of him so that you’re hovering over his lips. he mouthes at your panties for a second, getting his first taste of you, and then he drags them to the side, clearing a path. his tongue laves over your cunt, groaning as soon as he gets a proper taste.

your dress fans out over your thighs, and lando has disappeared beneath the fabric. you can tell he’s there, though, by the strong hands gripping onto your thighs, the tuft of curls peeking out, and the feeling of his nose bumping your clit as he buries his face deeper and deeper between your folds.

“lando.” you cry, throwing your head back. the straps of your dress are slipping down your arms, skimming your goosebump ridden skin. he just groans into your pussy in response, pulling you impossibly closer to his mouth, backwards and forwards until you’re grinding down on his willing tongue. you reach down blindly, grabbing one of his hands where it rests on your thigh, and your other threads through his hair, gripping tight as you revel in the pleasure.

lando pulls your clit between his teeth, grazing over the bud and you’re jolting, writhing above him. you feel like you’re going to die, heat pricking all over your skin, your tummy tight from the building orgasm. he’s so eager, sliding his entire face through your slippery folds, obscene sounds falling from his lips that ricochet through your quivering body.

tears prick your eyes when you finally let go, slumping forwards from the overwhelming sensation taking over every single nerve. he lifts you off of him, laying you back on the bed as you come down from your high.

“you okay, baby?” he coos, brushing sweat dampened hair from your eyes.

his lips are stained, dark pink and shiny, a mixture of enthusiasm and your slick coating them. lando scans your watery eyes, feral at how fucked out you look all because of him, and tantalisingly licks his lips.

“need you.” you moan, reaching out for him. his shirt is wrinkled where he’d slept in it and your shaky hands find the few buttons that are actually done up. you push the material off of his shoulders, pupils blown wide at the sight of his toned chest, at the feel of smooth, golden skin. you pull him in by the shoulders, swallowing him whole as you kiss him with everything you’ve got left.

lando’s hands find your thighs once more, running his hands over them to push your dress up your hips.

“wanted this for so long.” he whispers into the kiss, pulling away so that he can take the dress off of you. he looks ravenous the more he pushes the fabric up your body.

you feel vulnerable under his intense gaze, watchful eyes taking in every movement you make. you try to pull him back in for another kiss but he resists.

“let me look at you, please?” lando asks. “there you go, baby, let’s get this off, hmm?” he sits you up so that he can get it over your head, and you lay back, bare aside from your panties that he’d left in disarray.

he sucks in a breath, raking his eyes over the curve of your lips, your collarbone, the slope of your breasts. his gaze lingers there for just a second, before continuing further over your belly, the length of your legs. you want to hide away, pull him in so that he can’t look at you like this, or just dive under the duvet and stay there until you need to catch your flight.

“god, you’re so, so fucking beautiful.” he gasps, awestruck. he sounds speechless, and you feel yourself going red again.

“come here.” you whine. “needed you for so long.”

your admission seems to kick him into action, because seconds later, he’s on top of you, fingers grazing the band of your underwear while you fiddle with the button on his jeans.

“gonna be good for me, aren’t you?” lando stares you down, tone sending a shiver down your spine. you nod, batting your eyelashes. “words, my love.”

“yes, lando.” you affirm, arching into him. that’s all he needs to know, kicking his jeans away, boxers too.

“good girl. took care of me so well last night, now ‘m gonna take such good care of you.”

your eyes skim his body, honing in on how hard he is. your hand finds his cock, tentative at first, stroking over it softly. it’s heavy in your hands, red and dripping already. he wants this just as bad as you do. you continue to jerk him off, watching the way his eyes squeeze shut and his lips part, soft pants falling out. a low hum sounds from the back of his throat, and you wet your lips, threading your free hand through his hair.

lando opens his eyes at the sensation, gently batting your hand away. he dips down even closer, resting on one of his forearms. he lines himself up and your legs wrap around him instinctively. slowly, he pushes inside of you, his breath catching in his throat.

“fucking hell.” he groans, deep and guttural, something carnal sending shockwaves through his body. “been dreaming about all the ways i’d get to fuck you.”

your eyes roll back and you go languid in his arms, feeling every inch of him slide against your slick walls.

“want you.” you rasp, clinging to him, your fingernails leaving patterns between his taut shoulder blades as you beg for it.

“you have me, baby.” and then he kisses you, messy and slow, stealing the air from your lungs. you’re dizzy when he pulls away, sitting back slightly to change the angle. you cry out, feeling him even deeper and everything is more sensitive, warm. you roll your hips, meeting his thrusts deliciously, and he chokes out a moan as you clamp around him. “yeah, that’s it. fuck yourself like that for me.” he encourages.

this is all too much, too good. you have whiplash, physically and emotionally, eyes pooling with tears as the man you’d wanted so badly that you hated him for it rocks into you. lando hits the right spot every time he pistons his hips harder, and his nimble fingers slide up your abdomen, applying light pressure to your navel that makes you writhe.

“fucking perfect for me. gorgeous.” lando slurs, entranced by the sight of where you’re joined. he can see just how wet you are and it drives him insane, barrelling into you like a man possessed, drunk on every single way that your body responds to him.

his wandering hand finds your breast, kneading it before he traces your nipple. he watches the way it hardens at his manipulation, wetting his lips. he collapses back on top of you, sucking the bud into his mouth. you’re panting, whining beneath him as his tongue swirls over your chest, switching to the other side. you jolt, a silent scream scratching your throat when he slips his hand between your thighs, working your clit with the pad of his thumb. he’s rutting against you, grinding deeper, faster, uncontrollably.

“come on, baby. you’re so close, so tight for me.” he mutters into your skin. you nod frantically, your words lost on you. he kisses over your collarbone, the base of your throat, until he finds your lips.

“so close.” you sigh.

he stops.

“tell me you’re all mine.” lando growls, his entire demeanour changing. the tone of his voice almost finishes you off but you’re suddenly enraged. you’re too close for him to stop.

“c’mon lando.” you hiss, trying to move your hips but he has you firmly in place.

“need to hear you say it.” his hand slithers over your chest, finding a new home at the base of your throat. it makes you throb, the way his thick fingers wrap around you. slowly, his grip tightens, and you see an opportunity.

you buck your hips hard, whimpering at the sensation, but your plan works and now you hover over him. he’s still buried inside you, and you can feel him pulsing as you steal control.

“for once in your life, honey, shut the fuck up.” you smirk, mischievous in victory.

slowly, you build up your rhythm. he feels bigger like this, deeper, and you almost lose yourself in the small circles you make with your hips.

“knew you’d be like this. you liked giving yourself to me but i just knew you’d need to take back control.” lando teases. his hand is back around your neck, squeezing slowly, and you grind frantically, dizzy for him. “i was right last night, wasn’t i, baby? pretending to be my good girl when really,” he pulls you down so that you’re chest to chest. “you’re just a fucking brat.”

lando holds you close as he fucks up into you, feeling the way you go limp on top of him as the pleasure washes over you like a million electric shocks. you’re crying, tears pooling on his chest, because there is nothing you can do, nothing you want to do, but take it. he’s got you right where he wants you, and you’re loving every fucking second of it.

“yeah, baby, take it how you want it.” lando commands through gritted teeth, and you move your hips in a feeble attempt to match his speed. everything is slippery, everything feels wet and flushed.

the power play, the position, the frenzy he seems to be in as he fucks you, it all has you gushing, spilling all over him. you choke out a sob, shuddering as the elastic band in your belly snaps. lando stops his thrusts, replacing them with small rolls of his hips to help you through your orgasm.

a sharp breath and a string of curses from him give you the strength to muster the last little bits of energy you have left to look up at him. you pull your head up off of his chest just in time to watch him shatter into a million little pieces.

his neck flexes as his head rolls back, sinking into the pillow, his eyes tight. swollen lips part and your name falls from between them like a prayer. you can feel him filling you up, his hands tightening their hold on your hips like he’s scared to let go, like the world will stop if he does.

the world stops anyway, because then you’re looking at each other. really looking at each other.

it only takes a second for you to be drawn in and his hands leave your hips to cup your face. his calloused hands feel your skin, stroking over rosy patches on your cheeks. it’s deathly silent all around you, apart from the breathless pants you share.

swollen lips crash hard into yours and you melt. he’s still buried so deeply inside of you, your hips digging into his, impossibly close. you’re blindly reaching for any part of him you can get your hands on, and his big hands slide down your body until they meet the small of your back. ever so carefully, he flips you onto your back, easing your spent body into the mattress.

lando collapses on top of you, mouthes at your neck for a moment, delicate kisses making your eyes flutter shut. the eye contact almost sends you into cardiac arrest as he pulls out, oh so slowly. tease.

he holds you close in the shower, fingers massaging every part of you. sex and sweat are washed away, almost lovingly. you let the water run for far too long, content in clinging to him. it’s quiet, reflective time for both of you, exactly what it needs to be. you’re both hung up on questions that need to be asked, neither one of you brave enough to take the first steps. you know one thing, and one thing only: something has changed, in a forever kind of way.

your hair is stringy, half dry, and you’re stood in your underwear. your legs are still shaky.

“your flight soon?” lando asks. he’s stood in his boxers on the other side of the room, scrunching the water out of his curls.

“yeah.” your throat feels raw.

“and you’re going back to monaco?” he’s stopped what he’s doing now, staring at you. you can see the cogs turning behind his eyes.

you nod.

“fancy a sleepover?” he grins, boyish and careless. your heart falls to your feet.

you’re giggling when he sweeps you into his arms and kisses you into the freshly made bed. the sheets are on the floor by the time you finally remember you have a flight to catch.

you’re his now, you realise. he’s too beautiful for his own damn good.

-

“baby?” you hear lando call from his bedroom. you make out the faint sound of his footsteps making their way in your direction. he appears before you can even answer him, and he’s smiling softly at the sight of you bundled up in a blanket, sprawled across his couch.

“what is it?” you ask. the next thing you know he’s on top of you, peppering kisses over every single inch of skin he can get to on your face. “hey, get off, muppet.” you whine playfully, ruffling his hair.

“do you know how much i love having you here?” he murmurs. it’s endearing as fuck and you fight a foolish, dopey grin.

“you’ve mentioned once or twice…” you’ve been here since your flight touched down a week ago. you haven’t even been home to get clothes, not that you needed them in his company.

“we might have a teeny, tiny issue.” he squints, pulling a face.

“and what’s that?” you ask, your voice measuring equal parts cautious and amused.

“so, alex called…”

“oh, shit.”

“we have to go to dinner tonight.”

“we have to?”

“he’s suspicious as fuck. you do realise they’ve been plotting for us to happen for years,” you roll your eyes as if you say duh. “and also, you’ve been in monaco for a week and haven’t seen him once. oh, and also, the last time we saw them, we were running away from a fucking crime scene.” lando smiles sarcastically, and you sigh, defeated.

before you can reply, your phone is ringing somewhere beside you. you root around in your blanket searching for it and when you find it:

“son of a bitch.” you exclaim, showing lando the caller ID. alex is one persistent motherfucker.

“hey girl.” alex singsongs down the phone before you can even say hello.

“hello to you too.” you can hear the fear in your own voice.

“dinner. tonight. although, i’m sure lando already told you.” alex teases.

“why would lando have told me? what?” you choke. lando slaps his hand over his face. your voice has gone up several octaves. not suspicious at all.

“so, you’re at home? you haven’t been at his place since last week?” the playful interrogation begins.

“why would i be with lando?” you try and feign disgust at the implication. it does not work.

“because you hate fucked after he beat up that perv? i have to say, i didn’t think he had it in him but he’s been in love with you since he was like, ten, so, you know-”

“bye alex.”’

“you’re not denying it-“

“bye alex!”

you’re flaming red when you throw the phone to the other end of the sofa. lando, as on brand as ever, is cackling into a pillow.

“he is such a fucking shit stirrer.” you bury your face in your hands, slumping back into the fuzzy cushions.

“well, he’s right about one thing.” lando trails off. suddenly he’s looking anywhere but you and you see him gulp, hard, swallowing his words, like he’s too afraid to bare his soul.

“huh?” you ask gently, sitting up to reach out for him. “what’s wrong?”

“we need to get ready for dinner. that’s what he’s right about.” lando says, standing from the sofa and walking towards his room. you’re suspicious, watching him go with furrowed eyebrows.

-

“lando, behave! you’re the one making me go to this dinner.” you squeal, batting his restless hands away.

you’ve made it as far as the elevator before he pounces on you, caging you in against the metal walls.

“but you look so good, can’t help myself.” he mutters between kisses on your neck, pressing himself even further into you.

the hand that finds it’s way between your legs, exploring beyond the hem of your skirt, is the one that makes you press the button for his floor. why have plans when you can have sex?

he gets through the door to his apartment at lighting speed and carries you all the way to his bed.

when you’re sweating and breathless a good hour later, half of the bedding on the floor with your clothes, you realise you never cancelled your plans.

lando is drawing shapes into the bare skin of your arm, kissing over your shoulder as he does so. his eyes are dropping from all of the over-exertion and you want to count each and every freckle on his face while he falls asleep. he’s cute like this, soft and yours.

and idea comes to your mind, and as if he can see the lightbulb, lando half raises an eyebrow at you. you giggle, somewhat evilly perhaps, and scramble for your phone on the beside table.

“what’re you doing?” lando groans, pouting as his outstretched arms try to find you.

“getting even.” you state.

with the phone in your clutches, you roll back over towards him, holding the camera above you both. he hears the shutter sound as you snap the picture, and peers closer to see the screen. when he sees the groupchat open, he quickly understands what you’re plotting.

“may i?” you ask for his consent.

“are you kidding? go for it. that’ll shut them up.” he laughs sleepily, muttering something about how this is the most lando thing you’ve ever done

FROM: you

TO: the groupchat

1 image attached

couldn’t make dinner. something came up xx

“alex always thinks he’s right, this’ll teach him for being such a little shit.” you flop back into bed even more satisfied than you were before.

you hear lando inhale shakily beside you.

“he is right sometimes you know.” he repeats his earlier words.

you hold your breath. his eyes say so many things that are too delicate to be spoken yet.

“like… like what he said on the phone?” your voice quivers with anticipation, fear. your heart is thunderous, hammering away like it wants to escape the clutches of its cage.

“yeah. i-“ he stops himself. you don’t need him to finish, you know which two words follow. they can follow in good time, you both know it.

“me too, lando.” you coo.

he’s beaming, eyes half shut. you watch as he falls asleep, the both of you ignoring the way your phones are vibrating so aggressively that they might buzz their way off of the night stand. you lose count of his freckles, but it doesn’t matter.

you’ll have plenty of time to figure it out.

-

let me know what you think :D

-

taglist

@boysthatgovroomvroom @thegirlinthefandoms @welld0nebaku @mcmuppet @japanesekel @vinvantae @ggaslyp1 @dr3lover @smiithys  @rachstash @infinitebells @fizzpopsnap101 @gaily19 @icecoldtires @mysticalnightenthusiast @thatchickwiththecamera @oyesmendes @disneydaydreameralways @canyouseethesainz @ferrarifwendvale @fcbformulaeri @tony-stank3 @maih23 @nokiaholland @soleilgrec @carolineworld @anthonykatebridgerton @allywthsr @iamasimpingh0e @ophcelia @lovelynikol16 @coffeehurricanes @jennx03 @blueflorals @lqvesoph @sidcrosbyspuck @better-dead-than-smeg @buendiabebeta @pjofics @kovalcin @wintergilmore3 @for-writing-shit @youdontknowmeshh @im-an-overthinker @jule239 @darleneslane @jazzy722 @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @therealone4r @pleasecallmeunhinged @theonlyadrienne @spideylovin

(i ran out of tags omg? whoops) lemme know if you wanna be added or removed <3

[wall-maria-around-ba-sing-se]

Things you learn by reading the Xenoblade X pre-story short stories that were never officially translated:

The gravity on Mira is 0.94 that of Earth

The Planet Mira was named after a woman from Earth named Mira Torrez. I think it's possible to learn this in-game but I've never seen it personally

The literal first thing you learn about Mira Torrez is that she was Protestant. Which I'm sure she could be but, statistically speaking, with that last name she probably wasn't lmao

Mira was considered the "emotional backbone" on the Earthlife Colonization Project and helped bridge the communication gap between regular citizens and the more military/governmental sides of the project. She was simultaneously a clergywoman, an educator, and a scientist. Without her, many normal people perceived the project as too concerned with preserving national interests rather than life on Earth. Mira was focused on steering the plan to be "free of racial, national or religious motives"

Mira chose to stay behind on Earth as it was attacked seemingly to help board people until the last second 🫡

Most of the people in current-NLA worked in heavily-fortified sectors of the ship like the Habitat Unit and the bridge. Meanwhile, the escape pods (like the one the player is found in) were for crew members who worked in less fortified sections of the ship

The Ghosts are called such not because we don't know anything about them, or because they disappeared suddenly, but because they phased through the hull of the ship when attacking

Tatsu got captured trying to get his shut-in friend to go outside and Touch Grass. He also got captured by the Prone RIGHT as the White Whale was crashing onto Mira.

While being dragged back to the Prone camp, Tatsu wished on the White Whale like a shooting star which, to me, felt very much like:

The Nopon did not know they lived on a planet until these weirdo aliens showed up and told them they live on a big ball in space

Nagi is the one who decided that Tyrants are called Tyrants

Nagi's the one who named it New Los Angeles/NLA

Nagi is the one who got rid of the ranks (recall in the beginning of the game, Irina is used to calling Elma "colonel" but Elma corrects her saying they're all the same rank now) mostly because he didn't actually want to be the chief defense minister lamo

Nagi ended up being defense minister anyways because Vandam called him a chicken about it

It was already obvious based on his in-game dialogue and battle lines, but the short stories really drive home that Nagi really really would rather be in the field commanding a small squad than be stuck at a desk doing paperwork

He tried to get Vandam to take the job but when that fails he ends up making it so Vandam has to be head of BLADE

Before the reorganization, Elma outranked Vandam

Nagi is the one who named it BLADE, seemingly based on something Elma had said a long time ago

Nagi is constantly going "man.... if only Elma was here" and I think it's so cute. They're besties your honor.

Maurice was the only "passenger" awake on the White Whale while it was in space. Everyone else was crew.

Maurice was supposed to be loaded into the lifehold alongside the president (unclear if Of The US or of some other organization) but the alien attack started and the president and the other aides fucking died(?). He woke up on the ship alone and he was depressed with survivors guilt for a few weeks until he resolved to start building connections with people, which ended up getting him a lot of ears up the chain of command

Maurice ended up running the government because everyone else thought it was a boring job

Nagi muted Maurice's comm device because he was sick of his nagging lmao. This made it harder to find him after the crash though, unfortunately

Maurice looks up to Mira Torrez and wants to "carry on her ideals"

Maurice was the one who suggested the planet be named after Mira

Lin saves Maurice's life by using herself as bait to lure a Tyrant away from him with flares

While all of the characters agree it is an unfortunate necessity that they have to fight the indigens, Lao seems to be the most against fighting native fauna, rolling his eyes and scoffing at retroactive justifications like "sorry, but it was me or you"

Nagi notes that Lao used to be more cheerful "before all this". I did not know that Nagi knew Lao before the destruction of Earth

Elma does not make an appearance until the end of the final short story. Unsurprisingly, Irina is the happiest about Elma resurfacing and is described as "clinging" onto Elma "with tears in her eyes" (👈 👀 🏳️‍🌈❓) while Elma explains where she's been this whole time (fixing her Skell after the crash so she could meet up with the others)

[kurgy]

sorry for remaking this post and sorry its a little longer, but once they die they are dead, and with the ongoing social security cuts/mass firings, ssi and disability payment schedules becoming inconsistent right before my eyes as something i need to survive as a disabled person, im really really not doing well financially, im simultaneously making the most money i ever have while also being the poorest ive ever been, and my additional income options have shrunk with chronic illness, im just genuinely at a loss

im finishing off my remaining comms, but with some serious health complications from disability, i regrettably cannot take on more for the foreseeable future, it is killing me. i have always had some health problems but i developed a kind of chronic gi issue in my teens that manifested as frequent stomach abdominal pain/discomfort, acid reflux, stomach ulcers, some other gi issues, and near constant intense nausea and vomiting, which 90% the time forces me into my bathroom from anywhere to an hour to several to be physically ill. after a decade of this, the constant vomiting has wrecked my digestive system and practically ruined my teeth, and most recently i suffered what i thought was a flare up that has now lasted well over month, its now my new normal, which is seriously fucking me up and impeding my ability to do ANYTHING so much worse than it ever has before. my ability to work, do chores, leave my apartment, do hobbies, draw or write or read for leisure, or do any patreon work has come to a screeching halt. i cant even play a video game without having to immediately stop and go be sick, and every time now i have tried to just draw and work through it, but the feeling disorientation and nausea makes it impossible for longer than a couple hours, its not even a lack of focus, its like brain fog? to the point that my sight just blurs and blobs i get confused and have to try and force myself to refocus only to see all the absolute nonsense random lines i was aimlessly making on the canvas

my rent is due on the 1st, and even before elon musk my disability pay is only $947, while my average rent is $1010 - $1025, this has become harder to cover now that i am frequently sick and trapped in my bathroom, and cant cover it doing doodles or odd jobs for family/friends like usual. im short $132 on rent and my next bill, also due on the first. i can cover my actual rent, but with my landlords "smart home fee", "service fee", and their service fee to just pay rent, im low. i cant really offer much atm, but i would deeply appreciate any help trying to cover bills, especially while im declining, please

Paypal.me/kurgyy

venmo @ kurgy

cashapp $kurgyyy

[sophia-barnes]

Chapter 1: Static

Summary:

Working as the Thunderbolts’ logistics assistant isn’t glamorous, but it’s never dull—especially when Bucky Barnes is around. You’ve had a quiet crush on him for months, but lately he’s been distant… or maybe you’ve been avoiding him. And that rumor about him dating someone on base doesn’t help.

Content Warnings:

Light angst, mutual pining, subtle emotional miscommunication, reader is self-conscious but confident, Yelena is suspiciously observant, soft tension.

⸻

You knew taking a job with the Thunderbolts would be chaotic, exhausting, and possibly involve a lot of yelling. What you didn’t expect was Bucky Barnes. And definitely not… this.

This thing—whatever it is—where his eyes seem to find you when the room gets too loud. Where he hovers near your desk without ever saying much. Where you pretend not to notice when he walks in, like your heart doesn’t hiccup just a little.

But lately… something’s shifted.

You hear more about him than you see him now. He’s gone for longer stretches, showing up to briefings late, eyes shadowed and far away. He still looks at you—but it’s different. Harder to read. Distant. Like there’s a wall there that wasn’t before.

Which is fine. Totally fine.

You have your own walls.

You’re the team’s assistant—not a handler, not a field agent. You’re the one who makes sure the transport arrives on time, the comms are synced, the right files are printed, and someone brought food that won’t give Alexei indigestion. You coordinate the chaos.

You do not get crushes on super soldiers.

Or at least, you’re not supposed to.

⸻

“You’re thinking about him again.”

Yelena’s voice drags you back to the present like a hook behind your ribs. You look up from the mission tablet and raise a brow.

“No, I’m thinking about how we’re going to fit six people in a four-person jet with weapons and zero personal space.”

“Same thing,” she says, smirking. “Your Bucky obsession is getting louder.”

“He’s not—”

“Don’t lie to me. I’m Russian. I can hear lies.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s halfhearted. “I’m over it. Seriously.”

Yelena stares at you like she’s trying to X-ray your soul.

You sigh. “I was over it… until I overheard a couple agents saying he’s seeing someone. One of the medtech girls.”

There’s a beat of silence. Yelena leans forward on the bench outside the hangar. “He’s not.”

“Okay, but you don’t know that.”

“I do know that. Because I know Bucky, and he hasn’t smiled in like two months. Trust me. He’s the opposite of getting laid.”

You snort. “I didn’t say he was getting laid. I said he was dating someone.”

“Same thing . But even if he was, why does it matter to you? You said you’re over it.”

You press your lips together and hand her the tablet. “Can you check the evacuation routes again? The last GPS pull had Ava landing twenty clicks south of where she’s supposed to be.”

Yelena gives you one more narrow-eyed look before dropping it. “Fine. But this conversation isn’t over.”

With anyone else, you’d redirect easily. But Yelena sees too much. And worse—she cares.

⸻

The mission debrief is exactly as chaotic as you expected. Bob knocks over a chair. John complains about the jet seating. Alexei tries to light a cigar inside the building again, and Bucky

Bucky’s already there when you walk in. Sitting at the far end of the table, arms crossed, jaw tight. His eyes flick to you for the briefest second. You don’t meet them. Instead, you slide into your usual chair between Ava and Bob, pulling your tablet close like a shield.

“Let’s keep this short,” you say briskly. “Ava, your reentry coordinates were twenty clicks off. Did the terrain shift?”

“No,” she says, frowning. “My altimeter was glitching.”

“I’ll flag it for diagnostics,” you nod, typing. “Alexei, your comms—”

“Dead for fifteen minutes,” Yelena cuts in. “He tried to reroute through the satellite dish on top of a grocery store.”

“You said it was smart,” Alexei argues.

“I said it was ‘not entirely stupid,’ which is different.”

A quiet chuckle comes from the end of the table.

You glance up—he’s smiling.

Bucky. Just barely. But it’s real.

And for some reason, that smile hits you like a bruise. Warm. Deep. Fading fast.

You look away.

⸻

By the time the meeting wraps, you’ve already packed up, ready to bolt. You make it halfway to the door when Bob blocks your path with a big, dumb grin.

“Hey! You promised to help me with my personal file thingy.”

“I said I’d help you learn how to open it. Not fill it out for you.”

Bob looks vaguely betrayed. “That’s not what I heard.”

“Do you want your bio to say you’re an ’accidental weapon of mass destruction with mommy issues’ again?”

“…You typed that?”

“You dictated it. I just formatted it.”

Yelena snorts behind him, and Bob groans.

“Fine. I’ll rewrite it. But don’t abandon me, okay?”

“I’ll be in the comms room,” you say, brushing past him. “Just knock.”

What you don’t see is Bucky watching you the whole way out.

⸻

It’s not like you meant to pull away from him. It’s just… safer this way. When you thought maybe he liked you too—maybe something was there—it felt electric. Now, it just feels like static. Like you were wrong.

And being wrong hurts worse than you thought it would.

So you keep things professional. Friendly with everyone else. Distant with him. It’s not a punishment—it’s protection.

Even if it makes your chest ache.

⸻

Later that night, you sit alone in the staff dorm rec room, legs curled under you, scrolling through logistical reports with a lukewarm tea balanced on your knee. You hear the door open and close behind you, but you don’t look up.

Until a voice says, “Didn’t think you’d still be up.”

Bucky.

You freeze.

Then force a smile and glance over. “Night owl perks.”

He hesitates, then walks over, hovering at the end of the couch.

“Mind if I sit?”

You shrug. “Free country.”

He sinks down beside you, but not too close. You can feel the tension radiating off him like heat. You focus on your tablet.

He watches you in silence.

After a minute, he says quietly, “You’ve been different lately.”

You blink. “What?”

“Quieter. Not with everyone. Just… with me.”

You grip the tablet tighter. “I’ve been busy.”

“That’s not it.”

Your jaw tightens. You don’t look at him.

“Did I do something?” he asks, softer now.

That question almost breaks you.

“No,” you say. “You didn’t.”

But it’s not the whole truth. And you know he hears it in your voice.

“Then what changed?”

You finally look at him.

The worst part is, he looks genuinely confused. Like he doesn’t know. Like the idea of you caring at all hasn’t even occurred to him.

And maybe it hasn’t.

You swallow. “Nothing. Just… life.”

“Right,” he says, leaning back, eyes clouding over.

You stand up before he can say more. “I have to finish reports.”

He watches you go without another word.

⸻

You don’t cry. Not really.

But that night, as you lie in your bunk staring at the ceiling, you let yourself feel it. The slow ache of wanting someone who doesn’t—can’t—want you back.

You remind yourself of everything you are. Everything you’ve built. You’re confident. You’re sharp. You’re respected. You like who you are.

But you’ve never been kissed.

Never been loved.

And when you imagine what it would be like—just once—for Bucky Barnes to want you the way you want him, it hurts like a secret you’ll never tell.

⸻

Pt.2 coming soon

It’s my first ever fic; hope you guys like it 🫶

[daydreamgoddess14]

Strategic Interests - Chapter 4

No wait... this is my favourite chapter! 😅 Thank you so much for the engagement so far, I'd love to hear from you if you're enjoying it!

Warnings/ratings/notes: language, political setting (literally I only know what Google, Hamilton and the West Wing has taught me!), yearning, longing, Bucky trying so hard to be better, he falls first - she falls harder, banter and arguing, enemies-to-lovers that’s really frustrated co-workers-to-lovers, a little Thunderbolt chaos.... I think that's it for now?

Congressman/Thunderbolt Bucky Barnes x F!Congresswoman Reader.

Word Count: 5k

Main Masterlist | Bucky Barnes Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Chapter 4

You were three miles into your run, sweat slicking your back, feet pounding against the belt, when Kara’s name lit up your phone.

“I’m on the treadmill,” you huffed into your headset, breath heavy.

“You’re needed in the situation room. Now.”

You hit the stop button with your palm and let the machine take you to the end where you hopped off. You jogged down the three flights of stairs, tugging a hoodie over your damp skin, trying to make yourself look less exposed and less shaken.

Within minutes, you were standing under dim lights, pulse still hammering from the run - or maybe from something else. The screen at the far end glowed with satellite feeds, and body cam footage from multiple sources.

Someone handed you an earpiece which you slid in.

“Walker, you’ve got eyes on target?”

His voice hit you like a body blow.

Low, controlled and tight with authority.

Bucky.

You weren’t sure what you expected, but it wasn’t a front row seat to a Thunderbolts operation. Your eyes flicked around the different screens, you worked out quickly which one was his feed - you could see the blonde, Yelena, who’d complimented you, on his body cam half a step ahead of him, on his right. Then you found her body cam feed. She turned to face him fully and in the darkness, in the low night-vision lights, you could see him.

He’d shed the smirking arrogance he wore like armour in meetings. The snark. The teasing glint in his eye.

He looked totally focused, calmly and steadily giving orders. Leading alongside Yelena.

You weren’t expecting to see him, or hear him.

Not this.

Not his voice directly in your ear like that. Smooth. Intense. In control. Every word was measured and intentional. The kind of voice you’d follow without question, even if it led straight into fire.

Yelena had turned away, so had you, looking for another feed. Another body cam that kept him in your line of sight.

The tension in the room was thick, but you could hear it more clearly through the comms - the tight breath of one operative, the clipped voice of another. But not him. Never him. He was commanding with such steady control it made your stomach flip.

God, he was good at this.

His voice was firm, maddeningly confident and authoritative. You could hear how powerful and dangerous he could be.

It sent heat buzzing down your spine. Made something inside you ache - for what, exactly, you weren’t sure, but it made your thighs cling together.

It took you all of about two seconds to find the person following him. From their body cam you could see the outline of his shoulders, the gun in his hand, his elbows raised.

You swallowed hard and watched.

The op played out fast. They were brutal and efficient. Two takedowns, one brief exchange of fire, no casualties. Precise maneuvers, quiet commands. And then, just like that, extraction confirmed.

In under ten minutes, it was over.

“Team secure. Package retrieved. Heading for extraction now.”

His voice again, softer this time, still composed. A steel edge beneath it.

Then silence.

You stood there, the earpiece still warm in your ear, eyes fixed on the body cam feeds that had all gone dark at the same time.

And you realised you were still breathing too fast.

Not from the run.

From him.

From the impossible shift in your brain, from the image of him shirtless and bleeding, leaning against his desk, and now this -

The cold precision, the certainty and clarity.

The way he made the room still when he spoke.

You’d called him reckless. Arrogant. A distraction.

And now you didn’t know what to call him at all.

You went back to the treadmill, your body humming, and you ran.

You ran hard, your feet pounding the belt, trying to undo the last thirty minutes. Trying to outrun the sound of his voice, smooth and sure, directly in your ear.

If you pushed yourself hard enough. the heat crawling under your skin would be from exertion and not from him.

Not from his voice, calm and in total control. Not from the feeling of his skin under your palm only a few days previously. Not from the way your thighs had pressed together - clenching on nothing and desperate for friction.

You pushed passed the three mile mark (again), and kept going through the side stitch digging under your ribs. Every step only drove the image deeper.

His side profile caught on Yelena’s body cam.

His shoulders filling someone else’s screen.

His hair, damp with sweat, curling at the ends.

He wasn’t just dangerous. He was good.

You’d told yourself he was reckless, easy to dismiss, but you were coming to the horrifying realisation that none of that was true.

You finally stopped running when your legs gave out under you. When the belt kept moving and you stumbled, catching yourself on the side rails. Breathless and panting like you’d finally managed to escape. You hit the stop button and folded forward, bracing your hands on your knees.

You couldn’t outrun this. You weren’t even sure what this was.

~~~~

You didn’t talk about it. Not to Kara. Not even to yourself. But two days later, you passed him in the hallway.

Bucky was already walking towards you, back in DC with an easy confidence in his gait.

You tried to walk straight past him, without a sideways glance or even an acknowledgement.

“You’re quiet today,” he smirked just as you thought you were clear. “I haven’t heard the usual terrified screams of your victims.”

You didn’t stop walking. “Funny. I saw your little movie.”

“Thought you didn’t watch action flicks.” He turned, changed direction and fell into step alongside you.

“They don’t usually star the guy I called a reckless jackass two days ago.”

His mouth twitched. “I hope you weren’t dragged from your bed for me?” he asked, cocking a brow.

“Worse,” you shot back, walking a little faster. “You interrupted my workout.”

He blinked. Then that slow, wolfish smile. “Guess you’ll have to raise your heart rate another way.”

You stopped suddenly and turned on your heel, your breath catching. He was closer than expected. He smelled like gunpowder and soap.

“Hmm,” you managed, coolly. Hopefully sounding more composed than you felt. “Not as satisfying though.”

His gaze on you sharpened, dropping to your mouth, his voice dipped lower.

“Someone’s not doin’ it right then,” he said. “And I doubt it’s you.”

“You're so annoying -”

“Just for you, sweetheart.”

Your heart thundered in your ears. And of course that’s when it happened.

“Congresswoman!”

You flinched like you’d been shot. Bucky straightened a touch, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement.

“Oh my god,” you muttered under your breath.

Daniel Elliot - the coffee guy - was making his way towards you with a wide smile.

You felt Bucky take a step back, but he didn’t leave. Oh no, he was clearly enjoying your torment. Hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly to one side as he looked Daniel over.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Daniel said brightly, not as sorry as you were. “I just - about that rain check? The drink?”

Your soul briefly tried to leave your body.

Bucky rocked on the balls of his feet, like this was the best entertainment he’d had in weeks.

Daniel looked up, doing a slight double take on recognising him. “Uh, I didn’t realise you were in a meeting. Elliot, Daniel Elliot -” he held out his hand. Bucky looked at it for half a second too long and then held out his left hand deliberately and shook it slowly. Daniel flinched at the feel of unforgiving metal. You rolled your eyes and glared at Bucky.

“She’s not,” Bucky said smoothly, ignoring you. “We were just talking about cardio.”

You made a noise. Not even a word, just a small strangled sound that could have been a laugh or you choking to death. A desperate cry for help.

Daniel turned back to you, hopeful. “So… are you free this week?”

You made the mistake of glancing at Bucky. He raised one brow, a challenge. His smirk widened.

“No,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “Thank you, but it’s a bit of an… intense week.”

“Oh. Ok, maybe another time?”

Your smile was so tight you thought it might crack your whole face. “Uhuh, maybe.”

He looked visibly relieved. “Great. That’s great. I’ll call you.” He nodded at Bucky and walked off, blissfully unaware that you were seconds away from spontaneous combustion.

“So, Daniel, huh?” Bucky leaned in, his voice almost as close in your ear as it had been when you were wearing the earpiece. “I’m sure he’s great. Shit scared of you. Hope his cardio skills are up there.”

You forced a smile, sharp and deadly, even though your skin still buzzed with the feel of him too close.

“Rivalry looks good on you, Barnes.” you said, your voice soft and cutting. “But try not to confuse it with foreplay.”

Then you walked away quickly, highest heels skittering on the marble floor, like you hadn’t just said something that made your own heart jump.

~~~~

She was everywhere except where he wanted her to be.

It had been a week. Maybe more. Not that he was counting.

The shift had been surgical. One minute she was toe-to-toe with him in the hallway - her voice low, her eyes bright, that sharp little smile like she had him cornered.

Then she’d said that, and vanished like a puff of smoke.

He’d spent five days telling himself it was coincidence. Logistics. She was busy.

By day six, he’d stopped lying.

She was avoiding him. With precision. Like it was strategy. Tactical, even.

And god help him - he kind of admired the commitment. She was tenacious when she dug those sky-high heels in.

But it still pissed him off.

And he hadn’t even said it. That was the kicker.

She had. Clear as day.

“Rivalry looks good on you. But try not to confuse it with foreplay.”

It was definitely not her usual style, so it echoed. It lived rent-free in his head.

It came back to him in the shower, in briefings. When he worked out. When he wasn’t even in DC. Every time he closed his goddamn eyes.

It was like she’d let something slip, something real that she would never usually share. It was more forward and mouthy - just his type, not that he’d admit that out loud either.

And now?

Now she was acting like he didn’t exist.

He could trace her absence in negative space - the empty end of the meeting table where she usually sat, the ghost of her perfume on a file folder, her laugh drifting down a corridor but never aimed at him.

She could pretend all she wanted, but he knew when someone was running.

And she was running like hell.

From him? From what she’d said?

Hell, maybe both.

And he was stuck in the wake of it.

She was flustered - probably for the first time in her entire life. It was cute.

But now he was half amused, half annoyed, and way too affected for his own good.

And it was starting to gnaw at him.

No, grate.

It felt personal.

Which is why the universe - naturally - decided to stick them on a planning committee together.

Kara was talking animatedly with his staff when he arrived at his office.

“Congressman Barnes!” She shifted her files into one arm and held out her hand “I don't think we've met officially? Kara Anderson. I'm an aide to Congresswoman -”

“I know who you are,” he said suspiciously. “What have I done?”

She had the good grace to feign shock. “Nothing! Why would you think that?”

Bucky glanced at the stack of folders. “Because that looks like a trap.”

Kara beamed. “Oh, it is. Congratulations - you’ve been volunteered to co-chair the VA Appreciation Dinner.”

He stared. “Did I lose a bet?”

“Not that I'm aware of. Congressman Gary suggested to the Congresswoman that you co-chair.”

“But I haven't seen her for over a week -”

“Ah, but she didn't say no.”

“She could have said no?”

“Of course she could've. Which means even though she's doing this whole -” she waved her hands around, “avoiding thing right now -”

“Did she tell you that?”

“She didn’t have to.”

He exhaled through his nose, straightening a little. “You’re not scared of her?”

Kara stared. Then laughed - with her whole body. “Scared? God, no. I’d go to war for that woman. You think you're intimidating, but she walks into a room and everyone sits straighter - including you. You don’t get to her position by accident.”

She didn’t even hesitate. And that… said a lot.

He gestured to the seat across from his desk and she sat down. She looked him over with a kind of practiced calculation, then softened - just slightly.

“Look, if she’s keeping her distance, it’s because she doesn’t know what else to do. That just... doesn’t happen to her.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared down at the folder again.

She let him sit in it for a moment before nudging the her folder forward.

“Anyway,” she said briskly, tone lighter, “until she's… well, whatever. You've got me!”

He flipped through his diary, “I'm sure I have something -”

“You don't.” Kara said cheerfully, “I cleared it.”

“Do you do this for her too?”

“She handles fifteen committees and still remembers my kid’s birthday,” Kara said with a small smile. “I don’t need to.”

He sat back in his chair with a sigh. “What do I need to do?”

“To win me over, or her?”

“Same thing, right?”

She grinned. “Now you’re getting it.”

Then she stopped nudging and slid the open folder across his desk. “So, shall we talk about the menu?”

About ninety minutes later, Bucky’s appreciation for Capitol Hill aides - already significant - had grown tenfold.

He’d expected to sit in, maybe approve a few decisions, offer his name on the invitation and be done with it.

Instead, Kara ran the meeting like a five-star general. Catering proposals. Table layouts. Veterans Affairs liaison notes. Guest lists, protocol, dietary requirements - all delivered with rapid precision and casual authority. And somehow, between all the logistics, she still found time to talk about the Congresswoman.

He listened, as he usually did - but this time with more focus.

And it didn’t take long for him to realise:

Listening to Kara was like learning a language.

The more she talked, the more he started to understand.

“Can you make sure we’re seated together?” He asked, catching her just before she left.

She didn't look up from her notes. “I cannot do that, sir. It is more than my job is worth.” Then she tossed him a grin. “Thank you for your time. I'll be sure to tell her how helpful you've been.”

~~~~

The room was nearly set.

White linen. Silver cutlery. A dozen carefully arranged tables, each marked with elegantly, scripted place cards.

Bucky had already walked it twice - not that he was nervous, of course - just making sure things were in order.

“Man of the hour,” Sam said, walking in with Isaiah Bradley on one side and Torres trailing behind them. “Didn’t think you’d go full Martha Stewart on us.”

“Shut up,” Bucky muttered, plucking a place card from one table and swapping it with one already in his hand his like it was a classified document. “You want a decent seat or not?”

“You're looking sharp, man,” Torres shook his hand, “suits you.”

“Jury's out fellas,” he grimaced. “Not sure I'm handling the Congressman-Thunderbolt thing all that well.”

Isaiah just shook his head. “You'll be fine, just don't do anything stupid.”

“Little late for that,“ Sam laughed, “which two names did you just switch?”

Bucky didn’t answer. Just straightened the place card reading Joaquin Torres.

And then - like it had been choreographed by a particularly vindictive fate - she walked in.

He felt Sam nudge his ribs and heard Torres’ low whistle, but Bucky didn’t take his eyes off her.

It hit him like a gut punch. He suddenly hated every second she’d been avoiding him.

He was halfway to the stairs before he realised he’d moved.

Midnight-blue silk. Skin and heat and curves. The dress clung like it had been tailored to make him suffer. Like it knew what it was doing. Like it had conspired with her skin, her legs, her mouth, everything to ruin him completely.

He felt it in his teeth.

The silk caught the light like molten metal. The slit up her thigh made his hands ache.

His pulse spiked. His jaw clenched. Every instinct he’d ever sharpened in combat was now aimed squarely at not dragging her into a dark hallway and finding out what kind of sounds she made when she broke.

She looked like sin, and God help him, for a man who’d been searching his whole life for it, he’d never wanted forgiveness less.

He’d never wanted anyone like this. Not even close. It was terrifying. It was addictive.

He didn’t just want her. He wanted to lose his mind over her. He wanted to squeeze through the careful walls she’d built so he could be the only one to make them crumble.

Her tenacity, her control, the way she rationalised every feeling… he wanted to break it all with something raw and messy that she couldn’t logic away.

She caught his eye across the room - and for just a breath, the mask slipped. Nerves, barely there. Then gone, Her walls back up and firmly in place.

He was done waiting.

Let’s see if she was done running.

~~~~

You always got butterflies before events like this. The public ones. The ones that mattered. The ones where you had to wear the dress and the heels and the smile - all while making sure your voice didn’t shake when you stood behind the podium.

From the top of the stairs, you scanned the room. Kara had already met you at the door, handed over the rundown, cracked a joke to settle you. You’d nodded, taken a breath, let your eyes sweep the crowd.

You saw him before he saw you.

Bucky was already moving through the room, easy and unhurried, stopping to clasp hands with Sam Wilson, leaning into something Isaiah Bradley was saying. Laughing, even. The picture of ease.

And then he looked up.

And spotted you.

You didn’t even realise you’d frozen at the top of the stairs until Kara murmured, “He’s coming over here,” out of the corner of her mouth.

Your pulse spiked. Of course he was.

Bucky moved through the crowd like he had all the time in the world. Like people parted for him without noticing they had. His jacket was tailored within an inch of its life, dark shirt unbuttoned just enough to be unfair, and his eyes - locked on you like a weapon being drawn.

He reached the foot of the stairs and paused, waiting for you.

Then as you reached the bottom few steps, wordlessly, he held out his hand.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you weren’t halfway through imploding.

Your mouth went dry. The kind of silence bloomed between you that made your skin feel too tight. Kara gave you the smallest nudge.

His gaze never wavered.

You slipped your hand into his - warm, calloused, steady.

Too steady. Like he thought you might bolt.

“Congresswoman,” he said, voice low. “Good to see you. Kara, you look great.”

You nodded, polite. Practiced. You pulled your hand back the second your heels touched the floor.

“Thanks, Congressman. Any issues?” Kara asked, glancing around for anything she’d missed.

“None. You've done a hell of a job. She should give you a raise,” he added, flashing her a conspiratorial smile.

You left them talking and moved through the room, the click of your heels swallowed by soft music and low conversation. You checked place cards and silverware, keeping your expression neutral when you found your name beside his.

You didn’t comment. You didn’t pause. Just kept moving.

But you felt him a few steps behind, his attention pressed between your shoulder blades. Following your orbit. Introducing himself. Watching you greet donors, shake hands, and charm old friends with easy laughter.

You didn’t hesitate when you crouched beside one of your oldest constituents in his wheelchair, dress shifting as you knelt gracefully, balancing on the balls of your feet in heels that could kill a man. You took the gentleman’s hand, animated and smiling, but you felt the burn of Bucky’s eyes like he was memorizing every second of the taut pull of your dress across your thighs.

When you rose to your feet again, he took your elbow and turned you slightly, “may I introduce you to a couple of people?” He asked.

Sam Wilson stepped forwards with a smile, “Congresswoman, it’s great to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Hopefully not the same things as his Thunderbolt friends,” you smirked.

“Much worse,” he beamed. “This is Isaiah Bradley, and Joaquin Torres.” They both shook your hand warmly.

“Lovely to meet you, Mr Bradley, I'm grateful you came back to DC. Mr Torres, are you recovering?”

“Getting there, Ma’am.”

“Will you save me a dance later, Congresswoman? Be a shame if I came all the way here and didn't get to dance with the most beautiful woman in the room.” Isaiah asked.

“You flatter me. There’s not usually dancing at these events, Mr Bradley.”

“Well then we should make an exception,” he winked. You rolled your eyes good-naturedly.

"No promises!” You covered Isaiah’s hand warmly with your own as the dinner service was announced. “Enjoy dinner, gentlemen. It was an honour to meet you.”

You turned to find Bucky pulling out your chair and were reminded of the place cards next to each other.

“This isn’t your seat,” you said flatly.

Bucky peered at the name on the card. “Kinda looks like it is.”

“You -” you knew you’d asked Kara to make sure you were sitting as far away from him as possible. “Sabotaging seating charts should be a felony.”

“Add it to my list.” He tapped the back of the chair and you sat.

Spine straight, napkin unfolded with precision. “This won’t work, you know.”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he smiled, slowly and apologetically, “I thought we should catch up.”

You didn’t answer him. Dinner began.

The table buzzed with conversation, a blur of names and laughter. You nodded, smiled, talked happily to those around you. But Bucky was a constant, simmering presence beside you, his elbow brushing yours when he reached for the bread, fingertips grazing your wrist as he handed you a wine glass.

As he leaned back in his seat to talk to the gentleman next to him, he lifted his arm across the back of your chair, his thumb brushing against the back of your arm.

You flinched, then shook him off, focusing on your own conversation.

He leaned closer under the cover of laughter. “I’d pay good money for you to admit you tolerate me.”

You kept your face forward, jaw tight. “Tolerate being the operative word, Barnes.”

His breath ghosted warm down your neck as he chuckled.

You hated the way your skin prickled.

You were trying so hard to hate him.

Because desire was weakness. And weakness was a liability.

And he was an equation you couldn’t balance. Not in a room full of colleagues. Not with his thigh warm against yours under the linen-covered table. Not when your body was betraying you with every stolen glance and phantom brush of contact.

He made you feel powerless.

And you didn’t do powerless.

You’d tried to recategorise him as an ill-timed distraction in a good suit.

But he kept proving you wrong. Every second he didn’t push. Every moment he made you feel seen and cornered all at once. Every time he proved you wrong. And you hated being wrong.

You shifted in your seat, refilled your wine, and kept your eyes on the notes for your speech.

But the heat of him didn’t leave you until you'd gotten up from the table and taken your place at the podium.

You’d done this a hundred times - but your chest still fluttered as you looked out across the room. It wasn’t nerves. It was purpose. This was what mattered.

“Thank you all for being here tonight,” you began, your voice strong, measured. “For some of us, this is personal. For many of us, it should be.”

A pause. A scan of the room. Your gaze didn’t linger on him. But it found him, for just a beat.

“There are countless ways we can serve. Some wear a uniform. Some hold public office. But service doesn’t stop when the tour ends, or the oath is sworn in. It’s a commitment. A responsibility. A promise to do better for the people who’ve done the most.”

You drew in a breath. Let it sit Kara had told you when you’d practiced it.

“I’d like to thank my co-chair for tonight’s event - Congressman James Barnes - for his tireless work behind the scenes. The hours, the ideas, the calls I know he made himself. This evening is just one reflection of what he continues to fight for every day in this chamber.”

Your words were crisp. Professional.

But you meant every single one.

You didn’t look at him again as you left the podium.

But Bucky hadn’t moved.

He hadn’t blinked.

Something in him was unraveling quietly - and you felt it all the way across the room.

Mr Bradley was the one waiting to assist you from the small stage, his hand extended and the depth of his emotion clear in his eyes.

“There should be more people like you,” he said simply.

You took his hand in both of your own, “there will be, Mr Bradley.”

“You promised me a dance,” he said, clearing his throat and rewarding you with a smile.

“Did I now?”

“You implied.”

You laughed, letting him lead you to the small space between the stage and the dinner tables. “That sounds like weak legal footing, sir.”

“Then it’s good we’re not in court.”

He guided you with the sure-footed charm of a man who once upon a time knew exactly how to make a woman feel like the only person in the room. You let yourself enjoy the dance. His banter was easy, his smile, comforting.

“You’ve got the footwork of a much younger man.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, young lady.” But then he leaned in conspiratorially. “Don’t look now, but your Thunderbolt’s been staring at you like he wants to steal you away.”

You glanced. Just once.

Bucky was still at the table, fingers tracing the rim of his glass, gaze locked on you like he was waiting for the earth to shift.

Isaiah caught the look. Chuckled. “Yeah. Thought so.”

He spun you once, slow and measured, then stepped back.

“Don’t let him wait too long, Congresswoman.”

“I don't know what you're taking about, sir.” You told him with a firmness that quickly made him concede.

You shouldn’t have worn this dress.

You definitely shouldn’t have let Isaiah talk you into dancing.

“Mind if I cut in, Isaiah?” Bucky asked, hand outstretched. You hadn’t seen him approach. He always moved like that - quietly. With certainty. Like he already knew you’d say yes.

“Please, Barnes, age before beauty,” the elder man laughed, clapping Bucky on the back and going back to his table.

You sighed, but took his hand anyway.

“You’re not exactly subtle,” you muttered as he guided you into step.

“That was a great speech,” he said casually.

“Don’t start. I’m still not convinced you’re house-trained.”

He smirked, but didn’t rise to it. His hand at your back was warm and careful, like he was afraid to startle you. You hated how much space he didn’t take. Like he was waiting for you to make the next move.

His fingers didn’t tighten. His steps didn’t press closer. But the heat radiating off him pulled you in like gravity.

“I still think you’re dangerous,” you said, just loud enough for him to hear. “And reckless.”

He smiled softly. “You’re the one who keeps showing up in my head.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“That doesn’t mean I’m staying.” His hand in the small of your back tightened a fraction. Enough to make you question your own words. But you stepped back before the next song could start, heels steady, back straight. You didn’t look back as you walked away.

You couldn’t afford to.

You returned to your table long enough to exchange goodbyes with the last of the guests as they filtered out into the night.

The ballroom had emptied. You hadn't seen him leave, and he hadn't said goodbye.

You’d stayed behind, not because you had to, but because you always did. Thanking staff, making sure the events team gathered the stray glasses and napkins. Smoothing over details no one else would notice.

By the time you stepped outside to wait for your car, your heels dangled from your fingers, your toes ached and your jaw felt tight from too many practiced smiles.

The night was quiet. The air cool against your skin.

And he was there.

Leaning against his bike, helmet dangling casually from one hand.

Like he knew you’d come out alone.

Like he’d been waiting.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you like he had all the time in the world.

Then he said, “come on. I’ll get you home.”

You stared at him. “I’m not getting on that thing in this dress. I’ve already called my driver.”

He didn’t move, just waited calmly and confidently.

“Get on the bike.”

And you hated how much you wanted to.

Tagging:

@potatosackk @buckybarnes82 @greatenthusiasttidalwave @stevetonycupcakes @florie1 @crdgn @ficmeiguess

[gothamhappiness]

Being in a relationship with Bruce Wayne: a journey - His denial (Part VIII)

It's a big series about an afab!reader who doesn't like Bruce Wayne and who still falls in love with him (he fells quicker and harder)

Reader's origin story // Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6 // Part 7 //

Warnings: no proof reading, mentions of crying several times, hard times for reader and for Bruce, language, ANGST and more ANGST

“You know Ma, it’s okay if you don’t wanna tell me what happened between you and Bruce, but we’re all wondering why you broke up with him?” Jason asked you as he was helping you prepare a meal for the two of you. “Also, everyone's a little bit worried you won’t be our mother figure no more.” he added

“I’ll send a message on our group chat to let you kids know that I’m still there for you, no matter what happened between Bruce and I.” you replied instantly. 

You loved those kids as if they were yours and you were eager to keep taking care of them, even if it wasn’t at the manor anymore.

“Good to know,” Jason hummed and kissed your cheek. 

He would have been devastated if you had run away from his life, like all the adults that were supposed to care for him - apart from Alfred, of course. And he was well aware that all the other children - adopted or not by Bruce - loved you. You were bringing some peace and joy in everyone’s lives. That was why they nicknamed you “Hope” for when they talk to you over the comm’s. 

“And I didn’t break up. We agreed on it, Bruce and I.” you finally said, to which Jason arched an eyebrow. 

“Really? That’s not what he said”.

“Well, we agreed that I’m a civilian and that it was making things too difficult. Bruce has also been very busy and… I don’t know, maybe it was just not working anymore” you explained, trying to get away from this conversation as fast as possible.

You had spent the whole night crying over this break up. You had never been heartbroken like that before. You loved Bruce like you never loved anyone before. You just didn’t want to resume crying in front of Jason.

“Bruce can be an asshole… But I really don’t think he meant to make you feel neglected” Jason frowned

“Are you taking his defence now?” you softly teased to hide your sadness away

“No, never. Just… He loves you” Jason whispered

“I don’t think so. But that’s okay. I never thought I’d date someone for so long anyway. And I’ve meet all of you, and I’m very grateful for that”

“Ma…” Jason started but you cut him off

“I don’t really want to keep talking about him” you said and Jason dropped the subject

You did your best to forget about this conversation. You didn’t want to hear the little voice in your head saying that maybe Bruce was still in love with you, but was too stupid to let you know about it. 

You managed to push the voice away, until during an interview with Bruce Wayne, the journalist asked him if it was true you were not together anymore. You hadn’t meant to watch this interview, but your boss needed you to write an article about it. At the question, you couldn't help but fully focused on the TV and you caught a glimpse of vulnerability flashing across Bruce’s face. Only people who knew him well enough could have seen it. He quickly smiled at the journalist. 

“We’re only taking a break, nothing permanent” he instantly replied and you stared at the TV, thinking “wait what??” 

“Oh so, you’re not open to any new relationship?” the journalist asked “A lot of women in Gotham are eager to know if they have a chance with you or not. Men too. And everyone else, really”.

Bruce softly chuckled, but you could tell he was actually quite uneasy

“No, I’m not open to any new relationship. I still belong to Y/N.” he replied and you started to cry again.

You hated him for lying so blatantly in front all the whole city. He didn’t belong to you, you would know otherwise. You felt so sad, so angry. You hated yourself for having fallen for a man like him.

“Belong to? Quite a strong expression. Are you in love, Mr. Wayne?” the journalist hummed in interest

“Now I believe you didn’t ask me to come to talk about my romantic relationship” Bruce quickly changed the subject, but no need to say you started to cry even harder.

Of course he wouldn’t say he loved you, because he didn’t. You didn’t want to be such a mess again so you turned the TV off.

But a few instants later you received messages from the kids asking you if it was true that it was just a break and that you would come back home at some point. They were all so adorable, saying they understood if you needed to take a breath from the Batfamilly, especially when things were so difficult in Gotham. They promised to keep protecting you no matter what anyways.

You had no idea what to answer at first. You didn’t want to hurt their feelings. Eventually you told them the truth: “I’ve told you I’m still there for you as well, and I’m touched you are all so eager to have me back at the manor… But in all honesty, I’m not too certain what is going on and why Bruce said all of this. I don’t want to talk to him, but I guess you can ask him directly”

No need to say that everyone was pretty disappointed in your answer and that none of them asked about it to Bruce.

You didn’t want to go back to the manor. You didn’t want to run into Bruce. You thought several times to ask the children to grab your belongings for you, but it would mean for them to come into Bruce’s room and the man wouldn't be happy about it. They were welcomed to come into his room only when they needed help or reassurance after a nightmare. You could also tell that the children didn’t know how to deal with the break up.

You didn’t want to force them to be in between Bruce and you. 

Unfortunately you needed clothes from his place because you were soon going out of Gotham for a couple of days. You waited until the last minute to finally go back to the manor.

Everyone was out, except Alfred who greeted you with a warm smile. His smile flattered when you told him you needed to take some belongings from there. He didn’t stop you. However you were certain that he sent a message to Bruce.

You were in a pretty dark mood. Your mother had discovered your father wasn’t dead. You were a little bit surprised that the Batfamilly wasn’t on the case yet. Maybe Falcone did a good job to hide things away. Or maybe no one wanted to deal with something that might end up hurting you. 

Either way, you knew things were going to be hard and your mother was going to hate you for having lied to her about your father. You wished things would have been better with Bruce, because you would have loved to have someone with you. You didn’t want to drag the children in this mess, so once again it was you alone against your past.

You jumped when you heard Bruce’s soft voice talking to you. You had been so deep in your thoughts that you hadn’t heard him gently opening the door.

“What are you doing?” he leaned against the door frame to seem relaxed but you could tell he was watching you with great intensity and concern.

You wouldn’t have believed it if he would have told you, but watching you removing your belongings from your shared room was eating him up alive. He needed all his willpower to not prevent you from doing so. When you resumed your action of packing away, he felt his chest tightened.

“Packing. Need to go see my mom. Some stuff happened with my dad… And I need to deal with this mess.” you explained

“Anything I can do?” he offered

“Of course not. You have enough to deal with anyways.” you shrugged “By the way, I won’t be able to grab everything right away, so I’ll probably come back for the remaining things. Obviously you can send everything to my flat if you don’t want me to come again” you added, looking for a brief instant back to him

“Look, Y/N, I guess this isn’t the right time to speak with you, but can we maybe plan something for when you’ll be back to Gotham?” Bruce offered, almost pleading with you

“You mean to speak about how we went from “we agree to break up” to “you break up” and finally to “this is just a break”, Bruce?” You paused and turned around to fully watch him this time. 

Bruce moved a hand into his hair. He had no idea how to fix your relationship.

“You broke up. For my answer to the journalist... It was just easier to say that” Bruce tried and you rolled your eyes at him. 

He internally cringed, why wasn’t he able to say the right thing when he was already missing you so dearly?

“Whatever, Bruce.” you finally said

“So yes for a date when you’ll be back?” he insisted

“Whatever, Bruce” you said again which hurt him more than he wanted to admit.

--

PART 9

--

Taglist for all my work <3

@blublock404

@wind-canoe

@silverklaus

@couldeatthatgirlforlunch

@tatsuri-zomushiki

@navs-bhat

Taglist for Bruce Wayne <3

@alishii

Taglist for this series <3

@Esposadomd

@moraxussy

@resident-cryptid

@legendarypiratecheesecake

@randomnamedmira

@elleclairez

@mindless-rock

@lumiqou

[python333]

your writing is literally the best in the cod fandom. we need more injured reader angst. it's too good

don't breathe — python333

— — — —

synopsis [reader] gets buried alive after refusing to give intel to enemy soldiers and *slips up and writes reader almost dying again* oops how did that happen haha

relationships platonic!price & gn!reader.

characters cap. john price.

word count 2.7k

warnings suffocation [reader], just generally really depressing thoughts, near death??, 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [code name/call sign].

note aww tysm :(( dont say its the best im gonna get a complex LMAO but i appreciate it!! and yes i agree injured reader angst ftw :3 i present to you: reader gets very injured and theres a lot of angst and its basically just you suffering for a good 3/4 of the fic while the last quarter has the actual comfort!

“Hello?” You try again, your voice cracking and your tone as desperate as it can get, “Please, God, say someone can hear me.” 

You’ve been trapped in a casket for about five minutes now—at least, you woke up five minutes ago. God knows how long you’ve been stuck in the stupid thing, but realistically, it’s probably been much longer than five minutes.

The last thing you remember from before you were buried is being in the interrogation room of some small terrorist group’s facility, one you and the others were led to believe was abandoned weeks ago. 

Unfortunately, whoever gave you the information must’ve either had incredibly outdated information or was setting you all up for failure, because the facility was very much not abandoned and was instead full of enemy soldiers.

You all had already gotten into the building before you knew that, because of course you all had to be in the same spot at the same time—practically sitting ducks for the enemy—and of course you all had to be clueless about the possibly hundreds of people in the facility until it was too late. 

As far as you know, everyone managed to escape. Everyone but you. They didn’t mean to leave you behind, of course they didn’t, they were more focused on just booking it out of the facility. However, because of that, you were now stuck—you assume—several feet underground in a casket that has a limited amount of oxygen that drops every time you take a breath. 

You let out the breath you’re currently holding and suck in another deep breath, holding it as you think. Your strategy of holding your breath until you no longer could mostly worked, but it wouldn’t for long, you knew that soon you’d suffocate in all of the carbon dioxide gathering in the enclosed casket.

You don’t know how long you’d been unconscious in the casket, breathing in oxygen carelessly in your slumber, which made the whole situation worse. You didn’t even know how much time you had left. 

You hate to waste your breath checking your comms, but the enemy soldiers had accidentally left your earpiece in your ear—the small device apparently going undetected under their radar—and you wanted to make the most of it. You move your arm from your side and press onto the PTT button on your earpiece, wincing a little at how cramped the casket was.

“Does anybody copy?” You ask again, staring up at the almost pitch black space above you, “I repeat, does anybody copy?” 

It’s a vain attempt at contacting your team, really. You don’t know if they’re thinking about you, if the signal is going through, if they even have their earpieces on—you know nothing, and that terrifies you because you really don’t want to die right now but there’s literally nothing else you can do besides helplessly talk into your earpiece, not knowing if anyone’s listening. 

Your lungs start to burn and you let out the breath you were holding, taking another deep breath and beginning to hold that one. The air feels… thick. It’s starting to get harder to breathe, and you know you shouldn’t panic but you can’t help the few worried thoughts that come to the forefront of your mind. 

What am I going to do when I run out of oxygen and the only thing left for me to breathe in are my own discarded breaths? What will I do when all there is to do is suffocate? Am I going to try, in one last desperate attempt, to break out of the casket, or am I going to just lay here and die? Will my team try to find me, or will they forget about me? Have they already forgotten about me? 

Before you can listen to any more of those depressing thoughts, a voice comes from your earpiece. 

“H—lo? [c/n]?” It’s hard to tell with the static and the cuts in between the words, but you think it’s Price talking. 

“Price?” You ask immediately, all thoughts of preserving your breath forgotten. “Holy shit, you can hear me?” 

“Je—s— whe—e—” He cuts out for a moment and your stomach drops when all you can hear is static for a moment. 

“You’re— You’re cutting out, Captain, what did you say?” 

“Wher— —re you?” It takes you a moment to realize what he’s saying, your mind working much slower than it usually does, but once you do you shake your head negatively despite him not being there to see you. 

“I don’t— I don’t know,” You respond, taking a deep breath before adding on, “I think I’m underground, I just know I’m in a casket and it’s getting harder to breathe and—” 

“Okay, o—y,” You hear Price’s voice crackle, his voice becoming more distant and sounding almost muffled to you, “Sa— —ur bre—th, I’ll try to g—t some—e to track your— —tion.” 

With the constant cutting out of his words and the distortion of his tone, you can barely register or process what he’s saying, and that only panics you more but you refuse to let your emotions get the better of you even in the state of disorientation you’re in, so you keep holding your breath. 

A minute later, Price’s voice crackles through your earpiece again. 

“Okay, we’ve got your loc—tion,” Price’s voice sounds… oddly far away, “We can—” 

His voice slowly becomes muffled, and you release the breath you were holding without realizing it, slowly blinking up at the ceiling of the casket. A sort of haze falls over your mind and you can barely even hear Price anymore before you suddenly snap back to reality and hear his now much clearer voice loud in your ear. 

“[c/n]? [c/n], are you still there?” You recognize his tone now, and you’re just a little shocked at the sheer amount of worry in it. 

“Haven’t moved an inch,” You breathe out, before lying, “You cut out for a second for me, sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry, it’s okay,” Price reassures you, “I said we got your loc—tion and we’re hea—g out th— —w. It’s not t— far away from where —e alre—dy are, we’re ba—ely three clicks away.” 

“… Clicks?” You ask, your eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

“Yes, clicks,” Price replies, sounding concerned, before hesitantly asking, “… You know what those are, right?” 

“I don’t—” You struggle to find words for a moment before you speak again, your own voice starting to sound distant, “I don’t think so?”

“What do y—u mean you don’t thi— —o?” Price asks, his voice sounding freakishly close, “Are you okay?” 

“No, yeah, I’m fine,” You lie through your teeth, not wanting to worry Price further, “I just… how far away are you?” 

“Just ab—t two cli—ks now,” Price says, before pausing and clarifying, “Two kilometers.” 

Two kilometers… how far is that? “And that’s… is that far, or?” 

“No, it’s not too far. It’s just a mi—te away, we didn’t ge— —o far before Laswell got your loc—tion,” Price tells you, “We’ll be there soon, ok—y? We’ll get y— —ut of there.” 

“A minute—” You cough and feel tears pricking at your eyes from how hard it is to take another breath, “A minute?” 

“Yes, a minute— [c/n], are you okay?” Price asks again, before laughing nervously, “You know what a minute is, do— —ou?” 

“...” You struggle to answer the question, thinking long and hard for a few seconds before hesitantly answering, “… Yeah, I do, sorry. It’s sixty seconds.” 

“Why’d it take you so long to answer?” 

“I don’t know, I’m sorry, I—” You take a few shallow breaths, and feel a headache start to build up, “How far away are you guys?” 

“We’re alm—t there,” Price promises you, “The heli’s ab—t to l—nd, and we’ll dig you up, and—” 

Why is it so cold? Price’s voice cuts off and when he stops talking you realize that you’re shivering. You ball your fists up and can’t even feel your nails digging into your palms, your hands having gone numb from the cold, and realizing that makes you discover that your lips feel numb too. 

Your ears start to ring and you feel that uncomfortable pins and needles feeling in your hands, the sensation slowly traveling up your arms, making you both wanting to peel off your own skin and also grateful that you can at least feel something besides the cold.

In the midst of your thinking, you hear muffled thumping coming from above you—whoever buried you couldn’t have buried you anything below six feet. 

“—llo? [c/n]? Are you still there?” 

You bring your hand up, the movement slow and sluggish, and you try to search around the side of your face for your earpiece. You eventually find it and when you do you press against it until you feel the PTT button being pushed. 

“Still here,” You confirm breathlessly, coughing again as you take a few more shallow breaths, “I think I’m running out of— of… what’s the fuckin’ air that you can breath in, it starts with an o…” 

“… Oxygen?”

“Oxygen, yeah,” You slowly blink up at the ceiling of the casket, “There’s— I think— I don’t… I think… I think I’m gonna pass out, Captain.” 

“[c/n], don’t you fucking dare,” Price growls, “You stay awake, I swear to fucking god.” 

“I can’t—” You take a few more shallow breaths, before coughing, the tears escaping your eyes reaching the corners of your mouth. 

You can hear Price briefly talk with someone else, his voice the most serious you’ve ever heard it, before he talks directly to you again, “How much longer do you think you have before you run out of oxygen?” 

It takes you a moment to register the question, but when you do, you answer, “Uh… I don’t— I think… maybe a few more minutes? I can’t tell, it’s just hard to breathe, I can’t…” 

“Okay, okay,” Price softly says, gusts of wind blowing into his mic as he talks, “Give me a second, okay? We’re almost there, kid, we’ll— we’ll be there in just a minute, we just passed over you, I just need you to stay awake.” 

“In a minute,” You repeat to yourself, before taking a deep breath, hoping that you have enough oxygen to make it out of this casket because you really don’t want to die here, not when there’s help just a minute away. 

After what you assume is a minute or two, instead of thumping, you hear something cut into the dirt above you. The sound, however, is heavily muffled, so muffled to the point where you don’t know if you’re hallucinating or not.

Is that a symptom of CO2 poisoning? Hallucinations? You lay still in the casket and can’t help but release the breath you’d only just taken, the ringing in your ears starting up again and growing louder faster than they had before. 

Your entire body is numb, your chest is heavy, and you can feel a sort of fog fall over your mind. You can distantly hear Price yelling through your earpiece, but you can’t find it in yourself to respond, instead simply laying there, your blinking starting to slow down before it eventually stops, leaving your eyes closed. 

— 

For a moment, you think you died and went to heaven, which would be weird, considering all the things you’ve done in your life. Not saying you’d go to hell, just saying God would probably hesitate for a second before letting you in through the pearly gates. 

You blink awake, slowly but surely, and the first thing you realize is that you can feel things again. You tilt your head down to the bump under the white bed sheets laid on top of you, and squeeze your hand into a ball, watching the bump move and feeling your fingers dig into your oddly sore palms.

You let out a sigh of relief and pull your hand out from the sheets, bringing it up to your face and feeling the oxygen mask that’s been placed over your mouth and nose.

“Don’t mess with that,” You hear a voice say to your right. You turn your head and see a very tired Captain Price, dark eyebags hanging under his eyes and arms crossed, his hands having a white knuckle grip on either one of his elbows. 

“…” You don’t say anything, instead you simply stare at him until he sighs and gets up from his seat. You watch silently as he leans over your bed and bends down, before pausing, and then quickly snaking his hands under your back to pull you up just enough for him to properly hug you. 

You reach up with shaky hands and tentatively hug him back, not nearly as tightly—not that you don’t want to, but you physically can’t with how weak your arms are right now—but with just as much sincere affection. You can feel Price’s beard rubbing against your neck and hear his small sniffles as he embraces you tightly. 

Maybe it’s his sniffling, or the way you can finally feel warmth for the first time in what feels like forever, or maybe it’s just the fact that he’s holding you with so much care and affection that it almost makes you burst at the seams, whatever it is, it causes you to tear up as well. 

Those tears quickly become sobs that bubble up in your throat and crawl their way out of it, forcing you to tuck your head into the crook of Price’s neck and muffle your sobs in it, muttering a small ‘sorry’ after each one. 

After each ‘sorry’, Price responds with, “It’s okay, let it out, sweetheart, you’re okay,” and those reassuring words only make you cry more because God, you didn’t even think he’d find you, yet here he is, letting you cry into his neck and is reassuring you after every apology that it’s okay. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” You mumble a litany of apologies into Price’s neck, your breath stuttering and hitching as you try to hold back your sobs. Price only shushes you and rubs his hand up and down your back in a comforting gesture, bringing his head up to kiss the top of your head. 

He tucks your head under his chin, “Don’t apologize, it’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

And fuck, you know it’s just words, but it only makes you cry more. 

Your sobs eventually stop, leaving you hiccuping against Price’s neck, silently crying as he continues to rub your back. 

“I thought you died,” He whispers, his hand stuttering on your back, “I thought you died and I was going to dig up your dead body, when you didn’t answer me.”

You stay silent, letting him continue, “I thought you were dead when we dug you up and needed to feel your heartbeat for myself to confirm that you were still alive.” 

He pauses for a moment before continuing, “I’ve been here ever since they put you in here. I haven’t slept, I’ve just stayed here, waiting for you to wake up so I could tell you that I—”

He chokes up for a moment before taking a deep breath and continuing, “I’m sorry for not even thinking to drag you out of the facility with me when we all ran out. You were— you were right there, and I couldn’t just grab your arm and take you with me, I just had to leave you behind and I—” 

“You watched me while I was asleep?” You ask quietly, your eyebrows drawing together. 

Price pauses and pulls his chin off of your head, and pulls you away from his neck so he can properly give you the most incredulous look he can pull, before saying, “I’m pouring my heart out to you and apologizing for practically leaving you for dead, and that’s what you’re worried about?” 

“Well, I’m not worried, I’m just—” You shrug, not knowing how to explain it. Price sighs and chuckles quietly before tucking your head back under his chin. 

“You’re insufferable,” He mumbles, sniffling a bit. 

“… I forgive you, by the way,” You say after a moment of silence, “I didn’t really blame you in the first place.” 

“You had the right to.” 

“Sure I did.” 

“But you didn’t blame me.”

“Right.” “…” Price stays silent for a moment before pressing another soft kiss to the top of your head and saying quietly, “You should blame me.” 

“Maybe,” You mumble back, “But I won’t.” 

Later, maybe an hour later, if the others see you asleep in Price’s arms while he keeps your head tucked under his chin and rubs your back affectionately—no they don’t.

[thebigbadbatswife]

OCT 29th - Sex Pollen

Pairing - Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

Title - What Happens In The Safehouse...

Summary - During a mission, you come in contact with a strange substance and the only person around that can help you with the effects is Ghost.

Warnings - Sex Pollen, Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Multiple Orgasms, Simultaneous Orgasm, Military Inaccuracies. (If I missed anything lmk!)

Word Count - 3.4k

You feel strange. Really strange. It’s not a good type of strange either. Not that you would have been expecting to feel any type of strange while on mission. Especially while on a mission with your Lieutenant. 

Captain Price had assigned both of you to this mission, and only you two, in an attempt to get you to learn to work together. After all, it was no secret that Ghost had not been happy about your assignment to the 141 taskforce. It had worked and hadn’t worked, at the same time. 

While you were working seamlessly with each other, quickly dispatching enemies side by side and wordlessly following his orders. Over comms, you were both still taking every opportunity you could to dig at each other. With that aside, it was a rather simple mission. Secure the illegal weapons shipment before it could trade enemy hands.

Securing it hadn’t been an issue. The group guarding it had been small and they had been easily taken out. The only issue was that the crates weren’t filled with guns. When Ghost had crowbarred one of them open, a cloud of white dust had puffed up into the air. 

Is that why you’re feeling so strange? Is whatever that powder was, affecting you? 

You can feel your heart beat slowly starting to thump hard and fast against your chest despite the fact that you’re currently sat down on a wooden crate. And it feels like it’s getting harder to breathe, but not in the panic attack type of way. It’s in the “I’m getting way too hot and there’s nothing I can really do about it underneath all of this gear” type of way. 

If this is that powder affecting you, then why isn’t it affecting Ghost? He was the closest to the dust cloud considering that he had opened the crate to begin with. Right now he’s pacing just ahead of you, talking to who you’re assuming is the Captain, on comms. You’re not tuned into whatever station they’re using so you don’t know what they’re saying. 

What you do know is that you are starting to desperately want to be out of your clothes because of how uncomfortable they’re starting to get. Which definitely isn’t normal. 

Before you can contemplate it, Ghost is roughly pulling you up onto your feet. The grip he has on your arm is bruising. 

“We’re headed back to the safehouse,” he states.

“What about–” 

“Captain Price is sendin’ Soap and Gaz to secure it. Both he and Laswell doubt that the Russians will be able to get any reinforcements here before they arrive. And we’ve been given orders to leave.”

You nod. If the orders are coming from the Captain… and if it’s to do with that powder. What the hell have you inhaled? 

When you move to follow him, you become aware of just how soaked your underwear is. And not because of how much you’re currently sweating. You take a deep breath and do your best to ignore it. When you’re back in the safehouse, you’ll have a chance to check yourself over and try and figure out what exactly is going on. Here, you can’t do a damn thing. Especially in front of your Lieutenant.

With the way the fabric moves as you walk, rubbing against your extremely sensitive clit, you have to bite your tongue, to the point you taste blood, to stop any sort of sound leaving you. And things only get worse once you get into the car.

Ghost has never been very good when it comes to driving, but somehow he seems to have got even worse. He manages to hit every bump and pothole, which is making it harder and harder for you to stay quiet as they go straight to your core. You almost think that he’s doing it on purpose, but considering that his driving isn’t all that straight either, you can’t help, but think that whatever the hell that stuff was, it must be affecting him as well. 

As soon as the car pulls up to the safehouse, you’re out of the car before he’s even stopped it fully. You don’t care how strange or weird it looks. You beeline for the bathroom as it’s the only place in this safehouse that will give you an semblance of privacy, as the rest of the place is open plan. 

You lock the door behind you and immediately start removing your gear, as fast as you possible again. In all honestly, you’ve never removed your gear so fast or efficiently before. Though, usually, you’re back on base, exhausted after a gruelling mission, which leaves you fumbling with the various straps and clips. Right now you’re super focused on the task at hand and before you know it your gear is hitting the bathroom floor with a thud. Your boots and clothing are quick to follow.

Your underwear is absolutely drenched in your slick. As are the insides of your thighs. Your clit is swollen, peaking out from your hood, shiny from your arousal and begging to be touched. 

Chucking the ruined clothing to the side, you bring two of your fingers to your clit. Your body jolts as you gasp as the lightest of touches almost has you cumming right then and there. You pull your hand away and grip the sides of the sink, taking a deep breath as you try to regain control over whatever the hell is going on with your body.

You catch sight of yourself in the mirror. Your hair’s a mess and your body is slick with sweat like you have just run a marathon. Not to mention how fucking horny you’re starting to feel. With nothing around to distract you, like trying to hide your condition from Ghost, you’re now fully aware of it. 

You’re growing desperate to touch yourself and fuck yourself with your own fingers. So much so that the longer you go without doing that, things are actually starting to grow painful for you. 

Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s the fix. An orgasm. If you’re experimental touch is anything to go by it won’t take you long to reach it. You’re only problem will be trying to stay silent. On the other side of the bathroom’s door you can hear Ghost moving around. It sounds like he’s freeing himself from his own gear, which means he’ll be checking his guns not long afterwards. He won’t even be paying attention to what you’re doing in here. 

Taking another deep breath, you bring your fingers down to your clit once more. 

It’s a fight for you to keep silent as you touch yourself. Your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you rub tight circles against your clit. You expect some sort of relief, but there is no relief. The more that you touch yourself the more that 

it seems to hurt. At the same time you can’t stop. You need to touch yourself. It’s the only thing that you’re capable of focusing on.

Soon enough touching just your clit isn’t enough anymore. Your cunt squeezes around nothing, begging to be filled. Your mind drifts to thought of Ghost and how the only thing between the two of you is a door. It’s no secret that he’s packing, at least that’s what the rumours across the base suggest. The thought of his cock and how good it would feel inside of you.

You know that you shouldn’t be thinking about your Lieutenant like this. He’s your CO. Not to mention how much you can’t stand him. Even if he wasn’t your CO, he’s not someone you would think about taking to bed because of how much he pisses you off.

You do your best to push any thoughts of him and his cock out of your head and push three of your fingers inside of your needy hole. For a brief moment you finally feel some form of relief. Which almost has you moaning loudly, but the sound of footsteps reminds you that you’re not alone and you keep your teeth in your bottom lip. The pain from before returns as you fuck yourself and you can only hope an orgasm gives you a more permament form of relief.

The squelch of your fingers in your pussy is loud in the enclosed space and you can only hope that the walls aren’t so thin that Ghost can hear what you’re doing.

With a combination of your fingers inside of you and your free hand rubbing your clit, it really doesn’t take you very long to reach your climax. Relief floods through you as your body clamps down onto your digits. You ride out the aftershocks before finally pulling your fingers out and grip the sides of the sink again, panting heavily.

Your body is shaking as you come down from your high. Is that it? Is it finally over with? 

Just as you begin thinking that you must be in the clear, the need and the pain that comes with that need comes back tenfold. You whimper. When will this stop?

Several hard knocks at the door catches your attention. Ghost.

His voice is as rough as ever as he calls out your callsign, but it also sounds extremely strained. The thoughts you had back in the car come back to you and you wonder if he’s being as affected by whatever the hell that stuff is as well. He must be, right? He was the one that had opened the crate and therefore had had that cloud of dust puff up right into his face. 

“It hurts, Ghost,” you call back. There’s no point in hiding it any longer. He’s definitely already heard what you’re doing in here and if he hasn’t, he’s still under the same influence that you are.

“I know it does,” he replies. “Got us both in a bit of bother, haven’t I?” 

Yeah, he has. At the same time it’s not entirely his fault. The intel said it was guns in those crates. There was nothing about any sort of drug being inside of them. If he hadn’t opened the crates, you would have.

“Laswell’s intel says we’ve got one of two ways of dealin' with it,” he continues.

“Which are?” You really hope that means that there’s some form of antidote and that Laswell not only knows where it is, but she’s sending someone to go and get it.

“We wait it out.” 

That one is definitely not a option. You feel like you might go mad if you have to wait it out. No, you’re still holding out for that antidote.  “Or?” 

“We shag.”

He’s so blunt about it that you almost want to laugh. As well as at the entire situation itself. Of course those are the only two ways to deal with this. You want to scream. 

“There’s no antidote?” you ask.

“As far as we know, no there's not. Guessing neither option takes your fancy?”

“No, but since I have to pick, at least option two won’t make me go crazy.”

“You sure? Don’t want you to feel forced.” 

“I’m not feeling forced to do anything,” you reply. And it’s the truth. Shagging Ghost, funnily enough, is the most appealing of the two options you both have. You have already been fingering yourself to the thought of him taking you and he’s clearly not against the idea. “But only if you’re as naked as I am.” Which you think is more than fair. Though you seriously doubt he’ll ever take the balaclava off. He never does. 

He huffs a laugh. “Give me a minute, yeah?” 

You hear the rustling of clothing, followed by the same thud of gear hitting the floor. Soon enough, he raps his knuckles against the door again, letting you know he’s finished undressing. Taking a shaky breath, you move away from the sink, unlock the door and step back. 

The door swings open and you’re met with the sight of Ghost’s naked body. He’s fit. As soon as that thought enters your head, you’re immediately telling yourself that it’s the drug. Especially as your eyes follow the dark hair that leads from his belly button down to where his cock stands proudly, the head purpling from the lack of attention. Your pussy throbs at the sight of it and all you can think about is how good it’s going to feel when he’s finally inside of you.

“Eyes are up here, Sergeant.” 

“Could say the same to you, L.T,” you reply as your eyes finally meet his. He’s also been blatantly checking you out as well, his eyes lingering on a knife scar on your hip.

“You sure you still want to do this?” he asks. 

“Yes.” Your reply comes out far faster than you meant for it to. He chuckles, stepping forward as he pulls the balaclava up just enough to reveal his lips.

His large hand comes up to cup your face and keep your head titled up to look at him. He surprises you with a kiss. It’s far more gentler than you thought it would be. Everything about Ghost screams rough and harsh so you certainly weren’t expecting this, but it’s very much welcomed. You surrender yourself entirely to him, letting him take control. 

Ghost directs you backwards until your back is pressed up against the cold tiled wall. Goosebumps radiate across your skin and your nipples pebble as you gasp at the sudden temperature change. He takes advantage of it and pushes his tongue into your mouth. 

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he presses his body against yours. You can feel his cock pressing against your skin and it has your body screaming for him to stop kissing you and fuck you already. You break the kiss, gasping for air.

“Please,” you whimper. As of right now you don’t care how needy and pathetic you’re starting to come off as. You expect him to tease you, but he must be as desperate and needy as you because he does nothing of the sort.

Instead he effortlessly lifts you up and enters you with a single thrust. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as you pussy squeezes his cock as you cum only from the feeling of him filling you up. Ghost groans deeply, the feeling of your cunt tightening around him almost having him blow his load. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, his grip on you almost bruising. “You’re wound up really fuckin’ tight, huh?”

There’s no opportunity for you to answer, not that you could form words anyway, the feeling of his cock deep inside of you rendering your brain to mush. He doesn’t even give you time to recover from such a sudden orgasm as he begins to slowly pull out. Once again you expect him to be rough with you. To take you hard and fast as he gives into the need burning through his body. 

He pushes back in just as slowly, taking some time to build up his pace. Showing a level of restraint that both surprises you and doesn’t surprise you at the same time. He’s doing his best not to hurt you. Which you think is nice of him, but at the same time you’re not sure if it’s even going to be worth the effort. You are almost positive that once this is all over you’re likely not going to be able to walk straight for at least a week.

As he fucks you, Ghost starts kissing you again. He swallows your moans as your tongues invade each other’s mouths. You really don’t want him to ever stop.

With the position that he has you in, there’s not really much for you to do other than hold on and enjoy the ride. Which is absolutely fine by you. Already you can feel another orgasm quickly building up as his cock hits against a sweet spot deep inside of you that has your toes curling and nails digging into the meat of his shoulders and back each time he hits it.

“Fuck, Ghost,” you gasp. “Don’t stop!”

“Couldn’t even if I wanted to,” he grunts. 

He’s no longer being gentle with you. Each thrust is rougher than the last and his grip is definitely going to leave marks on your skin, but you’re too far gone to care. Almost as soon as his thumb touches your clit you’re cumming again, your cry of his callsign is bouncing off of the walls of the bathroom, stars dancing behind your eyes. Ghost cums with you. His groan deep and guttural as he hits his climax, shooting his cum deep inside of you.

You expect him to stop, to take a breather before this stupid lust filling drug drives you both to do it again, but he doesn’t. He keeps rolling his hips, his cock remaining hard, as short gasps and groans leave him. He’s not wrong. He really can’t stop. Your cunt feels so good wrapped around him and he can’t stop himself from continuing to thrust into you despite how sensitive he’s starting to get. 

It’s a blur from there. Ghost takes you on every surface available to the two of you in the safehouse. Wringing orgasm after orgasm out of both of you, pleasure searing through your veins to the point that you’re almost sure it might drive you mad. That is if you don’t pass out from exhaustion first.

By the time that you hit the bed, that’s exactly how you feel. You think that the drug might have finally run its course. At least for you. Ghost adjusts your position so that your ass is up in the air and reenters you, making you whine. 

You’re really starting to feel how sore and used your body is. Your cunt is aching and dripping with the mixture of both yours and his fluids and you’re drenched in sweat.

He takes you much more gentler this time; a stark contrast to the rough fucking you’ve been subject too for however long you both have been going at it. He’s nearly at his end as well. There’s no longer a rhythm to his thrusts and he’s slowly growing more vocal again. 

Draping his body over yours, getting you to look at him so he can kiss you again. If this wasn’t Ghost fucking you, you might think the kiss is sweet and tender, but since it is Ghost you can only think it’s because he’s too tired. He grinds his cock inside of you, flooding your pussy one last time. 

He collapses against you, but you’re too tired to care. You just accept that this is your fate now as your eyelids drop shut and sleep claims you. 

When you wake up, the first thing that you’re aware of is how sore you are. Even shifting a little bit has you aching in places you didn’t know you could ache. The second and third things that you notice, one after the other, is that Ghost had taken the time to clean you up and cover your naked body with a blanket.

You groan as you sit up, holding the blanket against your chest to keep yourself covered up. You immediately spot your clothing and gear, all haphazardly folded and left on a table. 

“You alright, Sergeant?” Ghost is stretched out on the sofa, his arms folded behind his head. He’s already fully dressed in his gear again. 

“I don’t think boot camp hurt this much.

He huffs a laugh as he sits up. “Yeah? Well I’m not fuckin’ carrying ya, so get up, get dressed and let’s go. I’ll be waitin’ in the car.” He gets up from the sofa, grabs his gun and leaves the safehouse. At least he’s nice enough to give you some privacy. 

It takes you longer than it should to get dressed. Your body protesting every single move you make, but you push through it. By the time that you get into the car, Ghost is clearly getting impatient waiting, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel.

He looks over at you as you hiss as you sit down, slamming the door a little too hard, at the same time. You adjust your position so that you’re a little more comfortable.

“What happened in that safehouse, stays in that safehouse,” Ghost says.

“Agreed.”

[shiro-s2e2-erukinzu]

Anime only watchers and people who aren't caught up with the Manga, BEWARE... Cuz I'm about to discuss Spy X Family Mission 118... You have been warned...! 👌

[SPOILERS AHEAD FROM THIS POINT ON]

OH MY FREAKIN' GOD! THAT ENDING...!!! 😵 AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!!

I am currently FREAKING OUT about what I just read in Mission 118, so let's talk about it shall we...? 👌😌

After their fight in the last chapter, Yor and Hemlock have met up with McMahon at the poachers' base where he debriefs them on the plan...!! All while Hemlock is still in a state of distraught after his defeat by Yor! 😆

The team sneaks in, destroys the comms of the poachers and take their leader captive!! Now Yor and Hemlock are tasked to take out the rest!! 😎 Yor goes in like the BADASS that she is!! 😆:

As for Hemlock...:

OH MY GOD!! 😂 THIS MAN IS STILL BLANK FACED, BUT AT LEAST HE'S FIGHTING BACK!! 🤣😂🤣😂🤣😂🤣😂

Right after that, THIS GOOFY MOTHER FUCKER HEMLOCK STARTS MISSING HIS TARGETS, SO YOR HAS TO HELP HIM OUT!!👏🤣👏🤣👏🤣 Then, when the poachers basically say that they're gonna team up to take Yor and Hemlock down...:

...HEMLOCK 🎶Snaps Back to Reality🎶 AND STARTS TO ACTUALLY FIGHT BACK!! 😂😂😂

THIS MAN HEMLOCK IS SOOO UNSERIOUS AND I LOVE HIM FOR THAT!! 👌🤣

Soon, all of the poachers and their base are taken out, so it's time to head back...!! But, Hemlock refuses to ride back with McMahon and Yor so that he can get back home all by himself...!! 😌

As Hemlock runs through the forest, he thinks about how his solitude training wasn't enough and must train harder so that he doesn't end up like Yor...! When suddenly, Hemlock stops and thinks...:

THIS GUY IS SUCH A MESS!! 🤭

After that, we cut back to Yor and McMahon, who are discussing about the things that Hemlock was saying to Yor... She starts to wonder if it was a mistake to get married while she's an assassin, and McMahon tells her that there's no simple answer for that question. He then tells Yor that his situation was a bit different because he got married before he joined garden...!! 😲 Then McMahon tells Yor this...:

Which makes Yor think this...:

OMG, YES!! 💗👏😭���

Then McMahon tells her this one last thing:

We then see Yor back at home greeted by Anya and Bond...!! She asks Anya where Loid is and Anya tells her that he's reading in his room (when he's actually doing a mission report), which causes Yor to respond "Is that so..." Finally, we see Yor heading towards her room, then THIS HAPPENS...:

AAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!WHAT DOES THIS ALL MEAN!? 😩 WHAT'S GONNA HAPPEN!? 😵 IS YOR GONNA TELL LOID THAT SHE'S AN ASSASSIN!? 😱 (ARE LOID AND YOR FINALLY GONNA KISS...? 😏) I NEED THE ANSWERS NOW ENDO...!!! 👏👏👏👏👏

And that was Mission 118, THAT ENDING KILLED ME!! 😵 I'm not 100% sure what's about to happen in the next chapter, BUT I AM SO FREAKING READY!!! 👏😆

Everything in this chapter was great, from Hemlock continuing to an absolute goober, to learning more McMahon lore that he was married before he joined Garden, to THAT ENDING with Yor...!! JUST ABSOLUTE PERFECTION!!! 🤩 I don't know what Endo is about to pull, but as Reggie Fils-Aimé, former president of Nintendo of America, once said...: "MY BODY IS READY!!!" 👌😎

That I got for this chapter, so until the next Mission; take care, be safe out there and be kind to one another...!! ADIOS!! 👋😁

[toudan]

Hi! I was thinking it's time to write my first request as a Raze, Omen, Tejo and Vyse main. So here I am! Can you write headcanons for a female reader with yandere Tejo, Vyse, Omen and Raze?

featuring omen, raze, tejo, vyse | female reader | cw yandere (stalking, violence, voyeurism, power dynamics) | ao3. masterlist. request rules.

A/N.⠀I am so sorry for the heinously late response, I haven't been motivated lately 😭😭😭

✦ Tejo is always looking out for you. He’ll hurt someone for being even the slightest bit of rude to you… without you knowing, of course. He’s not afraid to threaten those who even think of trying to mess with you. That one mean coworker? They’ll be nice to you from now on. Someone daring to lay a hand on you? He’ll break their bones without hesitation. He finds it his duty to protect you, even if he has to resort to violent means to do it.

✦ Where he refers to the other agents by their call signs, he always uses your name or a pet name. If you ask him, he’ll say that it’s because he thinks it suits you. He’s also a little more physically affectionate with you, being quite fond of ruffling your hair or squeezing your shoulder.

✦ He absolutely knows how praise gets to you and is not afraid to exploit that. Good job, cariño. I’m impressed. The way you try to hide your flustered state is endearing to him, so thinking of anyone other than him getting to see you like this makes him very bitter.

✦ He wants to keep you all to himself. You’ll never have to work another day if you’re his. He’ll treat you like a good husband should, take you to places you’ve never been. You’re his princess and he will make sure you never feel like anything less. You just have to open your eyes and give him a chance.

✦ He has a camera hidden in your room. You won’t find where it is, but he sees everything. So… yes, he sees you when you sleep, and he sees you when you change your clothes. Not only that, but he also hears everything. Can’t be too careful, after all.

✦ She’s a little harder on you than she is with other agents. She’s always there to critique your form or reaction time. This isn’t because she dislikes you—quite the opposite, in fact. She can’t stand the thought of you getting hurt at all, so she needs to make sure you can protect yourself in the case she’s not there to protect you. She doesn’t think you’ll need to do anything, though. She has your back.

✦ Tends to volunteer to go on missions with you. It’s usually under the guise of testing a new hypothesis when it’s really an excuse to keep a closer eye on you. She’s subtle, but you’ll still find that sometimes her comms become more urgent when you don’t respond right away. She hates when you don’t give her an update.

✦ She hates seeing the crestfallen look on your face when she tells you to be more careful, but she thinks it’s necessary. You’re her precious little rabbit—she’ll make you exactly the way she wants you (which is… well, you, but you’d be wholly hers.)

✦ She checks in on you often, though is this, of course, just her “being a good senior.” There’s nothing strange about wanting to keep track of your progress or ensuring your safety. Nor is there anything strange about knowing when you sleep or wake up.

✦ She does plan on claiming you eventually, but she’s taking it slow. Can’t scare you off when she needs you by her side, after all. the realisation that you might like her as more than a mentor figure will get to you before you know it.

✦ The shadows are Omen’s loyal companions. He’s a silent guard, protecting you from where he is hidden and threatening lives if he finds it necessary. He’s a man on a mission and he never hesitates. Whoever dares hurt you will be wishing he’d killed them.

✦ He’s calculated. When he’s getting rid of your enemies, he assassinates. It won’t take long before people stop messing with you, knowing that you have a guard dog watching your back—a guard dog that you don’t even know of. Anyone who’s ever hurt you getting hurt themselves is his first and last warning.

✦ Similarly to Vyse, one advantage of Omen’s constitution is that you can’t tell where he’s looking. His eyes are always on you. You’ll feel unsettled by the feeling of being watched, but end up chalking it up to your anxiety. He keeps track of every movement you make and gets restless if you’re going on a mission where he isn’t going with you.

✦ Any attention from you is good attention, but it’s the best when you’re focusing on him and only him. He gets jealous over you being friendly with the other agents fairly often. He keeps this to himself, of course. You don’t need to know this.

✦ Every toss and turn, every soft snore, every act of lust—whatever it is you do in or before your sleep, he sees it all. Everything is ingrained in his memory. They only make him more possessive of you.

✦ Everything she does is under the guise of being friendly. Everyone knows how carefree she is, so there’s no way you’ll ever know how she really feels about you. As far as you’re concerned, this is just how she is. Nothing to worry about.

✦ Will tamper with your belongings so she can fix them in front of you. Your door lock is broken? She’ll fix it. You want to upgrade your grenades? Easy-peasy, she’ll do it. No need to find Chamber or Cypher. You only need her.

✦ Not afraid to get explosive when it comes to defending you. She brings the party wherever she goes. You got hit on by a guy who wouldn’t take a hint? Guess what! His house caught on fire. The news says it was an accident, something to do with his stove or breaker. Someone from Omega Earth injured you? They’ll find themselves mangled.

✦ She likes sending you messages through her playlists. You’ll find that the songs are under a recurring theme, or that they’re all going for the same point… You’re a smart cookie, you’ll figure it out. She knows you will.

✦ If she sees people about to invite you somewhere, she’ll interrupt the moment by saying that she has something to show you. It’s only half a lie. With how much she tinkers with things, she has endless items to show off. She’ll constantly use them as an excuse to steal you away from others.

[yall-batman-fanfic]

DC x MARVEL Crossover: The Dark Knight and the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen | Bruce Wayne/Batman x OC!Magician [Part 1]

Synopsis: A case has Vivian and Bruce head to New York, and this time she decides to visit an old friend who has gained a lot of attention on the news after putting away a syndicate leader.

Hell’s Kitchen is in chaos, and the syndicates in Gotham were taking advantage of that by buying weapons and drugs from the incarcerated Wilson Fisk, aka the Kingpin. Crime has risen in Gotham since Fisk’s downfall too, from criminals who are trying to get fast cash by selling their warehouses to criminals seeking refuge to the next city that had the same corrupt system as the Kitchen and, maybe, make it on their own there.

The problem is, families like the Falcone and the Maronis are not too welcoming. Neither are the gangs of the Penguin, the Riddler, Scar Face, Two-Face, and the Joker. Gotham’s islands have been marked, gang lines made. 

To make things harder for them, Gotham itself was the Batman’s domain. 

And the Dark Knight is not too happy with the rising crime in Gotham either.

“That’s another shipment from Hell’s Kitchen,” Robin, Tim, said. They just took out another group in the docks, carrying firearms and drugs. 

“Your mess has even reached Bludhaven. Patrols these days are just me dodging bullets,” Nightwing added.

Robin smirked. “I don’t think our local criminals will be too happy to hear you say that these New Yorkers are from our side of the bridge.”

“They’re still criminals. Nothing’s different,” said Batman. “And I’m getting tired of cleaning up Hell’s Kitchen’s trash. Time to go to the source.”

“You don’t mean…” 

“Nightwing, this can also be an opportunity for you to take out your problem in Bludhaven.”

“Is that your way of saying you need my help?” Nightwing teased.

From their comms, the three vigilantes heard Vivian say: “Don’t tease him. It’s been a long week… and I can’t blame Batman. Even Midnite’s tired of all this shit. He asked me to help out in taking out the trash too.”

“The club’s been getting unwanted visitors?” Batman asked.

“Some unsanctioned drugs are getting in and Midnite is not happy with how it affects the supernatural. I guess we’re going to New York.”

“I’ll contact BatWoman and Batwing to take over patrols here.”

“I’ll book us all a hotel,” Vivian said. “I’ll also call in Jason for back up.”

“We don’t need backup,” said Batman.

“No offence, my love, but when it comes to infiltrating the criminal underworld, I trust his judgement more.”

Batman hummed in annoyance. Just a little.

“Hey, Mama Bird, you forgot to do the thing again,” said Nightwing.

“I’m not saying that codename, Dick.”

Nightwing laughed. “Man, Hell’s Kitchen is in it for a treat.”

~ A few days later. Hell’s Kitchen, New York ~

Nelson & Murdock usually have their lunches outside but this time they decided to get takeaways and eat in the office, which they now realized wasn’t such a good idea because now their little office smelled like Chinese takeouts. Not very professional, Karen joked when she tried to get the smell out by opening the window and use the fan. Maybe she should spray her perfume just a little?

“I think it’s a good thing,” Foggy commented. “Some people like the smell of Chinese takeouts.”

“Come on, Foggy, we gotta at least not smell like lunch,” Karen laughed. Especially when their counter was filled with payments from their pro bono cases, which were all food. And most of their cases these days were pro bono.

“Well, while you guys try to get that smell out, I have to check in with Mr. Omar’s…” Matt trailed off.

“Mr. Omar’s lease. He’s a tenant and his landlord’s been… well his landlord’s a dick,” Karen answered.

“Right. I’ll be inside,” Matt closed the door of his office and went to his desk. But it wasn’t Mr. Omar’s case he opened, he was more interested with what Mr. Omar said to them the last time they met, which was earlier this morning when they met with him in the ER after Karen called him about the old man getting mugged and rushed to the hospital.

I thought that was it but then someone knocked them out. They just dropped from the sky and POW! Mr. Omar made a gesture. It looked like a giant bat!

Foggy thought Mr. Omar was concussed—the old man was hit on the head by his aggressor before he was saved by this giant bat. But recently, Hell’s Kitchen has been getting news about criminals found hanging off of buildings for the police to collect, or are dropped off of NYPD station. Not to mention the sharp throwing star shaped to a bat that Daredevil found in last night’s crime scene too.

A vigilante is in the Kitchen.

"Welcome to Nelson and Murdock," the sound of Karen’s voice had Matt’s head perk to the direction of the door.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

That heartbeat, Matt thought. And that scent—not the perfume but the hint of cinnamon and grass. 

Matt knew that smell.

~ * ~

Karen got up from her desk to meet the woman who knocked on their door and let herself in. This woman looked different from the other clients they had.  First, though her clothes looked simple, Karen knew what an expensive blazer looked like; second her perfume isn’t exactly the type you’d buy in the local store; and third, the way she stood and composed herself was different to everyone else.

"Hi," said the woman. Her eyes looked around the room and they stayed fixed at the door that had the name Murdock on the door. “This is Nelson & Murdock, right? Are you guys open?”

“Yeah, we are. Sorry we just…” Karen looked around their office that had the lights shut and the curtains open so they could use the natural sunlight, but for Matt. He doesn’t really need it. “Well, we’re trying to… Nelson & Murdock is a green firm.” She laughed.

The woman smiled. "I was hoping I could talk to Mr. Murdock. Is he around?"

Why was she asking for Matt specifically? Karen thought. "Is there anything we could do? What's uh..."

"It's okay, Karen." Matt came out of his office and approached them. "Hi, Matt Murdock."

The woman smiled and shook Matt's hand. "Mr. Murdock, Vivian Pryor.”

And for a moment Karen saw his face turn to something she rarely saw. Vulnerable. 

“Viv?” Matt let out a breathy laugh. “Vivian Pryor…”

“When we were kids our rooms were just below each other so I would sneak out the fire escape and climb down there whenever my Mom had a night shift. And we have this really weird secret knock…”

"It was actually morse code for your name.”

“It was a pretty damn long knock and I hated it. Especially when you won’t open your window because I skipped a few beats.”

“Well it was for both our safeties.” He smiled. “Wow! It's been... May I?" He opened his arms.

"Of course, Matt," Vivian laughed and welcomed his hug. "Been a while."

"Biggest understatement of the century.” Matt let her go but he still held her arms. “Wow, it’s been… A long while. And I am so glad that I’m taller than you now."

“Glad that I gave you that win, Murdock,” Vivian laughed.

"I'm sorry, what's this?" Foggy came out of his office. 

"Foggy, Karen. This is Vivian. She was my neighbor back when we were kids. You know her Foggy, I told you about her."

"Oh, that Vivian! Yeah, Matt told me about you that one time. Nice to finally meet you," Foggy went to shake her hand.

"Foggy's my associate." Matt introduced. 

"The Nelson in the Nelson and Murdock."

"And this is Karen, our secretary. Karen, this is Vivian, she was the one who traced those photos with a toothpick so I could still "see" them." He still has those photos with him and he would trace them when he can, especially the one that was his Dad.

"It's nice to meet you. Do you want coffee?" Karen offered.

"It sucks but it does the job," Foggy jokes.

“I’m all good, thanks,” Vivian laughed.

"Wh-what are you doing here? Where do you live now anyway? Are you back?" Matt asked, a bit too excited. 

"I live in Gotham City, New Jersey," Vivian answered.

"Boo!" Foggy teased.

“Gotham, that’s really far.”

Vivian couldn’t help but smile. "My husband and I just came here for business and then I heard about Nelson and Murdock and I thought—"

"Husband?" Matt’s brows furrowed.

"Yeah, I'm married,” She was about to raise her hand and show the ring but remembered Matt was blind.

"Since when?" Matt shifted in his stance. 

Vivian let out a breath. "I guess it's been six—seven years now?"

"Kids?"

There was a bit of hesitation when she answered. “Yeah. Adopted.”

Matt noticed the change in her heartbeat.

"Wow... I never..."

"Never thought I'd get married and have kids?" Vivian raised a brow, her hands tucked in her pants. 

"Is it an insult if I thought that? I mean, you weren't exactly... when we were kids you weren't..."

"Hey, Viv? Are you here?” Tim’s head peaked in the door. When he saw Vivian and the three adults, he opened the door more and waved his hand, “Hi.”

“Speaking of,” Vivian beckoned him to join her. “This is Tim. He’s… how old are you?”

“Geez, Viv, I’m fifteen.”

“Hey Tim, have you seen… oh there you are,” Dick came to the room. “Hi.”

 “My eldest. Technically he’s our ward but I’ve always thought of him as my own…” Vivian introduced.

“Dick Grayson,” Dick shook Karen’s hand, then Foggy, and then Matt.

“Wow, he’s… I was expecting little kids,” said Foggy. “Any more?”

“Jason’s somewhere in the city. But that’s all of us,” Tim shrugged.

“And where's Bruce?" Vivian said.

“Please don’t tell me that’s another one,” Matt let out a laugh. He wasn’t sure how he could take it knowing she had more children at… she’s just around his age, she can’t possibly be a mother to these young men.

"He's heading up. Listen, I’m heading back down to stay with Alfred. Come on, Tim,” Dick dragged Tim along with a headlock.

“Come on, Dick, cut it out,” Tim grumbled.

Just as the two boys left, Bruce appeared, "Getting tired of our marriage that you’re already looking for a divorce lawyer?"

 Vivian held Bruce’s hand. "Matt, everyone, this is my husband—"

"You're Bruce Wayne!" Karen said, recognizing the man. "I--I saw you on the paper about Wayne Enterprises expanding their operations in New York. He's uh... he's a billionaire. "

"Billionaire," Matt said. "Moving up in the world, huh, Viv?"

"Mr. Wayne, it's a pleasure to meet you." Said Foggy, offering his hand. He didn’t know Matt knew had connections. Then again, from their stories, the last time Matt saw or hear of Vivian was when she and her mother dropped him off in the orphanage.

"Pleasure is all mine,” Bruce shook their hands. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Murdock.”

“Really? You talked about me to your…” Matt gestured to Bruce.

“Of course. I don’t hide things from my husband… unless it’s something I forgot.”

“Why don't we all go out for dinner? The hotel we're staying at has a lovely restaurant, that way we can all catch up without Alfred constantly reminding me about the meter,” he checked his phone and saw the message from the old butler.

"Our treat," Vivian added.

"That would be great! Yes, where do you guys..."

Bruce gave the hotel name.

"Wow, that place."

"How about tomorrow night? I think we got a free schedule then," asked Bruce.

"We can do it tomorrow night. Right guys?" Matt asked his colleagues.

Foggy and Karen agreed. 

Turning to Vivian, Matt smiled and said: “We’ll be there.”

“We’ll see you then. Bye, Mattie,” Vivian held his hand for a moment to say her goodbye and joined her husband out of the office. 

The room was quiet again until Foggy said: “Wow, that guy’s perfume is good. It got rid of the food smell.”

“Right? Her perfume did the same!” Karen joined in the fun.

“That’s old money right there. Old rich money. Do you think they’re looking for representation partners here in New York?”

Before Karen could say obviously not, Matt said it for her: “ I’m pretty sure Wayne Enterprises has a whole department of lawyers, Foggy.”

“So, how was the trip down memory lane?” 

Matt sighed. “It’s… it’s surreal. I never thought she’d—”

“Marry?” Karen asked, quite pointedly.

“I mean, eventually she would just not to…” Matt let out a breath.

“To Bruce freaking Wayne,” Foggy smirked. “That just shows it, we’ve been hanging out with the wrong type of people. Karen, Matt, I’m sorry but from now on I’ll be drinking up in Manhattan—where does Tony Stark drink?”

“I believe he has his own place to drink, Foggy,” Karen laughed.

“Starting tomorrow, I’m going to drink outside of Stark Tower.”

~ * ~

“So, who was that?” Dick spoke out from the couch. He and Tim were sitting on the couch. Bruce was busy on the counter with work, mostly Batman’s work, with Jason giving him the latest thing he found out. But that didn’t stop him from glancing at Dick’s way.

Vivian smiled but she kept her gaze on her laptop and the work she was doing from the hotel. Mostly it was grading papers. 

“What happened?” Jason raised a brow.

“Viv made a little detour request to Hell’s Kitchen,” Tim answered. 

“The Kitchen? Ma, that place is dangerous—”

“Jason, I lived there for a few years before moving to Liverpool. I know Hell’s Kitchen,” Vivian told him.

“But Ma, come on, you know that you can’t just go there. Not with—”

“Don’t even.”

Bruce sighed. “I tried to tell her,” he whispered to Jason.

But Vivian heard. Closing her laptop, she walked up to Bruce, embracing him from behind and kissed his cheek. Bruce turned to her fully and held her side, with his thumb brushing over her barely protruding belly. Seeing it was a moment between them, Jason packed his things and moved to the couch where Dick and Tim were—he didn’t miss to roll his eyes at them too.

“I would never put us in danger, you know that,” Vivian whispered to him.

“I know but that doesn’t stop me from worrying,” Bruce whispered back. “But this is not Gotham. In Gotham Batman can move even with his hands tied, even with a blindfold. Here it’s the—”

“It’s the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”

“I was going to say it’s the syndicate’s but that is another thing too.”

She kissed him again, this time on his lips.

“But luckily,” this time she spoke to the boys. “Our dinner tomorrow night will be here in the hotel. So nothing to worry about.”

“We have dinner, with who?” Jason asked. “I didn’t pack clothes for dinner, Ma.”

“Well, we can drop by at the shops later and see what we can get you.”

“I thought Jason was going to…” Tim trailed off.

“For tomorrow night, I was hoping we all could be present for dinner because Bruce and I invited an old friend of mine.”

Dick and Tim’s smile grew and it annoyed Jason more because he didn’t know anything that had something to do with their adopted mother.

“And who is this friend?” Jason asked.

“His name is Matt Murdock and he’s an old friend of mine,” Vivian sat on Bruce’s lap as he pulled her to him. “We were neighbors.”

“What does he look like?” 

“Really Jason–”

“Dark hair, dark suit and tie, good looking… you know. Her type,” Dick teased.

Bruce pulled her closer to him and pressed his nose on her shoulder. Vivian caressed his arm to stop the rising jealousy.

“Only thing that’s missing is a mask and spandex, and a dual identity of being a brooding vigilante,” Dick continued. “You know looking at him now, Mr. Murdock is just like Bruce. I mean, the playboy Bruce Wayne. Right you two came when Bruce was already married, back then Bruce is a freaking playboy who would charm women with a smile… just like what Mr. Murdock had when he saw—I mean, when he met Vivian again.”

While other thought about the meeting again, Jason asked what Dick meant by it so Tim answered: “He’s blind, Jason.”

“Oh shit. A hot, blind man, who wears suits, and is blind… you’re right. Dark, charming, brooding, and disabled—”

“I don’t think that’s nice to say about Matt and Bruce,” Vivian said.

Bruce turned to his wife with furrowed brows.

“—he is your type,” Jason grinned. 

Vivian snapped her fingers and the magazines on the coffee rolled itselves, levitated, then slapped the boys behind their heads. 

“Ow!” They winced.

Taking Bruce’s hand, Vivian pulled him to their room. “You three, dinner won’t be until tomorrow so better wrap up for tonight. Okay? And you guys can go ahead in patrol, Bruce will be a little preoccupied.”

The boys groaned in displeasure and Vivian closed the door of their bedroom in the hotel suite. The next the boys heard was the sound of Vivian squealing as Bruce tossed her to the bed and kissed her deeply.

~ * ~

Despite being in jail, Mr. Wilson Fisk still knew the goings ons in his city. Including who has entered it. The name Bruce Wayne caught his attention. Wayne is a billionaire but his lawyer, Ben Donovan said that Wayne came with family for a business meeting. Wayne Tower is along 53rd and Park Ave. Not in his radar, especially when Stark Tower is along Park Ave too. 

But there is a compilation of rats coming to his city. 

The Batman has come.

He’s heard about the trouble with the Batman before the vigilante made himself known in the city. Shipments to Gotham have either been sunk, burned, or stopped. His contacts in the city were taken out. Gotham is one of his sources of income as of now to keep himself and Vanessa afloat and even that he’s lost.

He can’t lose the Kitchen either.

“Find him,” Fisk told Donovan. “And get rid of him. Completely. I don’t know how but I want him out of my city.”

Orders were given, so Donovan made it true. It took a little time and some money spent but he got what he needed from a friend across the waters. While muscle and weapons can get the job done, information is still what trumps it all.

And this one presents a great opportunity with the Waynes in Manhattan.

“You were right,” Donovan whispered under his breath. “No one hates the Waynes and the Batman more than Black Mask.”

~ * ~

The dinner he promised Vivian was for tomorrow, not tonight. Tonight he is on a mission, like any other night since that one of the little girl and her father. But this is no ordinary mission because rats have infested the Kitchen. 

He heard about the attacks on the scattered gangs, and this was the last warehouse of Fisk’s rogue people, and with those bat vigilantes he’s heard of coming to Hell’s Kitchen and taking out them, he knew they would come here. And he was right.

He could hear them coming, despite their efforts in being quiet with each step and leap they made. But their breaths, their movements, and their heartbeats he could hear.

“Come on! Close it!” The warehouse doors opened. There were five of them, all running thinking they could fortify themselves in the warehouse. 

“Shit! Sonny wasn’t joking,” said one of the men.

“But what the fuck is the Bat doing here in Hell’s Kitchen?! He’s supposed to be in Gotham!” said the other.

“Probably got tired of our shit coming to his city. Take out the source of the garbage.”

“You’re not wrong.” It was a new voice, not one of these. And this individual’s heartbeat was steady, like he’s done this before. Like he was a predator and these guys were his prey. 

Daredevil adjusted his place on the catwalk to be closer to the young man talking. His voice was muffled, not by a mask but by a helmet maybe? Matt knew the difference all too well. 

“It’s the Hood!” One of them called out. Guns were cocked and probably pointed at the man called ‘Hood’.

“Listen guys,” he heard a gun cock. “Either we do this the easy way or we wait for the big guy and we do it his way. Normally I’d rather do it my way, ‘cuz my way’s easier, but I’m here for a favor. And I cannot disappoint.”

“That’s enough, Red Hood. We’ll take it from here,” A new voice came. This one was deeper, filled with rage and it felt like something that melted from the darkness. Even without seeing him, Daredevil knew this was Gotham’s Dark Knight.

“Shit!” 

“Hey!” Another one came—no, there’s two of them. Their voices, despite being a bit lower, were familiar to Matt. The three of them sounded familiar. “You guys should have taken the deal earlier.”

“Should have turned yourselves in guys,” said the youngest of them all. “But I appreciate a little bit of action.”

“Probably just sat this one out and watched a movie with Mama Bird then,” the other young man, not Red Hood, said. 

“But we came here for a job.”

Are they seriously talking while there’s a bunch of—

Then there it was, Daredevil heard the finger tapping on the trigger, the change of stance and—

Before they could fire, Daredevil threw one of his baton at the hand of the gunman. It startled everyone, even the vigilantes of Gotham, but for the Bat. He could feel the Bat looking at him. 

Then all hell broke loose.

Guns were fired, the four Gothamite vigilantes were dodging bullets and knocking out each of these criminals like it was just an errand, and Daredevil fought along with them.

“He with you?” The older young man asked.

Red Hood replied: “Does it look like I work with people who wear spandex? I have more self respect than that, Nightwing.”

“I didn’t think you had one,” the youngest of them said. If he was correct, this would be Robin, since he’s heard about Batman recruiting children to fight crime with him.

With the last man standing, the others knocked out unconscious, Batman grabbed the crawling gang member and pulled him up by his shirt.

“Stop! He’s had enough!” Daredevil caught Batman’s fist. “We can leave them to NYPD.”

There was a tense silence between them, and then Batman shook his hand off and said: “This isn’t over until we have all of Fisk’s men behind bars.”

“They are!” Daredevil called out as Batman walked away, dragging with him the man. He heard the grappling working and the wind shifted. He’s gone up.

Then he heard the guy begging the Bat not to do it. 

“Hey, what are you—stop!”

A scream and there was a struggle.

“What’s happening?” Daredevil asked the Batman’s companions.

There was hesitation. 

“Tell me, what is he doing?”

“He’s getting information,” said Robin.

“How?!”

“He has him dangling off the railing, man. At the balcony,” answered Red Hood.

And that drop would be to the waters. To make things worse, this guy can’t swim.

There was a shift in the three’s heartbeat, especially from this Nightwing.

Daredevil ran up to where Batman is, ignoring Red Hood whispering, “ Don’t do it.” 

“Stop!” Daredevil told Batman. 

“Listen to him, man!” said the guy. “I can’t swim!”

“You don’t have to do this,” said Daredevil. “This isn’t your city. They’ll hate you for—”

“When you couldn’t keep your trash out of Gotham, it became my business.”

Batman wrapped  a line around the man’s ankle and dropped him. Daredevil caught the line as Batman stepped away.

“IT’S THE TRACKSUITS! THEY GOT THE REST OF IT! I SWEAR!”

“WHERE ARE THEY!”

“FAT MAN’S! THEY’RE AT FAT MAN’S!”

“AUTO SHOP!” Daredevil told Batman as he struggled to pull up the man. “That’s an auto shop in Manhattan!”

Batman stood there for a while—and Daredevil heard it. The voice of an old man in the comms:  “I’ve found the location, Sir. Sending it to you now.”

“Thank you, Penny-One. Nightwing, Red Hood—”

“We’re already on it,” Nightwing said.

“PULL ME UP, MAN!”

Batman’s gaze went to the man and Daredevil. “That line’s secured to the railing. You can let go of him and let the NYPD take care of it,” Batman told Daredevil.

Daredevil listened carefully, trying to find a hint of the man lying but Batman’s heartbeat did not change. Not even the slightest. Taking the chance, Daredevil lets go, the man screamed, but he heard the tug of the rope. He didn’t fall. The line was secured. Before Daredevil could ask him why he didn’t tell him, Batman disappeared.

Leaving no trace but for the knocked out criminals in the warehouse.

~ * ~

It was late at night or probably early in the morning when Vivian felt the bed dip beside her, not long Bruce’s arms wrapped around her and his lips kissed her cheek.

“Is it done?” She asked him.

“It is. We’ve finished it,” Bruce kept kissing her. “We’ll go back to Gotham tomorrow.”

Vivian opened her eyes and checked the digital clock beside them. It was around four in the morning now. He’s right, tomorrow they’re heading back home. Turning to face him, Vivian reached to pull him down to her for a kiss.

“I’m glad it’s over,” she whispered.

“Me too.”

“As much as this hotel is fancy, I miss our own bed… and I have to get back to work.”

“I’m sorry if I took you from GU.”

“Well, I insisted I come along. Get some sleep, we promised Matt we’re meeting him tonight for dinner… what’s wrong?”

He stopped with his kisses and the way his eyes were staring into nothing showed her he was in deep thought.

“Bruce.” She pulled him to look at her. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. It can wait until we wake up later. Go back to sleep, you both need sleep.”

“You know I hate it when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Leave me on a cliffhanger.”

Bruce chuckled. “I thought you liked cliffhangers.”

“I like open-ended stories, not cliffhangers.”

“They’re the same.”

“No they’re not!” Vivian giggled as Bruce kissed her again and again, lowering to her jawline, her neck, and then down her chest where his lips followed his fingers that worked to unbutton her night shirt. He lingered on the two-month bump, he whispered something against her skin—a joke that earned a slap at the shoulder from Vivian. Then he went down further where he pulled down her underwear.

“I can assure you, Pryor, there was never a time” — he kissed her inner thigh — “I left you hanging?”

“It’s late, Bruce,” Vivian yawned but she was sure her sex betrayed her with how wet she was now—anticipating what Bruce was going to do.

“Then go to sleep, I’ll take care of you,” Bruce kissed her lips and purposely nudged his nose against her clit.

“Fuck,” Vivian moaned. Her hands gripped on her pillow and on his hair. “That’s it… that’s it…”

“This isn’t Wayne Manor, Viv. Best to keep it down. You don’t want the boys and Alfred to hear.”

~ * ~

It was early in the afternoon. The phone in the hotel rang, everyone else was still in their rooms, fast asleep—good, they needed the sleep after the consecutive sleepless nights—but for Alfred. Alfred ran to the phone before it could wake anyone and after hearing out the reception telling him there was a call for Mrs. Vivian Pryor-Wayne from a Mr. Matt Murdock, Alfred agreed to take it.

Matt sighed in relief when the receptionist told him that the Waynes agreed to take the call. Before he could hear anyone talking, he said: “Viv, we need to talk. It’s important, can you meet me at—”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Murdock,” it was the old man from Batman’s comms. He guessed this was Alfred that Dick and Tim mentioned yesterday. “Unfortunately, Ms. Vivian is still in bed. She and Mr. Wayne and the boys had a late night watching films. Master Timothy enjoyed the room service and renting multiple films. He obligated everyone to sit down and watch the entire Mission Impossible movie franchise.”

Not exactly a lie, Tim did that the first day they were in the hotel while working with Nightwing and Red Hood on their mission.

“Do you have a message that you would like me to relay to Ms. Vivian?” Alfred asked. 

“No… I’ll tell her myself. Would you have her number?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Murdock, but I am in no possession to give you or anyone else Ms. Vivian’s personal number or email. If there is anything important you wish to tell her, I can relay your message. But that is all that I may do.”

Stubborn and loyal. Matt wasn’t sure if he should be glad or not about it.

“Nevermind. I’ll try to contact her myself,” said Matt. “Thank you.”

“Very well, Mr. Murdok.”

The call ended and Matt let out a long sigh. 

Damnit.

Later that day, when everyone has woken up, Alfred informed Vivian and Bruce about Mr. Murdock’s call. The mention of the man’s name had everyone but Vivian flinching. She noticed that too.

“What did Matt want?” Vivian asked.

“He didn’t say. Mr. Murdock said it was important but he didn’t leave a message. He asked for your personal number but I cannot just give him that, even if he was your old friend,” said Alfred.

“I appreciate that, Alfred. How sweet of you. I’ll probably just call him later,” Vivian said as she ate her breakfast-and-late-lunch. As Alfred excused himself to fix the boys’ suits for tonight’s dinner, Vivian turned to her boys and said: “What happened last night? Did it have something to do with Matt?” 

“I'll take it back,” said Jason. “He does check out all the boxes—ow!” 

Dick kicked his shin. Jason did the same which had Dick hit his fist on the table. Before they could kick each other more, Tim moved closer to Vivian to stay out of it, Vivian snapped her fingers and locked their legs.

“What do you mean he does check out all the boxes? Bruce?” She turned to her husband who sighed in defeat.

“There’s something you need to know, Viv. Something I’m still not sure about until this morning.”

~ * ~

“I still think it’s stupid that we’re bringing cinnamon rolls to a fancy restaurant dinner,” Foggy said as he, Matt and Karen entered the hotel. Right before they hailed a cab outside their office, Matt asked them to drop by this bakery a few blocks away where he bought a box of cinnamon rolls as a gift for the Waynes.

“It’s a gift, Foggy,” Matt told him.

“But why cinnamon rolls?”

Because Vivian smells like cinnamon. “Because when we were kids we’d always share a cinnamon roll before heading home. And before her Mom would catch us eating one—okay?”

“Ah, so you do have an agenda,” Karen had a lopsided grin.

“She’s married, Matt. Geez.”

“It’s just an innocent gift. For old time’s sake.”

“Are you going to share it with her? Do the Lady and Tramp in front of her husband?” 

“Come on, Foggy, stop trying to make something out of this innocent thing.”

They reached the reception and Foggy asked for the restaurant. They were led by one of the staff to the hotel restaurant, which was further inside the hotel, and then to the table where the Waynes sat.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Those heartbeats, Matt recognized. There was no doubt about it. Last night, he had a feeling those heartbeats were familiar. The calmness of it, how these four individuals regulated it and kept themselves composed despite the danger.

It can’t be.

“Matt!” Vivian was the first to get up and greet him with a hug.

“Viv, it’s good to see you,” Matt kissed her cheek.

After Vivian released him, she went to greet Foggy and Karen, leaving him to face Bruce Wayne. 

“Mr. Wayne,” Matt greeted with his hand out.

“I’m sure we’ve passed that, Mr. Murdock,” Bruce said with that calm and charm but behind it he could hear the deeper, and more imposing tone of the Bat.

“I guess we have.”

“Everyone, you haven’t met. This is Jason, our second,” Vivian introduced the tallest of her boys who wore a suit just like the others but his shirt was red and he didn’t wear a tie.

“Good to meet cha,” Jason offered his hand to Matt.

There was no denying it, Jason was the man wearing a hood or a helmet.

“Have a seat, please,” Vivian gestured to the seats. 

The table was a large circle and Karen whispered to Matt to take the empty seat beside Vivian. He’ll be between them. Foggy mentioned earlier that he didn’t trust teenage boys to sit beside her, whether they were “from the streets of the Kitchen or posh socialites who went to prep school.”

“By the way, we got you a gift,” Karen pulled the baby-blue box of cinnamon buns and handed it to Vivian. “Matt insisted we make a stop to get those before heading here.”

Vivian laughed when she saw the box. “They haven’t changed. How long has it been? Thirty years?”

“Give or take,” Matt smiled. “They taste the same too. But time, we don’t have to share it this time.”

“I don’t think we can here, but maybe outside we can open this up. You guys can go ahead and check the menu we just ordered earlier,” A waiter came to assist them. Maybe Vivian informed the restaurant about his disability, Matt thought, because the waiter dictated the entire menu for him from the appetizers, the main course, the beverages, and dessert. After Matt gave his order, Foggy and Karen gave theirs and the waiter left, replacing him as the sommelier came and presented the wine.

“Wow, fancy,” Foggy said after showing the brand and the year, then asked Bruce to taste first before serving but Bruce declined and asked Matt to do it. When Matt declined, Foggy took the task and drank from the glass. “It’s good. Probably the best one I’ve ever tasted.”

Wine was served to all their glasses, but before the waiter could pour into Vivian’s glass, she covered hers and requested for her water instead.

“You don’t drink, Mrs. Wayne?” Foggy asked.

“Please, call me Vivian. I do but I’m obligated to stay sober for a pretty long while,” she smiled.

It was Karen’s gasp that had Matt’s brow furrow. “Why, what happened?” He asked.

Under the table, Vivian reached to take his hand. “Remember when you asked if I have kids?”

“You’re kidding,” Matt couldn’t help his smile.

“I’m not.”

“Congratulations, Viv. Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“We thought it’s a little too early to give the news. Gotham doesn’t even know yet… just us and a couple of people from Wayne Enterprises’ Board because I barged in their meeting to tell Bruce.”

“Congratulations to you both.”

Their food came soon after and dinner went smoothly with catching up between Vivian and Matt, and the two of them sharing their stories with their friends and family on how they met—it was the day Vivian and Madeline moved to their building, Jack saw them carrying bags and despite his injuries from last night’s match, he helped them out. Matt too picked up Vivian’s things and brought it to the mother and daughter’s new home. 

“Remember that one time we tried to Parent Trap your Mom and my Dad?” Matt said, his smile was still there. It was one of the few times Karen saw Matt smile so much in one dinner sitting with other people.

Vivian laughed. “Oh god, that did not work out well.”

“Oh, I thought you guys were old childhood sweethearts,” Foggy joked, but really that was the image he had of Vivian Pryor when he saw the photos from Matt and from the stories he heard

“Foggy!” Karen chastised him.

“What? I think I was clear that we were—Foggy, I told you she was like a sister to me,” said Matt.

With that, Dick, Jason, and Tim —for once, agreed one something—- smirked and sent Bruce a teasing look, which earned a glare from their surrogate father.

“You see, my Mom and Jack—Matt’s Dad—were really close. We have this system in our little family, where there are days Matt would stay with us when his Dad has to work, and I’d stay with them if Mom has a nightshift. We help each other out.

“Then we saw them kiss once. And that’s where we had an idea of setting up a date for them and try to get them together. But in the end we were found out and it didn’t work out.”

“Any reason?” Karen asked.

“Differences,” Vivian shrugged. But mostly because Madeline had so many secrets she can’t share. “So, how did you three end up on the paper? I read about Nelson & Murdock taking down Fisk. That’s interesting.”

“A series of fortunate and unfortunate events,” Foggy said.

“You have no idea,” Karen agreed.

“I take it you guys don’t…”

“For our safety,” Matt smiled at Vivian.

“Got it.”

“And what about you both and the… how old are your wards?” Matt asked Bruce and Vivian.

“Old enough not to be sent up to our room,” Jason answered.

“Same with you a series of events,” Vivian answered, Tim snickered which earned a pinch  from her using magic. 

Dinner went on with them catching up long than they imagined, eventually their party had to end when they saw some of the tables were already packing up and Bruce mentioned the time. Bruce said he’ll ask the hotel to hail them a cab home, but before they all went their separate ways, Matt asked if he and Vivian could take a “sidebar” for a minute. 

“Any reason for the sidebar Counselor?” Vivian teased.

“I was—I—uh—I was hoping we could meet up tomorrow,” said Matt.

“Oh, Matt, we go back to Gotham tomorrow.”

“What time? Let’s meet up before.”

“If it’s important, maybe you can tell me now.”

“Not the right time and place. Just you and me. We can meet somewhere close to your hotel.”

Vivian took a breath. “How about the gym? It’s been a while since I visited that place.”

“Perfect. That place is perfect.”

“Is nine o’clock good? We check out at noon.”

“Yeah, I think that’s enough.”

“Is it something I should be worried about?”

“We’ll see.”

~ 11AM, The Next Day ~

Bruce was already hailing a cab to get to Fogwell’s Gym when he got the call from NYPD with news about his wife. At 9AM, their car was found parked outside of the gym, Vivian Pryor was seen getting out and entering the gym. Nothing happened for a while until neighbors heard gunshots, a ruckus, and then a group of men came out of the gym with an unconscious Vivian over their shoulder and tossed into the car.

Left in the scene of the crime was Matt Murdock, who was getting a good beating and was bleeding. 

[its-all-papaya]

landoscar one word prompt: wag!au

sending hugs and hoping everything turns out good for you!!

THANK YOU!!! here she is, 30 minute timer'd and (mostly) unedited:

"They're calling me your WAG," Lando says as soon as Oscar shoulders through his own driver's room door.

He's not even sure how Lando got in - he shouldn't probably have been able to, especially without Oscar - but he's reclined on the lounge anyway, arm behind his head and stocking feet tucked up close. Oscar's not even surprised. Not with the dimples and the curls and the charming way Lando's been getting his way pretty much everywhere from pretty much everybody for as long as Oscar's known him.

Oscar gives Lando's phone a courtesy glance as he tugs at the neck of his race suit, "Aren't you?"

That makes Lando grin even wider. His nose scrunches up as he sets the phone back on his propped-up legs, presumably to keep reading comments on whatever post he's hung up on.

"Am I? Which? Your wife or your girlfriend?"

Oscar glances sideways again as he shimmies the first shoulder out of his suit. It's fucking hot in Texas, and he'd been held up extra at qualifying interviews. The gap Lando needed to talk his way into this part of the building, and an extra half-an-hour or so of sweat dripping down the back of his neck.

"You know what I meant," Oscar shakes his head, fond.

Lando wiggles his phone again, "Yeah, but they don't."

Oscar rolls his neck sideways to smear some of the sweat off his cheek with the shoulder of his fireproofs.

"What?"

It's too hot to follow Lando's convoluted trains of thought just now, his brain still dragging itself back into regular-people-mode after an hour of just comms and tarmac.

"I don't know," Lando says.

Oscar's lifted the hem of the nomex top to wipe at his forehead. When he emerges out of it, Lando's eyes are stuck on his exposed stomach, gaze sharp and phone forgotten on his legs.

"C'mere," he swings an arm out sideways, lazily in Oscar's direction.

And he looks cool enough in a loose button-down and the wide-leg jeans he's suddenly become so fond of. He'd be good as a proper WAG, Lando would. Looking pretty in the garage and holding Oscar's hand each morning on the walk in. It's not like that quite yet, but maybe someday, Oscar thinks. If his career lasts long enough, maybe someday it won't be the big thing it would be today.

"I need a shower," he catches Lando's hand and squeezes loosely on the way by to placate him, but Lando doesn't let go. His face is doing the thing it usually does when Oscar's just taken his tongue out of Lando's mouth.

"No, I want it like this," Lando says, tugging again on his hand.

Oscar's nose wrinkles, "Can I at least take my boots off?"

He's already falling next to Lando, though, letting Lando sneak fingers under his top and nudge his nose into the damp space under the hinge of his jaw.

"In a minute," Lando replies. Oscar supposes what he does next might loosely be called a kiss, but really he's just sort of mouthing at Oscar's neck.

"You're gross." His head is tipping sideways anyway, though, arm moving easily where Lando puts it so he can fit himself tighter to Oscar's side.

"S'that what the 'G' stands for?" Lando asks from the general vicinity of his armpit.

Oscar's eyes are already closed, head back against the top of the lounge. He forces his chin back down to say, "What?"

It feels like every other word out of his mouth since he opened the door.

"In 'WAG'," Lando's palm is flat on his side and it's really only making him sweatier. Making it harder to think, too. Oscar's fingers curl loosely into the hair at Lando's nape.

"Sure," he agrees, "whatever you want."

Lando's hand slides under his suit, "Mint. That's the 'W'."

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