#you are A GUEST in my room I do things the way I WANT I have a D E G R E E you have a 40 YEAR OLD SON

[pucksandpower]

Crash Course in Love

Lando Norris x Carlos Sainz’s best friend!Reader

Summary: in which Carlos forgets to tell his two best friends they’ll be staying in his villa together, and now a stressed out lawyer has to survive living with a human golden retriever, but you know what they say … opposites attract

You’ve been in Marbella for four days and already gone through three bottles of wine and two existential crises.

Carlos’ villa is too quiet for someone used to white noise: emails pinging, heels clacking, cortisol. The silence in this place isn’t peaceful — it’s accusatory. You’ve spent more time staring at the sea than you have your own reflection in the last ten years, which is saying something.

It feels indulgent. Like if someone walks in, they’ll accuse you of being lazy. You’d have to explain the insomnia, the migraines, the crying in bathroom stalls between depositions.

But Carlos isn’t here to judge. He’s off somewhere filming shampoo commercials in Paris or golfing in socks with his dad. He just texted you the gate code and told you to “relax, coño.” So here you are, inhaling almond-scented air and avoiding your inbox.

You’re halfway through a rerun of The Holiday when the doorbell rings.

You don’t move.

It rings again. Louder.

“Delivery?” You mutter to no one. You didn’t order anything.

You shuffle to the door in socks and an old hoodie of Carlos’ that you’ve unofficially adopted. You crack the door open and freeze.

Lando Norris is standing there. With a suitcase. And a sunburn.

“Hey,” he says, blinking like he’s not entirely sure this is the right house. “You’re not Carlos.”

“You’re … not a delivery guy.”

“Definitely not. Unless you ordered someone with mediocre Spanish and no plan.”

You blink. He grins.

“Sorry, I’m Lando. Uh. Carlos said I could crash in the guest room. Hotel bailed on my reservation. Long story. But he didn’t mention you’d be here.”

“He didn’t mention you’d be here either.”

“Cool. So we’re both surprised. That’s … fun?”

You stare at him. He looks like he just rolled off a yacht he wasn’t invited on. Sleeveless shirt, board shorts, and the confidence of someone who’s never had to Google “how to flirt.”

You open the door all the way. “Come in, I guess.”

He wheels his suitcase past you. It makes an annoying thunk over the threshold. You follow him into the hallway, watching as he does a slow 360 like he’s never seen furniture before.

“Whoa. This place is insane. Does Carlos actually live like this, or is he secretly royalty?”

“Just rich.”

“Same difference.”

You cross your arms. “You want something to drink?”

“God, yes. I’m parched. Is that still a word people use? Parched?”

You turn toward the kitchen. “Not since 1912.”

Behind you, you hear him mutter, “Alright. Tough crowd.”

He follows you to the kitchen like a golden retriever. Doesn’t ask where things are — just opens cabinets and drawers like it’s his Airbnb.

“I got this,” he says, pulling out two glasses. “I’m a fantastic guest. Top tier. Five stars on all platforms.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You have reviews?”

“No, but if I did? Flawless.”

He pours two drinks. One is wine. The other is apple juice. He hands you the wine. “Cheers.”

You eye the juice. “Is that … what you’re drinking?”

“I burnt a little on the flight. Gotta rehydrate.”

He’s completely serious. Like drinking juice is a medical emergency. You stifle a laugh.

“You okay?” He asks, suddenly earnest. “You look like you’re tired. But not like, normal tired. Lawyer tired.”

You blink at him. “Lawyer tired?”

“Yeah. Like … your eyeballs are sleepy but your soul’s still trying to finish a brief.”

You stare.

“I mean that in a good way. Like, impressive. Respectfully.”

“Wow.”

“I should stop talking.”

“Yeah, probably.”

***

Dinner is his idea. You offer to order something in. He insists on cooking. “I make a mean carbonara,” he says. “Or maybe risotto. Wait, do you eat dairy?”

You nod.

“Okay, sick. Chef Lando it is.”

You spend the next hour watching him destroy Carlos’ kitchen with the chaotic enthusiasm of a man who’s only cooked two times in his life and once lit a tea towel on fire.

He tells stories while he cooks, most of them involving near-death experiences, bad tattoos, and a rental car that somehow ended up in a lake.

You lean on the counter, sipping your wine. “Do you ever filter?”

“Rarely. But I can if you want. I can be quiet. Mysterious. Brooding.”

“You?”

He makes a face. “Okay, rude.”

“You burn your hand yet?”

“Twice,” he says cheerfully. “But I’m hiding it to preserve my ego.”

He fumbles with the tongs. Pasta flies out of the pan and onto the floor. He shrugs. “Five-second rule?”

You deadpan. “I’m not that desperate yet.”

He laughs. You notice he has a nice laugh. Not performative. Just … happy.

Dinner is terrible. Somehow both overcooked and cold. You take one bite and try not to gag.

“So?” He asks, eyes wide with hope.

“It’s … ambitious.”

He winces. “I’ll order pizza.”

“I won’t stop you.”

“Should’ve stuck with cereal,” he mutters, pulling out his phone.

You don’t mean to smile. But you do.

***

Later, you sit on the couch with your legs tucked under you while he scrolls through terrible Spanish romcoms on TV.

“This one’s got a 3.4 on IMDb.”

“Perfect.”

He clicks play.

You steal glances at him when he’s not looking. He’s gotten more attractive since the last time you saw him, though you’re not sure if it’s the jawline or the fact that he keeps folding your hoodie when you leave it on the back of a chair.

He’s obnoxious, yes. Too comfortable too fast. But when you yawn mid-movie, his entire face falls.

“Oh no, I’m boring you.”

“It’s the wine.”

“I’m still boring you.”

“You’re not.”

“I totally am.”

He turns toward you, earnest again. It’s disarming. “You wanna sleep? I’ll shut up.”

“You never shut up.”

“Harsh.”

He watches you for a moment. “You sure you’re okay?”

You pause. That question again. The one you’ve been dodging since the breakdown.

“Yeah,” you lie.

He nods. But doesn’t push.

You both go quiet. The movie drones on in the background.

“Hey,” he says suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“You’ve got a cool vibe.”

You look at him. “What does that mean?”

“I dunno. Like … your energy. It’s nice.”

You snort. “Are you high?”

“No! I’m complimenting you. With words.”

“This is how a teenager hits on a barista.”

“Okay, true, but still. I meant it.”

You stare at him.

He grins. “Just accept the compliment.”

You roll your eyes. But you don’t say no.

***

By the time you head to bed, the house smells like burnt garlic and whatever cologne he bathed in.

You hear him shuffling around in the guest room next to yours. Singing under his breath. Awful pitch.

You press your face into the pillow. You’re not supposed to like this. The noise. The chaos. The presence.

But when you wake up later and find your bags stacked neatly by the door — shoes lined up, hoodie folded on the chair — you smile.

Just a little.

And only when no one’s looking.

***

It starts the next morning with coffee.

You’re barely awake — just a hoodie-draped zombie with bed hair and a fading dream you don’t want to examine — when he appears in the kitchen, too chipper, too shirtless.

“You drink it black, right?” Lando asks, holding out a steaming cup like he’s been doing this forever. His curls are a mess. There’s toothpaste on his chin.

You blink at him. “How do you know how I take my coffee?”

“You made fun of me yesterday for putting oat milk in mine. I remembered.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It’s called observation. I do it professionally.”

“Driving is not the same as remembering my coffee order.”

“I do both with style.”

You accept the cup, suspicious. “Did you spit in this?”

“Only love and a little judgment.”

You take a sip. It’s surprisingly decent.

“You’re not completely useless.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He says it with a grin, but something flickers in his eyes when you smile over your cup. You don’t catch it. Not yet.

***

Days pass like that. Mornings laced with caffeine and accidental comfort.

You fall into a rhythm neither of you talks about. He gets up earlier than you expect — blasts music while brushing his teeth, sings ABBA off-key in the hallway, makes smoothies that look like radioactive goo.

You argue over playlists constantly.

“No. We’re not doing Pitbull at eight in the morning.”

“He’s Mr. Worldwide! It’s inspirational.”

“He’s bald and shouting.”

“That’s showbiz, baby.”

Sometimes, you win. Most of the time, he sneaks Mr. Brightside onto every playlist and pretends he didn’t.

You never thought you'd get used to someone like him. Loud. Playful. Constantly hovering in your peripheral vision. But there's a gentleness under the antics. A sweetness that doesn't beg to be noticed, but you notice anyway.

He drives you to the market without asking. Carries your groceries like it’s a competition. Starts trying to cook again — more confident than competent.

“What’s your favorite dish?” He asks one evening, hunched over his phone like it owes him money.

You answer without thinking. “Cacio e pepe.”

“Easy. I got this.”

He doesn’t got this.

He overcooks the pasta, forgets to salt the water, and ends up Googling “what is pecorino” in a panic.

You walk in on him whispering “don’t clump, don’t clump” at the sauce like it’s sentient.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. “Need help?”

“Nope. I’m an artist. This is part of the process.”

He serves it with flair. You pretend not to notice the texture is more glue than cheese.

Still, you eat it. He watches your face the whole time, pretending not to. When you finish the plate, he beams like he’s won a Michelin star.

^**

The rain starts on a Tuesday.

You wake to gray skies and the soft percussion of drops against the villa’s roof. You think it’ll pass. It doesn’t.

By mid-afternoon, you’re both restless.

“I have to move,” you say, pacing in the living room. “I need to do something.”

Lando sprawls across the rug like a teenage boy at a sleepover. “Let’s play Mario Kart.”

“That’s not productive.”

“You’re literally vibrating with stress. Sit down. You need to get your ass kicked by Princess Peach.”

You do not get your ass kicked. You annihilate him.

“This game is rigged,” he whines as your kart zips past his. “You’re cheating.”

“I'm just better.”

“You're heartless. Cruel. Unfairly good at drifting.”

“You sound like a man who’s losing.”

He groans, flops over, and covers his face with a throw pillow. “I hate fish.”

You blink. “What?”

“Just thought I’d change the subject.”

You snort. “Okay. Why?”

“They smell weird. They look weird. Their eyes freak me out.”

“Do you think fish can understand us?”

He lifts the pillow slightly. “Are we high right now?”

“No, I’m serious. What if they know we’re watching them?”

“Then I owe a lot of apologies to some sushi.”

You laugh. A real one. Not the polite chuckle you use in meetings, not the rehearsed smile for courtroom civility. This one hits your ribs.

He sits up. Watches you. Doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“What?” You ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just … you’re different when you laugh like that.”

You glance away. “Like what?”

“Like you forgot something was weighing on you.”

His voice is soft now. Uncharacteristically so. You don’t respond right away. Just look out the window, rain sliding down the glass in long, lazy streaks.

After a while, you say, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He looks over.

“I mean, with my life,” you continue. “I was going so fast, for so long, and now I’ve stopped and I don’t … know what’s left.”

You stare at your hands. You hate how raw that sounds. How uncertain.

He doesn’t jump in. Doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t try to fix it.

Just sits beside you. Quiet.

“I used to think being successful would feel better than this,” you say. “But I don’t even remember who I was before I started chasing things I don’t even know if I wanted.”

“Do you wanna go back?” He asks.

“No. But I don’t know how to go forward, either.”

He nods. Not like he understands completely — but like he’s trying to. Like he’s holding space for you, instead of advice.

“I don’t have answers,” he says eventually. “But I’m really good at distractions.”

You smile faintly. “Clearly.”

“I mean, c’mon. My carbonara almost killed you.”

“It did. I wrote a will after.”

“Harsh.”

“Truthful.”

He grins, and you feel lighter. A little.

***

That night, the rain intensifies.

You can’t sleep. Not because of the storm, but because something inside you is too noisy. Like your mind won’t stop pacing the room.

You wander out into the hallway, barefoot and restless, planning to make tea.

You don’t expect to see the front door open.

Or the rain soaking the floor tiles just past the entry.

Or him — barefoot, shirt clinging to him, hair dripping, crouched on the porch with his hands around a toppled plant.

You step outside. The rain is warm. Immediate. Your hoodie clings to your skin.

“Are you serious?” You call.

He looks up. His smile is sheepish, wide. “It fell over. I didn’t want it to drown.”

“In the middle of a storm?”

“Poor guy didn’t ask for this.”

You stare at him. His knees are muddy. There’s a leaf in his hair. He’s cradling the ceramic pot like it’s a kitten.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Guilty.”

“But also kind of … sweet.”

He looks at you.

You’re not sure what’s shifted. Maybe it’s the rain. The hour. The silence between the two of you that’s no longer awkward.

You’re suddenly aware of how close he is. How sincere his face becomes when he thinks you’re not looking.

He stands slowly. Water drips down his neck.

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

“I know.”

You say, “You’re soaked.”

“So are you.”

And there it is — that moment. Hanging. Taut.

Not quite a kiss. Not yet.

But the kind of stillness that precedes something inevitable.

He tucks a wet strand of hair behind your ear. Doesn’t touch anything else.

His fingers are cold. His eyes are impossibly warm.

You shiver.

He notices. “Come on. Let’s not catch pneumonia.”

You nod. Follow him inside. Neither of you says much as you dry off.

But something’s different now.

And you both feel it.

Like you’ve stepped into something bigger than a holiday detour.

Something that might last.

***

You don’t expect him to ask.

You’re elbow-deep in a bowl of popcorn, half-watching some Spanish cooking show neither of you understands, when he says it — casual, like it’s nothing.

“You should come to Monaco next weekend.”

You blink. “What?”

“To the race. I’ll give you the VIP treatment.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you get a lanyard. And free food. And I pretend to be cooler than I actually am.”

“So, your regular weekend?”

He smirks. “Exactly.”

You scoff. “I’m not going to be some … grid girl.”

His grin falters. Just a little. “It’s not like that.”

“Lando.”

“You’d be my guest.”

“That’s worse.”

He turns toward you on the couch, legs folded under him like a golden retriever mid-persuasion. “Come on. It’s glamorous. There’s champagne. Helicopters. You love judging rich people.”

“That part is tempting.”

“I’ll let you wear one of my team shirts.”

“Still not sold.”

“I’ll bribe you with food.”

“Try again.”

“I’ll-” He pauses, thinks hard, then lights up. “-I’ll serenade you. Publicly. At the paddock.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would. Off-key. Acapella. I’ll make the engineers cry.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.

He leans closer, dramatic whisper: “Come on. I’ll look lonely if you’re not there.”

“You’ll be surrounded by people.”

“Yeah, but none of them steal my fries and insult my music taste.”

You try not to let the warmth bloom too fast. “That’s your best argument?”

He lifts his hands. “That’s all I got.”

You shake your head. “Fine.”

He blinks. “Wait, seriously?”

You sigh. “Yes. Before I change my mind.”

He fist pumps the air. “YES. I mean — cool. Chill. No big deal.”

You snort. “You’re such a loser.”

“Your loser.”

You ignore the way your chest does a weird little flutter.

***

You regret saying yes almost immediately.

Not because you don’t want to go — but because it’s a lot.

The paddock is chaos. Noise. Cameras. Sunglasses on everyone, like they’re all pretending it’s not just overcast. You can feel eyes on you from the second you step out of the car.

Lando’s bouncing on the balls of his feet beside you, grinning like he owns the place. Which, in a way, he kind of does.

“You okay?” He asks.

You nod, a bit dazed. “You weren’t kidding about the VIP treatment.”

“Would I ever lie?”

“Yes.”

“Fair.”

He hands you a pass. “Here. This is your all-access badge. Makes you important.”

“Is it laminated?”

“Of course it’s laminated. We’re not animals.”

You laugh. He smiles like that was his whole goal.

People greet him constantly — engineers, press, fans. He throws a casual arm around your shoulder more than once, guiding you through the crowd.

You notice it after the third introduction: no one asks who you are. They all assume.

“Oh, so this is your-”

“Hey, you finally brought her!”

“Lando’s girl, right?”

You start correcting people. At first.

“Oh no, we’re just-”

“Not together, actually.”

“Just friends.”

But he never jumps in. Never clarifies. Just smiles, tugs you along, calls you mate in that annoyingly endearing way.

At some point, you stop correcting anyone. You tell yourself it’s just easier that way.

You’re lying.

***

You meet Oscar by the snack table.

He’s polite, a little dry, surprisingly funny. You’re mid-laugh when Lando shows up, scooter wheels screeching dramatically.

“Hey,” he says, too loud. “What’s going on here?”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Just talking.”

“Looked like flirting from over there.”

Oscar blinks. “I was complimenting her trainers.”

Lando squints. “They’re mine.”

“Ah.” Oscar smiles. “Well, you’ve got good taste.”

You can feel the tension radiating off Lando like heat from asphalt.

“Oscar was just telling me about the simulator,” you say, steering the conversation.

Lando crosses his arms. “Yeah? I’m faster than him in it.”

“By two-tenths,” Oscar says mildly.

“Still counts.”

You glance between them. ��Are you … racing right now?”

Oscar shrugs. “Always.”

Lando tries to lean casually against a tire stack. Misses. Nearly faceplants into a crate of water bottles.

You wince. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he grumbles, hopping back up.

Oscar’s expression is unreadable.

You bite your lip. “Should I, uh, go find my seat?”

Oscar nods. “Probably safer over there.”

You follow Lando as he storms off, silent. His curls are a mess. His ears are red.

When you finally stop near the garage, you say, “What was that?”

“What?”

“You nearly crashed your scooter trying to interrupt a conversation.”

“He was flirting with you.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“He was definitely flirting with you.”

“And if he was?”

Lando blinks. “I-”

You tilt your head. “Lando.”

“I didn’t like it.”

You cross your arms. “Why not?”

He stares at the ground. Rubs the back of his neck. Looks nothing like the confident, camera-ready version of himself from earlier.

Finally, he says, quietly, “I just really like you.”

You freeze.

“I know I’m not your type,” he adds quickly. “And I know you’re probably just being nice to me because I make dumb jokes and cook badly and follow you around like a puppy-”

“Lando-”

“-but I’d try, you know? To be whatever it is you’re looking for. Even if I’m not it.”

The words hang between you. Raw. Honest. Vulnerable in a way you haven’t seen from him before.

You laugh. Just a little. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s too much.

He looks crushed.

“Sorry,” you say quickly. “That wasn’t — I’m not laughing at you. I’m just … overwhelmed.”

His mouth twitches like he’s trying to smile through it.

You reach for his arm. “You don’t have to be anything else. You’re already …”

You stop. Your heart fills in the blank your brain can’t say.

You’re already it.

***

Back in the garage, you watch him from a distance. He’s talking to his engineers, gesturing wildly, helmet tucked under one arm.

He doesn’t glance your way.

For once, you’re the one staring.

Something’s shifted again. The line you’ve been walking is gone. Or maybe it was never there to begin with.

Maybe this thing — whatever it is — isn’t waiting to be defined.

Maybe it’s just becoming.

***

It starts with a subject line you don’t want to read.

RE: Return to Work Policy Update.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the villa’s sun-warmed patio, coffee cold beside you, when the email comes through. You stare at it for a full minute before opening it.

Then you read it. Reread it. And again.

By the time the words actually register, your throat is dry.

They want you back.

In the office. Full-time. Effective immediately.

No room for extension. No regard for the months of burnout, the time zone, the soft, tender recovery you’ve only just begun to trust.

The deadline sits there, bold and final: next Friday.

If you don’t return, they’ll consider it a resignation.

Your hands tremble. Not dramatically. Just enough to spill a little coffee when you try to pick up the mug.

You wipe it away with your sleeve. Then you close the laptop slowly, gently, like maybe that’ll keep the contents from being real.

***

Lando doesn’t notice at first.

You’re good at hiding. You always have been.

He bounds into the kitchen mid-morning, wearing swim trunks and no shirt, hair wet from the sea. “I made toast!” He announces proudly. “It’s only slightly burnt. Also, I may have used all the butter.”

You smile. Or something close to it.

He pauses. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

“You wanna go for a swim?”

“Not right now.”

He watches you for a second longer than normal.

Then shrugs. “I’ll save you a good floaty.”

You nod.

But later, you don’t join him. You stay inside. You open a suitcase you haven’t touched in weeks. You fold slowly, carefully. As if touching your things too fast might make it all feel too real.

***

The villa shifts.

There’s a silence between you that hasn’t been there before. Not sharp, just … echoey.

You stop making jokes. Stop dancing in the kitchen. Stop stealing his hoodies and pretending not to.

Lando notices.

And he spirals.

First, he overcompensates — louder jokes, bolder breakfasts, compliments that sound like YouTube comments.

“You’re glowing today. Like, solar flare-level.”

“Okay.”

“That hoodie’s working overtime. Is that a new shade of existential dread?”

You manage a weak laugh. It makes him look relieved. Which only makes you feel worse.

Because none of this is his fault.

He doesn’t know.

You don’t tell him.

***

Wednesday, he plans the party.

He does it in secret. Sort of.

Oscar is in on it. So is Carlos — over FaceTime, mostly to say things like “Do not set anything on fire” and “Are you using actual TNT?”

Lando doesn’t care about the logistics. He just wants to make you smile.

“She’s leaving, I think,” he mutters, digging through drawers for balloons. “She hasn’t said it, but … I can tell.”

Oscar looks at him, concerned. “Did something happen?”

“Not exactly.” Lando shrugs. “I think I broke it.”

“You?”

“She’s … retreating. Like, emotionally. It’s like she’s packing her heart before her suitcase.”

Oscar frowns. “That’s poetic. Are you okay?”

Lando ignores the question. “I just want her to know she matters here. That this mattered. That I’ll-” He stops. Runs a hand through his curls. “-that I’ll miss her. So fucking much.”

***

The party is terrible.

Confetti ends up in the punch. The playlist is just ABBA and Martin Garrix on loop. Oscar bails halfway through. Carlos texts I warned you.

But the real problem is this.

You don’t show up.

Lando waits. He checks his phone. Checks the garden. The pool. The kitchen.

Nothing.

Eventually, he wanders outside. Something tells him to check the back.

That’s where he finds you.

Curled into yourself on a bench beneath the lemon tree, head bowed, fingers twisted in the hem of your shirt. Shoulders shaking.

He stops mid-step. Heart hammering.

“Hey.”

You flinch, barely.

He walks slowly, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he moves too fast.

“What’s wrong?” He asks gently.

You shake your head.

“I thought you were mad at me,” he admits. “But you’re-”

“I’m leaving,” you say suddenly, voice hoarse. “Next Friday. If I don’t go back, they’ll fire me.”

He blinks. “Oh.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Lando sits beside you. Not close enough to touch. Just near.

You bury your face in your hands.

“I don’t want to go,” you whisper. “But I don’t know how to stay, either.”

And just like that, the dam breaks. The tears come fast, messy, embarrassing in their intensity.

You expect him to panic. To joke. To offer a stupid, misplaced solution.

He doesn’t.

He just slides closer. Wraps his arms around you.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he says softly, chin resting on your hair, “but I can sit here until you’re okay.”

You cling to him like he’s a life raft. And maybe he is.

You cry harder.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admit. “I’ve spent years building a life I’m not even sure I want anymore.”

“Then don’t go back to it.”

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know who I am without it.”

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then, quietly, “I think you’re someone who deserves to choose. And be chosen.”

You pull back slightly. Just enough to look at him.

His eyes are red. Not from tears, just open. Vulnerable.

“Lando,” you whisper.

He leans in.

Slow. Careful. Like he’s waiting for you to stop him.

You don’t.

The kiss is gentle. Reverent. A question more than an answer.

You breathe into it. Let your hand slide to his jaw. Let yourself feel the way he sighs against your mouth, like kissing you is something he’s been holding in for weeks.

When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“Stay,” he says, barely audible.

You close your eyes.

“I want to.”

“Then we’ll figure it out.”

***

You don’t decide to stay because of Lando.

Not exactly.

You decide to stay because the thought of packing up now — of folding all this softness into a suitcase and shipping it back to a life you’re no longer sure you chose — makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with clarity.

Lando doesn’t ask questions. He just finds you that morning in the kitchen, barefoot and bleary-eyed, scribbling a pros and cons list onto the back of an electric bill.

You don’t look up. You just say, “I’m not leaving. Not yet.”

He’s quiet for a second too long, and you glance up — worried he didn’t hear, or worse, that he did.

But then he grins. Huge. Bright. Like someone lit a fire inside him.

“You’re not leaving?”

“No.”

“Like … not leaving leaving?”

“For now.”

“For now,” he echoes, nodding, trying to play it cool. “Right. Yeah. Cool. Chill.”

You sip your coffee.

He bumps your shoulder. “So … does this mean I can keep introducing you as my emotionally exclusive, spiritually bonded non-girlfriend?”

You laugh into your mug. “That’s not a thing.”

“It could be. It sounds deep. Very committed. Like a tax bracket.”

“Just say girlfriend.”

“But we didn’t talk about it.”

“Then talk.”

He straightens, clears his throat dramatically. “Would you do me the honor of being my emotionally exclusive-”

“Lando.”

“Girlfriend. Would you be my girlfriend?”

You give him a long look. “Okay.”

He whoops and spins you around the kitchen before you can change your mind.

***

The days fall into place like dominoes after that.

Not perfect. Just … consistent. Yours.

Mornings start with half-burnt toast and Lando doing pushups in the living room because “I skipped the gym, babe. You want me to be weak?”

You steal his hoodies like it’s your job. He leaves little notes in your shoes like it’s his.

Sometimes, you fight. Over dumb stuff — who used the last clean towel, whether ketchup belongs in the fridge or the pantry, if “driver” is a real career or just a glorified Mario Kart enthusiast.

But the making up is easy.

It always has been, with him.

***

One afternoon, Lando walks into a coffee shop holding your hand and introduces you to the barista.

“This is my girlfriend.”

You blink. He hasn’t used the word out loud yet.

“Well,” he adds quickly, “not officially officially, but like, we’re emotionally exclusive. Spiritually connected. She knows where I keep my socks.”

The barista nods slowly, very confused.

You squeeze his hand. “We’re dating.”

“Oh,” she says, relieved. “Cool.”

Lando turns to you as soon as she walks away. “Was that weird?”

“A little.”

“Did I oversell it?”

“Maybe.”

“But you still like me?”

“Unfortunately.”

He beams. “Sucker.”

***

You record a video of him attempting to fold laundry and accidentally inventing a TikTok dance while pulling a hoodie inside out. It gets 300,000 likes overnight.

He tries to act modest. Fails completely.

“I’m an icon,” he says, scrolling through the comments. ‘Boyfriend energy — see that? That’s me. I am the boyfriend.”

You steal his phone.

“HEY!”

“No more reading comments. You’re unbearable.”

He leans in, eyes wide and innocent. “You knew what you signed up for.”

You did.

You just didn’t know it would feel this good.

***

Carlos calls during dinner one night. You’re sitting outside, feet in Lando’s lap, a half-eaten bowl of pasta between you.

Lando puts the call on speaker.

“Have you both burned down my villa yet?”

“Nope,” Lando says cheerfully. “Just christened all of it.”

You kick him.

Carlos sighs. “I knew letting you stay there was a mistake.”

You grin. “We’ll leave it better than we found it.”

“Good. Because I’m coming back next month.”

Lando chokes on his milk.

Carlos raises an eyebrow — visible even through the pixelation. “What?”

“Nothing. Cool. Chill. Welcome back, mate.”

You lean in. “We’ll be out before then.”

“Where are you going?”

Lando shrugs. “Nowhere far.”

Carlos stares suspiciously, but lets it go.

For now.

***

It happens on a Sunday.

You come home from the market, arms full of fresh herbs and way too many lemons because Lando said “go big or go home,” and walk into absolute chaos.

Smoke. Everywhere.

You freeze in the doorway.

“Lando?”

A pan clatters. “It’s fine!”

You drop the groceries and rush in. He’s waving a dish towel at the smoke detector, eyes watering.

“What did you do?”

“I was trying to make that shrimp thing you like!”

“I told you I was allergic to shellfish!”

He pauses. “Wait, shrimp counts as shellfish?”

You just stare.

“I thought it was like … seafood.”

“It is seafood!”

“So … not fish?”

You blink at him. “That’s your defense?”

He drops the towel. “I’m really bad at this.”

You cross your arms. “I noticed.”

He opens his mouth to keep digging the hole.

You laugh.

It surprises both of you.

“God,” you say, walking over, “you’re a disaster.”

“I tried to impress you!”

“With anaphylaxis?”

“I got confused!”

You wrap your arms around his waist, still laughing.

He exhales, relief flooding through him.

You tilt your head up. “Next time, just buy me a cupcake.”

He grins. “Can do.”

Then he kisses you. Slow, familiar. Like you have nowhere else to be.

And maybe you don’t.

Maybe this is it.

Maybe this mess of smoke and lemons and burnt fish-smelling air is yours.

***

Later, curled up on the couch in one of his shirts, you ask, “So what’s the plan when Carlos comes back?”

Lando taps something on his phone, pretending to be casual. “We … move?”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s your plan?”

He tosses the phone down and stretches, clearly trying to be nonchalant. “I mean, we can’t actually stay here forever.”

“No,” you admit.

“I’ve been looking at places.”

Your eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, cheeks going pink. “Just, you know. In case we want … options.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “And do we?”

“I do.”

He presses a kiss to your hair, then grins.

“Hey … do you know any good lawyers?”

You look up. “Why?”

“Because Carlos is definitely going to want his villa back. And I think I need legal counsel before I sign the papers on a new one.”

You laugh. “Are you trying to retain me?”

He grins. “Emotionally. Spiritually. Legally.”

You nudge him playfully. “You’re such a dork.”

“And you love it.”

You do.

And you’re staying.

***

Carlos arrives at the villa just after noon, sun-tanned and dead-eyed, dragging two suitcases and a single, unrelenting hope.

Peace. Quiet. Maybe a cold beer. No one yelling. No team meetings. No cameras.

Just Marbella, his lemon trees, and the blessed sound of absolutely nothing.

He exhales as he unlocks the front gate, breathing in the soft scent of sea salt and sunscreen. It’s good to be home.

Or so he thinks.

Because he hasn’t noticed the massive moving truck parked next door yet.

***

He’s halfway through unpacking — half a beer gone, half a suitcase open — when he hears it.

A crash. Then laughter. Then what sounds like, yep that’s Lando’s voice shouting, “Babe, I think I broke the blender but like … in a hot way?”

Carlos freezes.

“No,” he mutters. “No. No. No.”

He walks stiffly out to the garden wall, cranes his neck — and there, as if summoned by evil spirits and bad karma, is Lando.

Wearing a tank top, holding a screwdriver, grinning like the world is made of sunshine and Monster energy.

“CARLOS!” He yells, delighted. “You’re back!”

Carlos stares, horrified. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, right — funny story!” Lando sets the screwdriver down on what might once have been a blender. “We live here now.”

“You what?”

“Moved in last week.”

Carlos blinks. “Here? As in … next door?”

“Yeah! Isn’t that great?”

Carlos looks like he’s trying to mentally summon a lightning strike. “You bought that place?”

“Well, technically it’s still in escrow,” Lando says, wiping his hands on his shorts. “But spiritually, we’ve already moved in.”

Carlos glares.

Lando grins wider. “Wanna see the kitchen? We painted one of the walls blue by accident but I think it kind of slaps.”

Before Carlos can recover enough to yell, you step out from inside, wearing Lando’s hoodie and holding a glass of orange juice like you own the sun.

You freeze. “Oh.”

He blinks. “You’re here too?”

You smile sheepishly. “Hi, Carlos.”

Lando beams. “We’re neighbors!”

Carlos closes his eyes. “I need another beer.”

“Want one of ours?” Lando offers brightly. “I bought those fancy ones you like. The ones with the weird labels.”

Carlos opens one eye. “Did you drink all the ones in my fridge?”

“No! I have your beer memorized.”

“That’s not better.”

You snort, already laughing.

Carlos stares at the two of you, then sighs. “This was supposed to be my peaceful getaway.”

“We can be peaceful,” you promise.

Lando leans against the garden wall. “Super peaceful.”

A loud crash echoes behind him.

You wince. “What was that?”

Lando blinks. “Oh no. I left the microwave on.”

Carlos groans into his hands. “This is my nightmare.”

“C’mon, it’s us,” Lando says, grinning. “What could go wrong?”

Carlos doesn’t answer. He just walks back into his villa, muttering something about divine punishment.

***

From his kitchen, he can hear you both laughing through the open windows.

And weirdly, it kind of sounds like home.

[alchemistc]

"Hey, so, if you could tell your roommate to stop sending me incomprehensible Millennial memes every time I ask him a question, I'd appreciate it," Ravi says, and Buck stares at the prongs of his fork to prevent himself from jamming them into Ravi's hand just long enough for Ravi to notice the way the table has gone silent. There's no way they didn't notice the emphasis, right?

"I'll, uh... make a note," Buck says, and dives back in to his spaghetti. It's been a long day. He's reheated his lunch-dinner three times already. And now he sort of desperately wants the klaxons to go because...

Because it's weird that he never told them where he was living now.

Weird that they never asked.

"You have a roommate?"

Buck is 34 years old. Buck broke his own lease to help a friend only to be ceremoniously kicked out just months later, no notice, more interaction with Chris than Eddie as he furiously repacked boxes and stuffed them in his Jeep like a madman. Buck has terrible credit and a desire to set down roots that no one seems to give a shit about, except -

Roommates lasted for a month and a half at best. If he doesn't count the lingering glances, or the lingering touches, or the lingering feelings that blew up in their faces the harder they tried to tamp them down.

Ravi just thinks it's funny to keep calling them roommates.

("Like the Vine, you know?"

"Doesn't know a single 3OH3 song but he knows Vine," Tommy had said, three and a half beers deep and kicking at Ravi's leg from his lounger on the patio of their backyard.

"Oh, my cousin sends me TikTok compilations of them."

"I don't understand half the words you two are saying," Buck had chimed in, and gotten Tommy's lazy half-smile, a hand curled around his ear, and Ravi's "If you guys are gonna do more of that I'm calling an Uber.")

"Not exactly," Buck says, and tries to send Ravi a death glare. Ravi's too busy staring at the ceiling with his chair tipped back like he's daring Buck to kick his foot out enough to catch on a leg.

They're all surprised by the news, like they've done a damn thing to find out anything about his life in the months since they shut down any attempt he'd made to reach out.

He's glad he's found a way to let himself be mad at them for that.

He's glad his entire life no longer hinges on making sure they know every intimate detail of that life.

Still. The longer they stare at him, waiting for more, the more he realizes this was...maybe an oversight.

Probably should have told them before he and Tommy stuck a For Sale sign on his bedframe at the curb and been rewarded for their manipulation when someone stole the thing within like, three hours. They'd been too lazy to take it to the dump. Too lazy to sell it on Marketplace. Too caught up in the bubble of 'stay as long as you need' turning into 'do you want to be on the mortgage I need to know by Friday'.

Ravi's slept in the guest room more than Buck ever stayed at Tommy's, before.

He's made friends with Goose, too, which Buck thinks is a little unfair because Tommy's half blind cat still sticks her tail in the air to walk away any time Buck enters a room.

"Whoops," Ravi says like this was anything but intentional.

("Are you hiding the fact that you're in a happy relationship with a dude who loves you like, a weird amount for any particular reason?"

"It's not weird. It's a normal amount!"

"If I called him right now with a Buck related emergency how long until he had a bird in the air for you?"

"...he's at work right now so like, seven minutes tops.")

When the silence just keeps stretching, he barely manages to dodge the garlic bread Buck tosses at his face before the table erupts into chaos.

[sacredsorceress]

Cass 🤍

I'm so glad your requests are open!!!! So I was thinking for a request, could be head canons or not. What would it be like for Bob shy and awkward guy vs reader who's very extroverted and open. I think there could be a fun dynamic there.

🥹🤍

☆.°*Bob Dating an Extrovert HCs*°.☆

pairing: bob reynolds x extrovert!reader a/n: OO YAY!! as an extroverted person with an introverted bf this is so my cup of tea. i’ll do headcanons now but I def want to explore this in a full fic soon <3 word count: 1k warnings: none I think? fluff!!

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・bob masterlist・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

Bob felt some days that there must have been some magnetic pull or magic spell that you had on people that just made them gravitate towards you in a ways no one ever did towards him.

On many an outing, Bob had stood awkwardly at your side as you gave an old man directions, laughed along to a joke that some lady at the crosswalk said, or cheerfully shared where you got your outfit from after a compliment from a stranger.

And he wasn't confused, per say. Bob understood why people gravitated towards you- you had friendly demeanor, kind eyes and an infectious smile that you passed on freely to everyone you saw. People had to try not to like you.

What he couldn't understand is how you so confidently engaged with so many people. If he had been in your shoes, he would have fumbled over his sentences and somehow manage to disgruntle the other party. As kind as Bob was, as you assured him many a time, he just didn't draw people the way you did.

Really, it was just another thing that he loved about you: that your view of the world, experiences, and people were so different from his.

That being said, if you had a lot of friends he would be so nervous to meet them.

Bob would almost try to get out of it- rehearsing his faux illness to save him the embarrassment of making a fool out of himself in front of the people who mattered most to you-

but in the end, he would go. Bob may have been scared, but you were his girlfriend. His fear of disappointing you and seeing the sad "oh... okay" on your face as he lied to you was greater than his fear of a night out.

When he did meet them, you'd have to hold his hand to ground him.

But obviously, even with his meekness, it went swimmingly, with your friends even commending him on being able to balance you out.

Opposites attract after all.

Some things won't change for Bob. As I've mentioned before, Bob has an addictive personality and would stay far away from a night out drinking. Although being with you had brought him out of his shell more, there were simply some things that he wouldn't do.

If you had a night out without him, Bob would be waiting up for you in bed reading. The second you walked through the door, he'd mark his place in the book, look up at you, and wait for you to repeat the whole night for him verbatim.

"And then- oh my god, Bob, you wouldn't believe it-"

And he would listen just enough to be able to answer any questions you might quiz him on, but mostly he'd just be admiring how pretty you look talking about your friends in the warm glow of the lamplight.

Though he may be sober now, Bob is no stranger being drunk or having a hangover. If you walked in the door stumbling after a night out, he'd guide you into the bathroom, tie back your hair and get you ready for bed: with medication and water waiting on the nightstand for the morning.

If you were in the habit of having friends stay over, Bob would make up the pull out couch, no questions asked, stock the fridge and leave snacks out for your guests.

"Bob, I love you." Your friend would groan flopping onto the freshly washed sheets. "Can you marry her already?"

And it was moments like that where his cheeks burned bright red and he excused himself to the other room to avoid stumbling over his words and embarrassing himself further.

Whether you intended to or not, you would often share stories with others from your relationship with Bob. In your case, they often slipped out when telling an unrelated story that you had gone off track on, or you simply didn't think it was anything worth keeping secret.

You were an open book and your love for Bob was nothing to be ashamed about.

Bob wouldn't even know until he'd be walking into the kitchen of the Avengers Tower one day and everyone would just look at him.

"Bob, why did you not tell us that you keep picture of team in your wallet?" Alexei asked.

"Forget that," John interrupted, mouth full of cereal. "Why do you hide it behind your condoms?"

And if it were not for the Sentry serum pumping through his veins, Bob was sure he would've died of mortification on the spot.

But Bob couldn't even find it in himself to be upset with you because you not being able to stop yourself from talking about him just made his heart swell.

So many people loved you in this life, and you still chose to love him. He really wasn't sure he would ever understand it, but he would try his best to prove you right.

You would have to go with him to his doctors appointments if something was wrong because Bob would be too embarrassed to discuss his body with another person like that.

If the Void ever did make an appearance, he would hate you. He thrives off of Bob's loneliness, but being with you made that impossible. You effortlessly merged him into your daily life and relationships, making enough time for Bob to be alone with his thoughts long enough to spiral, extremely rare.

Your friends would become his friends and vice versa.

On the rare occasion your social battery died or someone had hurt your feelings, rendering you silent, it was as if Bob's backup system had booted up. He'd glance at you worriedly, reaching for your hand and take over the remainder of the conversation: either insisting to your friends that it was time to head home or defending your honor against some asshole.

Even if he stumbled over his words doing it, watching him take care of you like that did make you swoon.

I feel like I could go on about this all day, but Bob would be perfect with an extroverted partner. Opposites attract and your conflicting personalities would bring balance to one another- you getting Bob more out of his shell and confident in his own skin, while he kept you grounded, safe, and loved in the privacy of your own little bubble.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・inbox・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

[elleaitch22]

Terms of Endearment

Chapter 7: Just a Little Bit of Your Heart

A/N: Please forgive any errors! Lmk what you wanna see next, and I'll try to make it happen :) As always, I hope you love it! xx Elle

Warnings: Using religion to shame, homophobia, manipulation

Word Count: 3.5k

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Paige was intentional when she every choice she made that night. She chose anything that might show she could be soft, safe, and secure. From what Ice had told her about Azzi’s ex, she figured comfort and trust were the most important things she could offer.

The white set she wore was one of the most comfortable outfits she owned. She was planning on driving her Maserati, but that car is loud and flashy – nowhere near the right tone. Instead, she changed to her Land Rover Autobiography. It was same car she used when she was driving with Soleil in the car. Familiar. Warm. Safe.

The Capital Grille was a nice restaurant, one that afforded guests with privacy. She hoped that Azzi would be able to relax without so many eyes on them.

The ride was quiet, comfortable though. Azzi looked out the window, eyes tracking skyscrapers shining against the night sky.

Say something. She’s not going to fall for you if you don’t speak.

Azzi smelled like something sweet, almost like a vanilla cupcake. The scent filled the car, not overpowering, but enough to notice if you paid attention.

“You look really nice.” Azzi’s brown eyes meet blue. “Orange looks good on you.” Paige offered, fighting the urge to cringe as she felt her face heat.

Azzi glanced down at her dress, courtesy of Paige. Her fingers fiddle with the hem nervously. “Thank you. I like your outfit too. It looks really comfortable.” Soft smile.

She wanted to figure out how to make Azzi look that way all the time.

“Do you want a set?” Paige asked.

Azzi’s eyes flashed quickly. “No, thank you.” She turned back to the window.

So, don’t offer to buy her things? That makes her comfortable. Might need to backtrack on furnishing the apartment.

The silence was stiff after that, and Paige had never been so happy to see a valet up ahead.

Paige placed her hand on Azzi’s lower back, guiding her into the restaurant. They were led to the private room quickly.

Paige had been stressing about how to talk to Azzi about her job. As soon as they were alone, she opened her mouth.

“KK told me what happened with your boss.” She wanted to drop her head to the table.

Azzi tensed, “Um, yeah. I’m trying to figure out what to do.”

“I’m so sorry, Azzi.” Paige started; composure regained. She covered Azzi’s hand with her own. “I didn’t mean for this to cost you your job.”

She shook her head, “I mean, I should have thought about it. After seeing how they reacted to you, I’m not surprised.” She took a sip of water. “I should be fine though. There’s a national teacher shortage.”

“I could get your job back, if that’s what you want. If they don’t at least apologize to you, I’m pulling Soleil out. You could be her private tutor. Or you could not work at all; something tells me you don’t get nearly enough rest.”

Azzi studied her skeptically. “I – I’ll think about it and let you know what I decide tomorrow morning. It’ll be early though; they want me out by 7.”

Paige clenched her jaw, “I’ll have Morgan be ready to drive you then.”

The waiter came in with the appetizers, and Azzi was ecstatic at the chance to change the subject.

“So has Soleil always been like that?” She smiled softly. “Bright. Happy. Literal sunshine.”

The brightness of Paige’s smile matched her daughter’s name. “Yeah. I didn’t name her that in hopes that she’d be unnaturally cheerful or anything. She was sunshine. My Sunshine. After everything, she represented goodness, strength, a new beginning.”

As composed as she was, Paige was secretly giddy. This would give her the perfect opportunity to help Azzi be more comfortable with her.

“I guess it’s time for you to hear the story. Everyone else in the family already knows. And I want you to, too.”

Paige paused, gathering her thoughts.

“I started Kairos with one of my professors during undergrad. It’s a private equity firm – we buy companies, streamline their operations, and decide if we want to sell. I built a formula my junior year that basically changed everything for us. My mentor, Dr. Martinez was the best. He was the only person who really believed in me.”

She exhaled slowly. “He died in a car accident seven years ago. He left his share of the company to his kid, Emmanuel. Manny. He said he’d sell me his shares if I married him.”

She caught Azzi’s eye. She looked shocked. Azzi figured it was because everyone knew Paige Bueckers is a lesbian.

I think he wanted to control me or maybe humble me. He knew who I was from basketball and saw me as arrogant. I don’t know. It was a bad marriage. He hit me. Hurt me in ways I won’t get into. I didn’t think I had another option, so I stayed.”

Paige looked at a small wrinkle and swallowed to keep her voice steady. “When I found out I was pregnant, I knew I had to get out. I called Nika for the first time in years, and she helped me make a plan. Then, I found out I was having a girl – I knew I didn’t want her growing up thinking she had to change who she was or disappear to get away from someone hurting her.”

Her hand tightened around the champagne flute. “Manny died in a car accident, and I was free. And four months later, I had Soleil. That whole situation was so awful, but she was so good, so perfect. She was light in my life. She gave me strength and a purpose I didn’t know I could have. Manny didn’t have a will when he died, so everything went to me.”

She shrugged. “I promised myself I wouldn’t let anyone else hurt my family like Manny did, so I threw myself into work and being a good mom.”

The room was quiet. Paige looked up from the wrinkle in the tablecloth she’d been fixated on. She had no idea how Azzi would react.

“I’m so sorry you went through that, Paige. You’re so strong.” Azzi’s eyes shone with tears. “You’re a great mom, one of the best I’ve ever seen. You’ve been fighting for Soleil since you found out she existed.

Paige swallowed hard. “Thank you, Azzi. I just want you to know the truth. The walls, the façade, it’s to keep the girls, to keep Soleil, safe. It’s hard for me to let them down, but I am trying.”

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Azzi’s heart ached. She never would’ve guessed all the things Paige had to do to survive. She couldn’t imagine dealing with someone like that while being pregnant.

Paige seemed like she was bracing for impact and judgement.

“I know I haven’t lived what you did, but I–” She started, getting flustered. “My ex was a little like yours. I still hear his voice sometimes. So if you wanna talk, or vent, or anything, I’m just a few floors down.”

She could see the tension melt from Paige’s shoulders, and she felt her own doing the same.

“So, Ice showed me the choices for your place You’re going to live in a sunrise.” She smirked.

Azzi’s lips turned down in a small pout, “I think pink, orange, and yellow look perfect together…and I love sunrises!”

Their conversation was interrupted when the waiter came back in, listing the five options the women had for their entrée.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Paige remembered what Ice and KK told her about Azzi’s deep-rooted aversion to making choices because of her fuck ass ex.

“We’ll take all five, thank you.” Paige said, leaving no room for rebuttal.

Big brown eyes stared at her in surprise. “You just ordered five entrées.”

 “You looked like you were having an existential crisis trying to decide.” Paige said, sinking into the velvet chair. “I don’t think you should have to pick if you don’t want to. Try them all and take the leftover for lunch.” She smirked into her water glass.

“So is this a thing with you?” Azzi squinted. “Going overboard?”

Paige gasped dramatically; a mannerism Soleil had inherited. “Overboard? I’ll have you know this is what caring about people looks like.”

Head tilted to the side, and cheeks pink, “Why did you offer to do this? Why do you care?”

“Most people don’t care. They don’t care about children, or even see them as people, but you do. You made sure Soleil was treated equally, and she loves you. I don’t think you will ever understand how much she loves you, Azzi. You became family the moment you fought for her when I couldn’t.”

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

The rest of the evening flowed smoothly. Conversation was easy and the vibes were surprisingly warm. Paige was playful and sharp in a way Azzi never would have assumed. And she was so kind the entire night. She held doors open, guided Azzi with a hand on her back, and even buckled her seatbelt for her.

Azzi didn’t know if it was the champagne or the company, but her shoulders felt much less tense than normal. As she briefly gazed at Paige on the way home, she was appreciative of the quiet. Of the way Paige hadn’t demanded anything of her.

She could feel her thick, tall walls shaking with the kindness and lack of expectations Paige had shown her. She opened every door, pulled out every seat, and even buckled Azzi’s seatbelt for her, like it was a normal thing to do.

You can’t trust her just because she’s pretty, rich, and nice. People can change in a split second.

When they arrived at the Aurelia, Paige rode to the 59th floor with Azzi, walking her to her door.

“I’ll be taking you to the school tomorrow instead of Morgan. I’ve convened a meeting with the board of St. Paul’s.”

Azzi wanted to tell Paige she didn’t need to before she realized Paige was still trying to take care of her.

And then—impulsively, gently—she leaned in and kissed Paige on the cheek.

The blush that bloomed across Paige’s face was worth every inch of vulnerability.

That was definitely a date.

She closed the door, resting her head on the cool oak. She was blushing. Just like the girl she’d just kissed. What the fuck was that. Ohmygosh. She ignored the butterflies in her stomach as she rationalized with herself; she was just saying thank you.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Azzi looked around her classroom, smiling. She knew Paige would be coming to help pack up her class, but Ice, Jana, and KK joined as well. It was a small gesture, but one that warmed Azzi up inside.

“Azzi, can I take this book home?” Soleil held up Love You by Heart, the book that got everything started.

Azzi smiled, hearing the question for the seventeenth time. “Of course, Soleil.”

“You’re not gonna have any books left if you can’t tell her no, Ms. Fudd.” Paige threw a playful smirk her way.

Azzi shrugged, “That’s fine. With my new part time job, I’ll be able to afford to buy new books.”

Before Paige could come up with a sarcastic reply, Jana spoke. “Pause. Why are we packing up your classroom if Paige is gonna bitch them out until they give you your job back?”

Heat rushed to Azzi’s face. She wasn’t sure if she even wanted to work at St. Paul’s after seeing how they treated people with different views than them.

“Thanks for the reminder, J. Come of Az. It’s time to head to the conference room. Ice, please don’t let Soleil trick you into letting her paint.”

Azzi didn’t hear anything after Paige called her Az. She had a nickname. To Azzi, nicknames were a way to show love and affection. While Az wasn’t super personal, she felt a little brighter knowing someone cared enough to give her a nickname again.

“Azzi.” The blonde’s voice interrupted her stream of consciousness. She stood up sharply, following Paige into the hallway. Her hands fiddled with the hem of her old UCLA sweatshirt. A warm hand covered hers. “Relax, Azzi. No matter what happens, you’ll be good. I promise.”

“Thanks, I’m just nervous,” She muttered, looking at her shoes. “I just – I’ve never really been in trouble like this before, and it’s not even over something I can control.”

As someone who had attended private school, Azzi was intimately familiar with hiding her sexuality to avoid conflict. It never made sense to her; hating someone because of who they love. It’s not like they could control it.

“Fuck em. They think you’re weak, but you’re not.” Paige’s voice dropped. “You’ve survived worse, and you got us now.”

Brows furrowed, Azzi gave a small nod, held herself higher, and opened the door.

The long conference room table had ten people around it, Mr. Smith and the nine board members. There was a chair opened at the end of the table, with one seat available next to it.

Azzi felt inferior in her leggings and tennis shoes, while all the board members wore suits. She glanced at Paige. She looked perfectly composed, despite being in a gray Nike tech fit.

“Ms. Fudd, Ms. Bueckers, thank you for coming this morning.” Mr. Smith said, standing. “Let’s get started, since it’s a holiday and all.”

Each board member introduced themselves, and if it was a different scenario, Azzi would have laughed at all of them being named after a saint.

When the last member, John Paul James (three saint names), introduced himself, he added something to the end. “I was assuming this meeting would be with you, Ms. Bueckers. You said something about donations?”

“She’s here for me,” Azzi replied before Paige could speak. Despite her nerves, her voice came out even. “We are here to discuss my termination.”

Peter Kingsley rolled his eyes subtly. “Ms. Fudd, you’ve been a valued and effective teacher at St. Paul’s, but we cannot retain a teacher who lives in direct opposition of what the Bible teaches.”

Azzi inhaled sharply. “Excuse me? I –”

“For this reason God gave them up to dishonorable passions. For their women exchanged natural relations for those that are contrary to nature; and the men likewise gave up natural relations with women and were consumed with passion for one another, men committing shameless acts with men and receiving in themselves the due penalty for their error. Romans 1:26-27.” Another member says.

“1 Corinthians 6:9-10. Or do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: neither the sexually immoral, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor men who practice homosexuality, nor thieves, nor the greedy, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God.” A deeper voice calls out.

“You are a teacher, Ms. Fudd. You are supposed to be a moral example for your students. We don’t want you do lead those children astray.” A woman spoke sternly.

Azzi inhaled sharply. “I’ve always shown them to live a life of love. I have never taught them anything that goes against–”

“You are trying to cause these children spiritual harm, and we will not stand for it.” Mr. Kingsley sneered. “Matthew 18:6 says but whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a great mill–”

“I would never do that, I love my k –” Azzi’s voice wavers, eyes shiny with tears.

“You are leading them to hell–”

“Enough.” Paige’s rings out sternly. The tone is so intense that no one dares to speak.

She rises slowly, face controlled, shoulders tense. She stands tall behind Azzi’s chair, placing a gentle hand on the back of her neck. The panic that has Azzi’s body wound up melts a little. She quietly wipes the tears from her face.

“I’ve been biting my tongue out of respect for Azzi. Trying to let her handle it, but you won’t even listen to her. And I won’t sit here and listen to you berate my girlfriend for something she can’t control.”

Her hand leave Azzi has she stalks around the table. “I chose this school because of her.” She pointed. “I looked up reviews of every preschool teacher in the city, and she outshined the rest by miles. Soleil is a shy child, and I needed a teacher who would look at the whole child. Someone who would make every kid feel loved and special, and that’s what Azzi Fudd does.”

The classroom’s temperature has dropped ten degrees as Paige paused. “And you want to fire her? I would love to see you try. Let’s talk about the ramifications of firing Ms. Fudd.”

A smirk works its way onto her perfect, pale face. “I’m St. Paul’s largest donor. I have already donated triple the amount than next highest donor. I am covering the tuitions of fifty students, one of whom bullied my child because I’m gay. I have donated the money for that new state of the art library and have had documents drawn up for a science lab. You fire her, you lose the best teacher, you lose my daughter, you lose me, and every penny I bring in for this school.”

All of the board members tense at her threat.

“This is supposed to be a Christian institution. You like throwing scripture at people, huh? John 8:7. Let you without sin cast the first stone. Galatians 5:22. The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. I want you to look me in my eye and tell me which attribute Azzi is lacking in.”

She bends down, getting eye level with Mr. Kingsley. “You preach about shepherding children, and she does it. She does it well. Why do you think all her families love her so much?” Blue eyes throwing an icy glare at the man. “What you’re doing isn’t righteous, it’s pharisaical.”

Paige walks back to Azzi. “We’re leaving.”

Azzi rises on shaky legs. She’s never had someone stand up for her like that.

“Ms. Fudd,” Mr. Smith grits out. “Perhaps we’ve been a bit hasty with our judgement. You are more than welcome to stay at St. Paul’s, with a few guardrails of course.”

“No thank you,” Azzi smiles softly. “Jesus said they will know we are Christians by the love we have for one another. I want you to think if you have shown me the love and grace that you should have, and I hope you won’t make this mistake again.”

She walks out. She doesn’t look back, walking proudly until they got back to her classroom She made a beeline to the restroom, and finally let herself cry.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Paige was feeling…a lot of feelings. She was proud of the way Azzi stood up for herself. She saddened knowing the damage this would do to the woman. She was furious at the close-minded attitude and greedy nature of the board members. But she was enraged hearing Azzi’s sobs.

They didn’t deserve her sorrow. They didn’t deserve her tears. Paige paced in front of the classroom, trying to burn off some of her fury.

“Aye, you good, P?” KK questioned cautiously.

Paige’s head snapped up, remembering where she was, and who was present. The classroom was bare, everything in boxes except for a few pieces of paper and a box of markers for Soleil.

Her daughter’s big blue eyes met hers sadly. “Mommy, why is Azzi cwying?”

She took a deep breath, kneeling to her daughter’s level. “Some people here said some mean things to her, so she’s upset.”

Soleil’s dark brows furrowed. “We should make hew feel bettew.” Lips turned down in a frown. “We go get ice cweam!” She exclaimed.

Paige smiled at Soleil’s zeal. “That sounds like a good idea, Sunshine.” She turned to her friends. “Let’s get these boxes in the car so we can go before I lose it.”

Jana, Ice, KK, and Paige loaded up the two SUVs and sat in the classroom, joking around, and waiting for Azzi to come out.

No one noticed what Soleil was doing until it was too late. “Come on Azzi! Time fow ice cweam!”

“Lei! We’re just gonna wait til she’s ready.” Paige rushed to scoop her up.

The door cracked a little, “No, it’s okay. I’m ready.” Azzi said, softly.

Soleil wiggled until her mom put her down. She threw herself at her teachers. “I’m sowwy they was saying mean things to you.”

Azzi hoisted her up, Lei’s little legs wrapping around her waist. “Thank you, Soleil.” She turned to the adults. “So, I heard we’re getting ice cream?”

Paige watched a smile stretch over Azzi’s face, a matching one lighting up Soleil’s face. And for a second, Paige let herself want a future that looked just like this.

[copinghex]

Somebody else | T.S

Summary: During a wedding party, Tommy invades the bride's bedroom with a proposal to make.

She kept her eyes down in the mirror when Tommy entered the bedroom, he shouldn't be allowed in there, none of the guests were allowed in the private areas of the house, it was obvious he bribed the guards to get his way.

His expensive cologne spread through the place as well as the smoke of his cigarette. A gray, well fitting suit covered his toned body, it was hard to not give him a peek, but she knew better, he no longer deserved the attention. From her silence, raised his first strike, "You look ridiculous," 

"That's not a very nice thing to say," she answered.

"You look ridiculous trying to play the excited bride," 

"Why should I not be excited on my own wedding day?" she finally glanced at him.

"'Cause I know what you're like when you're in love and that's not it," 

"Ah," she scoffed, "should I be kicking my feet in the air and twirling curls on my hair? Do I think I'm still a kid?" 

Tommy sighed, running his eyes through the bedroom, he looked bothered by the view, he should be the one occupating that place, it should be his clothes on the wardrobe and his name on the wedding certificate.

"Why did you get in here, Thomas?" she asked.

Thomas, from all the people in the house, she was the only one to call him like this, everyone else contented themselves with Tommy or Mr. Shelby, however, she claimed to enjoy the sound of it a long time ago. 

"You invited me," 

"My husband invited you," 

"Oh?" 

"He said it'd be better to keep good relations with the businessman around, that unfortunately, included you," 

"Unfortunately, yeah," 

An awkward silence fell over, she went back to doing her makeup and Tommy sat down at the end of her bed.

"Do you love him?" Tommy asked and she gulped, the second strike was much stronger than the first.

"He loves me and he takes care of me, he was never in jail or involved in anything illegal-"

"That's logical then?" 

"No, he's always near, Thomas," she explained, "always, he never spends the night out or locks himself away, he's by my side, I have no doubt of that," 

"You didn't answer my question, are you in love with him?" 

"Don't," she scolded.

"Or are you still in love with me?" 

She teared up and covered her face, hating him for being so selfish, "Thomas, please, not now, not on my wedding day," 

"There'll be no other day," he argued.

"Why are you here? Why today of all the days? You had so many opportunities," Tommy didn't answer, so she continued, "it's because you can't stand it, can you? You can't stand not getting what you want and you want everything," 

He took a drag of his cigarette and considered his next words, "I told Arthur to wait outside with the car on,"

"You're mad," 

"And you're tempted,"

"I'm not,"

"You are," he insisted and she frowned, "because if you weren't you'd have told me to leave as soon I entered the room, you'd have finished your makeup and you'd be downstairs entertaining your fucking fancy guests and yet here you are, fifteen minutes late," he finished checking his pocket watch.

"You're being mean, Thomas," 

"Am I? I'm not the one fooling a man into thinking I'm in love with him," the last strike was almost strong enough to make the tears run down her face, "you know, love, I'm not the somebody else, he is," 

"You've got the devil's tongue but that's not enough," she harshly stated, "you had your chance and you wasted it, I moved on," 

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, so you can get out of my bedroom, tell Arthur to turn the car off and make a fucking toast like everyone else," 

"Right, then I wish you all the happiness in the world," looking disappointed, Tommy stood up and walked to the exit, "you're gonna regret this for the rest of your life," 

"Get out, Thomas," she hissed.

"I hope we can share a dance later, love." he said at last and left the bedroom.

[sweetstrawberryys]

"She’s in Labor (Again?!)"

– Part 2: Baby Down, Team Scrambling

Summary: The baby is finally here. Emotions are high. Soap might cry. Ghost might bolt. Price just wants five minutes of peace. But one thing’s for sure — that kid’s going to be ridiculously loved.

Rating: fluffy, funny, soft found family chaos

---

You were half-asleep, bundled in hospital blankets, the baby swaddled against your chest. The room was warm, peaceful… until the door burst open.

“We brought coffee!” Soap announced way too loudly.

“Shhh!” Price hissed. “You’ll wake the baby!”

Ghost stood behind them with a bouquet of flowers that was very obviously stolen from the front desk. He tossed them onto the counter. “Nurse said two guests at a time. That clearly means nothing now.”

Gaz poked his head in behind Ghost. “I brought diapers. Size three. That’s for newborns, right?”

You blinked. “That’s… for toddlers.”

“Oh.”

Soap was already hovering over the crib, staring like he’d just seen a unicorn. “She’s got tiny hands, look! She’s got little fists like she’s ready to punch someone! That’s my girl!”

“She’s not yours,” Ghost said flatly.

“She’s ours,” Soap countered.

“She’s mine,” you corrected, grinning.

“Technically she’s half the Captain’s,” Gaz whispered.

Price gave him a look that said Not. Another. Word.

Ghost stood off to the side with arms crossed, pretending he didn’t care. “Looks squishy.”

“She’s perfect,” Soap said, now cooing at the baby in a tone you’d only ever heard him use when talking to cats.

Gaz leaned in next. “Can I hold her?”

“Only if you don’t fumble like you do with grenades.”

“I dropped one grenade one time!”

You rolled your eyes and passed the baby over carefully. Gaz’s entire body went stiff like he’d just been handed a live bomb. “She’s so small…”

“Like a loaf of bread,” Soap whispered reverently.

Ghost shifted uncomfortably. “Alright. My turn.”

“Wait,” Gaz said, “you want to hold her?”

“No.”

But he took her anyway — and to everyone’s surprise, she didn’t cry. Just blinked up at him with wide, sleepy eyes. For a second, Ghost’s whole face softened under the mask. Then—

“She’s judging me.”

“She’s a day old, mate,” Soap laughed.

“She gets it from her mother,” Price said fondly, kissing your temple as he sat beside you.

The baby let out a tiny yawn. Everyone froze.

“She just yawned,” Soap whispered like he’d witnessed a miracle.

“She’s a baby,” Ghost deadpanned.

“She’s our baby,” Gaz added.

“You’re not putting that on a T-shirt,” you groaned.

They didn’t listen.

They never do.

[sugardollcurse]

Can I request a George x reader fic where she's comforting him when he's struggling with being famous(and it's childhood friends to lovers)?

𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆

꒰ pairing ꒱ george harrison x fem!reader

꒰ summary ꒱ fame’s taken nearly everything from george. his space, his peace, his sense of self. so he knocks on the one door where he still feels like a person. yours.

꒰ note ꒱ SAY NO MORE

You heard the knock before you saw the clock. Half-eleven, well past reason for surprise guests.

You padded to the door, expecting the landlord or some lost tourist.

But it was George.

He stood there like a shadow, coat pulled up against the drizzle, hair damp and curling at the edges. His eyes were dark and tired in that way you’d seen before, way back when he used to sneak cigarettes behind the shops after school and pretend things were fine.

You opened the door wider.

“You alright?” you asked.

He gave a lopsided sort of shrug, like the answer didn’t matter. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

You stepped aside without hesitation. “You always say that.”

He came in without meeting your eyes, shoulders hunched. Didn’t take his coat off. Just hovered in the middle of your flat like a stranger to it, even though you both knew better.

You closed the door gently. “Do you want tea or just the silence?”

George glanced around. “Silence’ll do.”

You nodded and walked past him, settling into the familiar corner of your old couch. He followed eventually, sat at the far end like a guest.

He kept picking at the skin around his thumb, quiet.

“How long’ve you been back?” you asked.

“Yesterday,” he muttered. “S’only a few days. Then we’re off again.”

You didn’t say anything.

He sighed. “We were in Scotland before this. Couldn’t go two paces without someone screamin’ or shovin’ a pen in my face. Some lad chased the bloody car for three streets.”

“That why you’re here?”

George leaned back, let his head tip against the wall.

“Just got sick of feelin’ like I’m bein’ watched through glass, y’know? Like I’m not real or summat."

You looked at him, properly. His jaw was tense. He was blinking a lot.

“I know you,” you said softly. “Still see the lad who pinched rhubarb from the neighbour’s garden and blamed it on Paul.”

He cracked half a smile. “Didn’t see him doin’ much to deny it either.”

“Course not. You were always the quiet ringleader.”

He huffed, but the sound was faint. “Wish I was still just that lad.”

“You still are.”

He looked over at you, something unreadable in his expression. “Feels like I’m gettin’ further away from him every day.”

“You’re not.”

George swallowed. “Feels like I am.”

You shifted closer, not enough to touch, but enough that he could feel it if he wanted.

“You know,” you said gently, “it’s alright to not want all this. The noise. The mess of it.”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “I just wanted to be successful. I didn't ask for this."

He paused.

“Don’t even know what’s mine anymore.”

You sat with that.

Then you reached out slowly, fingertips brushing his hand.

“This is,” you said. “Me. You. This room.”

He didn’t pull away. Just stared at your hand on his like he was trying to decide something.

A long silence followed.

Then, soft:

“D’you ever think about how it was?” George murmured. “Before all this.”

“All the time.”

“I miss it,” he admitted. “Miss you.”

Your heart twisted a little. “I haven’t gone anywhere.”

He looked at you, his brow pinched. “Nah. But I have, haven’t I?”

“No,” you said, steady. “You’ve just been lost in it for a bit. But you come back. You always come back.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. He glanced down at your hands again. “Y’ever wonder if it could’ve been different?”

“How d’you mean?”

He hesitated. “If I’d said something. Before everything started movin’ so fast.”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t let it show.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’ve wondered.”

George looked away like that hurt more than he expected.

“Always thought… if summat was gonna happen between us, it would’ve by now. But maybe I’m daft. Maybe I waited too long.”

You were quiet for a long moment. Then you leaned your shoulder against his. “Maybe you just came back at the right time.”

He turned his head a little. Looked at you. Really looked.

And something softened in his eyes.

Without a word, he leaned forward, slow and hesitant, and pressed his forehead to yours.

You closed your eyes.

Neither of you moved for a while. Just sat there, breathing, the rain ticking softly against the windows.

When he finally pulled back, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“Can I stay here tonight?”

“Of course.”

He nodded once, eyes low.

You stood up and offered your hand.

George took it.

You didn’t sleep much.

He crashed on the sofa for a bit, curled in some old jumper, hair a mess. You made tea in the early hours and sat on the floor beside him, both of you half-awake.

At some point, he reached out and held your wrist, like a tether.

You let him.

Neither of you said much.

But when the sun came up, he was still there.

And when he looked at you, tired, quiet, still, you knew you hadn’t lost him. Not the real George.

He was still in there.

And now… he was trying.

Trying to come back to himself.

Trying to come back to you.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee

[athenagc94]

Dear Daddy Long Legs - Chapter 25

Jason Todd x Fem!Reader

TW: Critical self-reflection

First | Prev | Next

Chapter 25

See you soon.

That was forty minutes ago, and Jacob had yet to arrive. Cocktail hour came and went, your gaze drifting back to the door every so often. Small talk and mediocre cheese boards could only do so much to distract you from his absence.

You weren’t sure in what world soon meant down to the fucking wire, but your stomach was a mess of hopeless knots because of it.

The Gazette held the showcase at the historic Gotham Hotel. You had worked parties in its dining room several times but never attended as a guest. Its art deco inspired decorations had a dizzying effect with mirrored half-walls creating a visual abyss. It made the room feel much larger than it was. Chevron-patterned carpet covered the floor, leaving you unsteady on your feet.

The showcase would take place on the old jazz stage in the corner with several dozen chairs in front of it. Too many chairs. You expected the pre-showcase jitters, but the knots in your stomach tightened as the time drew closer.

Still coming?

You paused with your finger hovered over what would be the third text you sent in the last five minutes. Vicki messed with the microphone on the stage. It was almost showtime, and Jacob was nowhere to be found. You craned your neck to scan the room, foolishly hoping that you’d missed him on your first seven passes.

Bruce sat at the bar, his presence like a vacuum. His tailored suit showed off his broad shoulders and the taper of his waist. His tie had been immaculate when he arrived, but he had loosened it at some point to give off a rakish quality.

Reporters and socialites flocked him the second he stepped in the door, seeking a chance to speak with the Prince of Gotham.

Seeing him made your heart beat a little faster. You knew he was coming but knowing and seeing were two different things. You deleted your text to Jacob. If he didn’t answer the first two, he wasn’t going to answer this one.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

Chloe, a fellow finalist, appeared beside you. She managed to strike a balance between artsy and professionalism with her black hair fastened with a handmade barrette on the nape of her neck. Strands of multicolored beads coiled from the center, reminding you of a budding flower. Smudged liner darkened her vulpine eyes, offset by the soft smile rounding her brown cheeks.

“I don’t mean to pry, but you keep looking at the door, and it’s starting to make me nervous.”

“Sorry,” you said as you tucked your phone behind your back, “My—my plus one is running late.” You still couldn’t bring yourself to call him your boyfriend, even if it felt right. Even if you knew he wanted it too.

“I don’t want him to miss this.”

Chloe nodded thoughtfully. “I know the feeling. My girlfriend tried to get off for this, but her work sucks. I would have liked her to be here too. She always knows what to say when I’m nervous.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, “I was hoping he would know what to say.”

“First writing competition?”

“First competition. Period. I never thought I’d make it this far.”

“You’re here for a reason,” she insisted, “Don’t overthink it.”

Chloe was a junior at Gotham University. A writing major, like you, though she was nearly finished with her degree. It showed in the way she held herself. Her shoulders squared with an air of confidence that made you want to curl into yourself and hide. She approached you when the cocktail hour began to introduce herself. The more you talked, the more you liked her, but you still felt woefully inadequate by comparison.

“I hear they plan to stream the showcase on socials,” Chloe said when she noticed your frown. She nodded to the camera pointed at the stage. “If your plus one misses this, he can always catch the highlights later. These things are usually dry.”

You appreciated her attempts to settle your nerves, but pointing out the cameras were the least helpful thing she could have done. Being perceived was not something you were used to. You’d perfected the art of fading into the background over the years, so this was a change. Whether it was good or bad had yet to be decided.

“Ladies!” Vicki approached, dressed smartly in tweed with a pair of chunky heels. “I hope you’re excited because we’re about to begin, if you could take your seats near the front. I’ll call you to the front when it’s your turn to read.”

“Will do.” Chloe shot her a thumbs up, but Vicki had already moved on to gather the other finalists. Turning to you, she asked, “Want to sit next to me? I'll need the moral support. I’m a wreck in front of a crowd.”

You chanced one last look at your phone. Still now text. Irritation gave way to concern. Jacob wouldn’t blow you off like this unless he had a good reason. What if—

Your jaw tightened.

Turn off your phone.

Try not to think about it.

It was out of your control.

“Please,” you said with a watery smile, “I’ll need it too.”

The showcase began. It was dry, just as Chloe had predicted, and was more of a showcase for the Gazette’s accomplishments more so than theirs. Your mind wandered as Vicki listed off the recognitions and awards that they received over the last year.

When it came time to read an excerpt from your submission, the knots in your stomach pulled taut. Chloe went before you. Her excerpt was heavily inspired from Lenape stories. Her voice was steady as she painted a vivid picture with words alone, balancing imagery with dialogue that felt real.

If she was a wreck, what did that make you?

You wiped your palms on the front of your silk skirt. If, by some miracle, you managed to make it through your excerpt without stumbling, you’d be surprised. There was a reason you hid behind the written word. It was why you couldn’t fathom approaching Bruce today. No, the letters kept a healthy barrier between you and the billionaire. No need to shatter the illusion you’d created.

When Chloe finished, the roaring applause threatened to sweep you away. Your knee bounced as she returned your seat. Vicki called your name. It took a second to fully register, and only when Chloe nudged you did you stand. Knees weak and heart threatening to beat clear from your chest, you joined her onstage.

Spotlights muddled the faces in the audience. That made you feel slightly better, but there was still a tempest swirling in your chest. You had nothing to prove. The Gazette had already made their decision. This was a formality to add some flair to the competition. You knew that, and yet, you felt like your worth depended on this.

“I never doubted you for a second.”

God, you wished Jacob had come.

You stumbled through the first few paragraphs before you found a comfortable rhythm. It wasn’t particularly good compared to the other submissions—not in your eyes—but you had always been overly critical of your work. As you read, you compiled a list of all the things that could have made the submission better.

It wasn’t good.

It wasn’t perfect.

How did you even make it to the finals?

The pool of applicants must have been small this year. It was the only explanation. Bruce's first impression of your work would be tainted by imperfection.

You stumbled over your next sentence, nauseated with yourself. This was a disaster. Why was Vicki letting this go on? She would be better off stopping you before you made a bigger fool of yourself.

The applause barely registered when you finished. You couldn’t help but think they were doing it out of pity as you stumbled back to your seat, legs threatening to give out from under you. Chloe smiled when you settled next to her, but that, too, felt like a consolation.

The rest of the showcase passed in a blur. When it came time to announce the winner, you had already made peace with the fact that it wouldn’t be your name.

And it wasn’t.

Chloe won. You were genuinely happy when Vicki said her name instead. She deserved it. Absolutely. One hundred percent. They would have been crazy not to pick her over the others. Your disappointment was fleeting as she stepped onstage to retrieve her certificate.

Most of the guests stuck around after the showcase to mingle and take photos. You lingered awkwardly at the end of the bar as the other finalists celebrated with friends and family. You had no one to celebrate this accomplishment—not even Bruce Wayne who spoke with Vicki in the corner. Their heads were ducked as they spoke in hushed voices.

It was a sobering realization that left you numb.

“You excerpt was really good.”

Chloe slid next to you, her purse slung over her shoulders. Several more beaded keychains hung off the zipper. You forced yourself to smile, knowing you’d never want to be seen in public again if you burst into tears in a room full of reporters.

“Yours was phenomenal,” you insisted, “You deserved the win.”

She beamed. “I appreciate that, but I think you should give yourself more credit. I never would have never placed in my first year at GU.” Her purse rattled as she leaned against the bar. “I didn’t even think about entering the competition until this year. I didn’t have the nerve.”

Something akin to hope stirred in your chest. “Really?”

“This competition is no joke,” she said, “Trust me when I say you don’t garner the attention of the Vicki Vale by being mediocre. I worked on my submission for months with the writing club on campus.”

You stood a little straighter. “There’s a writing club at GU?”

She nodded. “Do you want to join? We meet on Monday nights at the student center.”

Your heart sank. “I don’t know if I can commit to a weekly club.”

“Nonsense.” Chloe waved you off. “It’s super casual. Come when you can. Use the prompts or don’t. Either way, we’d love to have you. The sad reality is that no one will ever care about your writing as much as you do, but it's a good place to find support and gather feedback.”

You’d never had something like that. It sounded nice.

“I would like that.”

Her smile broadened. “Great! With a little fine-tuning, you’ll be back here again next year with another shot at winning.” She knocked shoulders with you, encouraging despite the pit hollowing your stomach. “The other finalists and I were talking about grabbing a drink at the bar across the street. You should come with us.”

“Let me think about it. I want to see if I can get a hold of my…”

“Your plus one?” she offered with a knowing smile, “That’s fine. He can come too. The more the merrier. Let’s trade numbers. Text me if you decide to join us.”

After giving her your number, you felt slightly better about the night. It was nice to have a prospective writer friend. In general, having a writing community to fall back on would be necessary in the long run. They would understand the challenges and offer advice. Steph was great, but pre-med and classics were on opposite ends of the spectrum. She also considered Twilight classic literature which made your skin itch.

Chloe left shortly thereafter. You thought about doing the same when you noticed the horde around Bruce Wayne had dissipated. He sat two stools down from you, scrolling idly on his phone.

Now would be the chance to speak with him.

If you wanted to.

Did you want to?

If you approached him, there would be no going back. The illusion would shatter, and as Jacob had suggested, the romantic nature of your correspondence would cease to exist. You had thanked him several times already, but the thought of reiterating those same sentiments out loud left you queasy.

If Jacob were there, you’d convince him to talk you out of it.

But he wasn’t there.

Fuck it.

Anything was better than agonizing over all the ways tonight could have gone better. Who knew? Bruce Wayne might be the person to turn this whole night around. You squared your shoulders, stood and marched over to where Bruce sat. “Excuse me, Mr. Wayne?”

“Oh, please, Mr. Wayne was my fa—”

He looked up. You stepped back with a sharp breath, startled by the intensity of his striking blue eyes as they bore into you. Strands of gray hair made his widow’s peak more severe. He was attractive, no doubt, but the subtle lines around his eyes and mouth gave him a paternal quality. Even as his vapid smile fitted into place like a mask.

“You were one of the finalists.”

It wasn’t phrased like a question, but the boyish tilt of his head gave the impression that he wanted you to think it was. Your eyes narrowed as you considered him. He considered you right back as if he were connecting a name to your face. It wouldn’t surprise you if he had already forgotten it.

“Yes,” you said slowly, “I wanted to thank you for taking the time to come to the showcase. It means it a lot.”

“Well, you know me. I aim to show my support where I can. It was a pleasant showcase.” His placating smile returned, rubbing like steel wool across your skin. “A lot of talent in one room.”

It was a safe answer—one likely fed to him by his PR team to make him appear likeable. It was something you’d say to the reporter covering the event rather than one of the finalists. You tried to ignore the sinking feeling in your gut as you pressed on. This interaction could still be saved.

“You know, it’s because of you that I’m even here.”

That did a better job of catching his attention. His gaze sharpened, and you got the briefest glimpse of the man who hid behind a mask of duality. Just as you expected. There was more to Bruce Wayne than he wanted you to believe. “Oh?”

“I thanked you in my letters. More than once, in fact, but I wanted to do so in person as well. So, thank you for believing in me and giving me this chance.”

There was no hiding the confusion that tightened his mouth. “I’m not sure I follow.”

You told him your name, hoping it would jog his memory, but your confidence waned the longer this interaction lasted. “I’m a recipient of the Jason Todd Memorial scholarship. It pays my tuition for Gotham University. None of this would have been possible if not for you.”

As soon as the explanation left your mouth and you saw the look on his face, you realized you’d made a grave mistake.

Oh.

Oh shit.

Tim never confirmed it was Bruce reading your letters. You made an assumption based on incomplete data. It was your own fault for never clarifying, but perhaps, a small part of you was afraid to confirm what you already suspected. Bruce was too busy to read your letters. He didn’t pick you because there was something special about you.

He probably didn’t pick you at all.

That kind of decision fell to the foundation board.

Your real-life Daddy Long Legs was a myth you created to sweeten the bitter reality that you were nothing more than a charity case to people like Bruce Wayne. He didn’t care for you. He couldn’t care, because he’d never really known you.

The realization was like a knife through the heart.

You looked away, eyes wetter than before. “I’m sorry for bothering you. I’ll just—”

“Did you say the Jason Todd Memorial?” His voice cracked.

You couldn’t bear to look at him. “Yes.”

Shame burrowed deep beneath your skin and festered. To think, you’d convinced yourself that a man like Bruce cared about you. There was nothing about you to remember. Not your name, not your face, not your hopes or aspirations, because he’d never known you in the first place. The truth was a bitter pill to swallow, and you nearly choked on it.

“Forgive me,” Bruce began, “I didn’t—”

His phone started vibrating. He looked between it and you, his expression indecipherable.

“Excuse me, I need to take this call. A pleasure to meet you. I’ll be in touch.”

You doubted that.

He couldn’t escape this interaction quickly enough. Bruce hurried off with his phone pressed to his ear. You watched the door close behind him, and something in your chest splintered and cracked.

You clicked your phone on. Still nothing from Jacob.

He promised to come. It might be stupid to hold someone to a promise like a grade schooler, but you trusted him to keep his word. You tried calling him. It rang several times before going to voicemail. When it beeped, you had no idea what you were going to say.

“Hey.” Your voice cracked like ice over a shallow pond. “I tried to text you and no answer. I doubt this’ll be any different. You’re not here. I can only assume the worst, and I don’t know what to do. It’s not like I have other vigilantes on speed dial.”

Your grip tightened on your phone.

Was this what your future with him would be? Left in the dark. Waiting for confirmation that he wasn’t lost or dead. His line of work was dangerous. He was bound to get hurt, and you would be none the wiser until he reached out.

What if he never reached out?

“I don’t know if you’re busy or dead or—” You caught the gasp before it broke on a sob. “I can’t help you and that realization is more terrifying than not knowing where you are. Call me when you can. If you can.” You hung up as the weight of the last few hours came crashing down around you. Between the showcase, your conversation with Bruce, Jacob’s concerning absence—there wasn’t very much worth celebrating.

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

Surprise! As I finish writing the final chapter of this fic (Chapter 30 for you all), I thought I'd celebrate by posting twice this week. Gave me two chances to emotionally devastate y'all. :)

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[splitfictionthings]

You're... Not A Centipede

It was... weird, picturing Zoe's parents as not a conjoined Centipede.

Ok that's a weird sentence but still. During their time in Zoe's subconscious, they'd spent a lot of time with the parent-ipede, and consequently, Mio had kind of formed an idea in her mind about Zoe's parents.

And attached it to the depiction she'd seen - you know. The centipede.

Oh she'd seen Zoe's parents since - in video calls. But there is nothing quite like landing in England and seeing Zoe throw herself into two people's arms and still catching yourself looking around for a double-headed fucking centipede.

"This must be Mio, right?" Charlie smiled, one hand still wrapped around his daughter's shoulder as he reached forward with the other one.

"Um... yeah." She shook the offered hand weakly. "Charlie, yeah?"

"Yes, and this is my wife Leanne."

"A pleasure," Leanne grinned, a slight dimple in her cheek not dissimilar to Zoe's. "We've heard so much about you!"

"Whatever you heard I didn't do it."

Charlie laughed, loud and booming, while Zoe slapped Mio's shoulder.

"Only good things!" She insisted, and Mio elbowed her back.

"You do over exaggerate sometimes."

"Oi!"

"Now, now," Leanne interrupted, "You'll have plenty of time for bickering once we're out of the airport."

They certainly had. Bickering was the foundation of their relationship after all, even if it was all in good fun. Zoe had even seamlessly resumed their previous bickering after waking Mio up, because of course she fell asleep in the car on the way to Zoe's parents house ON Zoe's shoulder. Honestly what was Mio's life if not a collection of embarrassing moments that make her want to walk off a cliff?

Zoe, much to her credit, mentioned nothing about the patch of drool on her t shirt, simply jumping straight back into bullying her about her reaction to the baby dragons (which was justified). The mood in the car was more solemn, which Mio later found out was because Zoe was recounting their misadventure with Rader while she was asleep, but they easily brought it right back up, slapping each other's hands until they couldn't anymore from laughter.

Zoe's house (not the one they saw in the simulation - but still a nice house located near the Peak District) wasn't massive, but had enough space for Mio to have her own room. Sure it wasn't decorated like Zoe's childhood bedroom was, being designed for any guest who might ever stay, but the bed was comfy and there was space for her clothes and a desk for writing and what else could she need? It was just strange being that far away from Zoe, after a whole day in each others brains and 6 months hearing each other sleep through paper thin walls. But what was weirder was hearing two voices downstairs, almost identical to that centipede, and having to remind herself that they are real legit humans.

The first few days were weird. The silence surrounding the house was eerie, the walls so thick Mio couldn't hear anyone unless they were being really loud or on the same level. The bed was both too big and too soft - she couldn't feel the springs like she could on her own mattress, and it smelled too clean. She awoke to birds chirping instead of engine rumbles, and the nights were so much darker than the city.

Zoe seemed utterly refreshed - eyes brighter and smile easier than Mio had ever seen. She often found herself wondering if her dad would have fared better here, in the clean air and peace, but Zoe would quickly drag her out of her thoughts with some kind of mischief. A waterfall walk, or a hike for a picnic. At some point they even climbed a large hill, Mio complaining the whole way but admittedly breathtaken once they reached the top (literally and figuratively). It almost made up for her passing out halfway down and having to eat an emergency banana to feel more alive again.

After a week or so, Mio also got used to it. She saw the stars (prettier than she thought, though she wouldn't admit it to Zoe), watched squirrels dash around in the front garden and eat peanuts from her palm, and even went for a swim in the lake nearby with Zoe. Charlie and Leanne would accompany them, and sometimes Zoe's nieces and nephews, running around and squealing underfoot.

But nothing is ever truly perfect.

Mio knew that perfectly well - but slamming up from her sheets, struggling to breathe and struggling to discern reality from illusion, she wasn't exactly thinking straight. A strangled scream tore itself from her throat without her even knowing, sweat slicked hands clawing at her throat.

Before she could even blink the door slammed open, Zoe tumbling into the room with none of her usual grace. Her hair was a mess, knotted and tangled, and her pajamas sat skewiff on her body. She looked wildly around the room, as if scanning for threats, before she dashed to Mio's side, hands cradling her face tentatively.

"I can't breathe!" Mio eventually choked out, "I don't - Rader-"

"Rotting in jail, waiting for his trial" Zoe's voice cracked a little, her throat clearly dry from sleep, but she still sounded as assertive as ever. One hand slipped down to her neck, her thumb stroking in rhythmic motions. "You can breathe. Just follow me. In and out."

It took a minute or so before Mio's wheezing faded to more stable rhythms, the motion of Zoe's thumb against her throat enough to follow. She slumped forward, forehead resting on Zoe's shoulder.

"Did I wake you?" She asked, her voice hoarse. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Zoe shook her head, "I wouldn't want you to go through that alone."

"I've done it before."

"I know."

They stayed like that for a while, Mio's head on Zoe's shoulder while Zoe's hand carded through her hair. It was a familiar pose - on both sides. Nightmares weren't rare in their apartment, unfortunately.

A tentative knock came at the door, before it gently creaked open. Leanne quietly walked in, two steaming mugs in her hand that she placed on the bedside. She crouched by the bed, wincing slightly but looking at them in concern.

"You don't have to explain," she offered gently, "I just want to check you're ok."

Mio nodded, too tired to speak, and Leanne smiled. One hand reached out, wiping the dampness on her cheeks before resting on her forehead. Pursing her lips at what must be some warmth, Leanne opened the window, letting the cool night air in.

"Let me know if you need anything," she whispered, leaning her forehead against Zoe's for a moment before she appeared to head downstairs.

"Did I wake everyone?" Mio's voice was barely audible.

"It's not your fault," Zoe said firmly, grabbing one of the mugs, "Now drink up, buttercup. It'll make you feel better."

It did. The tea was warm, soothing her sore throat like a balm, and settling warm in her stomach. She stayed pressed to Zoe the whole time, who never let her go.

"I don't think I want to be alone right now." She whispered after draining the cup. Zoe didn't answer, simply shuffling down the bed and clumsily pulling the covers over them both.

"You don't have to -"

"Shut up." Zoe sighed, readjusting them so they were laying comfortably. They were facing each other, one of Zoe's hands pushing Mio's head into her shoulder and the other wrapped around her waist. Mio slipped her own arms around Zoe too, holding her loosely. "I've got you, Mio. Sleep well."

They fell asleep like that, tangled up in each other like they were afraid to lose them. And Mio woke up in a similar way, her head on Zoe's chest and body practically draped over hers. They were warm, comfy, the weight of the covers almost blissfully crushing. Even the thought of moving from the bed, from Zoe, felt like it could be world ending. So she stayed put, dozing until Zoe blinked herself into existence.

"Morning, Mio." She yawned, Mio grunting in return. "You ok?"

" 'm fine." Mio mumbled, "Warm."

"You talk in your sleep."

"..." Mio sat up, bleary-eyed. "Do I?"

"I'm fairly sure you ordered a McDonalds breakfast from me before I dropped off."

"Oh." She was dumbfounded. "Where is it then?"

"Oh I'm sorry, just let me pull one out of my ass for you." Zoe laughed, tugging her back down and ruffling her hair fiercely.

"Hey! Get off!"

"Nope."

Mio screeched as one hand wriggled it's way under her top, squeezing her sides with brutal efficiency. "OK! OK! Stop!"

"I win." Zoe grinned, climbing out of bed and leaving Mio there to catch her breath. "Get dressed, Giggleguts. Breakfast won't be long."

"I still think your parents are a centipede sometimes." She admitted on a whim.

"... Is that why you sometimes look surprised when you see them?"

"..." Mio looked away, folding her arms. "...Maybe."

Zoe's laugh sounded like it tore out of her body, leaving her breathless. Mio frowned, ready to defend herself, but when the first snorts started she couldn't help but shake her own head with a grin.

"Glad you're having fun." She sighed.

"I'm gonna tell them," Zoe wheezed, lunging for the stairs.

"NO! DON'T YOU DARE!"

[just-dreaming-marvel]

Crimson Ties ~ 25

CRIMSON TIES MASTERLIST

< previous chapter

Word Count: 2,890ish

Summary: You and Tony go on your first date.

Warning(s): talk of rape, talk of abuse, torture, death, mental health, panic attacks

Note(s): Only 2 more chapters left after this!

Reminder: I DO NOT do taglists. Please don’t ask. Please follow and interact! I appreciate any reblogs, likes, comments, and asks!

You stood in front of the mirror in your room, brushing your fingers nervously down the fabric of your outfit— not too formal, not too casual. You had tried on four different outfits before settling on this one. You tugged gently at the sleeves, raking over your reflection. Your heart was beating too fast while your hand were cold. 

It was just dinner. With your husband. Who wasn’t really your husband in the traditional sense. But maybe someday he could be. If you didn’t mess this up. You exhaled slowly, trying to rid yourself of the growing bundle of nerves.

Knocking softly on the door, Yelena peeked in. A smile grew over her features as she took you in.

“That looks great,” she complimented.

“Yeah?” You questioned. “Because I have another—“

“Stop that.” Yelena shut the door and came over to you. “He’ll love it.”

“You think?”

“I know… Steve and I will be there the whole time.”

“I’m not worried about anything but myself… I don’t know… I don’t think I’m made for this… for… affection. For someone to care the way that Tony seems to.”

“That’s Rumlow and your father talking.” Gently, she turned you to fully face her. “You deserve this, Y/N. You deserve good. And Tony… well, he has his far share of flaws, but he is good for you.”

“What if—“

“No more. Let tonight be a fresh start. Both of you need it.”

~~~

Tony stood in front of the full-length mirror in the guest room across the hall. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway and he was debating on whether a tie was trying too hard. Or not trying hard enough. He ran a hand through his hair for the third time.

“Get it together,” he muttered to himself.

This wasn’t a business dinner or a meeting of any short. This was you. And for some reason, that made it ten times harder to breathe. He had no armor to hide behind tonight— no danger, no crisis. Just… vulnerability. And you.

Tony buttoned up the last part of his shirt and left the tie on the bed. Too stiff. He wanted to feel like himself. The version of himself he’d become when you looked at him like he was safe, not terrifying. He grabbed the bouquet from the dresser and headed out to the foyer where he promised to wait for you. Steve was already there, patiently waiting with the car keys to drive the two of you to the date. Tony’s heart clenched as he thought about his long time driver, Happy, and how he would have loved to be a part of this.

When Tony noticed movement out of the corner of his eye, he turned and stared. You appeared at the end of the hallway, pausing. Tony’s heart did a weird, stutter thing in his chest as you slowly came closer.

“You look…” He stopped, clearing his throat to try again. “Beautiful. You look beautiful.”

You gave him a nervous smile. “You look really nice too.”

You took a slow breath as you stepped closer. The two of you stood there, a little awkward, a little shy— like two people who had been through hell and back together and still didn’t know exactly how to take the next step. Tony suddenly held out the bouquet.

“These are for you,” he said. “I still don’t know your favorite flower so I had to get a few different kinds.”

“Thank you, Tones,” you took them from him. “You don’t need to worry about my favorite flowers though… My favorites are any you give me.” Tony could have melted right then and there. “I’m just going to leave them here.”

“I’ll take them,” Natasha offered, easily slipping over from where she was standing by, watching. 

“Thank you.”

Tony took a deep breath and offered his arm to you, knowing full well that you may not take it. “Shall we?”

You hesitated for a heartbeat, then gently slid your hand through the crook of his elbow. Tony led you to the car, where Steve was ready to take you on the date. Tony helped you in before running around to the other side and slipping beside you. The car ride was filled with nervous silence, causing Steve to smirk. Steve drove the two of you to the complex where the penthouse was located. 

You stepped out onto the roof first, eyes widening. Twinkle lights strung across trellises cast a soft, golden glow over the rooftop. A small round table sat at the center, already set for two— candles flickered and soft instrumental music hummed quietly through the hidden speakers. Flower boxes lined the railing, overflowing with ivy and blooms. Beyond them, the city stretched out like a sea of stars. Your breath hitched at it all.

Tony stepped beside you, clearing his throat. “It’s just a rooftop,” he tried to say casually. Like his heart wasn’t waiting to beat until after seeing your reaction. “Nothing crazy.”

“It’s beautiful,” you breathed out.

“I thought about the fanciest place in the city,” he rubbed the back of his neck nervously, “but that didn’t feel like us.”

You looked over at him, overwhelmed with gratitude. “It’s perfect.”

He smiled back before helping you to your seat. He tried his best not to stare too long, not wanting to ruin the moment by being obvious about his love for you. Once seated across from you, he reached out for a cold, glass bottle of water.

“It’s just water,” he told you. “I had it shipped in from Europe. So if you hate it, we’re blaming Rhodey.”

You looked at him, completely touched and in shock. “You… you remember that?”

“I try to remember everything you say.”

Your eyes met. Something warm and gentle passed between them. 

~~~

As dinner progressed, you smiled easier and leaned in closer— the initial nerves disappearing. Tony told you stories of his childhood and growing up with those who were now your friends. He had you laughing so hard that you almost dropped your glass. Tony couldn’t stop trying to make you laugh. It was music to his ears. His eyes never looked away from you. He couldn’t believe you were really here.

You were leaning slightly against Tony as you held his hand and he guided you back to the bedroom in your house. He stopped at the door and turned to face you.

“I know we’re married on paper,” he began quietly, “but tonight was the first time I felt like I was earning your yes.”

“I think you’ve been earning it for a while now… Are you… are you staying in here tonight?”

“Not if you don’t want me to.”

“You promised me a movie every night. I figured tonight still counted.”

Tony smiled. “I’ll get changed and be right there.” 

Keeping your eyes locked with his, Tony slowly brought up the hand that was linked with you. He pressed the gentlest of kisses to the back of it before letting go. 

“I won’t be long, my dear,” he whispered before turning and disappearing into the guest room.

~~~

The two of you continued to fall for each other as the weeks passed. Sharing small, everyday moments. There was no rush for either of you. Just a quiet, growing closeness that was built on safety, trust, and gentle affection.

(Cue montage of small moments)

The Kitchen, Early Morning

Tony sleepily wandered into the kitchen one morning, rubbing his eyes. You were already at the stove, putting together breakfast. Tony paused, smiling softly at the sight. He leaned back against the counter as he watched you hum to yourself and work.

The Living Area Couches, Late At Night

Tony was stretched out on the couch, legs hanging off one end, a book resting one on his chest. He dozed off about halfway reading the chapter aloud. You were laying on the other couch, blanket over you. You were still awake, watching his chest raise and fall. Eventually, you got up and draped your blanket over him. Taking a breath, you leaned over and pressed a small kiss to his head before heading to bed.

The Studio, One Afternoon

Clay was smudged across your face. Your hands were slick and steady, guiding the shape of the new vase. Tony sat nearby, sketching a design for an improved kiln. Every so often, he glanced up— not at the clay. But at you. Like you’re the art. You caught him once. He didn’t look away, and you didn’t care to ask him to.

The Bedroom, Late At Night

A storm rolled outside as you and Tony sat on the bed, watching Disney’s 1991 The Beauty and The Beast. Tony’s hand rested in between the two of you, with yours not too far off. You could see his hand out of the corner of your eye thought you tried to focus on the movie in front of you. Holding your breath, you moved your hand just enough so that your pinkies brushed together. Neither of you moved away.

By the time the song, Tale As Old As Time, had begun, Tony was staring at you more than he was the screen. He slipped off of bed and began making his way around.

“Tones?” You questioned. “What are you doing?”

He held out his hand, bowing a little. “Can I have this dance?”

“Are you serious?”

“Always.”

Your hand trembled slightly as you reached out and rested it in his open hand. Tony gently pulled you from the bed. He kept his eyes locked on yours, trying to show that he had no ill intentions as his other hand guided your other hand to his shoulder and then hovered over your waist. Slowly, Tony began leading you in a small circle off to the side of the bed. You leaned into Tony more, trusting in him to guide you in a way that wouldn’t make you embarrassed.

“You…” you breathed out. “You can touch me.”

“You sure?” He quietly checked, not wanting to push you past any limit that he was already stretching.

“Mhm,” you nodded.

Tony scanned your eyes for an uncertainty one more time before he allowed his hand to softly rest against your side. He continued to lead you until the song was over. When the two of you stopped, you were still holding onto each other.

“We should finish the movie,” Tony suggested, making no move to pull away.

“Can we… can we stay like this for a little longer?” You softly requested.

“Anything you want, honey.”

The Hallway, Late Evening

Tony had to coax you out of the studio tonight. You were too engrossed with your latest project to head to bed yourself. Though you are clearly tired. You stumbled slightly as you and Tony walked to the bedroom. Without thinking, Tony gently threaded his fingers through yours to steady you. You instinctively lean into him more. He kissed your head.

“I’ve got you, honey,” he whispered, helping her into the room and tucking you in before going around and crawling in bed himself.

Tony’s Office, Dinner Time

Tony was hunched over his business files when you slipped in with a tray of food. You left it on the edge of his desk without a word. Tony eventually fell asleep, waking up close to midnight with a blanket over his shoulders and his untouched food still warm beside him. He sighed with a soft smile, knowing that you came back to reheat it for him.

~~~

Tony could tell that something was off. You were in your head more today than he had seen in a while. He leaned against the open door of your studio, watching you work. Your hands were slick with clay, arms smudged with pale streaks of dried slip. Your apron wasn’t doing much to save your clothes from the splattering of clay. You were in your element— focused, steady, safe. But there was something still there. Something bothering you that you hadn’t yet to talk to Tony about.

“You look like you’re winning a war,” Tony finally spoke up, stepping further into the room.

You look up, giving him a small smile. One that wasn’t you true smile. “Feels like it sometimes,” you replied.

He came closer. “You’ve got a little—“ He reached out without thinking, his fingers moving towards your cheek, aiming to brush a bit of clay off of your skin.

But… you flinched. Hard. A sharp inhale as panic exploded across your face.

“No—!” You gasped, stumbling back from the wheel, hands raised protectively.

Tony froze for a moment. “Hey, hey, Y/N, it’s okay,” he tried. “It’s me.”

Your breathing turned ragged. “Don’t— Don’t touch me like that, please—“ 

But you’re not looking at him anymore. You’re not really there anymore. You’re somewhere else— somewhere dark.

“I’m sorry,” Tony apologized immediately, hands up as he backed up. “I shouldn’t have. I didn’t mean—“

You’re shaking how, shoulders trembling as you sunk down to sit on the floor, back pressed to the wall.

“I’m dirty,” you whispered, barely audible. “They always… They always said I was… that no one should see me like this. Touch me like this.” Your voice cracked. “They said no one would ever want me if they saw me like this.”

Tony’s face twisted— pain, fury, heartbreak. But not at you. At them. Obadiah. Brock. The ghosts that still mange to sink their claws into you whenever they can. He hates them, doesn’t matter that they’re dead. He hates that they’ve still managed to break you down like this. Even if Tony’s witnessed you this way for almost a year now, and thinks it’s one of the most beautiful sights. They still try to win.

Tony knelt a few feet away, still making sure to keep space between the two of you. “They were wrong,” he stated. Your eyes lifted slowly to his, wet and ashamed. “Y/N… You’re not dirty. You are… you are the most beautiful thing in this world. Even all covered in clay. And you’re… you’re the strongest damn person I know.”

Your arms curled around your knees as clayed continued to dry on your skin like a second, fragile shell. Tony let the silence sit, not trying to fix it or move closer.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be free of them,” you admitted brokenly.

“Well, good thing I’ll be here to fight them with you,” he told you. “As long as it takes until their voices don’t echo so loud in your head anymore.”

You say nothing. But you don’t move to run and for now, that’s enough.

~~~

Tony’s office is mostly dark, lit only by the few laps scattered around the room. He was sitting at his desk, not working— just flipping a pen between his fingers as he thought about ways to help you. He doesn’t hear you at first. But then you knock softly against the open door. His head immediately turned towards you. You stand in the doorway, wrapped in a cardigan. Your eyes were puffy, like you’d been crying quietly.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt…” you mumbled.

Tony straightened, setting the pen down. “You’re not.”

You nodded, taking a timid step inside. “Can I… talk to you?”

“Of course.”

You hesitate for a second before walking in further, sitting yourself down at the far end of the couch. Your throat bobbed as you tried to find the words.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” you admitted quietly. “For earlier.”

His brows furrowed. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“I do… I freaked out, and I know you didn’t mean anything by it. I know you’d never hurt me, but I just… it happened so fast and I was so caught up in my own thoughts… I hate that is still controls me… That they still control me… And I hate that I made you feel like you did something wrong when you—“

“Y/N,” he cut in, quiet but firm. 

You stayed quiet as you watched him stand and come around the desk, slow and careful. He paused, keeping space between them until you gave him a nod, telling him it was okay to become closer. He continued to move slowly, crouching in front of you to meet your eyes.

“You didn’t make me feel anything expect heartbreak. For you,” he told you softly. “And not because you flinched. But because of what made you flinch… I’m not upset. I’m not disappointed. I’m not anything except whatever you need me to be.”

“I thought I was getting better,” your voice was small, heartbreakingly so. “I just want to get better… for you.”

“You already are. You keep showing up. You’re not giving up. That’s everything.”

You looked down at your hands in your lap. “I want to let you touch me… I was letting you… But then… I can’t explain it. It just happened overnight. I woke up fighting demons that I thought were gone. And that wall shot back up.”

“I’ll sit at the base of that wall for forever, honey.”

You let out a shaky, tearful laugh. “That sounds really boring.”

“You’re worth every second.”

And then, without another word, you leaned forward and rested your head against his shoulder. Tony stayed still, just letting you be there. Safe. With him.

next chapter >

[mrs-barnes-rogers-writes]

Angel - Part 8

Marvel AU

Pairing: Alpha Steve Rogers x Enhanced Omega Reader x Alpha Bucky Barnes

Theme: A/B/O / True Mates

Summary: It's different when you're enhanced. Everything is different, every smell, every sound, touch, feelings. The way it's different doesn't make sense unless you are enhanced. Throw in what comes with Alpha and Omega instincts, and the intensity of your presentation is even more than any other. When you find yourself in need of help you can call on the alpha you trust the most, Natasha Romanoff. You just don't expect to find your alphas at the same time. Are you really enough for them? And can you really be the Luna to the Avengers?

"To be loved, to be loved by your mate is everything." - Wanda Maximoff

Reader is enhanced, has wings and has powers connected to electricity.

Series Masterlist

Chapter Summary: Where's the reader? Includes the previous sneak peek.

Chapter Warning: Brief mention of previous attack.

You’re sitting on a roof somewhere in Queens when you feel your phone buzz in your pocket. You knew damn well you’d turned it off.

When you pull it out you see a coded message appear. The fact someone has managed to turn on your secure device and send you a message makes you feel uneasy. You glance around but don’t see anyone.

It takes a moment to establish what the message says but you realise the message is from Stark. He seems to be giving you a location.

You know Natasha’s slipped everyone’s numbers into your phone so you take the chance and send him a message.

You - Is this a mission or a safe house?

Tony - Well hello to you too Luna.

You - Please don’t call me that.

Tony - Why? It’s what you are.

You - I didn’t realise you all knew.

Tony - Well we do. Honestly there was a lot of whispering going on I was concerned there was a plan to overthrow the government but it was actually all because of you.

You - I don’t really know what to say to that.

Tony doesn’t initially reply.

You - So which is it Stark? A safe house or a mission because its a mission I need more than a location.

Tony - I’m not about to send our Luna onto a mission when she’s still recovering. It’s a safe house. One of my own personal ones. It’s fancy, has everything you need, cupboards filled, every streaming service you can imagine. Highly secure too. The others don’t even know about it.

You - You don’t have to do this Tony. I’m grateful but you really don’t have to. I don't want to make things awkward for you.

Tony - As much as you don’t want to admit it kid, you’re the Luna, I’m meant to be the pack Beta, although that’s not working out so well for me right now but that’s another story. I have a responsibility to make sure you’re okay. So please do what Mom and Dad ask and go to the safe house. It has a pool. It’s in the Hamptons.

A pool and the Hamptons did sound nice. Wait did he just call himself Dad?

You - Mom and Dad?

He replies with a photo of him and Pepper pulling sad faces.

You rolled your eyes.

You - Fine but don’t use that incredible woman and her sad face against me again.

You stood and put on your flight glasses and slipped your backpack back on your front. You pulled up your hood and pushed your wings out of your back. You weren’t sure where the new set of workout gear had come from but the set of leggings and matching zip up jacket that had appeared in the guest room drawer, fit you like a glove. Just as you were about to take flight you saw the Spider swinging around in the distance. Spiderling? Spiderboy? Whatever.

You pull out your phone and text Tony again.

You - You might want to check on the spider kid. Bruce told me you’d grounded him from his little street ops but I see him swinging right now.

Tony sends you another photo but this time it’s him looking exasperated.

You pocket your phone and take to the sky.

When Natasha gets home she finds a note with the watch she’d given you beside it.

You shouldn’t have done that without telling me. Thank you for taking care of me. I’ll be in touch.

She had no idea how you knew what her and the others had just done. You’ve said you’ll be in touch so you’ve not cut her off completely at least. Were you just pissed they’d not told you? A knock at the apartment door is followed by Clint and Wanda entering, both holding up similar notes.

Half an hour later Steve has summoned them all to the briefing room. It’s clear from the moment they step off the elevator that he’s pissed. The fact all of them refuse to say where they’ve been or what they’ve been doing makes it worse, as did him spotting Clint’s split knuckles. Steve’s ranting and Bucky’s sure he’s about to give an Alpha command to get them to give answers and not just the riddles they are giving now. He risks it and steps in.

“It’s about her, isn’t it?” Bucky asks.

They hide it well but he’s also an ex-assassin and the former Winter Solider sees the tells that confirm he’s right.

“She told me that it was complicated. That it was someone she used to trust.”

Natasha tilts her head slightly in interest.

“You spoke to her?”

“I did, she was having a tea out on the lawn with Pepper.”

The others turned to look at Tony.

“What? Oh if you’re asking me if he spoke to her, he did. Stepped in when super annoying number one got snippy with them too.” Tony replied.

“You did what?” Clint asked.

“Oh erm, Steve was…” Bucky went to reply before Clint cut him off.

“No not you! Him! You got snippy with them? With Y/N and Pepper?”

Steve took a breath and put his hands on his hips.

“I wanted to know where you were. I knew something was going on.”

It takes everyone by surprise when Clint starts moving to the door.

“You know what Rogers, fuck you. I ain’t telling you shit. I’ve been on your side through this whole thing. I'm away from my family, out of retirement to help cover the work whilst the dust settles. Putting everything I have on the line again, and you can stand there and make demands all you want but knowing you’ve been shitty to my pack sisters, one who also happens to be the Luna, when she’s dealing with enough right now, means I’m done. Come on.” He says to the others. “What we did today was to keep our girl safe. All whilst you were making a shitty first impression. Go fuck yourself.”

Clint leaves the room, with Wanda, Natasha, Vision and Bruce following.

Steve growls and takes a step to go after them. Bucky steps in front of him.

“Don’t.”

Steve huffs and throws himself down into one of the briefing room chairs. Realisation washing over him that he really had fucked up.

A few days later…..

Your mind wandered as you laid out on the lounger. As much as Stark had become a pain in your ass, he had good taste in safe houses. The Hamptons was a step up from hiding in a ditch in Scotland, plus every single one of your favourite foods were in the kitchen, and the cashmere blanket Pepper had apparently picked out especially for you, was definitely a special touch.

But your mind wandered to the last week. What a fucking week.

Get attacked my another agent ✔️

Have other agent threaten to throw you in The Raft ✔️

Run off and be extracted by your pack sister and brothers ✔️

Meet your true mates ✔️

Leave the compound without telling anyone ✔️

Receive a coded message from Stark directing you to his fancy pants safe house ✔️

You decided to distract yourself and the sound of the birds tweeting accompanied you as you read your latest smutty book. One of Laura’s recommendations. As the afternoon sun shone down on you your eyelids felt heavy and you could feel the pull of sleep.

You jumped as it was pulled away from you as your phone rang. Frowning you'd set it so only Tony, Pepper and Storm could call you. To everyone else it was on dark mode. Only one person would have the balls to override it.

“This better be good Romanoff.” You snarked, voice still croaky as you recovered.

“We have a situation.”

Fancy a cuppa? My Ko-Fi.

TAGLIST

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[cwningennos]

Conference

Pairing: Mycroft Holmes x Reader

Summary: Going to Birmingham for the 2016 Conservative Party Conference proves to be more interesting than you could ever have thought.

Warnings: Anger, misunderstandings, sexual references, strong language, UK politics, only one bed trope.

Friday September 30th 2016

Once more Mycroft Holmes has come to the 221B sitting room to ask something of his brother and once more Sherlock is making an utter nuisance of himself.

“I won’t ask you again Sherlock. Put that down and answer me. Will you do it?” Mycroft queries, stabbing the point of his umbrella into the floor as he stands there with his feet grounded. He’s in a dark suit, white shirt and blue tie with silver tie-pin. Not a strand of his auburn hair is out of place and as usual his fluctuating weight has already drawn comment from his younger sibling.

Sherlock in his usual armchair, purple shirt and black trousers scrapes the bow across his violin one final time for good measure, before he puts both it and the instrument on the side table. “I don’t see why you need me to keep an eye on things in the first place,” Sherlock pouts, looking down. His tousled dark hair threatens to cover his eyes.

Mycroft huffs out a breath. “As I have already told you I will be leaving for the Conservative Party Conference tomorrow,” he says. “After the Brexit vote and with things the way that they are it is imperative that I am there. So, as I will be in Birmingham I just want you to make sure that this other trifle doesn’t get out of hand. You know that you are best placed to do it.”

“Am I?” Sherlock breathes out disbelievingly; folding one leg over the other, before he changes his mind and uncrosses them again. Mycroft raises his eyebrows at him. “I would have thought that you’d have enough CCTV and minions in place that you wouldn't need me?” he says with a sniff.

“If you’re going to be childish about it then I shall have to enforce those other things and hope that they alone will be enough,” Mycroft says, twirling around with a disappointed sigh and clutching at his umbrella even tighter.

“Yes, that’s right, go and re-join your little shadow,” Sherlock drawls, getting up and walking to the window. Out of it he can see you standing by one of his brother’s usual black cars, one knee bent and phone in hand. You’re thirty-five and though your h/c hair is neatly in place over your shoulders the colour of your e/c eyes looks a little more faded than they had when he’d first met you as a twenty-one-year-old. He turns back around again.

Mycroft’s brow furrows and he looks over his shoulder. He turns around properly when he sees the expression that’s on his brother’s face. There’s something bitter there that needs examining. As do his brother’s eyes, which glide to the side as soon as he looks at him. Once he’s taken him in more Mycroft says, “Could it be that you’re jealous brother mine just because I have an assistant who’s loyal to me and who doesn’t run off to get married?”

A muscle tenses in Sherlock’s jaw. “Is she loyal to you though?” he ponders, turning back around to the window. Your eyes roam back down to your phone as soon as you catch sight of him and you seem to be suppressing a yawn. “I just see someone who’s sullen and bored. Someone who might carry on looking for something better if you don’t change her mind.”

“Nonsense,” Mycroft says dismissively as Sherlock whirls around to look at him with raised eyebrows, “Miss L/N’s been in my employment for fourteen years and I’ve been given no reason to suspect that will change. Now, if it’s all the same to you then I'm going to take my leave since you won’t help me.”

Sherlock shrugs as if to tell him to be his guest. Mycroft departs and Sherlock turns back to the window again. He watches as Mycroft and you react to each other with a sort of brusque ease that’s come about because of your familiarity with one another. As soon as he exits the door you nod and slide into the car. Mycroft follows after you. The encounter is so professional and yet Sherlock, as he always can when his brother comes around with you in tow is able to see the way that things could be and the way that it doesn’t seem to have occurred to either Mycroft or you to behave. You’re both as dense as each other he thinks. “Oh, don’t worry brother dear,” he says, “I’ll help you.”

----

“Is everything all right sir?” you ask when you catch Mycroft looking at you for the fourth time. It’s early that following afternoon and you’re both sat next to each other in the back of the black car as it whizzes up the motorway towards Birmingham. You’re in a smart black jacket and trousers with a white blouse and you’ve been trying to answer some queries about work via your phone, tapping out your responses. Mycroft’s been talking on his mobile a couple of times, his tone becoming a rumbling one on occasion to exert his authority, but more often than not he’s been brooding in a thoughtful silence. You’re used to such moods by now, but usually they don’t involve him looking at you, which is why the suspicious side of you has been provoked.

“Hm,” Mycroft says in an uncommitted fashion, before he turns his head to look out the window. He’s wearing an expensive dark suit, crisp white shirt and black and blue diamond patterned tie with silver tie-pin. You stare at him with narrowed eyes for a moment. But when you can’t come up with a decent explanation inside your head for what his latest thoughts might be about you go back to your typing. You can’t know that ever since his brother’s words about you the previous day he’s been wondering if there’s any truth to them. He’s tried to push away the possibility each time, telling himself that you’re fine, you have everything you could need-a good wage at the end of each month, all the latest phone upgrades and a promising pension to look forward to. There’d be no reason for you to go now. But for some reason the idea that you might and that you’re not happy keeps niggling away at him, eating away at those common sense thoughts. It’s like that feeling you have when you’re not quite seeing everything, but you don’t know what you’re missing. It’s rare that he gets it and it frustrates him.

Such a thing lingers in the back of his mind still when the car pulls up outside the impressive silver tower that is the Hyatt Regency Hotel and the both of you enter it, wheeling your black cases behind you.

The hotel’s reception reminds you of an old-fashioned bank with its white pillars, grey outline of squares on a marble floor, dark wooden desks that have delicate black vases of white flowers upon them and black railings, which lead you up to it all.

Mycroft and you weave your way up to the check-in desk and allow your cases to sit on the floor as you wait behind a couple of tall men in suits with dark, short hair who are waiting for the receptionist to carry out her task. She’s got her black hair up in a ponytail and is wearing glasses to assist her as she sorts something out on the computer. The men look over their shoulder at Mycroft and exchange a nod with him. They don’t look at your face at all, but your body gets an appraisal. You frown. You've gotten used to a lot of things in your fourteen years service, but this ignorance and general sexist way of people looking at you is still something that annoys you. You swallow and your fingers scrape against the pocket that your phone is in, but you don’t make to get it out again. You look away, not noticing the half-glance that Mycroft gives you. The background chatter of people fills up your ears until you block out even that as the suits move aside and Mycroft and you step forwards, pulling your cases with you, before you let go of them once more.

“There should be two Regency suites under the name of Holmes reserved for us,” you say, before the receptionist can even welcome you. Stopping idle pleasantries from occurring is something that you’ve gotten good at in your line of work. Mycroft hates them. He currently stands beside you in a Grim Reaper fashion with a slightly sinister tight smile upon his lips.

The receptionist nods, before, half-bent she goes back to her computer. She taps at a few buttons and her expression lights up momentarily, before it falls again. She looks up and her gaze darts in between the pair of you. “Um, I'm afraid that we only have one Regency suite under that name.”

Mycroft turns his head sharply to you, his breath tight in his throat. He feels alarmed by this latest development.

You feel baffled. You look from the receptionist up to Mycroft. “I booked another one. I know I did,” you tell him.

Mycroft looks at you steadily for a moment. As he does so he’s wondering if Sherlock had been right and the fact is that you’ve gotten sloppy in your work because you desire something else? This mistake would certainly point to the idea of all not being well with you. He can see the certainty lingering in your eyes however so he decides to give you the benefit of the doubt. He leans forwards and places his fingers on the edge of the polished desk. “Check again,” he commands the receptionist without even a ‘Please,’ in sight.

She stares up at him for a moment, chews on her lip, reminds herself that the customer is always right and nods, going back out of the system, before she re-enters it again. She looks up a moment later and both Mycroft and you can tell what the answer is just by looking at her. “It’s exactly the same result I'm afraid,” she informs you.

Mycroft’s heart sinks as he looks at you. You’re looking at him levelly and he doesn’t know what to do. Usually you’re so efficient. He’s never had this problem before, but it’s clear that after the receptionist has checked twice it must be a problem at your end and not with her. He swallows. His stomach feels uneasy about the fact that he’s encountered such a thing just the day after Sherlock had almost given him a warning of sorts about you. He snaps his head back towards the receptionist. “Can you get us another suite?” he asks.

“I'm afraid that they’re all fully booked sir.”

“Another room then?” he persists, pushing himself up off the desk and looking all the more irritated. His mind is trying to think clearly about you and the receptionist is getting in the way.

“They’re all gone. We've got a lot of people staying here at the moment sir. I'm afraid that the hotel’s full,” she says.

Mycroft draws himself up and looks deep in thought. You wait, feeling tentative as you half look in between him and the receptionist who looks equally as apprehensive as you. You feel like you’re both waiting there with bated breath. Finally Mycroft’s face clears and he announces, “I’ll have a word with my colleague and then we’ll get back to you.” He turns on his heel and goes off into a corner, pulling his case with him. You follow after him, taking your own. “Right, well we can’t ask for someone else to be removed from their room,” Mycroft says, looking at you, but finding it suddenly hard to in his confusion. He seems to be getting something else now from your face and he doesn’t like it. “The hotel is full of people attending the conference and even a backbencher would no doubt kick up a fuss.” He pauses. “It is vital that my position remains secure. I am sure that I do not have to remind you of that.” There’s a bit of an edge to his tone. You’d been a person he felt he could trust once, but now he’s not so sure.

“No sir,” you shake your head at him, before you suggest, “I could stay in another hotel? There’s bound to be one close by.”

It's Mycroft’s turn to shake his head now. “No. I need you near me,” he mutters irritably, feeling like you should already know such a thing and more annoyed with you for even suggesting it. He looks off to the side of you for a moment and thinks. “There’s only one solution. We’ll have to share that suite,” he says. You open your mouth, both horrified and shocked by the prospect, but before you can say anything more he’s pushed past you, knocked against your shoulder and gone back to the reception desk. “Can we have the key for that one suite then please and check in properly?” he asks the receptionist.

She looks in between Mycroft and you for a moment as you re-join your boss. “Of course sir,” she says crisply, before she nods. “We’re very glad that you’re still staying with us and I apologize for the earlier confusion.” Mycroft waves a hand. The receptionist looks at you and you give her a look back that tells her that she better get on with it unless she wants your boss to get angry again. She swallows, finishes processing your details and hands Mycroft the key. Mycroft takes it and barely casts you a glance as he turns and strides past you. He’s so confused about you right now that he needs to increase the distance between you and do something to get this energy that’s swirling around inside him out. Thinking that taking the stairs might help to exert it and get things clearer in his head he makes for them. Feeling surprised, for usually Mycroft would take the lift, especially when pulling a case behind him, you follow after him. As you do so you notice that he seems to build himself up into a rage. His steps get clunky and his breaths become short, sharp puffs. It’s like following after a bull and you feel apprehensive by the time you’ve finally gone down corridor after corridor and gotten to your suite. Mycroft clears his throat loudly as you stop beside him, before he inserts the key into the lock and pushes the door ajar. He still hasn’t had enough time to think about it all.

The space is large, fifty-six square meters in fact, but that still doesn’t feel enough right now. You take little notice of the lengthy living area with its floor to ceiling windows at the far end, a desk and chair just in front of that, a grey armchair with matching footrest just opposite with a TV and small shelving space on the wall adjacent, nor to the settee, coffee table, lamps on circular tables either side of the settee and the black and white photographs, which show four scenes of Birmingham above it. Rather you just follow Mycroft to the bedroom, which has a king-size bed with white duvet, desk space directly opposite with a blue stool to sit on, another TV affixed to the wall and a black lamp and chair, which are beside the cream curtains to the left. A wardrobe and some shelving space lay just inside the door. The bed has a photo of a canal over it, but it is not that, that you find yourself looking at, but rather Mycroft who lets out a huff as he deposits his case by the side of the bed. He leans the umbrella up against it and puts his hands on his hips as he faces the floor to ceiling window. You hesitate by the door for a moment, your hand still curled around the handle of your case, watching, waiting.

Finally Mycroft says, “It would have been nice if you could have admitted your mistake back there.” He lets go of his hips with a flourish and turns back to you now. You open your mouth. “Instead of just being stubborn and acting as if you were in the right.” You can’t know that he’s lashing out in fear of the change that you might be bringing upon him. He’s had you by his side for fourteen years. He’d thought you loyal and dependable and now that he might be losing you for goodness knows what reason he doesn’t know what to do about it. All he knows is that right now he feels angry at you for doing this to him. Angry that when he’d thought he was giving you everything you’ve now put him in this situation where he’s not the one who’s in control any more.

“Sir I didn't make a mistake,” you persist.

“Well you must have,” Mycroft ventures with a wave of his hand, “How else would you explain what just happened?”-

“Sir”-

He huffs out a breath. “I could have really done without you playing up this weekend F/N. You know how busy things are probably going to be. Though why you had to do it-?”

“Why I had to do it?” you exclaim heatedly.

“F/N,” Mycroft says in an affronted fashion.

“No.” You point a finger at him. “I didn't do this and you should know that by now, but I would have had every right to if I had.” Mycroft opens his mouth. “I don’t think you realize just how much I do for you already,” you tell him. “Fourteen years,” you pant, “Fourteen years I’ve grafted for you. Fourteen years of fetching tea, coffee and let’s not forget all the cake that you needed on your bad days.” You wag your finger at him. Mycroft’s face turns puce and he shifts his position, so that he becomes more grounded. He really does not need you picking on his weight issues right now and he feels appalled at your nerve. It’s as if there’s been a traitor in his midst all along, waiting to strike. “Fourteen years of filing and spread sheeting, of talking on the phone and smiling as I did the most mundane of tasks”-

“Tasks that you get paid for,” Mycroft says dangerously as if you should desist in the quest that you are currently pursuing.

“Oh, I might get paid,” you breathe, your eyes dark and finger still in the air, “But I don’t get treated with respect, which should be a human right and not even an issue here.” You swipe your hand down. “I don’t get one look of gratitude from you. You complain, but you don’t seem to have any idea of what I’ve given up for you. Proper friends, a family of my own, a relationship.” Mycroft’s eyebrows rise. “My parents hardly ever see me. They think that I’ve abandoned them. The truth is that I have. All for Queen and country. All for you and so that I can bring you coffee that you never even thank me for. I’d like to see you cope without me”-

“I assure you that you’re not irreplaceable Miss. L/N,” Mycroft says in that same tone of warning, “I would advise you not to think yourself so important in the future.”

“Oh, but I am,” you say. Your finger lifts again. Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Just how long would you be able to cope without me? Be able to cope with all the extra minutes that fetching a coffee for yourself would take up every day? Now, on top of all that, you’re telling me that you want to blame me for what’s happened here today when you damn well know that I don’t lie to you and that you of all people can trust me?!”

“If you’re so unhappy with the way I treat you,” Mycroft says, pulling at his tie agitatedly and making it loosen as he arches his head forwards, for up until now he’d been of the belief that he’d been treating you with respect and a polite decorum, which the situation called for, “Then I suggest that you resign and find a more fulfilling job. That’s why you probably did all this in the first place.” He’s had enough now and quite frankly if that’s the way you want to behave then he doesn’t want you working for him any more.

You stare at him feeling hurt. Does he really think so little of you? It’s true that your heart’s been pining a bit for something else lately, something more fulfilling in your private life. True that you’d vaguely started looking at job adverts in a casual fashion, but you’ve damn well put in as much effort as you always do at work and given him absolutely no reason to doubt you. “Fine!" you finally blurt out, unable to stand even being in the same room as him any more. “I will! This will be my last week!” Mycroft opens his mouth, but thinking that you know what he’s about to say you go on, “Oh don’t go worrying your pretty little head about doing a nice reference for me. I couldn't care about that any more than I could give a damn about giving you proper notice right now. I’ve had enough!” Feeling angry and incensed you half-turn, let out a growl of frustration when you see that your case is blocking your exit to the door and pull it around, violently swinging it at him. He takes two hurried steps back in order to dodge it and looks at you in shock. The case crashes onto the floor sending the lid clicking open to reveal a pile of your underwear that are on top of your clothes. Mycroft looks at them in alarm for a moment, like a little boy afraid of catching germs from a girl, before his gaze goes back to you. You let out a ‘Humph,’ of indignation, swivel on your heel and march out of there. Mycroft hears the main door of the suite shutting behind you a moment later.

For a minute he just stands there not knowing what to do. Things seem to be unravelling so quickly in the one area that he’d thought would always be a reliable one that he can’t keep up with them. He grasps at his forehead and gives it two quick rubs. He really doesn’t need this. You acting like a stubborn child to rival his brother. His hands slide into his pockets, making fists around the fabric as he turns back to face the window. He takes two hurried steps towards it and lets out a sigh when he sees you blustering back towards the canal. The sky is darkening. A sudden burst of anger hits him. You’re so foolish! Not only for going out in a strange city as the night approaches with little care, but for talking to him in such a manner and for proving his brother right. How dare you say such things and let him down in this way! He releases another breath and curses when he notices that its started to drizzle. You've gone off in a mood without a coat and it’s bad enough that it now looks like he’ll have to find a replacement for you after this week without you getting ill on him too. He pictures you sneezing and struggling to control a runny nose during your stay here and a grumble rises up inside him. He can’t have you spreading your germs everywhere, not now that you’ll be staying in such close proximity to one another in the hotel. He turns around and grabs at his umbrella. He takes a couple of steps forwards, before he stops again in front of your open case. Tentatively, and after a furtive look around, he gives its contents one lingering gaze, before he flips the lid back over it. But the image of the lacy white bra that had been visibly prominent to him fails to leave his mind as he scurries out of the suite. He’d never imagined you in anything so feminine before. In actual fact he’d never spent any time looking at you as a woman and thinking about everything that you might have sacrificed for him. Never thought of your hobbies or interests beyond what he’d gleamed from his first initial look; let alone what lurks beneath your clothes. It’s only now, as he remembers your angry words and the feeling of missing something that he himself had felt, that he’s getting the sense that he should have thought of those things already. At least some of them anyway. He clears his throat.

----

You've no sooner let out a ferocious swear word at the rain, whilst you sit there bad-temperedly on a black bench by the canal when you suddenly feel a presence. You hear a tapping coming from above you and when you realize that you’re no longer getting wet you look up. Mycroft’s snuck up behind you and is now holding his umbrella above you.

“It’s raining,” he states the obvious.

“No? Really? I had no idea,” you tell him sarcastically.

He looks at you reproachfully. “Don’t push things F/N.”

“ ‘Don’t push things?’ I can’t believe that you’d think I’d mess about with the hotel rooms just to be childish.” You fold your arms bitterly.

“If you feel let down by me then I feel equally as let down by you,” he says gravely, pushing his damp hair away from his face. He still holds the umbrella above you. You look at him. “I feel disappointed about your mistake and the way you spoke to me just now.”

“There you go again.” You stand up. Mycroft makes a sound of irritation in his throat, before he adjusts the umbrella so that it still covers you. You put your hands on your hips and blow the hair out of your mouth. “Why would I have done it when it makes my situation more difficult too?” you ask.

Mycroft looks at you levelly for a moment. “Perhaps you decided that it would be worth it for the hassle it would cause me?”

You look off to the side. It’s odd, but you feel like something’s trembling inside your very core because you feel so indignant. “I can’t believe you’d treat me this way after fourteen years. Some thank you for my service that is.” You look at him one last time with tears pricking at your eyes. His lips part. You shake your head. “Get that thing away from me.” You push at the umbrella half-heartedly. Then you head back to the hotel.

Mycroft stares after you. But when a raindrop splashes on his nose he comes back to life again. Blinking and absent-mindedly covering himself with the umbrella he follows you at a distance.

When he gets back to the door of the suite it is to find that you’re standing there opposite it against the wall. You’re tapping at it impatiently with your fingers.

Feeling flustered and a tad uncertain because he’s never had to deal with this kind of situation before he rakes a hand through his ruffled hair and looks between the door and you. “Right.” He takes the key out of his pocket and fumbles with it, before he unlocks the door.

You push past him as soon as it’s open and stride into the bedroom. Mycroft follows you and sees that you’re now taking up the blue stool by the desk, sitting there sideways and facing the window like some disgruntled bird of prey. He watches from the door as your finger does a pirouette on the edge of the desk. He clears his throat and moves forwards, deciding that he might as well unpack and unfold his clothes since you’re clearly in no fit state to talk to him. He puts them neatly in the wardrobe and glances at you from time to time. He doesn’t know what to do. Should he try and talk to you? Or is your fourteen-year working relationship really over just like that? Still, you don’t seem like your mood’s improving so he stays quiet. He can’t know that as more and more time goes by you’re rapidly regretting your decision to quit because of how well the job pays. There’s no way you’re going to beg for it back though. You won’t stoop to that level.

Mycroft dares to venture close enough to you after he’s switched the light on to close the curtains. Once he’s done so however he doesn’t move away again. Instead he lingers in front of you, shifting from foot to foot. You let out a sound of irritation at the way that he’s just blocked your view, both with the curtains and his body and try and look around him. The sight of the boring cream curtains is better than him right now. Seeing what you’re doing he says, “I’ll be going to get some food now. Would you care to join me?”

“No thank you,” you retort curtly, still craning your head to look around him.

“Very well,” he bows his head. “That is your choice.”

You feel like yelling at him that, that’s not a choice at all. Not when you can hardly stand the sight of him right now. But in the end you stay quiet. You see him out, before you finally unpack yourself and resume your place by the desk. It had felt strange to put your clothes next to Mycroft’s in the wardrobe and you’d made sure that there was a clear divider between them, but it feels nice to have a bit of a break from him all the same. You call for room service for yourself and eat a pleasant, but small meal by your perch in the remainder of the time, before Mycroft returns.

“Ah,” he says as you duck out to put your now clean plate and crockery on the floor at the same time as you let him in, “You do realize that there’s an extra charge for room service don’t you?” he asks you.

“I’ve made a note of it. It can go on my expenses,” you inform him, before you lead the way back into the bedroom.

Mycroft follows you and slips a book out of his case. After one last furtive look at you he heads out into the living area to read it.

You take up your place by the desk, absent-mindedly flicking through your phone, whilst your brain screams that you do not like this. You don’t want to make things worse, although how they could possibly get any more so you don’t know? More than that though you want your own space. You want to be able to think clearly about everything right now without Mycroft being so close and the noises that come from him shuffling about from time to time. Want to feel like you can breathe without having to worry about messing up at any moment and how you should play things as they progress?

You’re still hunched up by the desk and feeling rather annoyed by it all when Mycroft returns a few hours later.

“It’s quarter-past-one,” he informs you, “I was rather thinking that it would be a good idea to head to bed now.”

You have at least had enough chance to think about that particular issue and now you say, “Yes,” a little distractedly, before you stand and say more decisively, “Since it’s more important for you to get a good night’s sleep than me, so that you can pay attention at the conference tomorrow I guess you can take the bed.” Your eyes meet his. Mycroft opens his mouth. “Don’t,” you say, before he can even utter a word. “I’ll take the settee.” You make to go past him to your case. But before you can he grabs at your arm. You look at him.

“I'm sure that we can come to some sort of agreement,” he says, letting go of you and looking around.

“Sir really”-

“There’s no point in you being so stubborn about this F/N. You’ll need a comfortable sleep as much as I will if you’re going to perform your job adequately tomorrow.” He looks at you quickly, before he looks away again. He feels a little worried that you might start yelling at him because of his last remark. Might start accusing him of thinking that you perform below par. But when he catches you nodding grudgingly at him a moment later he feels a little more settled. An idea pops into his head and he goes across to the wardrobe. He tugs the spare pillows out from the bottom and lays them down like a wall lengthways on the bed. “That way we can still keep our privacy,” he says.

“Yes sir,” you nod, feeling as pleased with the idea as you can do in the circumstances.

Mycroft looks suddenly awkward and you don’t understand why until he says, “Oh, I think you can drop the ‘Sir,’ whilst we’re in here together don’t you?” A beat passes between you both. “Why don’t you call me ‘Mycroft’ instead?” You look at him tentatively because you can’t imagine calling him by his first name after fourteen years of calling him ‘Sir’ or ‘Mr. Holmes.’ He meets your gaze levelly. “Would you like to use the bathroom first?” he asks you.

You shake your head. “I’ll use it second,” you tell him, before you question him more uncertainly, “As long as you promise not to look at me when I come out?”

“If you can equally keep to such a thing?” he asks.

You observe him coolly. “It appears that we have a deal,” you say.

“Yes,” he murmurs, “It seems that we do.” He goes to his case to fetch his bathroom things and the grey t-shirt that he’ll be changing into and makes for the door. The grey t-shirt surprises you a little. You’d never thought about what Mycroft might wear to bed, but you guess that if you had then you would have expected expensive, silk pyjamas or something.

Before he can leave through it however you say, “I’ll wait by the window with my back turned.” He nods and swiftly walks out.

You stare at the curtains stubbornly with folded arms as you wait for him to return.

“I’ll just get into bed,” he announces upon doing so, clearing his throat. You jerk your head forwards. You hear some rustling noise as Mycroft slips inside and then some more again as he pulls the duvet cover back firmly over himself. “All right,” he says.

You turn back around with your heart beating wildly. He’s on the left side with his head turned away from you. The duvet has been pulled right up to his chin. You clear your throat and almost skip a little hurriedly around to your case, keeping your back to him as you pull out your bathroom things and pyjamas, before you depart.

You change into your grey pyjamas with white collar, buttons and trim and make use of the facilities quickly, but you linger inside the room uncertainly for a time, not wanting to go back to Mycroft and feel even more like you can’t breathe and think freely about everything. You turn around this way and that, catching yourself in the vast mirror that’s above the bath and adjusting your collar. You swallow and when you get an itch on your ankle you lift up your other foot and scratch at it, sending your pyjama trousers lifting. You hear a dry cough coming from the bedroom. Your heart jumps and your hands curl up automatically into fists. Knowing that Mycroft’s probably getting impatient and wanting to turn the light off so that he can get some sleep you swallow again. Finally you grab your bundle of clothes and make your way to the door.

You cross back towards the bedroom, your feet taking comfort from the soft grey carpet. When you come to the door it is to see that Mycroft is on his side and exactly as you’d left him with his hair peeking out of the top of the duvet, his eyes staring stubbornly at the wardrobe and his hand tucked beneath his cheek. You make a little sound to alert him of your presence and quickly put your clothes away, before you move around to the right hand side of the bed. Your feet almost dance upon the plush green carpet as you do so. You turn to the bed and your heart skips a beat in apprehension. Gingerly you pull the right side of the duvet back and slip inside. Mycroft shuffles a little closer to the edge of the bed as the mattress sinks down and his stomach churns with something uneasy. He can smell you. You seem to have put something on that smells distinctly of lavender along with whatever nightclothes that you’ve got on. Mycroft wriggles uncomfortably. This is wrong. He’s not supposed to know what you smell like when you come to bed. That type of ritual is supposed to be one that he’s oblivious to. He swallows. He feels the bed dip down again as you adjust. Feels one of the pillows tremble ominously behind him as it threatens to break the wall. Then he hears the slight thump of you as you roll away from him.

“Shall I switch the light off?” you ask him, and your voice sounds so tired and soft that Mycroft can barely hear it. That is another thing that he’s not supposed to be hearing he thinks. Your voice in that way.

“That would be nice,” he says, as casually as he can manage in the circumstances. As his voice comes out a little croaky he clears his throat at once.

He hears the creak of the bed as you push against it with one hand and reach out with the other. He imagines your hand hovering in the air towards the lamp. Imagines how your skin might look underneath the lamp’s soft glow. “Goodnight,” you mumble.

“Night F/N,” Mycroft murmurs, wondering what’s going on with him as the light goes off a moment later. He pushes closer to the side of the bed. It had all started because of Sherlock’s words yesterday he thinks, but it had only properly kicked in after how honest you’d been earlier. All this sudden thinking of you as a human being, as an actual woman with emotions that could be affected by him rather than just as a robotic employee. He wishes that he could go back to that time when he didn't think of you in such a way because that would be a lot easier than all of this. Easier than knowing what you smell like when you go to bed and easier than wondering what you’re wearing right now. Pyjamas presumably because of the season, but what colour? And why does knowing such a thing suddenly seem so desirable to his mind? He shifts about again in irritation.

You can practically feel the thought bubbles rising up from Mycroft behind you like steam off a road on a hot day and wish that you could get rid of them and stem your own, so that you might be able to get some sleep. Its been a long time since you’ve slept with anybody. You’d been dating when you’d first started this job, but that had soon petered out because of your new work commitments. You’d tried to start other romances in the past, but none of them had lasted. You’d rather hoped that when you’d next slept with someone it would be because that had changed and you’d finally found someone who you could have a long-term relationship with. You hadn’t expected it to be Mycroft of all people.

Between all those thoughts and trying not to make too much movement lest it disturb the wall of pillows the night is a restless, long one for both Mycroft and you. By the time you finally drift off to sleep it’s gone two o’ clock.

Mycroft is close to sleep himself when he hears a voice abruptly say, “Yes sir.” His eyes snap open and he lifts his head up. “No, four o’ clock. No, I'm afraid that Mr. Holmes can’t do three. Yes, I'm sure that will be fine,” he hears you say. Mycroft moves onto his back, his head still up. What are you blathering on about? His lips part. Might it be some sort of game designed to further show how hard done by you think you are? “Yes sir I’ve done that. I’ll fetch you your coffee,” you say as you go off again. Mycroft slowly shifts himself into a sitting up position. When his eyes adjust further to the dark he sees that you’re on your back and that your eyes are shut. You mumble another load of nonsense, somehow managing to look quite happy and efficient as you do so, before you roll away from him again.

Mycroft lets out a bit of a sigh. Sleep talking. That’s another thing that he shouldn't know about you that he now does he thinks. It suddenly occurs to him that, that’s one thing that should probably be tested for in new PA’s as well as higher-up operatives. After all you’ve been included in some pretty important e-mails through him that you probably shouldn't have had access to and whilst your batch of current chatter seems harmless goodness knows what you’ve come out with on other nights. When you say something about ordering more stationary equipment in the next moment however he finds himself letting out a bit of a snort, before he can help himself. He shakes his head and rolls away from you, letting out a bit of a wistful sigh. This is all very odd and though he supposes that you sleep talking is more interesting than you snoring neither one of those things is exactly conducive to his rest right now. He irritably closes his eyes and tries to fall asleep, hoping that the world will have righted itself and feel less strange by tomorrow.

----

You wake up a little after six to find that your hands are both close to your head as you lie there right on the edge of the bed. Sunlight is poring through the gaps in the curtains. It takes you a moment to remember where you are, but when it comes back to you your stomach feels tight and your mind instantly cluttered. You wonder if Mycroft’s up yet, but you think that you can hear his soft breathing coming from behind you. Sure enough when you sit up he’s still in bed and although you’d promised him that you wouldn't your eyes can’t help but drift to the arm of his that is now helping to pin the duvet to his body as he lies there sideways with his back turned to you. You can see the dark grey sleeve of his t-shirt, but it is the pale and freckled skin that really gets your attention, as well as his surprisingly well-muscled bicep. You’d never thought that beneath his suits there could be such an arm, never thought of such a thing at all really or that he’d have so many freckles and that the soft light of morning would make them all dance. It also makes his hair shine. You swallow and quickly look away again when you realize that you’re practically staring and not only that, but in admiration too. He’s your boss. Your head is being ridiculous for seeing such things. You must still be tired from yesterday’s emotions and all the travelling you think. You get out of bed, grab your clothes for now and hurry to the bathroom.

----

When Mycroft wakes it takes him rolling over and knocking into one of the pillows for him to realize where he is and what had preceded the morning. He sits up with a jolt and finds to his relief that you’re already up. He dresses hurriedly in a dark grey and brown checked suit, brown waistcoat, dark tie with swifts on and a white shirt. He also affixes his pocket-watch to his waistcoat.

“Ah F/N,” he says when he strides out to see that you’re sitting at the desk in the living area with your silver laptop and black phone out in front of you, whilst the news plays on low in the background. You’re wearing an orange turtle-neck with smart, dark trousers. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” you glance up, before you look down again.

Mycroft frowns a little and hesitates in his next movement. Usually you’d look at him for a bit longer and be a bit more receptive. He can’t know that you’re feeling a little embarrassed about your outburst and that aside from being consciously aware of the fact that you’ll be out of a job soon you just want to forget all about it. Feeling like he’d appreciate you talking now though he tries to coax the conversation out of you when he asks, “Sleep well?”

You narrow your eyes at him because you’re unused to such hospitality. Mycroft shrugs as if to ask what is wrong with him enquiring about such a thing? You blow out a breath and lie, “Oh yes. You?”

“Hm?” Mycroft says, distracted already. This time by the light that’s coming in from the window and making your hair appear as if its got a halo above it. It softens all your edges too. You really do look nice-

You roll your eyes. “You know if you’re going to try and be polite then you should probably follow it through by actually listening to my answer. I asked you if you’d slept well yourself?”

To his credit he only looks a little annoyed by you telling him off. “I’ll bear that in mind,” he says dryly, before he draws himself up. “To answer your question yes. I slept quite well.” He slides his hands into his pockets and rocks back and forth on his heels for a moment. He looks across at the wall.

Again you roll your eyes. He really is hopeless and once more you can’t imagine how he’ll cope without you, but this time you feel a pang because of such a thing. That feeling of devastation and betrayal almost that you’d felt after what had happened yesterday comes back to you and once more you don’t understand why it had hit you quite so strongly and why the thought of leaving Mycroft now suddenly makes you feel so odd. You should have expected him to blame you and treat you in such a way you think. You could probably do a hundred years service and you’d still be unappreciated. “There’s some coffee or tea. I could get you some?” you ask, trying to distract yourself from such a feeling because you’re worried that if you carry on down the line you’re going then you’re going to do something else that you’ll regret.

“Oh, I can do that,” he waves a hand vaguely. Suddenly something comes to him and he looks back at you. You swallow a little underneath the intensity of his gaze. He holds the eye contact for a moment, before he breaks it off with a bit of a smirk about his face and goes to bring the coffee things to the table with a bit of a bounce.

You roll your eyes when he disappears momentarily back inside the bedroom to get the tub of coffee beans that he’d brought with him-he hates the hotel ones. You imagine that he’d carefully placed the tub in his case and wrapped it in a sock or something. It makes you smile for a moment. But then, feeling a bit uneasy about the sudden upbeat turn of his behaviour, especially after the way that things had kicked off between you yesterday, you ask, “Is there something wrong?”

He looks up at you from where he’d been pouring the coffee beans into a cup. “Wrong? No.” He finishes making the coffee and sips at it in satisfaction, before he takes up the armchair and rests his feet upon the footrest. With his coffee in hand he elaborates, “Its just occurred to me that it’s a rather lucky thing that you don’t have a partner after all if you’re going to reveal all of my secrets in your sleep.”

You feel an initial stab of pain at the prospect that he might be about to tell you off again, before your face grows panicked as you wonder what it was that you might have said. “Secrets sir?”

“Oh, I wouldn't worry," Mycroft says, "You didn't actually reveal any. I doubt terrorists are going to be interested in the amount of stationary that we have.” You flush a little, before you feel something else too. Surprise. Had he just joked with you? You forget about it in the next moment though for he lets out what initially comes off as being an out of place curse. He leans forward, deposits his cup on the floor and gets out his vibrating mobile phone from the inside pocket of his jacket. He curses again when he reads the text message.

“Sir?” you ask.

But Mycroft’s too focused on putting together what he’s just read. For the text from his brother had read: Sleep well? “Bugger.” He looks up again. You’re staring at him inquisitively, lips slightly parted, head tilted. He swallows. “It appears that I owe you an apology F/N,” he gets immediately to the point. You straighten your head and look at him. He’s never said sorry to you before and you want to make the most of it. “I’ve just had a text from my brother, which enlightened me to the fact that it must have been he who caused the upset to our rooms. Probably in one of his fits of boredom,” he forces a smile at you, feeling uneasy once more about what had taken place yesterday.

“I told you,” you mutter, your expression growing dark.

“As I have said I am most sorry,” he says, rearranging his face into a sincere expression. “It was wrong of me to make such an assumption, especially after, like you said, all the years of service that you have given me.” You nod as if you’re still reserving judgement about whether you should forgive him or not. “I didn't have much to go on,” he attempts, “Though with Sherlock as a brother one should always expect the unexpected.”

You smile a little at that and your mood softens towards him again without being able to help it.

Neither of you talk about the answer, which would come out of the question: Why had Sherlock done what he had? For even when bored Sherlock always seems to have a purpose, even if it’s just destroying the wall to get attention. You both prefer to just think of it as a mere prank.

----

The morning passes fairly pleasantly after that one moment of awkwardness. You do the bits and pieces of work that you can and which most need doing with your laptop and after disappearing briefly for breakfast Mycroft talks on the phone. At nine you watch Prime Minister Theresa May’s appearance on ‘The Andrew Marr Show,’ together and then because of that Mycroft ends up making another couple of phone calls.

You head down to the Birmingham ICC and are there for the official opening of the conference at two. Mycroft’s in his same suit and you’re in a grey and white pinstripe jacket and trousers along with a white blouse. Mycroft has a quick meeting with the Brexit Secretary David Davis, before you attend Theresa May’s first speech at the conference on Britain’s exit from the European Union. Mycroft does another couple of phone calls, whilst you fetch him his afternoon coffee. It takes a moment to find him again through the throng, but when you do so it’s to see that he’s looking increasingly harried and raking his free hand through his hair as he talks. He almost snatches his coffee from you. Yet when you look at him with dark, reproachful eyes he finds enough common sense about him to mouth, ‘Thank you.’ You turn away looking pleased and Mycroft feels a quick spark of happiness that does not match up to the conversation that he’s currently having.

“I'm going to have to meet with Johnson,” is the first thing that Mycroft says when he comes off the phone in reference to Foreign Secretary Boris Johnson, “Warn him not to insult other countries, before his speech and not to get too philosophical about Brexit.” He sips at his coffee in an irritated absent-minded fashion, before his eyes widen slightly and he rubs his lips together to assess the taste more. It seems to be warmer, nicer and more comforting than the usual ones that come out of the vending machine at these types of event. “Mm.” He drinks some more, growing increasingly mollified. “You found my favourite coffee?” He looks at you.

“Just took a bit of magic sir,” you grin, feeling pleased that he’d noticed. That, along with the fact that he’d actually explained what was next on the agenda instead of just striding off and getting it done like he usually would are a vast improvement. Usually you’d be left to hurry after him and play catch-up. But underneath his curious gaze you come out of your thought, turn to your bag and open it to reveal that you’ve snuck the tub of special coffee beans that Mycroft had brought with him inside. “All I had to do was find a section that has tea and coffee making facilities and use the hot water there. I chucked the terrible coffee from the vending machine out.”

Mycroft looks at you and his face transforms so suddenly into a smile that it makes you blink and feel winded. You can’t know that he’s suddenly realized just how much you’ve come to know and understand him. Can’t know that its occurred to him that he should probably stop treating you so much as an inferior to him because you’ve had fourteen years to know him as well as he’d come to know you from that one first glance and you’ve obviously learnt a lot of things in that time. Not that you were exactly thick to begin with he thinks. You smile tentatively back at him. “I suppose I just thought that I should make even more of an effort in my last week sir. Go out on a good note and all that.”

“Yes.” Mycroft’s face falls. He looks around. More than ever he does not want you to go-not just because of the inconvenience that it would cause him, but because you’re you. He does not know what to do about such a thing.

“Johnson sir,” you remind him, sensing that his mood is turning more melancholy although you have no idea why.

“Hm? Oh yes,” Mycroft says, coming out of his reverie. He looks back at you and drains his coffee. He’ll have to work out the problem of you later. “Come.” You follow him obediently through the crush of the crowd to find Johnson. Suddenly Mycroft turns back to you and you have to take a hurried step back to avoid crashing into him. “Have you got a means of recording on you?” he asks.

You nod. “Yes sir.”

“Then please make sure that it’s on in a discreet fashion when we come across Johnson. I want every word I tell him to be caught. That way if he still says anything inappropriate I can nail him to the wall. May might be Prime Minister, but she needs her team under better control,” he says.

“Of course sir,” you say seriously.

Mycroft, looking happier, but still a bit troubled, turns around. “Slippery bastard,” he mutters, his mind on Johnson again. You smile.

----

Once Johnson has been taken care of and the first day of conference has come to its natural end you take the suite key from Mycroft, so that you can go back to the hotel, whilst he goes out to have dinner wherever he should please and without you. Before you can turn around however, and full of a sudden idea, he grabs at your arm. You look back at him.

“Let me take you out to dinner tonight,” he says. Your mouth gapes at him. “Think of it as an apology for the little misunderstanding that we shared yesterday.” He squeezes at your arm, before he lets go of it once more.

You just stare at him for another moment, taking in all the strange things that have happened between you today and thinking that this is the one to top them all. Finally you get yourself together enough to say, “That’s unnecessary Sir. It’s already forgotten.” It isn't exactly, but again you just want to try and make it that way if you can.

“Let me take you then, so that I can thank you for all your years of service,” Mycroft goes on persistently. Again you hesitate. “I'm trying to be nice,” he adds a little impatiently.

Seeing that it’s something that he genuinely seems keen to do and that you’re not going to get away with not going you nod at him. Mycroft smiles and looks immediately more content. “Should I wear anything specific?” you ask tentatively.

Mycroft shifts for a moment. “You've brought a dress?” he checks.

“Yes,” you say a little guardedly.

“Then wear it. I shall meet you back at the hotel.”

You nod and cast him a bit of a smile, before you hurry off again. By the time you hear Mycroft returning you’re in the bathroom of the suite, inspecting yourself in the mirror that’s over the bath. You’re now in a long blue dress that has many silver crystals on it. Your hair is in a chignon and you’ve got ringlets hanging down by the side of your face. You've applied some red lipstick; blue eye shadow as well as a light blusher to your cheeks. Silver, triangular earrings hang down from your ears. You twist and turn this way and that, taking a deep breath and exiting the bathroom, before you make your way back to the bedroom again.

When you get there it’s to see that Mycroft’s topless. You catch no more than a glimpse of his pale, freckled back, before you gasp, “Oh God,” and spin around.

Mycroft tenses and quickly covers himself up with a white shirt, doing all the buttons up, before he turns to face you. He’s rather glad that you’re not facing him for he ends up doing a double take. The dress that you’re wearing is stunning, but more than that you look beautiful in it. As he sees the back of your neck, the way that the dress helps to accentuate your curves and your shapely legs he thinks that there is no chance of him forgetting that you’re a woman tonight. He swallows and clears his throat.

This sets you off to say, “Sorry sir. I forgot that you might be changing too.”

“That’s okay.” Mycroft shifts his position, grounding himself. He tugs the collar of his shirt down. “You can look now.”

Slowly you turn around, your hands going up to clasp in front of your chest as you do so. Your eyes scrutinize him just like he’s analysed you, taking in the smart dark trousers he’s already put on and the white shirt whose collar is a little twisted on one side. He must have tried to flatten it in a rush you think. Your hands fidget a little and you chew on your lip. You want to go over there and adjust it. But just as that thought pops into your head Mycroft turns to the side away from you, facing the jacket that is on the bed instead. Feeling suddenly worried you ask, “Is what I'm wearing too much sir? I can always go and change.”

Mycroft’s hands had been lifting the jacket up from the bed and curving it towards him, but now they stop. “No,” he says suddenly, letting go of the jacket again and turning towards you. “You look nice F/N.” A little too nice actually, his mind adds. He chews on his lip.

“Thank you sir.” You look at him uncertainly. When he swivels back to his jacket you go and take your pair of heels that match your dress out from where you’ve been keeping them at the bottom of the wardrobe. Mycroft turns his head a little so that he can partly watch you. When you glance with a quick frown to the bed and proceed to go to the side of the wardrobe, before you begin to lean against it with one hand and attempt to push your heels on he says, “Please, let me.” You straighten up. He comes to stand in front of you, looking at you both slightly seriously and pleadingly. The expression is rather foreign to you and it’s not until Mycroft indicates that you should put your heels down in the space that’s between you that you get what he wants you to do. Slowly you follow his gesture and then grip onto his shoulders, bunching his shirt in between your hands and almost making him wince as you step into your heels. You wriggle and push into them and it’s not until they’re finally in place that you release a small breath and look at him. Not until then that you realize just how close you are and that Mycroft’s eyes have dropped down to your lips. You exhale sharply, let go of him and hurriedly take a step back.

“T-Thank you sir.”

Mycroft, afraid by what he’d just been tempted to do, but curious too, bows his head and moves to slip his jacket on. As if you’re doing a little dance you go back to the wardrobe, take your black shawl out and carefully place it around your shoulders. You’d been doing the act with such delicacy that it comes as a shock to you when Mycroft, too intrigued by everything to stop now, suddenly appears behind you. He slips his hands onto your shoulders. You jump against him.

“Sorry. It’s just that I thought I told you not to call me ‘Sir,’ when we’re alone?”

“Sorry sir”- you hurriedly break off.

“Mycroft,” he ducks his head and whispers his name into your ear. Your hair flutters and your eyelids suddenly dip, before they right themselves again.

“Hm?” you say, clutching at your shawl.

“Mycroft. That’s what you should call me. I think you’ve earned that right in fourteen years,” he smiles, reaches past you and opens the wardrobe door one handedly. His hand dips into it and plucks out a tie that matches your dress, curving it down off the hanger in a slow movement that leaves your eyes fascinated.

You can feel his body pressing against yours as he does all of this and you swallow and move off to the side, away from him. Your heart’s suddenly racing and you don’t understand why? Why every light touch from Mycroft and his current closeness has left you feeling breathless, tingly and oddly cold? Why the fact that he’d been looking at your lips seems to matter so much? His eyes might have just landed there. He probably hadn’t even been-

“Shall we?” Mycroft asks. You start out of your thought and look at him to see that his appearance is every inch the dapper gentleman, his collar now having been corrected because of him having fixed his tie. A dark blue pocket-handkerchief lies in his breast pocket. You nod and he offers you his arm as he comes to stand level with you in a smart fashion. You put your hand gingerly on the crook of it and let out another breath. Your eyes go up to Mycroft’s and you feel a little thrown off guard when you catch sight of something softer in his eyes, before he hurriedly covers it up again. Could Mycroft have been thinking about kissing you after all? You turn around together and pick up Mycroft’s umbrella and your blue handbag, before you leave the suite. You wonder as you stand in the lift whether he’d really been about to bring his lips down to yours and wonder what you would have done if he had? Your mind goes back to how you’d found yourself admiring his arm that morning and to the strong feelings that have been surging inside you ever since the hotel problem had occured as well as how your heart had started to beat all oddly just now at his every touch and when you’d been so close. A strange thought occurs to you. Could you be in love with your boss? Is that why you’d stared at him in the way you had this morning? Is that why you’d felt so upset after he’d accused you of being responsible for that mistake yesterday? Upset about him not trusting you? You look at him with your eyes narrowed, close to a squint. “Is everything all right?” he asks just as the lift doors slide open.

“Mm? Oh yeah,” you say, before you lead the way out of the hotel. Your heart’s racing. You can’t be in love with him. But it would be so typical if you are you think when you’ve only yesterday broken off your ties with him through getting annoyed. So typical if you realized you were falling now when you’re days away from leaving him. You feel suddenly emotional.

“You know,” Mycroft says conversationally as he catches up with you, “If I'm going to try and be polite then you should probably listen.” It’s a twist on what you’d told him just this morning and you can’t help but smile. Yet as soon as you feel a fluttering inside you, you try and push it back down again. You do accept his arm though when he offers it to you.

“Where are we going?” you ask, still feeling a little confused about everything.

“There’s an Indian down the street. I made a reservation for us on the way back to the hotel. They could accommodate us, which was good because it comes highly recommended,” Mycroft replies.

“Lucky for you then that I like Indian,” you murmur without being able to help it and your head instantly wonders what you’re doing. Did you just flirt with your boss? Your heart gives a little leap like it doesn’t seem to care.

“Lucky that I could already tell such a thing from reading you,” Mycroft quips just as fast.

You let out a bit of a laugh. “What else can you tell?”

“Why don’t you pretend that, that’s the exception?” Mycroft says, pulling his arm gently away from you as you come to a stop outside the restaurant and gesturing that you should be the first to enter it.

“But it’s not,” you say over your shoulder as you do so, and although your nose picks up on the exotic spicy scent of the place you barely pay any attention to that or to the circular tables that are bedecked in long, white tablecloths.

“No, but for tonight I want to dismiss all of that and get to know you in the normal way”-

“You’re going to ask me a bunch of questions that you already know the answers to?” you ask him with a bit of a laugh as he joins you by the podium, so that you can wait to be seated. Mycroft’s hand curls automatically around your waist and you feel that fluttering again.

“No, I'm going to ask you the questions that I should have asked you right from the start to make you feel included,” Mycroft says just as an Asian man with thinning dark hair and a wispy moustache in a dark waistcoat, white shirt and black trousers comes to join you. “I believe that there should be a reservation for us under the name of ‘Holmes?’” Mycroft tells the man.

The man checks the list upon the podium, makes a little mark against the name and nods. “Please, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes follow me.” He turns again.

Your mouth opens at the mistake, but Mycroft nudges at your side with his and increases the pressure upon your waist. You look at him. “It doesn’t matter.” He shakes his head discreetly. “Besides, F/N Holmes. It doesn’t sound that bad does it?” He guides you after the man, but seeing that you look a little nonplussed by what he’s just said-he can’t know that your mind is reciting the name over and over again-he swiftly adds, “Of course I dare say that it won’t be a patch on the name you’ll have, should you choose to take it, once you get married.”

You still feel stunned, but like you definitely know now that you like him far more than you should, and, not feeling comfortable talking to him about such things you say, “Oh.” You shrug your shoulders, trying to not show him how uneasy you are. “I’ve probably missed that ship.” You look around, before you get yourself together enough to look back and say, “Still, I suppose that I could be Mrs. Holmes for this evening. You've made me act enough in my role. I dare say that one more time won’t hurt.” You try and smile bravely at him but inside your heart is breaking for you have enough common sense to know that even if, Mycroft had, for one moment felt tempted to kiss you then he’d never feel as strongly about you as you now realize you do about him.

“I'm honoured that you’d take up the role so willingly,” Mycroft says, feeling partly satisfied by the response and partly awkward because he senses that there’s something deeper going on with you right now and he can’t tell what. He just hopes that you’re not feeling angry with him or with your job for denying you the chance to have gotten married previously. He pulls your purple seat out for you as you reach the middle table that you’ve been led to in an attempt to try and appease you if that is the line of thought that you’re meandering down. You sit there gratefully and he takes his place opposite. Your menus arrive a moment later, but it’s not until you’ve ordered, your meals have arrived and you’re a little way through them that the conversation finally gets back to what it had been about when you’d first entered the restaurant.

“What you said before,” you say, taking a break from your curry, ��About asking me the things that you should have?” Mycroft looks at you. “That’s nice and all, but don’t you think that it’s a rather pointless thing to be doing now? You might as well just use this experience with me as a learning one and use it to get to know your next assistant better instead.” You feel gloomy, your mind having gone from Mycroft not feeling the same to the prospect of leaving him again and you now find that you don’t like the thought of another woman doing all the things that you do for him. Fetching him his coffee. Bringing him the best red velvet cake that you can find on all his bad days. Being a constant level of support. You poke at your rice moodily with your spoon. You wish you hadn’t realized how you feel for him. Things had been so much easier before.

Mycroft feels angry at your words, angry that you’d probably been unhappy with him earlier after all, and, after looking down, he tears a chunk off his Naan bread. “Would you consider yourself a failed experiment then?” He shoves the bread inside his mouth and chews on it as he looks at you.

“Perhaps,” you shrug, feeling a little taken aback by the sudden energy that you can feel radiating off him. You turn your attention back to your curry. You slide some more of it up with your spoon and blow on it, before you eat your next mouthful.

Mycroft takes a sip of his red wine and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he watches you. He lowers his glass back to the table. “Then I feel sorry for that, for the fact that you don’t ever feel like you’ll get married and for the clear way that you don’t understand that I have always held you in high regard.” You stare at him, before you look down again. Your heart skips a beat. “Do you really think that anyone would have lasted fourteen years in my employment if I did not think them worthy?” he asks you in a rumbling tone. You feel touched at his fervent manner, but like you don’t know what to say. You just carry on eating for a little while. Mycroft does so too, but it’s not long before he’s looking up at you and saying, “You don’t have to go.” You look at him, swallowing again as you realize that you’ve been secretly hoping for these words. “What happened between us yesterday was unfortunate and I realize that, that misunderstanding made all your other…irritations come out, but I am trying now and willing to try still after what you have told me. Must you leave?” You duck your head. Your eyes skitter across the table. “Just know,” Mycroft says with some weight behind his tone and you look up at him again, “That you don’t have to. Not on my account anyway. I would not mind so terribly if you changed your mind.” He offers you a bit of an awkward smile then. “It would mean that I wouldn't have to go through the trouble of finding anyone else after all.” He waves a hand.

Your eyes go down again and you can’t help but feel disappointed that, that’s all he wants you to stay for. As you’re reminded that he’ll never feel the same and you’ll probably be left clinging onto pointless hope if you stay you look back at him and ask, “It wouldn't be very professional of me though would it? To change my mind now?”

“Well,” Mycroft says, meeting your eyes again, “Just know that I wouldn't mind if you were to do so. Why don’t you take the rest of the week to think about it?”

“But if you need to find someone?” You look at him searchingly as he stares into his curry, sensing that there’s something more that he’s not touching on.

You can’t know that as much as he’s feeling he’s made progress with you in being honest he’s also thinking that he hasn’t made enough and expressed to you just how much he truly doesn’t want you to go. Expressed to you what he’d been tempted to do earlier. He wonders for one wild moment if he should. But common sense quickly catches up with him. For to tell you now when you probably don’t feel the same and when you’re on the verge of leaving his employment would make him look weak. Something he can’t even contemplate. “Just take some time,” he informs you, before he hurriedly starts to eat again as a loud and somewhat panicked voice in his head yells at him that he’s just ruined everything.

You go back to eating too and the conversation is a little stilted and forced for the rest of the meal. That’s when it happens at all. You turn the option of pudding down, finish off your wine, and then, once Mycroft’s paid, you head back to the hotel together.

“Thank you for the meal…Mycroft,” you tell him once you’re in the lift, concentrating on saying his actual name.

He looks at you calculatingly for a moment. “It was my pleasure,” he says, before you both turn to face the front again.

Once you get back to the suite you carry out the same routine as what you’d done the previous night with Mycroft using the bathroom first and then you.

Yet that night, once you’re both lying in bed with the pillows keeping you apart once more, instead of a distinct awkwardness and a fear to move there’s a feeling of sadness between you.

A battle goes on in your head. Once more you’re not sure what to do. Should you stay with him? After all he’s trying and if he’s already said that you could-? But part of you thinks that you should stick to your decision. You’d said that you were going to leave Mycroft at the end of the week so you should go through with it. At the end of the day how long will Mycroft making an effort really last? For it’s one thing for him to do such a thing now, when you’re away from London and have been forced together. But what will happen when you return to the capital and work gets even busier? Surely Mycroft will go back to treating you the way that he’s always done? Snapping at you and demanding that you bring him this or that without a ‘Please’ or ‘Thank you’ in sight? Even if he doesn’t want to it might just happen automatically. Besides, your thoughts continue, this is more than just about Mycroft making an effort. It’s about you actually having some sort of a life that doesn’t include him and about you not having to suffer the daily heartbreak that would surely ensue if you stayed. If you left you could try and repair the bonds with your family and perhaps get some friends, maybe even a partner. But you can’t deny that after tonight you’re going to miss Mycroft. For fourteen years you’ve seen him more on a day-to-day basis than anyone else, but its been in the past twenty-four hours that you feel like you’ve managed to push through his cold, work exterior and find something more to the man. Not to mention realize the true extent of your feelings for him. An ache builds its way up inside you and when it reaches its peak you roll around and shuffle closer to the pillow wall. You feel suddenly like crying.

As Mycroft rolls around too and moves across, so that if it weren’t for the pillows then you’d be together, facing one another in the middle, he thinks that he doesn’t know how he’s ever going to get anyone who could possibly replace you.

----

When Mycroft awakes that morning it is to a suddenness, which he doesn’t understand the reason of until he opens his eyes, discovers himself on his back and turns his head to see that you-still in sleep’s tender grasp-have managed to bat one of the pillows off the wall and send it hurtling onto his chest. He makes to pluck it off him, but when you suddenly throw yourself over the remaining pillow, before you wrap an arm partly around both the pillow and him he freezes. You let out an incoherent gurgle, before you shift closer to him. You push your nose against his arm and wriggle against him, lifting one of your legs up and resting it in between his, brushing it back and for. Christ. Mycroft’s heart slams repeatedly against his chest. He screws his eyes shut. He can feel his body awakening and he does not want it to. He wishes that you’d just move back again. He can smell you and feel the warmth of your skin with only the thin fabric of your pyjamas and his grey t-shirt and boxer shorts separating it from his. Feel your breasts pushing into his side. God he has to stop this. He cannot think of such things. You’re his employee. You’re leaving him at the end of the week. He forces his eyes open and tilts his chin down so that he can look at you. He practically gets a mouthful of your hair as he does so and he shifts ever so slightly. Your eyes are shut and you couldn't be any closer to him. You look content, happy. But you can’t stay like that. His body is not obeying him and getting in line with his mind and he can barely keep that under control either. No, he has to force himself from you somehow or he’ll end up doing something, which you’ll no doubt think very inappropriate. He weighs up his options. He doesn’t really want to wake you and make you aware of what you’ve just done. He’s sure that you’ll be horrendously embarrassed by it all, but that really would be the simplest of options. “F/N?” he attempts hoarsely, but you’re dead to the world. You stroke at the pillow once and raise your knee up higher, coming into contact with his sensitive member, which is forming a tent inside his boxer shorts. Mycroft lets out a hiss and closes his eyes again. For a moment he just lies there with his increased heartbeat and rapidly clenching hands. He curses you inwardly for putting him through this. Curses his brother too for starting off this whole thing. He’d been perfectly fine until then. Fine and oblivious. You’d just been a robot, not who you are now. He comes to his senses and opens his eyes. Once more he thinks of what his next action should be. He lightly tweaks at the corner of the pillow and sends you rolling off him and back to your side again. You mumble a bit in protest, before you settle back down, none the wiser to it all. Letting out breath after breath in relief Mycroft hurriedly gets out of bed, re-constructs the pillow wall and moves as fast as he can to the bathroom. There he shuts himself inside, leans heavily against the door, whilst he breathes heavily and thinks that it might be better if you do leave him after all. But that thought only lasts a mere moment, before that sad feeling rises up inside him again. He knows that having a relationship with you would complicate his life, knows that his growing feelings for you are already doing such a thing, but his body and God damn it his mind wants you now and he must not let you resign. Whether you feel the same or not he has to keep that chance.

----

When you awake you have no re-collection of what you’d done to Mycroft and so you spend a lot of the day wondering why he seems even more thoughtful and intense than usual and about the odd little glances that he keeps sending you. Is he wondering whether you’ll say that you don’t want to resign? But there’s something else that you sense is more than that. Something you’ve never seen before on his face. You’d almost call it desperation if it weren’t for the fact that you doubt Mycroft ever feels such a thing. Perhaps for his brother. But since Sherlock’s not here now then it can’t be that you reason.

That night you suggest that perhaps you should just have one level of pillows between you. You make out that it’s because you’re afraid of them falling on either of you in the middle of the night, but really it’s because you’d like to keep more of an eye on him. You suspect that he’ll probably guess that the reason you’re saying isn't the real one. You hadn’t said anything about it the previous night after all, but to his credit he does go along with it. He looks suddenly awkward though, even swinging upward from where he’s already in bed, and that makes you ask, “Is everything all right?”

He doesn’t automatically respond. You stare at him. His cheeks, to your surprise, suddenly take on some colour-a faint shade of pink. You've never seen that before either, but it makes his face look nicer somehow. Warmer. That fluttering feeling returns inside you. He looks away again, before he looks back at you. “I was rather hoping not to have to make you aware of this,” he says, “But considering what you’ve just brought up”-he waves a hand-“You toppled one of the pillows this morning, and, for a brief moment until I could free myself you took it upon yourself to give one of the pillows and I a hug.”

“Oh God. Did I really?” You flush, the colour going straight to your face, and it’s you, Mycroft notices who looks nicer now. “I'm so, so sorry. In that case then perhaps we better”- you thwack the pillow you’ve just lifted back on top of the wall. For God’s sake you can’t even be in a safe position and not make things worse when you sleep! You have to leave.

“No,” Mycroft mutters, his hand going to your wrist. “Let it stay off.”

You inhale sharply at his touch and then for the first time you become properly aware of the fact that he’s seeing you in your grey and white pyjamas and you’re seeing him in his grey t-shirt, which his chest hair sticks out the top of. You swallow. “We promised each other that we wouldn't look,” you tell him uncertainly.

“Yes, we did didn't we?” Mycroft comments, his tone conversational as well as being low and seductive. “But since we've broken that now”- his eyes dip down to your chest as he lets go of you.

You swallow, hurriedly take a step back from him and fold your arms across your chest. You get the sense that he had wanted to kiss you yesterday in the hotel after all and you’re not sure what to make of it. All you know is that your thoughts seem jumbled inside your head and only one, which you’d rather stayed down, keeps bobbing to the surface. What would it be like to kiss Mycroft? Could you really try it? Get to know the answer to that at least, before you left? “Well, anyway.” You shrug, trying to get that thought away from you again and get your heart under control. It’s acting ridiculous at the moment. Of course you can’t just kiss Mycroft now, that would only lead you to wanting more probably and he may have wanted to kiss you yesterday, but he doesn’t feel the same, he can’t. People call him the Iceman for God’s sake. He doesn’t feel things like that. Not just for you, but for anyone. “I guess that what happened this morning explains why you’ve been looking at me so oddly all day,” you hurriedly add to try and excuse your long silence when you realize that he’s still looking at you.

“It was partly because of that,” Mycroft acknowledges, meeting your eyes again and you feel a shiver run down you, “But partly too because I’ve been wondering how I might be able to persuade you to stay in my employment?” Your mouth opens. “Let me take you out again tomorrow. The Symphony Hall is just across the street. It would be a shame not to make use of it. A quick phone call and I'm sure that I’d be able to obtain tickets for whatever performance they've got on.” You look at him with a tilted head as you chew on your lip. “You can call it another overdue thank you from me if you still decide to leave,” he tells you. You nod and take the pillow away, so that there’ll just be one level of them and not two between you. Mycroft smiles and you slip into bed, your brain still trying to combat the stupidity of your heart.

“Night,” you say as you switch off the light.

“Goodnight F/N,” Mycroft murmurs, feeling tentative and knowing that tomorrow, what with it being the last full day of conference and your last night together that he has to do something definite to change your mind. After the conference ends on Wednesday morning you’ll both be travelling back to London and he’s sure that if your heart’s still fixed on leaving by then that you will and it will be too late to change it.

He feels more encouraged when he hears you say, “I guess what I'm wondering is will you still treat me like I matter when we go back to London?” For he can sense that you’re slowly getting more torn about the issue. Whilst he knows that you want him to believe that you’ve said such a thing in your sleep, but the carefully structured question tells him that it’s one you’ve come up with consciously.

Wanting to reassure you though and give you what you want he says, “I will do my best to,” and you smile. Mycroft can’t see it, but he can sense it and that’s enough, for now at least.

----

“Did you ever wonder why my brother chose to make it so that we’d have to share a room?” Mycroft asks you when you’re both sitting in the Hall that following night, looking down upon the vast orchestra as they play the most beautiful pieces of classical music. Mycroft’s in a bow-tie and tails and you’re in a glittery silver dress with your h/c hair in a ponytail that swoops over one shoulder. It’s a little cold there, despite the warmth of everyone’s bodies. At least that’s what you’ve both told yourselves to excuse the fact that you're sitting close together. Mycroft places a delicate hand upon your knee and you hurriedly tear your eyes away from the musicians to look at him.

“You said that it was because he was bored,” you remind him.

Mycroft’s eyes glitter against yours. “Has no other reason ever occurred to you?” he asks.

You hesitate a moment. Sensing it’s time to be brave you venture carefully, “I suppose if I were to think of such a thing properly”-Mycroft’s hand tightens upon your knee encouragingly-“Then the most obvious thing for me to conclude would be that he wants us to be together.”

“No,” Mycroft says, and your face hardens with an anxiety that you’ve just overstepped and been foolish until he strokes at your hand, sending sparks across it and says, “The most obvious thing to deduce would be that he wanted to embarrass me.” You smile. “But”-his hand stills and so does your breath-“I tend to agree with you and think that what you’ve just said would probably have been his main goal.” You swallow a little and nod, trying to remain casual even though your heart rate has increased tenfold and the energy between you seems to have grown consideringly more interesting. As bizarre as it may be you’re starting to get increasingly more confident that you of all people might have affected the Iceman after all.

You don’t know what to do next though and so you look away and watch the music again. Mycroft gives your skin a little press, before he lets go of you.

It’s not until you’re both back at the hotel and you’re moving towards the bed in your pyjamas as Mycroft sits up with his back against the headboard, watching you, that he says, “So?” You stop and look at him. “Why do you think that my brother decided to try and push us together if he could?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” you say with a false innocence that makes Mycroft’s lip quirk upward. He knows that you’ve cottoned on to his feelings right now and he gets the sense from how you’re acting that you don’t mind. Just to further encourage him you pad across and flip the duvet back. You sit down and twist your head around to look at him. “But I'm sure that you’re about to tell me.”

Mycroft smiles. “Well,” he says, moving to sit on his knees, so that he can face you now across the wall of pillows. You turn around properly and do the same to him. When he places an experimental hand on top of the wall and looks at you imploringly you cautiously place yours there too, close to his but not touching. He takes it and strokes it, cradling it with care. You let out a breath. “Perhaps it’s because Sherlock recognized the fact that you don’t need to leave this job in order to get a relationship because for fourteen years now you’ve been cultivating one with me. You know me more thoroughly than anyone else does. You have seen me in every mood and put up with them all. I know that its taken me this long to realize just how much you mean to me, but now that I have I want you to know that I will do my best to treat you in the way that you should have always been treated and to serve you as well as you have always served me.” You open your mouth. “That is of course if you should stay with me. In my employment.” You close your mouth and swallow. “Forgive me. I am being delicate when I say that. For the truth is that you were right. I could not manage without you.” You look down, your eyes grazing against the pillows, not knowing what to make of his words. You’d felt like something was on the cusp of changing between you, but the fact that he’s making it about you working for him again is confusing you. Have you been misreading everything? Should you have been less confident after all? “Perhaps I should be less delicate then?” Mycroft says softly, tilting your chin up and your breath catches in your throat as his blue eyes meet your e/c ones. His lips are on yours in the next moment. His hand slides up to grasp at your cheek and you let out a breath as yours go up to cling onto his shoulders. His other hand goes to your back, pushing you closer. A vibration of love like the strings that had been plucked in the orchestra that night grows between you as you kiss him back and things grow more passionate between you. His hands go to your waist, and then, together, whilst you both hold onto each other still with one hand you go on to remove the wall from between you forever.

[goldentigerfestival]

Since I'd been talking a lot about JP Vesperia (primarily Yuri and Flynn and the heavy changes that surround them, and because I'm highly passionate about them in their original context), I wanted to compile some more jarring if not outright glaring mistakes in the localization (or what were likely intentional changes, because I can't look at some of these and just call them "mistakes"). I'm not going to mention every little change throughout the game, so smaller things I'll mostly be leaving out (namely things that don't really affect characters or context). I primarily just wanted to give some insight on some of the bigger parts.

Some of the changes seem to have been mistakes in translation itself (not just localization, but misunderstanding what was being said in general; such as, there's an instance I mention of that between Patty and Don), so I've got some mentions hanging around for clarity purposes as some scenes didn't make much sense, likely because of this.

Vocal tone with Yuri was the most prominent issue that got me making this, and the context that was changed being right after if not equally next to that (most often also with Yuri but also Flynn).

This is something that has been bothering me for a while and I've been wanting to share this stuff with people interested in seeing the game with its original context. Generally speaking, the plot and story themselves are on point. The majority of the differences surround Yuri and Flynn respectively, so there's going to be a lot of mention of them throughout.

I've also posted video clips of my favorite scenes and the heavy changes, so consider those a supplement to this and vice versa.

Part 2.

Part 3.

Part 4.

(Other) GTF Favorites.

Note because people have vagueposted about me since making these: Do not start "dub versus sub hurr hurr" arguments with me or imply that's what I'm doing with these. Firstly, Japanese is a language, not your English subtitles. Secondly, these posts are not in main tags and I am not bothering anyone by making posts of my feelings on my own blog related to these facts. If you have time to vaguepost and whine about my untagged opinions after hatereading (or not even reading it at all and making stupid assumptions), you have time to be nice to people and find something fun to do. Lastly, I've said many times that the entire loc/dub in this game is not bad. There are specific things I take issue with. It does not mean I'm anti dub and hate all dubs. It does not mean I go out of my way to find dub fans and start shit with them.

Update: Went back through to correct the way I used "dub" and "localization" interchangeably. I don't do that anymore bc "dub" obviously refers to the dubbing of foreign media, and dubbing is a part of the localization process. Lines themselves are not the dubbing, and the dubbing is the vocals. Thus, I edited cases where I really didn't think about that while writing these and changed mistaken "dub" mentions as needed.

---

I'd like to preface this by mentioning the chief director and producer of the game itself has also spoken about localization inaccuracy issues, so that's something to keep in mind (it's in Japanese, but you should be able to use the offered post translator).

I'd also like to preface this by mentioning that in the original, Yuri is more playful and relaxed/casual (generally but including with Flynn, which the dub pretty much entirely changed until arc 3), but also gentler and softer. He has a very large variety of tonal behaviors/tonal "moods" that were pretty much nuked from the dub.

Basically, to get a better experience for this Yuri, I can only really recommend playing the game in JP audio. Obviously you won't get the actual context because all you'll have is the loc context, but that's also partly why I'm making these posts - to cover the contextual changes while the video clips cover some of the tonal changes (because lbh I don't expect anyone to actually go watch the entire game in JP with subtitles unless you're as insanely dedicated as I am, and I'm largely doing it out of my love for the original Yuri and Flynn and my disdain for how the localization treated them).

As a heads up, there won't be many skits in here because I'm going through a specific YT playthrough for these screenshots. Specific skits won't always come up in the playthrough in question, and I can't find a whole list of skits in JP anywhere online. I don't have all skits unlocked in my own save either yet (you can unlock all skits with Grade which I have yet to do in the DE), so I can't use that to compare all skits right now.

There are plenty of small changes here and there that I won't be including in these posts because there are some sentence changes that aren't impactful but do exist. I just don't want to be here for a year covering the random changes that don't matter much. I'm also not going to include details of a lot of honorifics because I'd be here all day, but there is one one major instance that I mention later on.

For reference if anything wants to actually watch the game in JP with the subs (it goes until just after Hypionia), most of the references come from here. Since in some cases the subber just reused localized text even when the context wasn't the same, I did bring some of those up in these posts too. These were subbed before the DE version came out. I used screenshots with subs where possible to make it easier to follow along.

I have a lot of passion for JP Yuri and I hope I can pass on some of that passion to others. 🙏

Apologies in advance if some of these sound cranky. If I sound cranky about some specific changes, it's probably because I am.

---

Since I talked about the whole, Raven being shady and Yuri therefore not being grateful to him incident that the localization for some reason butchered and made Yuri sound like a generally ungrateful or just outright dumb person who doesn't understand gratitude, I'll summarize that one again here:

Yuri has a skit with Estelle originally talking about how he can't find himself being grateful to someone like Raven for showing him how to sneak out of the castle. Basically, Raven is shady and he's not sure he should be grateful to someone like that, and is confused as to why Estelle would be so grateful when she doesn't even know him (because in his mind, he isn't sure he wants to trust a guy with those vibes). The loc just kinda... makes him sound like an ungrateful jerk and not so much because he's not sure he wants to trust Raven. It doesn't really sound like it's an issue of his with Raven specifically but more that he just generally doesn't feel grateful for the aid (and that in general one shouldn't feel grateful for aid like this), which gives off a really wrong impression of him that doesn't hold up throughout the game. Yuri wasn't wholly ungrateful for the gesture itself, but because of who it came from (and I imagine a weird peppy guy in jail is good cause to be skeptical).

We start off we a classic "Yuri, you idiot!" that was changed to "come on already!".

Yuri's response to Estelle mentioning he'd been in the knights doesn't actually give a time frame for how long he'd been there (the loc made up three months, but there was never originally even a time frame given).

Here when Yuri asks Estelle why she can't just leave, her response indicates she actually does know why. The loc made it more ambiguous, which could be easily misinterpreted as she really doesn't know, so I'm dropping this one here.

For some reason the localization seemed to have Estelle responding to Karol directly about the ace always performing their attack last ("I don't think so"). What she was referring to was the tiny monster that walked by, asking for confirmation that that monster was not the eggbear they were looking for (I wasn't gonna fight with the video to get a better screenshot without the annoying YT red bar in the way so the monster is in the corner mid-movement lol). Not sure if that was a genuine mistake, but it was an odd one.

(Also, side note and not putting an image here because it's more general, but Yuri refers to Karol as "Karol-sensei" which was translated in the localization to "Captain Karol". Basically, Yuri calls him "sensei" because that's a teacher/professor, and he's making a play on Karol's knowledge and being their "teacher" about monsters/maps/etc.)

I'd say this is more along the lines of overexaggerating and not overreacting, but this line was literally changed to "haha" in the loc. The whole point wasn't that Yuri just brushed her comment off or found it funny. At this point he still literally thinks she's exaggerating about her lack of knowledge out in the world, her excitement, etc.

Not the only instance you'll find of the loc just changing entire sentences to something meaningless as if they ??? didn't know what it meant (they actually changed Patty saying an entire sentence to "aye"). In some cases they added entire sentences that weren't even there...

Even though I can kind of see where they went with the loc here, the point was supposed to be that Flynn actively thought he would be happy for Yuri to go outside the barrier and see the world.

The loc changed this to Flynn saying that he, in the now, is happy that Yuri is outside the barrier, but then says he got a little less happy when he saw the wanted poster, indicating he was previously happy but got less happy, yet says in that moment that he is happy.

It's a weird case of (past/present) tense usage for the most part, but they also removed the fact that Flynn is literally saying "I thought I would be happy" (thus expressing he'd been wanting Yuri to see the world outside the barrier and would've been happy to find out he did). The reason he's not finding himself happy is because of the wanted poster and the crimes listed on it, following up that his honest happiness for Yuri (ultimately because of the poster) was a lie.

This also means they removed Flynn expressing the honesty of his happiness for a positive concept for Yuri, which, given all the changes toward Flynn in the loc/dub, already now takes away from the fact that he'd been actively hoping for good things for someone and we're left with this more sarcastic take on him being "happy" (his line is more like, "but I lost my sense of genuine happiness when I saw this!").

Obviously his happiness wasn't really a lie because most of the crimes were falsified (primarily the ones that would make him actually mad, because Flynn has had to have been aware this whole time that Yuri has committed small time crimes for the past few years now), but at the time, the focus on this conversation is that Flynn thought he'd be happy at a time that Yuri left the barrier; meaning he'd been hoping for it prior to it happening.

I'm also mentioning it because it's the very first in a whole line of changes the loc/dub made to their relationship (and it's their first in game interaction ffs) and to Flynn himself as he's perceived as a character. The original is much more expressive of how important they are to each other in a lot of various ways.

Inserting the JP audio version of the following scene with Flynn here.

And... the following one from there.

This was changed to "damn, we if lose our balance...". I know they did it because Yuri had just fallen over, but I'm including this one because the context isn't... really the same thing to me?

This loc change is a bit odd to me. They had him saying something along the lines of "she is a princess after all" in the loc, regarding the council backing her.

The original context is more like, the council is backing her and he's hearing it directly from Ioder and he probably doubts Ioder would lie like that or about that, cementing that yes, she truly is, like he suspected, a princess, but it's almost still a bit odd to know. It's sort of like, he knew/had suspicions but hearing it directly from Ioder just confirms it for certain.

The loc just made it sound like well yeah, it's obvious they'd want to back her, she's a princess... but Ioder is a prince, so that doesn't explain why they're not backing him. She is a princess after all, so of course they'd back her... but what's stopping them from backing the prince?

Another weird one for me. In the loc Yuri says that "even the Commandant was a little in over his head", when he actually... really wasn't? All he did was step in. Things got bad enough that he had to, but he wasn't in over his head. Not sure how or why the loc ended up with that.

An example of the loc having a habit of just adding in random lines that didn't actually exist (and in this case the one added didn't even contextually make sense. This was no thank you from him, this was literally him making Yuri do something for him because he was going to ask Flynn for a favor and ended up with Yuri in the cell instead).

Another super weird one in the loc. They had Yuri saying Flynn was "too" late, implying he hadn't made it in time, but he did. He made it just before the battle started, but the original context only says he's late, not too late (which makes sense given that they were ready to fight but hadn't started yet).

This was changed to Yuri just mentioning there was one way they could get out of there without actually saying what it was, and Judith saying if he thinks it might work what's the harm in trying it out. Not sure why they changed Yuri literally telling her his plan, so... again, a super weird change that I don't get why they didn't just keep the context the way it was.

Third image was changed to "someone get me away from this psycho", which... I also don't get why they put that there unless they just wanted so much flavor text that they wanted to change the whole "they're in a fight and he's telling her not to come over here because he's pissed at her because they're fighting" part of the fake fight they had going on.

Not one I have a huge problem with, but definitely good examples of them going out of their way to change just... perfectly normal stuff that literally has no reason to be changed? Some of it is flavor text and some of it feels over the top for me. Stuff that makes me like... why would you change that when there was no reason to? Could be more of a personal pet peeve of mine, but I just don't like unnecessary changes when there was nothing wrong or odd about the original text and doesn't at all come off odd in English. Unfortunately Vesperia got littered with those.

I didn't feel like getting a whole video for this, but basically Judith gives a little laugh instead of just the more upset/distressed(?) sound she made in the dub. Feels more fitting imo to keep up the "lie" Yuri started for her. The dub makes it seem more like she feels guilty, versus here she's giving a little forced giggle to go along with it. Again, a change I'm not sure why they put in.

Ngl I get completely different vibes from these. The JP comes across more as concern, rather than... treating them like they're some mob on the loose...?

Once again, this gives off negative vibes toward Flynn as a character imo.

Here Judith gives more of a reason for coming with them, which they changed in the loc to "with the circumstances being what they are, this is just how things turned out". Reasonably, she didn't have to stick around after they ran from Dahngrest, but here she gives a quick "reason".

The loc changed this to "I'll bet he is". They were just told he's the current magistrate in Heliord, and all Yuri says here expresses he's letting it sink in and realizing exactly why all this is happening here. It's not a huge story beat or anything that gets changed, but it's an example of changing things that don't need to be changed as if trying to play things up in a way that... doesn't feel necessary to me? In this case the situation is kind of dawning on Yuri as he realizes how bad this situation could be/why it's like it is, but in the loc it comes across as more just unimpressed and "of course he'd do that".

An unfortunate, classic moment of them changing how much Yuri believes in and trusts Flynn. They changed this to "gotta run, Flynn!" and he just... leaves. I'm sorry but in what universe does "leave the rest to you" equal "gotta run"???

This one is one of those cases where the localization text was super awkward and wonky, and worse, they actually voiced it that way (like "we have guild's job to deal with". Yes, they actually voiced it that way too on top of everything else grammatically wonky with the entire conversation that they didn't bother fixing when the DE came out).

Also here, they changed what Yuri says about Cumore and Flynn. "I don't know how I could explain this to Flynn" doesn't, at least to me, carry the same weight as Yuri actually feeling ashamed (in the loc he says "what a shame", but does not express shame, versus him saying "how pathetic" and expressing shame in feeling pathetic) and saying he can't even face Flynn because Cumore got away. The thing is, Yuri does tend to posture, so when he fails at something, it hits him pretty hard.

And let's be honest, this just hits way harder than "he will get what he deserves".

Interestingly, Yuri could also fall into the category of viewing himself as sinful later on, which I talk about in my favorites post and the usage of "crime" and "sin" within the JP context.

Not particularly important, but just another (more mild) case and example of how the loc just randomly changed tone/mood/wording for no reason.

Another case of Yuri being more aggressive in the dub than he actually was. Here, all he says is just a plain statement. In the dub, he has an attitude about it and says it in a tone that's more insulting that Ioder didn't know about Heracles.

This isn't the only case of dub Yuri acting aggressively toward Ioder when he wasn't supposed to be and we'll get to that, but Ioder is another similar case of the dub making Yuri unnecessarily vocally rude (despite that Ioder is very polite toward Yuri).

(I left out the subtitles because all they did was copy the Eng localization, which kinda defeats the point of this post LOL. This will be the case going forward for any same circumstances.)

This one's a more interesting tidbit to me and less of a harmful change (i.e. I find that a lot of if not most changes relative to Flynn do more harm than good when compared with the original context). Basically it's saying "sweet mask and sharp eyes", implying Flynn's sweet face is a mask and saying it contrasts with his sharp eyes. I could get into a whole rant about why I love that in relation to some side material, but even in the game itself, there's the knight Flynn with his sweet, polite side and his real side that only shows when he's around Yuri (basically, who Flynn has to be for his job and who he actually is as a person, which he only gets to be around someone who knows the real him).

I'd guess this got changed in the loc because they weren't sure how to word it, though there's no mention of "heartthrob" here at all and instead actually says "sweet mask" as if, again, to say his sweetness is just a mask. It's actually a very interestingly accurate representation of his character - how he tends to not be himself when he's being "knight Flynn", and how that sweet face is contrasted by the look in his eyes (which they say, you know, eyes are the windows to the soul, so this would imply the sweet face is the mask and the eyes are the real Flynn. And of course, this Flynn is implied to show himself in his sparring with Yuri in Aurnion, where sword fighting is the best way to express himself. This isn't to say Flynn being a nice person in and of itself is a lie, but that his overly polite, respectful, kind knight side is a sweet mask contrasted to the man who loves to fight and has a sharp look in his eyes)

For now, we'll be back at Mantaic in the next post (due to image per post limit).

[sadclowncentral]

my family is fucking addicted to macgyvering and it's becoming a problem. every time something in this house breaks, instead of doing the sensible thing of replacing it or calling someone qualified to fix it, we all group around the offending object with a manic look in our eyes and everyone gets a try at fixing it while being cheered on or ridiculed by the rest.

it's a beautiful bonding activity, but the "creative" fixes have turned our house into a quasihaunted escape room like contraption where everything works, but only in the wonkiest of ways. you need a huge block of iron to turn on the stove. the oven only works if a specific clock is plugged in. the bread machine has a huge wood block just stapled to it that has become foundational to its function. sometimes when you use the toaster the doorbell rings. and that's just the kitchen.

it's all fun and games until you have guests over and you have to lay out the rules of the house like it's a fucking board game. welcome to the beautiful guest room. don't pull out the couch yourself you need a screwdriver for that, and that metal rod makes the lamp work so don't move it. it also made me a terrifying roommate in college, because it makes me think i can fix anything with enough hubris and a drill. you want to call the landlord about a leaky faucet? as if. one time my dad made me install a new power socket because we ran our of extension cords

[ragnars-tooth]

On fire world rn and I'm losing my shit over Eliza going "david, he killed a man fucking around with time rifts and abandoned us bc he felt kind of bad about it 🤨"

(^eliza, pictured)

[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑 ! ❞

❝ THE FOUR TIMES YOUR NEIGHBOR TRIES TO HOOK UP WITH YOU AND THE ONE TIME HE SUCCEEDS !! ❞

✧ pairing: uncle! sukuna x neighbor! reader

✧ summary: you had grown up next door to the itadoris, but you never had met their uncle. and for good reason, he had spent the majority of his life in and out of jail. but now he was finally out, and he only had one goal in mind -- getting you in his bed.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, modern au, uncle sukuna, degradation (slut, whore, brat), freshly out from jail sukuna, implied age gap (sukuna probably like late 30s / early 40s, reader is like mid twenties), wet dreams (f!), masturbation (f! +m!), dom!sukuna, sub!reader, dirty talk, oral (f + m), spanking (f!receiving), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, orgasm delay (f! receiving), implied multiple rounds, swearing, fanart found on pinterest (let me know if you know the og artist)

✧ w/c: 8,939

You were a pretty little thing. 

That’s what he thought when he first saw you. And when he saw you smile, his second thought was — how could he have you? 

You were the girl next door. Literally. Grew up next to the Itadori family, you watched the brat on weekends, helped around the house after the mom had left, and even slept over some nights in the guest room. 

The very room you were in now, pinned underneath him, legs spread as your cunt gushed as if you had been the one doing time instead of him. 

“Fuck, girl, did the boys your age not fuck you properly?” He clicks his tongue, the glint of his piercing in the low light of the moonlight that illuminated the barest hint of the room. It was by that light that you could not only see the way his lips curled into a smirk as his hand came down on your needy pussy, but the noticeable bulge in his pants, “g’nna have to fix that,” as he thumbs meanly at your swollen clit, “I’ll have you screaming my name soon enough.” 

“Are the cookies almost done?” Yuji asked, rubbing the back of his head, squinting at the cookies through the oven window, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, “sure you’re not burning them?” 

“I know how to bake cookies, Yu,” you roll your eyes, as you clean the counters off of the flour and bits of dough and sugar that smeared the surface, “why are you so impatient anyway?” 

“He wants to leave before the wrecking ball blows through, and you should do that same,” Choso adds, emerging from his room with a yawn, and you tilt your head, his gaze slides to Yuji, “she doesn’t know?” 

Yuji shakes his head, “I thought Dad was—” 

Choso glances at you, gesturing to his face to tell you that you had something on your own, before his eyes slide back to his younger brother, “You know Jin can barely remember to tell us, much less—” 

You cross your arms, wiping the flour and sugar from your cheek, but you only manage to make it worse, “Can you guys just tell me instead of having an argument about who should have told me?” 

Yuji sighed, leaning against the counter, elbow propped up as he held his head up with his fist flat against his chin, “My dad’s brother is coming to stay for us for the summer,” 

“Your uncle?” and you miss the way Yuji grimaces at the question, too busy pulling on oven mitts, “Your dad’s great — I can’t imagine your uncle being any different,” you pull the cookies from the oven, swatting Yuji’s hand as he tries to take one off the still burning rack, “you’ll burn yourself, just wait,” 

Your own family was scattered here and there now — and the Itadoris had been like your own family as you grew up — Jin was like a second dad to you, he had always looked after you, even after you had graduated from college. The quiet man didn’t say much but he did a lot, and you couldn’t imagine his brother being much different. 

And then the door swung open, a large man caught in the backlight of the summer sun, casting a long shadow across the entryway made your breath stick in your chest as if it was where it belonged — pinned under his mere presence. 

“Looks like you’ve done nothing to change the place, did you?” He takes a step or two in and finally his body is cast into view — tattoos bound like ribbons against his skin, muscles are heavy cords that look more monstrous than human — as no human should be as hulking as he was. But that was nothing compared to his face itself — black tattoos lining both sides of his face in an intricate pattern that stole your breath from your lungs, while his eyes were black holes that cut right through you than at you, a flicker of flames burning underneath, “tch, brat, take my things up—“ he tosses the duffle bag slung over his shoulder at Yuji who catches it with a glare, before his gaze slides to Choso, “and he’s still here?” 

“Don’t be rude to my son and his brother, Sukuna,” Jin sighed, entering behind him as he shut the door, “Choso is welcome, and don’t forget you’re a guest here,” he takes the bag from his son, and takes it upstairs instead. 

And Sukuna’s gaze finally falls on you. It’s heavy, the sharp tip of a sword tracing every inch of your body as it circled its weak points — his eyes lingers on the curves of your body — and perhaps the points he liked too. 

“And who’s this?” he jerks his head towards you gruffly, as if you couldn’t answer yourself. 

You say your name, “I’m their neighbor,” and he nods, eyes darting to Choso, his body growing tense, as he gritted his teeth, but Sukuna was only all smiles, he took steps forward. You can’t help but avert your gaze, as he approaches, fingers outstretched, a slight flinch but it’s gone soon enough. 

You glance up, and find him taking a bite of one of your cookies, tongue darting out to lick the chocolate from his lips, “sweet,” he devours it, “not bad, brat,” and he leans close again to grab another, “but probably not as sweet as you.” 

And your eyes widen, as he bears no reaction, except for a small smirk that graces his lips, as he follows his brother upstairs, “You better not be fucking around in my things,” 

You don’t hear Jin’s reply, still utterly consumed by what just happened. 

“You okay? He’s just like that,” Choso murmurs, “he won’t bother you, I promise,” 

“No, no, I’m okay,” your lips curl in an offer of reassurance, but you’re sure it falls flat, as your eyes glance back at the stairs. 

And that was your first time meeting Sukuna. 

But far from your last.  

The next time you saw him was at a summer barbecue the Itadoris always had to kick off summer break. And most of your time was spent chatting with Choso and kicking Yuji’s ass at Mario Kart, until it grew dark, and Choso was stuck carrying a slightly tipsy Yuji inside.

You laid back in the patio chair, scrolling on your phone to the symphony of cicadas filling the silence, the smoke from the barbecue still lingering in the night — and then you hear the creak of the back door open. 

“You want another drink, Choso?” 

“I’d love a drink, girl,” and your eyes snap over to spot Sukuna, standing with hands tucked into his pockets, a black tank you assumed was several sizes too small. 

“Sure,” you say, slipping from your chair, “but we only have the mix for a sex on the beach,” and his eyes find yours, a ghost of a gruff chuckle on his lips. 

“Sounds perfect if it’s from you, sweetheart,” and you have to suppress the urge to roll your eyes — he may be nice to look at, but he isn’t smooth, you make the drink in relative silence. Until you sense his presence behind you, your head whipping back to find him looming, your breath caught in your throat. 

“Uh—“ 

“Just wanted to see a master bartender at work, you seem like you really know what you’re doing, with, what’s the drink called again?” And you force yourself to look forward, ignoring the weird mix of his musk and alcohol, with the clink of the ice cubes against the glsd breaking the silence. 

“Sex on the beach,” you offer it to him, and fuck, you don’t like it — don’t like him and his smug grin, the way your eyes can’t pull away from his, the way your heart clenched, and the way you wanted nothing more than to wipe the smug smile on off his face. 

“Good girl,” he plucks the drink from you, his fingers brushing yours, “want to have one with me?” 

And you almost find yourself saying yes, find yourself buckling under the heat of his gaze and the summer humidity that clings to your skin and strangles the sense from your head — and you can’t help but think how nice those fingers of his would feel around your neck—

“No, no, I probably should head home. It’s late—“ and just then the back door opens again, Choso standing in the doorway, “Choso, where’s Yu?” 

“I got him to bed. Come on, I’ll walk you home,” and you nod, grabbing your bag with a slight nod to Sukuna before disappearing inside, and you don’t catch the way your best friend glares at Sukuna. 

And you don’t see the way Sukuna stares at you as you walk away either. 

The third time you meet Sukuna is a few nights later — and it wasn’t for lack of trying to avoid him. 

“Can I have some popcorn?” you ask, eyes still glued to the TV, a movie that the two of you had seen a million times before during movie night, “Choso?” you glance over at him, but he’s staring off into space, “hello?” you nudge him, and he finally comes to. 

“Sorry, what?” And you sigh, leaning over and grabbing the popcorn bowl, “sorry I was just—“ he shakes his head, “nothing,” 

“You’re so convincing,” and you see a flush crawl up his neck, “C‘mon, what’s bothering you?” 

You toss a pillow at Choso, the pillow bouncing off his face to land in his lap, the glow of the TV in his dark bedroom giving you enough light to see the glare on his face, “Cho, you’ve been brooding all night — did Yuji call you by your name instead of big brother?” 

He scoffs, “I only got upset about that once,” or twice or maybe ten times, “it’s Sukuna. He’s been really grating on my nerves,” and your eyebrows knit together, as you put the volume of the TV down. 

“What has he done?” and Choso hesitates, several emotions flicker across his face before a stoic look glazes over his face, as he presses his hand to his lips, “you can tell me—“ 

There’s a knock at the door, and Yuji sticks his head in, “Hey, Dad has to sleep now for a meeting, so move to the living room,” and you throw popcorn at him, but he only catches one or two in his mouth and leaves. 

You sigh, “I should probably just go home anyway, I have to get some sleep,” you glance at Choso, who is fascinated with his floor all of a sudden, “you okay?” He moves to get up, but you shake your head, “just chill, I’ll walk back.” 

He opens his mouth to argue, but shuts it,  “I’m fine, just get home safe okay?”

You snort, “think I’ll be fine walking the ten feet to my door,” you grab your things, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” 

And you close the door softly, turning to head up the hallway and out of the house, bag slung over your shoulder, and you’re turning the corner, when you nearly crash into someone. 

A hand curls around your wrist to steady you, “You should watch where you’re going, brat,” and your eyes flit up to find a dark gaze looking back down at you, lips curled in a small grin, “don’t know what you’ll find wandering these halls,” 

You pull your arm away, “I’m pretty familiar with these halls and what wanders them,” 

“Not all of them,” the low tone of his voice sends a shiver down your spine, as you brush past him, avoiding his piercing gaze, cutting through you with practiced ease, “what were you doing here so late anyway?” You ignore him as you go to grab your shoes, but find them missing. 

“Have you seen my shoes?” and he only tilts his head, arms crossed, muscles inked with tattoos that littered up and down, and you knew he could pin you down with barely an ounce of effort. 

“Maybe answer my question and I’ll tell you,” and your lips twist into a scowl, as you begin to look around, checking the coat closet, under the couch, “was he really that bad?” And his question makes you pause, “the cursed brat, in bed? Did he not do the job for you?” 

You haul yourself to your feet, “What is your problem?” 

And his expression is as milquetoast as ever, as if he had asked you about the weather as opposed to asking if you had fucked your best friend, “You don’t have to be fucking sensitive, it’s just a question,” he runs his painted nails through his dyed cropped hair, low light glinting off the black sheen, “unless it was that bad,” 

“Fuck off,” you scoff, trying to walk past him but he blocks you, “what?” 

“Maybe I’ll help you find your shoes, if you have a drink with me,” and you cross your arms. 

“Did you go to jail for stealing? Because with all those muscles and tattoos, I’m surprised you weren’t caught sooner,” and he’s leaning closer, breath warming your lips and your blood alike, boiling under your skin as if he had set you on fire without lying a single finger on you. 

“Didn’t take you to be one to admire me, little one, after all, I’m just your neighbors’ uncle aren’t I? Jailbird, criminal, fucking lowlife, right? And his fingers ghost over your jaw, “but I don’t see you pulling away, do I?” 

And you aren’t. But why aren’t you? Every brain cell is telling you to fucking run, but your body wants nothing more than to lean into his touch, to give in, let yourself be engulfed by him—

The creak of the door has you jumping back, “hey, you forgot your shoes—“ Choso starts, and his gaze snaps between you and Sukuna. 

“Thanks, Cho,” you slip past Sukuna, grabbing your shoes, “i was wondering what I did with them,” you step into your shoes, cheeks still burning as you can’t quite meet your best friend’s eyes, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” 

And you’re gone without another word, the silence of your exit hanging overhead as the screen door clicks closed behind you. Sukuna watches you leave, and as he turns he’s met with a glare from Choso. 

Sukuna only gives a gruff chuckle, walking past as he lets his shoulder bump against Choso’s, “What are you fucking looking at?” 

And now he had visited you in your dreams too. 

“S’fucking wet,” Sukuna has you pinned down with one hand, face hovering over your drenched cunt, as he toyed with it, tugging your folds apart to let some of your pre drip onto your bedspread, “fucking slut, you were begging for this, weren’t you?” 

And a thick digit sinks into you with little resistance, making your back arch as pleasure rips up your spine, “fuck off,” you manage, between pants. 

“I know, brat, that’s what I’m trying to do,” he laughs, as he works a second finger inside you with practiced ease, “like I was made to fuck this cunt open, my fingers are already fucking drenched, and all I’ve done is open you up,” and to punctuate his point, he’s scissoring his fingers to stretch your walls out, dragging against them, as your mouth falls open in a silent moan. 

“A-ah, please—“ and he’s grinning now, a purr as he leans down to meet your blown out gaze. His fingers begin to fuck you open, his thumb rubbing against your clit as your body rocked against his hand. And a grunt has you looking at him, only to see him palming his erection, slit dripping with precum, “Sukuna, please—“ 

“Knew you’d be a good girl f’me, good little slut gonna break my fingers in two,” and his other hand spanks your clit, “now cum,” 

And you do, muscles clenching as you do, a cry of his name on your lips that does nothing but stroke his ego, your orgasm soaking his hand. Eyes fluttering open to find him licking your release from his fingers, as his other hand undoes his pants and tugs down his boxers, his cock already dragging against your still twitching cunt. 

“Fuck,” you mumble, under your breath, and he only smiles. 

“Now you’re getting it, baby.” 

And your alarm jolts you awake, you stare at your ceiling, watching the ceiling fan spin, while you glance at your side to find nothing but your comforter beside you. Not to mention, as you shifted, feeling the telltale stickiness of your arousal and the dull throbbing of your cunt, the aftermath of your dream — your very wet dream. 

“Fuck,” you say, this time out loud and to no one but yourself. This was going to be a problem, if you let this go on. And you couldn’t. Not after the last time — you swing your feet over the edge of the bed and stand, glancing back at the stain of your pre that you flipped your comforter over — and not after that. 

“Have you been avoiding me?” 

Yes, you have done a good job. Until now. 

You gritted your teeth, as you stood in the doorway of the room. But how could you have avoided him in the guest room of the house he lived in? 

And as he loomed in the doorway of the kitchen, dwelling in the shadow of his form, you were kicking the ass of past you, the one that had convinced you it was okay to stay over because Sukuna had been out. 

“Had” being the operative word. 

It had been a few days since you had found yourself at the Itadoris. And more than a few days since you had found yourself dreaming of Sukuna — waking up with his name on your tongue and your panties uncomfortably drenched. You had gone through more underwear this week than you had in a month. And it didn’t help that you felt the need to get off once you did wake, the ache between your thighs was too much to bear before sleep. 

And now here was the subject of your dirty dreams darkening your doorway, as if your dreams were some naughty prophecy waiting to unfold (though you were sure he could fold you). 

“What are you talking about?” 

And you knew exactly what he was talking about. You had made sure Sukuna wasn’t around when you came over (the absence of his motorcycle is a telltale sign), and always left before he returned. But tonight you made the mistake of drinking with Choso, the two of you finishing two bottles of sake before being completely fucked. 

Your head was spinning — you could barely have made it to the bathroom, much less your home. Choso had corralled you into taking his bed, before going and collapsing on his couch. It had been only a few hours into the night before you got up in a haze of confusion with your mouth drier than the Sahara. You pulled yourself up, slipped on thin sleep shorts that you had thrown off at some point due to the summer humidity, before finding your way to the door. 

You made your way to the kitchen, the squeak of the fridge as you pulled it open to grab a water bottle. And that’s when he spoke. 

“And here you are,” and the water bottle nearly slipped from your grasp, “no need to jump, brat, I’m not a monster or a shadow,”

No, but he’s so much worse, he’s real. 

“I was just getting something to drink,” you murmur, and he tilts his head, as he takes a step closer. 

“Just water?’ That’s not the kind of drink you still owe me,” and why was his presence so intoxicating? Several drinks in and you could still hold your own, still speak in complete sentences, and even make your way home on foot. But Sukuna comes near, and suddenly you can barely form a fucking syllable, your limbs feel far too heavy, and your body is nearly burning, as if he had turned your blood to wine without any miracle needed. 

No, it was more of a curse. 

“I don’t remember owing you anything,” and he’s tilting his head, amusement flickering across his lips, a step closer and then another, until you’re utterly engulfed in his presence. You can smell the mix of exhaust and sweat off of him from his motorcycle ride, the way his jaw tenses as if he is holding himself back from taking a bite, and the way his gaze pierces into you as if he has you pinned like a butterfly under glass. 

“Do I need to give you a reason?” And when his fingers ghosted over your swell of your cheek, a featherlight brush from rough, calloused skin that makes a shiver roll down your body, “didn’t think I had to with the way you were nearly melting into my touch when I saw you last, girl,” 

“I wasn’t the one begging for me to be there,” and he clicks his tongue derisively, and you wonder what else he can do with it, before his fingers grip your chin roughly, forcing your gaze to his. 

“Tch, so pleased with yourself just for resisting, are you, sweetheart?” he tilts his head, while his other hand slithers down your side until he finds your waist and tugs you close, lips hanging close, a forbidden fruit begging you to take a bite, “imagine how good you’d feel if you gave in,” and you almost do, melting into his touch, as if you were made to fit in his arms, leaning up so you could feel the warm breath of his welcome—

SLAM! 

You’re sent stumbling back again, clearing your throat, as the sounds of footsteps grow close, and Yuji wanders into the kitchen, mouth pulled open by his yawn, as he blinks as he spots the two of you. 

“Hey, I thought you were asleep upstairs,” he walks past the two of you to grab a water bottle from the refrigerator, and sparing a short glance at Sukuna, “and I thought you had plans,” 

“Plans can change, brat,” Sukuna sighs, his eyes still trained on you — a homing missile with a target, and Yuji was an obstacle in the way, “shouldn’t you go back to bed?” 

“I could ask you two the same,” he leaned against the kitchen counter for a moment, while you only shook your head. 

“I’m going to go to bed,” your only exit opportunity and you’d take it — there had been enough mistakes made, and you didn’t need another to add to the list, and you’re slipping back into your room without another word. 

You don’t see the way Sukuna glares at his nephew, cursing the day of his existence with only his eyes, only gaining a confused stare in return, “What? Ow!”

And you’re only left questioning why Yuji is holding a bag of ice to his head the next morning. 

But you knew you couldn’t avoid Sukuna forever — and you couldn’t avoid how you felt either.

Especially when he gave you exactly what you wanted — space. You had barely seen him for the next week, the former criminal making himself scarce, apparently telling his brother that he had grown tired of “rooming with a bunch of brats,” and had found himself another place to stay for a while. 

Jin had sighed when you had asked over breakfast a day or so after he left, “I don’t know how long he’ll be gone, but we’ll see. The only requirement of his release was to stay in the prefecture—” 

“And that’s already far too close,” Yuji muttered under his breath, earning a sharp look from his dad, “so we don’t even know if he’ll be back huh?” 

Jin shrugs, as he sips his coffee, “I don’t know — your uncle isn’t one to stay in one place — unless there’s something that he wants,” 

“I’ll take any amount of time that he’s not here,” Choso shakes his head, offering you a small smile, “and this way you can stay over in the guest room now,” 

“Yeah, true,” you offered a weak smile, as you continued to pick at your food. This was good news, things were going back to normal, but even so, as you pushed your food on your plate — why did your chest ache so much? 

“Yuck, do people’s heads really explode like that?” Yuji sat with the two of you in the living room, TV playing the movie Yuji had chosen, shoveling popcorn by the fistful. 

“How would we know that?” you snort, stealing popcorn from his bowl, “why did you even choose this movie anyway?” 

“He heard there was a Megan Thee Stallion cameo in it,” and Yuji’s cheeks flushed, visible even in the dim illumination of the TV, as he got to his feet. 

“I’m gonna get a drink, do you two want anything?” And you both shake your heads, as you stifle your chuckle. 

“You wanna stay over tonight?” Choso asks, and you tilt your head, toying with a popcorn kernel between your fingers. 

You shrug, “we’ll see,” your eyes drift back to the movie, but you feel the creak of the bed as he shifts. 

“You don’t have been avoiding staying over, even though it’s just us,” Fuck, your eyes still found themselves on the screen instead of him, anywhere but him, and you can hear the unspoken words — even though Sukuna is not here, “are you sure we’re good?” 

And you couldn’t tell him that it wasn’t him that was bothering you. It wasn’t him keeping you up at night, it wasn’t him who had been tempting you the last few weeks, and it wasn’t him that you wanted to see — no matter how much you didn’t want to admit it, even to yourself. 

So you don’t.  

You smile as best you can, “Everything’s fine, Choso,” and he frowns, still unsure, and you know there’s only one thing that will assure him, if only a little, “I’ll stay over,” 

And so you end up in the guest room — far too late. Even though Sukuna no longer lingered here, his scent still did, even with the sheet change and the small amount of his things gone, he was still very much here. 

And it did little for your sleep. Or maybe too much. 

Again, you dreamt of him, his large palms dragging down your sides, lips pulled in a smirk that he pressed to the hollow of your throat before it’s consumed by a flash of canines that pinch and tease the softness of your flesh. 

“S’fucking wet,” he huffs a chuckle out, “such a little slut, been wanting this for far too long haven’t you?” And he’s undoing your robe with ease, a single tug has your body revealed to him, “haven’t even laid a finger on you and look at the mess you’ve made,” he clicks his tongue, and a whine parts your lips, “already whining like a bitch?” 

He shoves two fingers inside you, a gasp ripped from your throat, thick digits stretching your walls, clenching around the intrusion, “Sukuna—please,” 

“Silly girl,” he murmurs in your ear, “I’m not even the one touching you now,” and fantasy melts into reality as his hand cups your chin, eyes fluttering open, “but I know I can make you cum faster than any dream,” 

Wait. What? 

And suddenly the touch down your body feels all too real, pain ribboning from the fingers squeezing your hips hard, and a gasp as your body trembles, still caught between sleep and reality. Your body can’t move, but it’s not the weight of your own limbs keeping you still. 

Your eyes shoot open completely, sleep shed completely from your mind. 

And you found Sukuna, his lips curled in a smile that was far too familiar from other sleepless nights. But was it? Or was it another dream that he had invaded, far too real as you slept in his bed, rather than your own. 

Your hand reaches out for him shakily, fingers tracing the hard line of his jaw, “Is this real?” you mutter, more to yourself, but he takes it upon himself to answer, his hand darting out to curl around your wrist, squeezing, while the other holds himself up, mattress creaking a divot where his hand pressed in, body heat all too close. 

“Want me to pinch you? Can’t say it’ll be the cheek you’re thinking of,” he chuckles, unable to meet his gaze, “don’t go acting like a shy virgin now, woman. You’re the one having wet dreams about me,” 

“No, I-I, it wasn’t—“ but your brain is short circuiting and his laugh that rumbles against you tells you he’s enjoying this far too much, “what are you doing here? I thought you left,” the statement comes out far too biting, and he raises an eyebrow. 

“I did, but it was just for a week. I had some business to deal with,” and a grin pulls at his lips, “why? Did you miss me, brat? Is that why you’re dreaming of me?” 

You’re squirming underneath him trying to look anywhere but him, “I’m not, it wasn’t—“ and he only hums, dragging a hand down your front, until he’s reaching your shorts, a brief pause to see if you’d pull away, but you don’t, and fingers pressing against your soaked shorts. 

“That why you’re soaked through your fucking shorts?” And the rough pads of his fingers grind against your eager hole, nearly swallowing you in, only the thin fabric of your shorts keeping his fingers from fucking you then and there, “least your body’s honest — so eager to get fucked,” and he’s teasing your drenched entrance, drawing his fingers back to have your pre like spiderwebs between the two digits. 

“Sukuna, please—“ and his lips curl. 

“Tell me to stop, and I’ll go,” a small whine left your throat, the throbbing between your thighs growing with the way his gaze undid you — unscrewed you by your hinges and watched you fall apart, only to ask you to put yourself back together. 

But you couldn’t. Not without him. 

“Sukuna—“ 

“I didn’t ask you to whine, are you going to answer my question—-“ 

“Fuck me,” the words fall from your lips as if possessed, and you can’t find it in you to regret them. 

And he smiles all the same. 

“About fucking time,” and his fingers meanly rub against your clit through the paper thin fabric of your shorts, “didn’t even fucking put on panties and you expect me to think you didn’t want me fuck you open,” and embarrassment burns at your cheeks, “did you get this wet from dreaming about me?” And no words come to your mind, and he gives you a sharp spank to your clothed slit, drawing a sharp gasp to your lips and slick flooding from your folds, “better use your words, woman,” 

“Fuck, please, I need—“ and his fingers practically rip your shorts off, letting your cunt gush onto the sheets. 

“Need me to fuck you that bad? G’nna beg this criminal to fuck you open?” And he’s toying with your folds, tugging your tight hole apart as his eyes rake over your pussy, exposed for him, “after all of your teasing, what makes you think you even deserve to be fucked? Maybe I should leave you like this, fingers buried in your cunt, wishing they were your neighbor’s uncle’s,” and a sadistic smile graces his features as it only can his, “fuck yourself for me,” 

You whimper, as his fingers leave your hole, clenching around nothing as if begging for his touch, “what? But—“ 

“Fuck yourself until you cum, wanna see what you’ve been doing when you’re fucking me in your sleep,” the absence of his touch leaves you keening and needy, for something, anything to get you off. Want overcomes inhibition, and your shaky fingers find their way to your cunt, fingertips tracing the outer lips, a gasp you barely recognize as your own when you rub against your clit, “c’mon girl, gotta open yourself up for me — think I’ll fit if you just rub yourself like that?” And he’s pressing his clothed erection against your thigh — and he’s fucking big — rock hard cock rubbing against you through damp damp sweatpants. 

And his fingers grabs your own, guiding them to your slick hole, letting them slip past your fluttering walls, while his own teased your outsides, “Good girl,” and the praise makes your walls clench, and he’s chuckling, “want to be a fucking good girl, then fuck yourself until I see you cum for me,” 

You swallow your whines, beginning to move your fingers in and out, your insides clinging to you, as if begging for something longer, thicker, better — and you knew his fingers would be. A moan falls from your lips, and he clicks his tongue. 

“Gotta be rougher than that,” and his fingers curl around the base of your own, using your fingers as a glorified fuck toy. Your head lolled back, as he controlled the pace of your fingers, fucking you hard and fast, reaching places you didn’t think were possible with your fingers, “that’s it, you’re close aren’t you? Like being fucked with your own fingers, don’t you, you slut?” And you’re shuddering, soft cries and moans filling the silence of the night with the loud squelch of your cunt. 

“Sukuna, f-fuck, ngh, I can’t—“ and he only begins to rub on your clit with his thumb. 

“Yes you can,” he gruffly chuckles, murmuring in your ear as he leans forward, “cum on your fingers like you have every night for me,” and he forces your gaze to meet his as your fingers brush that one spot that has your back arching, “say my name,” 

And you do, cumming hard around your fingers, as he uses them to fuck you through your orgasm, the wet noises of your folds growing louder as your thighs shake. Your eyes meet his, glassy with tears from your high, and Sukuna leans down to lick the salty tear from your cheek. 

He pulls your fingers from inside you, your sticky cum coating your digits and even dripping onto his own. He smirks as he eyes them, before sliding them into his mouth. A moan pulled from your lips as he sucks your essence clean from them, tongue dragging up the length of your fingers. 

“Shit, that was a nice moan,” and his eyes fall back to your drenched cunt, “Still so fucking tight,” he clicks his tongue, Fuck, girl, did the boys your age not fuck you properly? G’nna have to fix that,” as he thumbs meanly at your swollen clit, “I’ll have you screaming my name soon enough.” 

he hums, taking in your ruined state — tear stained cheeks, your dripping cunt, and your red ruined lips from biting them, “so fucking pretty like this,” and you hear him shift, the distinct sound of his phone camera, making your eyes snap open. 

“No, fuck, no don’t—“ and he’s turning the screen around to show you how absolutely fucked you look, “please—“ 

“It’s a little too late for that, can’t have anyone buying your little virgin act anymore huh?” he’s grinning as he leans forward, pinning your thighs in place as you try to squirm away, “don’t move,” 

His order makes your muscles tense, unable to move your body under the heavy grasp of his hands splayed against your hips. The pads of his fingers dig into your soft flesh, as his lips dare closer to your weeping slit. 

“Fuck, are you a virgin though? You’re still so fucking tight even after that little show you put on for me,” and he doesn’t give you a chance to reply, his breath warming your twitching cunt, “either way, you won’t be one soon,” and he’s burying his mouth in your pussy. 

You moan, covering your mouth before he sucks on your clit, tongue teasing your hole open, a wave of heat flooding your body. The sounds of his licking and slurping fill your ears — and you wonder how the whole house isn’t awake yet. 

You can’t stop your hips from nearly fucking his face, but he spanks your thigh, hard, as he pulls his mouth from your dripping slit, “I told you not to move,” and he spanks your clit for good measure, making you yelp against your fingers, “tell me when you’re about to cum,” and you whimper, “or I can open this door and let the house hear us,” 

You nod, but he doesn’t miss the way your slit twitches at the thought, and his mouth curls in a nasty smirk, “such a fucking slut, maybe I will,” and he’s plunging two thick fingers into your greedy cunt, a gasp ripped from your throat at the intrusion, walls fluttering as they attempt to accommodate his digits. But it’s all squeezing and barely any stretch, as his fingers work you open. 

And it doesn’t take long to get you worked up, his digits knuckle deep and dripping wet, “gonna fucking break my fingers in two with your virgin hole, girl,” he grunts, your body burning with his touch alone, nails dragging against your walls, curling so they can bully that sweet spot just right, “you’re gonna cum aren’t you?” the telltale squeeze of your cunt tells him so, and you’re nodding, and his fingers slip from inside. 

You’re whining, tears burning at the corners of your eyes, “Please, fuck, wanna cum,” the pleasure that had built was throbbing, a dam close to bursting but denied its relief, so it remained, begging and waiting — “please, Sukuna—“ 

“So you do know how to beg like a good little whore, gonna fuck you again, but you can’t cum until I tell you,” and he’s sinking three fingers into you now, eyes rolling back as your back arches, but he’s fucking you meanly, curling and twisting his fingers, until the pleasure is a tight knot in your belly, barely hanging on from snapping, “wait,” he grunts, and it’s as if your warmth is made for him — or now it was, because he’s made it his, “wait,” and you’re sure he’s reached your cervix somehow, fingertips reaching places you’ve only dreamed of (literally), and then he leans down lips around your clit as he orders you, “now, cum,” 

And you do, hard, as he sucks around your clit while fucking you through your orgasm, cum flooding his fingers and face alike, drenching him, even as he slurped and sucked up every bit. 

He finally pulls away, a shiver slips down your spine as he slips his fingers from inside you, pink tongue flicking against his lips, still slick with your cum, What a fucking mess you’ve made,” he sneers, but he’s licking his lips clean all the same, “should make you clean up the mess you made, shouldn’t I?” And he’s pressing the pads of his fingers to your lips, you’re too fucked out to fight, lips parting with ease, “suck,” and you do, opening wide to let his fingers inside, lips and tongue curled around the same fingers that had explored your cunt. 

He watched as you obediently sucked every drop of your juices off, a trickle of drool slipping down the corner of your lips makes his already hard cock twitch in his pants, and he’s pulling his fingers from your mouth. 

“Better than your dreams, huh, sweetheart?” he drags his thumb down your bottom lip, he can’t fucking wait a minute longer, “turn around, gonna fuck this slutty princess cunt from behind,” but you only can watch as he tugs down his sweatpants and boxers alike, his cock slapping against his stomach. 

Fuck, he’s even bigger than you had imagined. Mushroom tip red and hard, as pretty veins run up the sides, and he was looking as if he’d not only split you open, but break you all together. 

Your thighs quaked at the thought, more slick slipping from your needy cunt — and you wanted him to.  

Your knees shake, as you turn slowly, much too slowly his pace, and he grunts, his hands gripping your hips, as he flips you onto your stomach, a yelp leaving your lips as you bounce on the mattress. “have to fuckin’ do everything myself for this whore’s pussy,”

You’re gripping the sheets, nails surely tearing holes in the thin fabric of the sheets, as his calloused palm comes down on your ass, hard, the smack echoing in the silence of the night, a mewl you don’t recognize as your own, “Sukuna, please, I can’t—“ 

“You can, you’ll take whatever I give you, brat,” and another smack finds your ass again, as he pinches the flesh for good measure, drawing another moan from your lips and another chuckle from his, “and you’ll take this cock too,” and he doesn’t spare you a moment as he presses his swollen, dripping cockhead to your drenched hole, smearing his pre all over your ass — as if to erase any doubt you were his, because there wasn’t — before finally sliding in. 

God, fuck. 

Your arms were already shaking, barely able to hold yourself up, but your face nearly plants into the mattress as he sinks into you — he was too fucking big. Even all the prep he had given you was nothing, nothing compared to how much his dick was stretching your cunt. 

He hummed, as your insides swallowed him eagerly, even with the slight resistance of your tight little pussy, watching as your walls parted for him with almost practiced ease, sucking him deeper and deeper, as if you were made for him. And you would be, after he fucked your cunt to his shape again and again — because this was far from the last time he would take you. 

It was only the first. 

“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight — am I the first to fuck this pussy?” he grunts, grasping your hips tightly, your warm, wet pussy wrapped around his dick — he had waited far too long for this, too many nights spent grasping at his cock, thinking how much better it would be buried in your pussy. 

“H-hngh, Sukuna, s’big,” you’re nearly babbling as he works himself into you, inch by inch, not even halfway in, and you were gonna cum just from him putting his dick in, “can’t fit—” and he’s scoffing, watching you squirm against his length, but he only continues to fuck his way into your tight hole, another sharp slap to your ass as a warning. 

“I’ll make it fit, girl,” he growls — like fuck he was stopping now that’s gotten this far, there was only one way this was ending — and it was with his cock fucking you full of his cum, “c’mon, did the dream not compare to the reality? Did you think I had a tiny dick?” and he thrusts shallowly against you, sending another inch inside your already stuffed folds, drawing a needy whine from your throat, “so fucking loud, you gonna let the whole house know what we’re doing at this rate,” 

he murmurs, bending down to your ear, and your walls squeeze around him, a vice grip that has him nearly cumming then and there, but no he won’t, not yet, “fuck, did you think about letting Choso know? Maybe I’d let him watch me fuck you, only way he’ll ever see you like this,” and you whimper as he slams into you, finally bottoming out as his tip bullies your womb, making you cry out against your fingers, “to think the pretty girl next door is on her hands and knees like a slut for me now, getting split open by my dick. What would Choso think?”

You’re whining, “Please, fuck, slow down—” but he only pulls out a little to piston back in, balls slapping against your ass as he does, setting a mean pace, as he chuckles in your ear. 

“You’re saying that, but we both know that’s not what you want — slutty fucking pussy trying break my cock in two,” the sounds of your skin slapping against you as his tip brushes against your cervix rings in your ear, even as he murmurs in it, “y’’know he wants to fuck you right? The little brat is always watching you, nearly fisting himself at the sight of you,” he’s forcing you upwards, pressing your back to his chest, “he wants you, but he’ll never have you, because this pussy is mine,” and his hand finds the bulge in your stomach, pressing down, as you keen, head falling back against his shoulder, as tears pooled in your pretty eyes, “but he’d never be able to reach here and fuck you like you want — like a whore,” his other hand pinches and teases your pebbled nipples, before sliding up to your neck, squeezing lightly, “say you’re mine,” 

You can’t find the words, all of them fucked out of your body to make room for his cock seemingly — the only words remaining his name and “please,” but you have to do better than that, and he slows his pace to nothing, as he pulls out so only his tip teases your entrance, a whine leaving your pathetic mouth.

“If you’re not mine, guess I don’t need to let you finish, do I?” and you’re shaking your head, frantic and repentant. 

“I’m yours, i’m yours, Sukuna, please—” and he’s sliding right back into you, fucking you harder, balls slapping against your ass and sweet cunt swallowing him up to the base, a white ring of your pre cum forming around it — and he just knows you’re close, by the twitch of your sweet pussy — and his hand reaches around to rub at your clit,  “I’m—” 

And he ruts into you, hard and deep that you’re sure his length brushes against your womb — and you’re cumming, falling apart around him, but he doesn’t relent — but had he ever? He didn’t relent over these past few weeks, and he wouldn’t now, not until he was filling you up and watching his cum drip out of your hole—

You’re slipping back forward, face forward into the pillow and mattress, as he grunts watching your slick drip down your ass and thighs and onto the sheets — his balls tense with his release, “Fuck—” and that’s all the warning you get before he slams back into you to bottom out, as he blows his load. 

His release is hot as it fills you up, never ending it seems as he slowly fucks you through his orgasm, his spurts slowing with time, until he’s finally stilling, a soft grunt, as he pulls himself from inside your warm cunt. A soft groan at the sight of his seed spilling from inside you — you’re boneless and spent, until he has you jolting forward from the press of his fingers gathering his cum and stuffing it back in. 

“Kuna, fuck, I can’t—” and he scoffs, retracting his fingers for a moment, before he’s deftly flipping you onto your back, “too sensitive,” you whine as his fingers work their way back into you. 

“Did you think I was done, woman?” and his softening erection is already standing tall again, and you’re almost wanting his fingers now at this point, even as your body disagrees, pussy squeezing at the thought of him buried inside you again. He leans forward, lips brushing against yours, a kiss full of nothing of tongue and teeth, the faint taste of your own release on his lips, “we’re far from done.” 

The sound of your name catches your attention, your eyes snapping up from your breakfast, “what?” 

“Are you okay? Choso frowns at you, as he holds his rice bowl, the rolled tamago sliced on his plate, “you look tired,” It was another morning like always, but 

You shake your head, “I just didn’t sleep well, I kept waking up from my dreams,” and it wasn’t exactly a lie — yesterday was the culmination of a million dreams you had. Dreams that only ended when the sun began to come up, with his cock still buried in your cunt as you rode him, back pressed to his chest, as he worked you up and down his dick. 

And finally when he came again, this time all over your back, he finally pressed kisses up and down his back, easing himself out, as his toned arms engulfed you. 

“Should clean up and I should head to Jin’s room,” he murmurs, “I have a feeling I won’t have a place to live if he finds me in here,” and you chuckle, too fucked out and tired, “we’ll have to get used to sneaking around. 

“Oh will we?” you had mumbled, and he answered your question with another bruising kiss to your lips. 

Yuji tilts his head, scratching it, as you lift your glass to take a sip of water, mouth far too dry now, “Is that what those noises were? It sounded like you were having nightmares,” and you nearly choke on it, but force it down, hoping the embarrassment wasn’t evident on your face, stabbing your egg. 

“Yeah, I had a couple last night,” you lied, and even as you suddenly found your breakfast far too interesting, you could feel Choso’s gaze still on you — your cheeks burning as Sukuna’s words about him still rung in your ears — along with the distinct ache between your legs and on your ass he left behind, “I’m fine, I’m just going to need a nap,” 

“You’re not the only one, girl,” Sukuna walks into the kitchen from the rooms, as Yuji and Choso balk at his presence. 

Choso’s eyes narrow, “What are you doing here?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Sukuna’s eyes find yours, the corner of his lip pulled upwards, as his gaze rakes over your form, “what’s for breakfast?” and you knew he only wished that you were the thing placed on the table for him to eat. Jin barely pays any mind, too preoccupied on his phone with his work email, as he passes a plate to Sukuna. 

“When did you even get in?” Yuji asks, as he finishes his own breakfast, leaning back on his two palms. And your insides begin to tie themselves in knots at all of these questions — knowing Sukuna would like nothing more than to tell them exactly what he was doing last night. 

“And where did you sleep?” Choso glares, adding fuel to the fire, as Sukuna looks down on him, lips a thin line,  “you didn’t bother our guest, did you?” and your cheeks burn all the same, a flicker of amusement on Sukuna’s features, lips parting only for Jin to cut in.

“He got in early this morning. He slept in my room,” Jin says with a sigh, “Don’t you two have to get ready? You’re going to your mom’s this morning,” 

“She’s not my mom,” Choso grumbles under his breath, “more like a leech,” but he still gets to his feet all the same, as Yuji follows suit, picking up their plates, a comforting hand on his older brother’s shoulder. 

“I should get to work,” Jin sighs, sparing a sharp glance at his brother, “behave,” and he turns to you, “feel free to stay as long as you want. Yuji and Choso will be back this afternoon,” 

And the three of them find their way out of the house, a rush of bags and feet, as Choso spares a glance at you. 

“I’ll be back soon — you can hang out in my room if you want,” Choso says, before scowling at Sukuna, “let me know if you need anything,” and you nod, waving him off, and the door shuts behind them all. 

Sukuna slides into place beside you, sitting as the two of you eat breakfast in relative silence. You finish up your meal, and move to get up, but Sukuna’s hand finds its way onto your thigh, holding you in place. 

“Are you done?” and you glance at him, plate empty and food untouched, “with eating?” 

“I am,” you raise an eyebrow, “And you?” 

“My appetite wants something else, sweetheart,” he leans forward, fingers inching higher until his thumb grazes your inner thigh. 

“And what’s that?” and he nearly growls his next words, thin patience already tearing in two, just as he would your clothes if you weren’t careful. 

“I’m done playing coy, woman,” he’s lifting you with ease, slinging you over his shoulder as you gasp, and he’s gotten you on top of the counter, the very same counter you had baked cookies on the day he had arrived, but now his hulking body was quickly pressing your legs apart, “there’s only one thing I want to eat in this kitchen, and it’s between your fucking thighs.” 

“Not sick of it yet?” you chuckle. 

“Think I could bury myself in your slutty pussy for days and not get sick of it,” and he looms over you, just as he had that first day, and he leans down to kiss you, stealing the logic from your mind and leaving only the need for his touch behind, “it is the sweetest thing I ever tasted after all.” 

“Really?” and he smirks, as his fingers dig into the fabric of your shorts ripping them and your panties down, the cool air against your already wet cunt. 

“Want me to prove it?” 

And oh, he would. Again and again. 

✧ a/n: i have a problem. i really wanted to write something with degradation ok?

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