#and there's only two of them which is nice

[tobeholyistobeempty]

you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

part two. find part one here.

“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”

sober you is a lot less bold, but simon is a man of his word. 18+. insane amount of dirty talk, reader afab, PIV. smut smut smut smut. size kink.

——————-

the headache you wake with is devastating.

biblically so.

and not in the sunday service, water‑into‑wine sort of way. this is old‑testament vengeance. locusts and brimstone and a hammer slamming the earth between your temples. divine retribution for every godless thing you said, every blurred line you crossed - like some higher power watched you drink yourself stupid last night and said let there be suffering.

and fuck, suffering you are.

you’re barely coherent, hardly sentient, when you squint into the cold morning light and find the realization of what happened last night dawning in on you in fragments. out of order, scrambled like eggs - simon’s arm around your waist. you calling him big. military‑issued. ruin‑her‑life‑in‑a‑single‑night kind of hands. been into you for ages. god yes. please. y’don’t know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart. the way he said you’re makin me hard like it physically pained him.

practically moaning into his motherfucking palm.

wait - practically? no. you did.

you spend majority of the morning with your head buried under blankets and pillows mourning the death of your past self because you know your soul must be charred. burnt like the edges of hell where your feet are now firmly planted.

“you, wakin up with my dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

fuck sakes.

you’ve known hangovers, you’ve known embarrassment, but this - this is some divine hybrid of the two. a cocktail of humiliation and mortification laced with whatever residual high you’re still riding from him saying come say it t’me sober like a goddamn dare.

and of course it only gets worse when you finally make it to your feet - teeth brushed twice after two whole water bottles and a shower hot enough to burn the devil out of hell - and notice something silver glinting on the table by your door that most definitely wasn’t there yesterday morning.

“oh…god.” your heart flips up into your throat.

his dog tags.

you’ve known simon long enough to know what this is. he didn’t forget them. he didn’t misplace them. he left them there to tell you he heard every fuckin word you said and he’s not letting you off the hook for it. it’s a test. if you meant it - which you did - you’ll bring them to him. you’ll say it to him sober like he asked.

a man of morals. who knew war criminals had it in them.

you spend what has to be a full ten minutes just staring at them - like maybe you’re still drunk, maybe you’re seeing things and they’ll vanish if you focus hard enough. maybe you can unsay every devastatingly honest thing you said with sheer mental fortitude alone and they’ll magically fly back to him on their own.

spoiler alert: they don’t move. because of course they don’t. and it takes another ten before you finally stuff them into your pocket.

it’s probably best to just rip the bandaid off. bring them to him before you have to face him infront of the others in mess or briefing - damage control before the rest of the world finds out about the stunt you pulled. you don’t even know what you’re going to say - sorry? thanks? let’s just pretend i never told you i fantasize about fucking you when i can’t sleep?

fuck. it doesn’t matter. you know you owe him the return. a peace offering, a penance, a silent white-flag kind of knock on his door.

and so you walk the hall like it’s the green mile. you’ve never done a walk of shame but you imagine this has got to be as close as it comes. his door is shut when you reach it, and you stand in front of it like a coward for another unnecessary amount of time - complexion almost ill. ghostly. like you could float right through the fuckin wood if the wind blew hard enough.

finally, you knock.

it’s a moment, and then he answers, filling his doorframe with those thick shoulders stretching a tight black t-shirt, looking right as rain besides damp hair and bloodshot eyes.

you wonder, fleetingly, if he even slept. but then his gaze drops over the length of you and you busy yourself with fighting the urge to run for your fucking life.

you clear your throat. “can i..uh. can we talk?”

he nods and pops the door open, gesturing for you to come in. you take a few steps into his room - dark, organized, rather sparse - and nearly jump out of your flesh when the door shuts behind you. the click of a cell door closing, announcing your sealed fate.

you spin to face him once his boots have stopped dragging across the tiles, and find him leaning back against his desk - ankles and arms crossed.

you swallow, and pull the tags from your pocket. “i um. i think you forgot these.”

his brow twitches, barely, as he takes a glance at your hand. a flash of something behind his eyes you can’t name.

“did i?” he doesn’t move.

you shift your weight. the mortification could eat you alive. you’re certain it currently is.

“figured i’d bring them back.” you add, quieter now, trying your fucking hardest to sound normal. like you didn’t just spend the night saying all kinds of unholy things into the palm of his hand. “incase…uh, you were looking for them.”

he still doesn’t take them.

“strange,” his lips tilt. the first sign he’s shown that he's enjoying this. “coulda sworn i left em’ somewhere on purpose.”

your stomach flips. you try to laugh but it’s brittle. “right. sure.”

he shrugs. “not the kinda thing i usually misplace.”

you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you think it might bleed, unsure how to respond to that. it’s hard to even breathe with the way he’s watching you - like he’s taking notes - reading everything you’re not saying in the line of your mouth, in the way your fingers tremble around the chain of his tags.

“shaky this mornin, yeah?” he says, just casually knocking the rest of the wind out of your chest.

“i-“

you falter, because what the fuck are you even supposed to say? no, i’m fine. i’m totally good, actually. i definitely didn’t spend all morning curled fetal, praying to gods who’ve certainly damned me for a head injury so i can forget the mental car crash that was last nights events.

simon waits, eyes blazing like you’re a twitchy little experiment. trying to see which wire makes you spark the hardest.

you clear your throat. try again. “m’just tired.”

“mm.” he hums with a lazy nod. “musta been all that talkin you were doin.”

and there it is. here it comes.

“can’t really remember, but i’m sure it’s part of it.” you lie with a forced laugh. lie so awkwardly it hurts. “tequila. you know how it is.”

“do i ever.” he replies, dragging a hand through his damp hair.

silence stretches thick, after that. it’s so thick it makes the walls feel closer, the floor feel further away. you avert your gaze, and realize almost immediately how big of a mistake that is because the motion pulls your eyes across his forearm - his bare, inked forearm, tendons flexing with the movement he’s making.

you remember that arm last night, wrapped tight around your waist. pulling you close before you moaned god yes and please beneath the big hand attached to it like fucking gospel.

when you flinch, he smirks. not even pretending like he didn’t notice. “y’remember nothin from last night, then?”

your eyes snap up to his. you hate yourself for the fact that all of last nights confidence seems to be no where in fucking sight.

“well, uh, it’s fuzzy but…i remember bits.”

“bits.” he echos. nodding. “yeah. must be a shame.”

oh god.

“shame?”

“shame t’forget all that detail.” he lets the words sink in, watching your face as he leans a hand on the desk behind him. “pretty interestin things. real deep. could write a bloody novel, the way y’were goin on.”

“oh.” you choke, again, and mentally slap yourself. get it together. “well. thats-“

he hums again. “suppose i could walk y’through it.”

“walk me-“

earth tilts. he doesn’t let you finish. “y’know. help piece it together. fill in the gaps.”

“you don’t-you don’t have to-“

he lifts a hand to gesture vaguely toward his bed. your pulse races to the moon.

“your room, y’were right there. lookin at me like i was gonna eat y’alive.” his voice lowers. you swallow and it tastes like sin. his finger shifts to the space before his bed. pointing at the edge. “and i was right there, tryin’ like hell t’be a fuckin gentleman.”

you could laugh, maybe cry, or just absolutely combust right there on the floor because it all floods back in an instant. the way you moaned his name when he knelt over you to undo your boots. the way your thighs tensed as you told him you think about him. the way you stared at him while your brain short circuited and your mouth betrayed every secret you thought you’d die with.

part of you did die, you suppose. the part with your dignity. right there on the floor of your room, next to your boots he took off.

“look, simon-“

he steps closer now. just a step. “y’said you’d been into me for ages.”

you blink, holding your breath.

“said y’think bout me when y’cant sleep.” his voice is a rasp now, the muscle in his jaw ticks. “i asked y’a question, then. d’you remember it?”

fucking hell.

“yes.” you exhale.

“what was it.”

your heart is a jackhammer, breaking through your sternum.

“you-you asked if i think about you when…” you hesitate, and he cocks an eyebrow. “…when i touch myself.”

“yeah.” he says lowly. a breath, not a word. “tha’s right.”

your skin is burning and your limbs feel foreign, at this point. you feel nerve endings pulsing in place you didn’t know you even had nerves.

“d’you remember your answer?” he continues, taking another step toward you.

and it’s then that the anxiety takes over - you blink twice and bite down until you taste blood, shaking your head no. not because you’ve forgotten - fucking hell you remember everything - but because saying it out loud feels like jumping out of a plane without a parachute.

he doesn’t buy it.

“mm, sure y’do.” he calls your bluff, says it so soft it’s almost a coo. “y’know i know your tells - two blinks while bitin the inside of your cheek.” his eyes gleam as his lips twitch. “y’can’t lie t’me, princess.”

christ, you can’t help but laugh at that. it’s exactly the reason why you’ve been into him - he’s perceptive and cunning and cocky all at once.

this is the man you’ve thought about fucking for months.

“yes.” you whisper in admittance. “i said yes.”

“god yes.” he corrects with another step until he’s so close you have to kink your neck back to meet his eyes. his shoulders swallow the edges of your vision until all you see is him. “…still true?”

you nod. a broken thing. “yes.”

“yeah?” his head tilts, the heat of him sweltering. “y’think bout me when y’put hands on yourself?”

“simon-“

he hushes you with a shake of his head, eyes dipping to your lips. “tell me.”

it’s then that you realize dragging this on is for nothing. whatever drunken confession you made last night clearly cracked open whatever restraint simon’s been exercising for months.

clearly whatever you feel, he’s feeling it too.

“yes.” you confess, as firm as you possibly can. nothing coy in it now. “yes, i think about you when im alone. when i touch myself…doesn’t even feel right unless im picturing you. your hands. touching me.”

it all comes out of you in a rushed whisper, desperate and dripping sweet from your lips like it’s been saturating behind your teeth for too long. when he doesn’t respond right away, you realize you’ve stunned him, and pull on whatever courage you have left to press forward.

“i’ve wanted you for so long ive stopped tryin to figure out when it started.” you murmur, lost in his eyes. “and you?”

his breath catches. just the faintest hitch, like he wasn’t prepared for the edge of your honesty to turn and face him instead. it’s delectable, the slight composure tilt, but it doesn’t last long. because slowly - slowly, his mouth curls into something wrecked. something that says fuckin hell, it’s on.

his knuckles come up to graze your jaw, he lowers his head until his lips find your ear—

“y’askin if i think bout you when i’ve got my fist wrapped round my cock?” you inhale sharply, then choke on it when his mouth brushes your lobe. “course i fuckin do.”

your hands lift timidly to find his shirt, curling into it, dog tags still clinking between your fingers.

“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”

your lashes flutter. his free hand slips around your waist. “fuck, simon-“

“i know, sweet’eart.” he murmurs it, almost gentle, like it’s something you share. “tha’s what y’need, ain’t it? f’me to admit you’re not the only one losin mind here.”

you nod, partly frantic and partly delirious, and he exhales something strained - something from somewhere deep, catching on the parts of him dying to stay patient.

“good.” his hand slides up the back of your shirt, while the other finds the one of yours still holding his tags. “y’really come here just to return these, then?”

“no.” it chokes out of you instantly, mouth tilting toward his. “you wanted me to say it to you sober. made a promise bout what you’d do if i did?”

something feral flashes over his face, at that. translated through the grip he tightens on your waist, the exhale he washes over your jaw.

“yeah.” he says, tight. “i did.”

his mouth is barely a breath from yours.

“well here i am. sober.” you whisper. “wanting you more than i did while drunk.”

he makes a sound you’ve never heard before. not a groan, not a moan, something deep and feral punched straight out of his chest.

“fuckin hell.”

and then he’s kissing you.

no more waiting, no more games. simon’s a man of his word and it shows in the way his mouth crashes into yours - hungry and bruising and impatient - teeth knocking, one hand fisting in the back of your shirt and tearing it off you while the other pulls you in. he spins you both so your ass hits the edge of his desk, and then breaks away - trailing spit slick lips down your jaw and throat, thick fingers working to tease the band of your sweats.

“tell me where y’want me, sweet’eart.” he growls into your pulse.

you blink, dazed. “i-what?”

his teeth graze just enough to make you whimper, before his mouth drags back up beside your ear - ruinous in the inflection.

“tell me how you’ve imagined it,” his finger tips slide under your waistband, just teasing. “what you’ve pictured when you’re thinkin’ of me like this. right ‘ere.”

“oh god, simon.” you moan by his words alone, too wound to be embarrassed, fingers cinched tight in the fabric of his shirt. “your-your fingers. your mouth. your cock-“

that sound again. deep and devastated. restraint being ripped out by the roots.

“fuck. filthy thing f’me, aren’t you?” he says, as two fingers slide lower, slipping under heat soaked fabric and finding your slit, pressing in no further than they need to before circling back up - spreading the mess you’ve made just to feel it. “you’re fuckin soaked.”

you whimper as he teases your clit. his mouth finds your throat again, teeth grazing where your pulse stutters wild beneath flushed skin. you don’t trust your legs to hold you upright under the weight of it all - his touch, his voice, the feral gleam in his eye when he looks at you like you’re some prophecy being fulfilled.

“s’this what i do t’you?” he murmurs. “just from talkin t’you like this?”

you nod, a frantic little thing. “yes-god, yes.”

he exhales hard like it's kicked out of him, tugging your sweats down until they slide off your ankles before he lifts you back onto his desk and parts your thighs with hands so big they nearly span the entire width of them.

you fucking moan at the sight.

and of course it only fuels him - braces you back on your elbows, spine arched, breath caught in your throat as he steps in close between your legs. his eyes drag down to where you glisten in the dim light - slick, flushed, waiting - and he lets out a curse before returning his fingers to your aching cunt.

he presses in one digit slow, then adds another. knuckle deep until your eyes roll, hips jerking at the stretch.

“oh, fuck-“

he hisses through his teeth. “tight little cunt. fuckin meltin f’me.”

his thumb catches your clit in the same motion - rubbing soft circles, pushing you closer, dragging you toward the edge with every brutal curl of his fingers inside you.

“that feel good?” he growls against your jaw. “touched y’self in bed thinkin bout me between your thighs like this?”

you’re panting now. shaking.

“i-“ you gasp. “yes, simon-yes-“

“yeah?” his thumb speeds up, his fingers pump deeper, your head spins. “and did y’cum like this? like you’re about to f’me now?”

you don’t answer fast enough. he bites at your jaw.

“tell me.”

“no-n-never like this—”

he growls something vile under his breath. “poor thing. s’okay. i’ve got you.”

your walls flutter around him, your thighs shaking where they frame his hips, and he feels it - feels the beginning of the end stutter through you.

“simon-“ you whinge.

he cuts you off. “look at me.”

you do. barely.

“tha’s it,” he breathes. “cum on my fuckin fingers. show me what i’ve been missin.”

you’re starved for it, beyond saving, and its only a couple more deep pumps before you break.

it floods through you - white hot and searing. you cry out his name as you clamp around his digits, trembling apart on his desk while he watches you like you’re art - jaw clenched, pupils blown - his fingers still moving, dragging you through it until you’re sobbing into his shoulder.

“there we go.” when it passes and you’re limp, blinking up at him stunned - he withdraws slowly. “attagirl. s’fuckin good.”

you swallow, watching wide eyed as he brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.

“been dreamin bout that taste, knew it’d be sweet.” he purrs as he leans down, wiping his spit slick digits over your cheek. “gonna need it proper soon.”

you don’t even have time to question or respond to that, because then he’s unbuckling his belt.

when you finally look back up, his eyes are wild.

“s’this what y’want?” he murmurs, tugging leather through loops before undoing the button at his waist. “when you came t’me this mornin, all flushed and pretendin t’be innocent. was this it? wantin’ me to bend y’over and take what y’fuckin offered?”

you choke as he tugs himself free - thick, leaking at the tip and throbbing - bigger than anything you’ve ever seen, nevermind taken.

the nod that follows is compulsive desperation. “holy fuck-yes-“

he smacks light at your thigh. “stand up. bend over f’me.”

you do as you’re told without hesitation - legs shaking as you stand spin and lean forward over the desk - breath still stuttering in your chest, heart going a mile a minute. your hands barely meet wood before he’s on you - no preamble. no breath between. grabs your hips like it’s instinct, like his hands were molded to hold you like this, and yanks you back against him with a roughness that steals whatever’s left in your lungs.

you shudder when he slides his cock against your slit once - twice - dragging the head through slick and stalls notched just shy of your entrance, breathing hard like it’s killing him to wait.

“y’remember what else y’said last night?”

you barely manage a nod. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. he exhales something like a laugh.

“not compliments. not the fantasies. not the whining.” he drags through your mess again, slower this time. deliberate. “you said—“ his hips press forward just enough to make you gasp. “—you wondered if it’d hurt.”

you whine, embarrassed, but god it shoots straight through you. he bends low now, chest flush to your back, mouth to your ear.

“truth is, it might.” his lips curl into a smile. “so don’t fuckin run now.”

and then - only then - he pushes in. you gasp so hard your chest deflates on impact, thick head stretching sopping walls wide and dragging deeper than you’ve ever imagined - too much and not enough all at once.

“ohfuck-simon-“ your head drops toward the desk, eyes stinging.

“mm. tha’s it.” he groans, loud, burying himself halfway before pausing there. “tightest fuckin—bloody hell.”

he presses forward a little more - just enough to make your knees shake as he steadies you with one hand at your hip and grits his teeth. he pulls out just to feel you clench, then shoves back in - hard enough to jolt the desk and feed you all of him before you can even brace for it.

“ffffuck-ohfuck-“ you wail, knuckles bloodless where they clutch the desk. “you-you’re-“

“deep.” he bends over you, grabs a fistful of your hair, and drags your head back to his mouth, voice hot on your skin. “i fuckin know.”

he thrusts once. hard. then again. slower. deeper.

“jesus christ,” he undoes your bra with his free hand, paws at your tits until it hurts. “walked around this whole time with this cunt made f’me and didn’t say a fuckin word.”

“fuck simon-“

“yeah.” he grits against your ear. “tha’s how you moaned it last night. just like that.”

it’s punishing, the pace he sets. each snap of his hips smacking against your ass drags stars down into your retinas - body rocking and cervix kissed with each thrust - his grip is bruising and his mouth works at your neck, forcing noises out of you loud enough to rattle the fucking walls.

it doesn’t take long before your chest collapses onto slick wood, drool coated cheek pressed to the desk - vision bleeding white around the edges. he’s relentless - driven, brutal in rhythm, like he’s trying to fuck the memory of your voice out of his head, the memory of your thighs pressed together last night when he walked away instead of dropping to his knees and giving in.

he groans, open-mouthed, flushed everywhere. he’s not just fucking you. he’s wrecking you. dragging you across the edge by the throat and holding your broken pieces together with his own.

“mmf-fuck.” he snarls, burying his fist back in your hair. his palm cracks hard across your ass before snaking around your thigh to find your clit. devastating. “this. this is what i thought of for months. you. fuckin boneless f’me.”

he pulls out slow with a shuttering exhale, just enough for you to whine before he roars back in - hard and fast, fingers never slowing.

you shriek, squirming with no where to go.

“y’got no fuckin clue what y’did to me last night.” he’s panting, fingernails burning your scalp. “sat there slurrin filth. darin me t’do somethin bout it. tested every fuckin moral i’ve got.”

your second orgasm is a charging tide - and god, you know he feels it. you know by the way he rolls his fingers faster to chase it, moans in your ear when your walls flutter around him, fucks you deeper and slower just to drag you over by your hair.

“cum f’me. give me another.” he grits. “let me fuckin feel it sweet’eart.”

“ff-fuck simon! yes-yes-“

you sob, and then it hits you - violent and wet and cataclysmic - like every single one of your fantasies brought to life, like every pathetic orgasm you gave yourself to the thought of him and his fuckin hands all combined to create this. it’s stratospheric depths of bliss, all the colours of the rainbow erupting behind your eyes as he fucks you through it, not stalling his fingers until you’re sobbing.

“mhm. messy little thing.”

he growls with it before pulling out just enough to slap his cock against your soaked cunt, watching the slick stretch, the way you whine and arch out of pure fuckin instinct.

“look at this pretty cunt,” he rasps, teasing his tip over your clit. “drippin. tremblin. fuckin cryin f’me.”

you try to say something, try to catch a breath, but that all falls void as he thrusts back in without warning - one brutal, complete thrust, pushing everything out of you. screams, his name, your fucking soul. he groans as his hand finds your jaw, forcing your head to turn just enough so he can see your face. cheeks flushed, tears caught in your lashes.

“shh. don’t run—don’t fuckin run,” he growls against your mouth, arm cinched tight across your waist when your hips jerk away like it’s too much. “y’asked for this. said it t’me sober.”

“si-simon. please.” it’s breathless, ruined, wrecked beyond meaning, your mouth falling open on another sob when his hips grind deeper, when the head of him kisses a spot that has your knees giving out entirely. “fuck. s’good. s’m-much-“

“yeah?” he snarls. “s’good, huh?”

you nod something pathetic, lost for words. broken around him.

“want y’to think bout this when you’re alone.” his free hand drags down to your stomach, rests just high on your pelvis, feeling where he’s drilling. “how deep m’buried in this tight little cunt. how good my name feels in your fuckin throat.”

another nod. another hiccuped moan dragged out of you. “y-yes-yes i’ll think about it-mmff-“

“mhm,” he kisses you once. fleeting and viscous and hot. “good. s’good.”

a few more ragged thrusts and a sound gets torn from him, pulled from somewhere deep, feral and hoarse and ragged. his hips punch forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and then—

“fuck—fuck.”

he lets go.

he groans, voice breaking at the edges, forehead falling to the space between your shoulder blades. he pulses deep inside you, all of his pent up heat flooding you full until he’s spent, until he’s got nothing left to give and collapses against your back in one shuddering, boneless exhale.

and when it’s over, it’s just breathing - a long quiet moment full of everything neither of you know how to say before you register that he’s moving - leaning over you to grab at where his dog tags were discarded on the desk.

he slips them around your neck, and then pulls out.

“man of m’word, sweet’eart.” he whispers against your jaw. “this isn’t over.”

———————————-

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[luvergirl-535]

off-limits, on purpose

pairing - paige bueckers x azzi fudd

word count - 9.4k

c/w - privateschool!au, paige and nika are rivals, incredibly self-indulgent with little to no plot. read at your own will 😔.

a/n - reworked fic that i had written from a couple years ago, rediscovered, and decided to make pazzi lol. there will be one more part, which will be incredibly unserious and stupid, but what’s new?

extra a/n - i haven’t added any of my italics/emphasis yet (i’m high asf and too tired to do it) but i wanted to release this for yall now anyway! i’ll edit it tomorrow 🙂‍↕️ love you pookie bears

“I just don’t think they’re a very good fit. Not to be rude or anything—I mean, she’s probably super nice—but don’t you think he’s a little out of her league? I mean, a lot out of her league.” Nika smiles a little, amused at herself. “Like, miles out.”

“Stop, I’m so glad I’m not the only one.” Jana picks up her phone and starts searching for something. “Have you seen the picture she posted on her story yet? It’s so embarrassing.”

Nika snorts. “I don’t keep up with what she posts.” But she still looks eagerly when Jana hands her the phone, and her eyes widen when she looks at it. She clasps a hand over her mouth, looking almost nauseated, like she just watched one of those weird animal birth videos they were forced to watch in health class.

Azzi shovels another bite of pasta into her mouth, hoping they don’t rope her into whatever they’re talking about because she didn’t have time for breakfast this morning and she’s hungry, but unfortunately, Jana nudges her and shoves the phone in her face. “Look, Az. It’s bad, right?”

Azzi spares a glance at the photo. It’s a picture of this random girl that she kind of recognizes but doesn’t know the name of, and Jalen, a mutual friend of theirs, has his arm wrapped around her. She has to admit, it isn’t a very flattering picture on the girl’s part. It’s not bad, but not good, either. She looks a little jaundiced, maybe, but that’s just the lighting.

Needless to say, it’s not very interesting. At least not more interesting than her food. So she just says, “Why are we talking about this girl, again? Do any of us even know her name?”

“Well, no—she’s just dating Jalen. And she always stares at us in chemistry.” Nika gives a dainty little shrug. “But that’s the point. She’s…weird. She’s always writing in that little notebook and I’m pretty sure she grows weed in the school greenhouse.

Okay, Azzi has to agree. Whenever she sees this girl, she always has an aroma, and she usually has pit stains, which is, like, a surefire way to knock yourself down a couple of pegs on the social hierarchy.

“We might have to disown Jalen if he keeps dating her,” Jana says, her voice low and conspiratorial, like she thinks Jalen himself might sneak up on them at any moment. “She’ll definitely take him to the dark side.”

“Ew, gross. Let’s hope he has more common sense than that.”

Azzi pulls her phone out of her pocket, officially bored of the conversation. The gossip has been lame today, with Jalen’s new love interest being the only thing her best friends can seem to talk about. She sort of wishes for something terrible to happen to somebody, like a circulated sex tape or an unwanted pregnancy, but then she scolds herself for thinking that because it’s one of those thoughts that Jana would call ’fucked up’ and ‘crossing a line.’ Jana is the moral compass of the group.

Just as Azzi is about to suggest they go vape in the bathroom or something, a general hush falls over the cafeteria. She recognizes the sudden silence as the same silence that falls whenever she walks into a room. And besides Nika and Jana, there’s only one other person in the whole school who can elicit this kind of reaction.

Nika’s eyes widen at something behind Azzi and Jana, and the two share a look before turning to see what all the fuss is about—though there’s no reason to look. They already know.

It’s Paige Bueckers.

And she’s dressed in the exact same outfit as Nika.

At their private school, there is a standardized uniform that everybody has to wear, which are only slightly less horrid than the standard public school uniforms in their area. Even though they’re expensive and made of high-end fabrics, the student body hates wearing them. They’re stuffy, hard to get into, and the skirts that the girls have to wear squeeze your waist until you’re blue. So, in her freshman year, Azzi, as student body president—three years running, now—fought long and hard to give them all a day every two weeks where they can wear whatever the hell they want.

Some come wearing shorts and bikini tops, even in the winter.

Some come wearing the most outrageous, hideous costumes Azzi has ever seen in her life.

And Nika Muhl? She comes wearing all of her daddy’s money in the form of a stylish top and jeans tailored specifically to her. She makes absolutely sure that every outfit will be nothing any of her peers have seen or even dreamed of wearing before.

And here Paige is—Nika’s self-proclaimed rival and toughest competition—wearing the same exact outfit as Nika, all the way down to the baby pink lipgoss.

Azzi puts her head in her hands and groans. She does not have the energy to deal with the storm that will surely follow this. Not today.

“What. The. Fuck.” Jana’s mouth is slightly open, and she’s giving Paige her most practiced mean girl stare, but Paige couldn’t care less. She struts across the room like she owns the place and sends a chin nod Azzi’s way. The smile on her face is probably the most satisfied, egotistical expression Azzi has ever seen.

After Paige and her little posse have sat down at their respective table, and the noise levels in the caf have gone back to normal, Azzi spares a glance at Nika. On the outside, she looks calm and collected, perfectly unbothered. But Azzi can tell by the way she fidgets with her hair, by the way her cheeks are a touch pinker than her Dior blush usually makes them, that she’s absolutely seething on the inside.

“Oh, my god.” Jana looks at both of them, her mouth still open, and Azzi nudges it closed before she starts drooling or something. “Nika, I…”

Nika puts a hand up, effectively silencing their friend. “Don’t. Don’t even try to talk to me right now. I think I’m going to faint.” She says all of this with a small smile on her face, like she’s gossiping with them about something funny, but her tone is pure venom.

Though Azzi gets scared of Nika in these moments, she decides to speak up. “Maybe we should go to the bathroom and—“

“Don’t be dumb, Azzi.” This is a sentence that is repeated a lot whenever they all spend time together. “Do you know how bad it would look for me if we got up and left right after that?” she shakes her head decidedly. “No. We’re going to sit here and eat our food until five minutes before the bell rings, and then we’re going to go and grab drinks from the cafe before lunch is over. Just like we always do.”

Azzi wants to roll her eyes, because Nika’s really being just a little dramatic about all of this, but her phone dings and she looks at it before standing up. “Okay, well, I’m leaving. I have to piss. Nika—“ she reaches across the table to pet Nika’s hair—“we can work this out later, babe. It’ll be fine until then. You’re wearing the outfit better, anyway.”

“I know that,” Nika snaps, but she leans into Azzi’s hand and smiles just a little.

Azzi blows them a kiss as she walks backwards, her heels clicking on the floors. They both pretend to catch it like the giant dorks they are and then they go back to gossiping, this time more heatedly than before. No doubt they’re talking about how they’re going to get back at Paige for this little stunt.

As soon as they’re distracted, Azzi spins around and makes a beeline for room 203A. This room used to be a counseling office, like, years ago, but then the counselors all got their own classrooms and the school must have forgotten about this one, because it’s relatively small and tucked away in an easy-to-miss hallway. It’s also perpetually unlocked. A perfect hideaway.

Azzi closes the door behind her with a soft click, and she thinks that she’s alone until someone speaks up from a dim corner of the room.

“Hey.” It’s Paige, sitting on top of the counselor’s desk, leaning back against her hands. “That was fast.”

Azzi doesn’t comment on how Paige was the fast one—seriously, Azzi hadn’t even thought she’d left the cafeteria yet—because she’s too upset. She crosses her arms and glares at Paige. “That was a bitchy thing to do.”

Paige raises her eyebrows. “What was?”

Azzi does roll her eyes now, and she rolls them hard. “You know what. I’m going to have to deal with Nika for probably the rest of the week because of you.”

“I mean, you don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do. Because she’s my best friend, Paige.” Azzi leans back against the door, trying to act like she doesn’t want to walk over to that desk and stand in between Paige’s legs. “And it really wasn’t cool of you to mess with her. Not today, out of all days.”

For a moment, Paige’s eyebrows furrow like she’s confused. And then the realization dawns and the easy smile turns to a frown as she slides off her desk. At least she has the decency to look guilty. “Right. Your game. I—“

“Forgot?” Azzi scoffs. She feels sort of bad for making Paige guilty about this, because the whole wearing-the-same-outfit-as-Nika thing really isn’t that big of a deal. But the fact that Paige forgot about her soccer game? She’s been talking about this for weeks. “Yeah, I thought you might’ve. I mean, it’s not a surprise.”

Azzi isn’t oblivious to how Paige is slowly making her way towards her, but she ignores it. “You’ve barely been answering my texts the past couple of days. You haven’t so much as made eye contact with me in Spanish. This is the first time this week that we’re meeting in here, the first time this week that I’m actually talking to you in person.” Paige’s close now, within reaching distance, but she doesn’t touch, which is good because Azzi’s not finished yet. “And I was already kind of pissed at you, Paige, and then you forget about this game when you know it’s important to me. And now I’m really mad at you. Like, really, really mad.”

The corners of Paige’s lips quirk up for just a moment, which makes Azzi even more angry. “That mad, huh?” she almost seems amused, but then she’s frowning again. “Listen, Az, I’m—I didn’t know you were so upset. I didn’t mean to ghost you or anything, I swear. I thought you were fine with the distance, because you didn’t say anything.”

How could Azzi possibly have been fine with the distance? Sure, distance is okay—healthy—but without warning?

Azzi sighs, reminds herself that she’s getting all worked up over next to nothing, that this is just pent-up frustration from the past week. She runs a hand through her hair and looks down. “I guess I just got a little scared.”

“Of what?” Paige asks gently.

“I don’t know.” Paige reaches out and tugs on her wrist, and Azzi lets herself be pulled into her arms, because she’s been missing this closeness all week. She wraps her arms around Paige’s waist, rests her head on her shoulder, breathes her in. “That you found some cooler, smarter, taller girl than me and were planning to, like, dump me in front of the whole school.” She pauses. “Or something.”

Paige takes her upper arms and pushes her back a little so she can look at her face. Paige definitely looks amused now, and Azzi feels silly. “Taller? You think I’m going to leave you because you’re five ten?”

“Don’t laugh!” Azzi hits Paige’s midriff, embarrassed. “I’m serious. You just stopped talking to me out of nowhere and I got scared.”

“No, you’re right,” Paige says, and she seems to be serious now. “I shouldn’t have done that. And I also shouldn’t have forgotten about your game. I know how excited you’ve been for it, but I guess since we haven’t talked a lot this week, it just…slipped my mind.”

Azzi takes a step away.. “Can you tell me why you stopped talking to me?”

Paige shrugs uncomfortably. She avoids Azzi’s eyes. “I guess…I don’t know. We’d just been spending sort of every waking minute together for the past couple of weeks, and I wanted…needed a little space.” She glances up nervously, and Azzi realizes with a sinking feeling that Paige thinks this will make her more mad.

“Paige, you know that’s okay, right?” she cups Paige’s face in her hands, making her look her in the eye. “It’s totally fine to need space. I get it. I was starting to feel a little suffocated too with how much time we were spending together,” Azzi admits. “All you needed to do was say that, and I would have given you space.”

Paige takes Azzi’s hands off of her face and wraps them around her shoulders just as the bell rings. Neither of them pay any mind to it. “I’m sorry I didn’t do that. And I’m sorry for making you so mad. And I’m really sorry for forgetting about your game.”

Azzi smiles softly, because she’s a sucker. “It’s okay. I should have communicated better. But, to be honest, I think I’m just sort of grumpy because I haven’t gotten to kiss you all week.”

“Oh, that makes sense. That’s an unfortunate situation.” Paige nods somberly. “I would be sad about not getting to kiss myself, too.”

Honestly, this girl needs to get her ego in check. Majorly. “Shut up.”

“Not unless you make me.”

Azzi shakes her head at the dumb line, but she leans up and kisses her girlfriend anyway.

Paige presses her against the door, pushes against Azzi’s lips with her tongue, and Azzi opens up for her. They make out like that for a while before Paige kisses her cheek and then traces a wet path down Azzi’s jaw, playfully nibbling at a ticklish spot that makes Azzi giggle.

“Be honest,” Paige says, pulling away to smile at her. “I’m pulling off this shit way better than Nika is, right?”

All Azzi really hears is pulling off, which is certainly something she’d like to do to the outfit because Paige always looks best in nothing, but the thought is concerning enough to make her lean away. She’s never skipped class before, and she’s not going to start now.

Paige senses that their time is almost over, and she slips a hand under Azzi’s shirt, rubbing small circles on her tummy with her thumb. “We’re okay, right?”

“Yeah, P,” Azzi replies honestly, because she can never stay mad at Paige, not when she looks at her like she is now. “We are.”

“Okay.” Paige presses one last kiss against her lips, then takes a reluctant step away. “I love you.”

Azzi blushes, then really hates Paige for making her the type of girl to blush at all. “I love you, too.”

She collects her bearings, and just before she walks out of the door, she says, “And yes, by the way. You’re definitely pulling it off better than Nika.”

She gets to her class only ten minutes late, but Jana still looks at her weirdly when she walks in. Azzi doesn’t know if the look is because of her tardiness or the probably stupid smile on her face.

“What’s up with you?” she whispers when Azzi sits down, immediately handing her one of her earbuds to share. “Did you take a really good shit in the bathroom or something?”

Azzi shoves her. Jana says gross things sometimes. “No. Just hit my pen.”

Jana hums suspiciously, then gets back to the writing exercises that they’re supposed to be doing. Azzi pulls out her laptop to do the same, relieved that Jana’s not going to interrogate her like Nika most definitely would.

But as she’s moving onto the second exercise, Jana brushes a thumb over her jaw and says, “Is that lipgloss?”

Usually, Azzi is very good at controlling her reactions, but now she lifts a hand way to quickly to cover the side of her jaw that Paige was kissing just minutes earlier. She can’t believe she didn’t check herself in the mirror before coming to class.

“It looks like the lipgloss Nika’s wearing,” Jana comments. Azzi clears her throat and brings her pencil back to paper, trying her very best to act nonchalant.

“Yeah, she kissed me on the cheek earlier. It must have smudged.”

Azzi feels Jana’s eyes burning into the side of her head, but still she looks firmly down, refusing to give anything for Jana to catch onto.

Eventually she just shrugs. “Oh. Okay.”

She hardly sounds convinced.

If you were to ask Azzi why she’s secretly dating her best friend’s rival, she would tell you it’s because the secrecy, the sneaking around, the Romeo and Juliet-esque relationship, is exactly what makes dating Paige Bueckers so fun.

This, of course, would be a lie.

The real reason is because Azzi doesn’t think she’s ever met anyone who can make her feel quite the same way that Paige can, nor does she think she ever could. Which may sound a little pretentious and naive, but it’s how she feels.

Paige brings her flowers for no reason at all. Paige listens when she talks about her absentee dad and insufferable mom. Paige lets her lean on her shoulder when everything else in her life is just a little to heavy for her to bear on her own. And, maybe most importantly of all, Paige is, like, a really good kisser.

It all sounds so cliche and juvenile even to Azzi’s own ears, but to her, what they have is maybe the most substantial thing in her life.

Which makes her feel beyond guilty, because since when does she betray her best friends? Has she forgotten how Nika was the first person to ever really listen to Azzi, to talk her through any and every problem she may have? Or how Jana is the only person in the entire world who can help Azzi breathe through a panic attack, who can sense when something is going on at home?

Her friends aren’t artificial. Her friends are just as real as Paige is. Her friends don’t deserve to be left out of the loop of such an important aspect of Azzi’s life, and they certainly don’t deserve for Azzi to turn around and stab them in the back like she does every single day, like she’s been doing every single day for the past three years.

But Azzi is happy with Paige. Happy with her in a way she isn’t with her friends. And, despite all her flaws and all the admittedly mean things she’d said about people in the past, doesn’t she deserve to be happy?

“I can leave, if you want.”

Azzi bites her lip and glances over at Paige, who’s watching her cautiously. She wants to ask Why? or Did I do something? But she knows exactly why Paige’s offering.

She’s having a bad day. She woke up wallowing in her insecurity and has spent the day an anxious ball of guilty energy. She really should have said no when Paige offered to come to her place after school to study, but she thought maybe the company would make her feel better.

Instead, it might be making her feel even worse. All she can think about is how terrible of a friend she is and how terrible of a girlfriend she is and how she’s also sort of a bad person in general.

So, obviously, she’s a little irritable and more than a little distant. When Paige kissed her when they got up to her bedroom, she pulled away almost immediately; when Paige reached over to hold her hand while they were doing homework, she let go as soon as possible under the guise of needing to find a new pencil; and just now, while Azzi was questioning her place in this world and why she deserves it, she had shrugged Paige off when all she did was lay a comforting hand on her shoulder.

It makes sense why Paige would want to leave. But, as badly as Azzi’s PMS-ing today, she still doesn’t want Paige anywhere else but here.

So, she replies with an earnest, “I don’t,” and when Paige looks at her skeptically, she reaches up from her place on the floor and lays a palm on the bed where Paige’s sitting. Paige puts her hand over Azzi’s, albeit tentatively, and looks at her expectantly.

“I’m sorry,” Azzi says with a pout, trying to forget guilt and self-deprecation and just letting herself enjoy holding Paige’s hand, enjoy being in her space. “It’s just been a hard day. I shouldn’t take it out on you, though.”

Paige slides off the bed, sits next to her on her plush carpet. “Did something happen?”

Azzi pulls Paige’s hand into her lap and twiddles with her fingers. “Not specifically. I just woke up feeling bad and pretty much everything that’s happened today has made me want to cry.”

“I could kinda tell,” Paige says, and Azzi worries that she was too obvious about it, but Nika and Jana spent all day with her and they didn’t say anything. Azzi thinks Paige is probably an empath, or maybe she’s just attuned to Azzi’s emotions by now. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want me over, but I figured I’d ask just in case and when you said yes I thought it’d make you feel better to have someone around. But if you want to be alone, that’s totally fine.”

“I don’t. I think I’d be lonely if you left and then I probably would cry.”

Paige smiles, opens her legs, a silent invitation much like Azzi’s hand on the bed, and Azzi doesn’t hesitate to move and sit between her legs, leaning back against Paige’s chest, letting herself be held and not feeling suffocated by it.

“If I were a really evolved, in-touch-with-emotions type of girl, I would tell you that you probably should cry,” Paige says, face nuzzled into Azzi’s neck. “But I say we just drop the homework and kiss until your mom gets back instead?”

Azzi giggles, presses her lips against Paige’s, and they do just that. And Azzi is very glad for a girlfriend who has such good ideas, because this is definitely more fun than crying.

Having a secret relationship is probably one of the hardest things Azzi has ever done. Of course, having a secret relationship can never be easy, but Azzi thinks she has it especially bad because the very friends that she is trying to hide Paige from also happen to be very nosy and very susceptible to barging into Azzi’s house without any warning whatsoever.

Usually, Azzi and Paige are doing something like making out on Azzi’s bed whenever Nika or Jana invite themselves into Azzi’s home. It’s always pretty nerve-wracking, but it’s also not that difficult to just shove Paige under her bed or into her closet the moment they hear Jana’s yelling or Nika’s loud-ass laugh in the hallway. Of course, the fact that Paige has to sit in a cramped space until they can find a way to properly sneak her out is unfortunate, and it’s also sad when their time together is cut so abruptly short, but they usually just end up laughing about it later. No harm done.

Today, though, is different.

Paige and Azzi are not in Azzi’s room today, because they are in the kitchen instead, baking cookies.

Azzi’s mother is out on a trip with her latest boyfriend, and her brothers are out doing whatever they do on the weekends, leaving the entire house to her. Which means they don’t have to hide out in her room like they usually do.

Of course, maybe baking was a mistake, seeing as neither of them exactly know how to bake. There’s flour everywhere, the cookie dough has a weird texture, and they’ve spent more time ‘taste-testing’ than actually baking.

But, still, Azzi is having more fun than she’s had in a really long time.

“This is a good look for you,” Azzi says, inspecting the flour stuck to Paige’s eyelashes. “The white really brings out your eyes.”

“Oh, yeah?” Paige bats her eyelashes, then pulls Azzi in by the waist and kisses her.

Azzi pulls away, nose wrinkled. “You taste like flour, Paige.”

Paige kisses her nose, then her jaw, then her ear before saying, “That’s probably because you threw flour at me. Like a psycho.”

Azzi wants to tell her that she didn’t mean to throw it, it just flung out of the measuring cup when she slipped on the oil that Paige spilled earlier, so really it’s her own fault that she’s covered in flour, but Paige is kissing her neck and pressing her against the cupboards, and all she can really do is sigh contentedly.

After a minute, Paige grabs the bottoms of her thighs and lifts her onto the counter, probably so she doesn’t have to bend down so much to kiss where she wants to. Azzi gasps when Paige sucks at her collarbone, and she tangles her fingers in Paige’s hair, and she’s just worrying about the cookies and how they’ll probably burn if they get any more distracted when the front door opens.

Paige detaches from Azzi’s neck, though her hands stay underneath her shirt, still playing with the wire of her bra. “What—“

“Az!” it’s Nika. Of course it’s goddamn Nika. “You’re home, right?”

“Azzziiiii,” sings a second voice. Jana. “Azzzziiiii!”

Paige tries to say something else, and Azzi shoves her face in her chest to silence her while she tries to think. The front entryway leads into the living room. There’s a door from there that leads to the kitchen. If Nika and Jana decide to check the kitchen first, then Azzi and Paige are screwed.

Azzi holds her breath, clutching anxiously at Paige’s head as the footsteps get closer. The girls are still calling for her, and Azzi thinks she hears them pause outside the door, but the next second the footsteps get fainter as they walk towards the staircase.

“Shit,” Azzi mutters, releasing her girlfriend’s head. “That was close.”

Paige rubs at a spot on her scalp where Azzi must have dug her fingernails in too hard and glares. “You didn’t tell me they were coming over.”

“I didn’t know they were coming over.”

“They’re kind of shitty friends. They always show up without asking you if it’s okay.”

There are a lot of downsides to dating somebody who hates her best friends, but the biggest one is probably the arguments they get into whenever Paige says things like this and Azzi gets defensive.

She slips off the counter, straightens her shirt, and gives Paige a little shove towards the door. “They knew I was home alone. They had no reason not to come over.”

Paige pouts at her. “I don’t wanna leave.”

“You have to, Paige.”

“Why?”

“Because you just do.”

The pout falls, turns into a frown that is much less cute and much more angry. “Kick them out instead of me.”

This takes Azzi aback. Paige has never asked for such a thing, has never questioned it when Azzi has to choose her friends over her. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Paige’s tone is challenging, and she crosses her arms over her chest. “Why can’t you just tell them that you don’t feel like hanging out today and ask them to leave?”

Azzi hesitates. The change in the atmosphere has thrown her for a loop. A minute ago, they were kissing, and now Paige looks like she’s rearing up for a fight that Azzi doesn’t want to have. “I don’t know. I don’t really want them to leave, Paige. I like hanging out with them.”

“You see them all the time at school,” Paige says. “You’re with them every weekend. If I don’t ask you to hang out a week in advance, you’ve already made plans with them. Moments like these—“ Paige motions at their surroundings—“are getting way too fucking rare. And even when we do hang out, this always ends up happening. You have to sneak me out like I’m some dirty secret when they show up unsolicited, because you choose them over me every fucking time.”

“You were just saying you needed space because we were spending to much time together, and now it’s not enough?” It’s silly, but all Azzi can think about is how she and Paige made a rule to never cuss while they’re angry at each other, and Azzi finds herself wanting to bring that up rather than face this poorly timed argument. Instead, she just tries to keep her voice down because the footsteps from overhead are getting louder. She sighs. “Now isn’t a good time for this, Paige.”

“Of course it isn’t.” Paige scoffs, runs a hand through her hair, and grabs her phone off the kitchen counter. “You know what? Fuck you, Azzi.” And then she turns around and just…leaves.

Azzi stares after her, even after the kitchen door has closed and her footsteps have long disappeared.

Her phone starts ringing. The sound startles her into movement, and she looks around, realizes Paige left her sweater sitting on the island. She hides it. Then, she answers the phone.

“Where are you?” Nika says accusingly. “Your car is in the driveway, so we know you’re home.”

“Are you guys over?” Azzi asks, trying her best to sound aloof rather than panicked. “I’ve had my earphones in for the past, like, hour. I’m in the kitchen.”

“Since when do you even step foot in your kitchen?”

“Since today, I guess. I’m making cookies.”

“Okay, we’re coming down.” On cue, Azzi hears footsteps descending the staircase. “Hold on.”

Nika hangs up, then appears in the kitchen with Jana a second later. “Hey, pretty.”

Azzi takes a shaky breath and smiles. “Hi.”

Jana stares at her. “You have flour on your neck.”

Azzi wipes it away, unworried about whether it was left in the shape of Paige’s lips or not.

“We thought you might be bored, all alone in the house.” Nika wanders around the kitchen. They hardly ever come in here, because Azzi has a mini fridge and candy stash in her bedroom and Nika’s house is where the good snacks are at, anyway. “Obviously we were right. You were reduced to baking cookies.”

Azzi tries for a laugh. Nika seems completely unaware of her strange behavior, but Jana is still looking at her intently. “You okay, babe?”

“Yeah.” Azzi can never lie to Jana, so she says, “I mean, I sort of have a headache, but it’s okay.”

Nika hoists herself onto the counter, sitting at the same spot Azzi was a few minutes ago, when Paige was here and close and warm. “Want to go shopping later?”

Azzi nods, and can’t help thinking she’s made a terrible mistake.

The first time Azzi met Paige, she was fourteen.

Paige was some sort of basketball prodigy, a year older than Azzi and yet playing at a higher level than any other sophomore, and when Azzi saw her standing at the front of her lit class, introducing herself all-too confidently, her first thought was that she was very, very pretty.

Her second thought was that Paige could fit in perfectly with Azzi and Nika and Jana. This was her first mistake.

When she told Nika about it later that day, her best friend was furious. She told Azzi about how Paige had already tried to one-up her in debate club (which was Nika’s thing) and had also already been named the school’s basketball star before even playing in a game (also definitely Nika’s thing).

Obviously, this new girl was trying to take Nika’s spot as queen bee. Azzi still didn’t see why Paige couldn’t just join their group and be with them rather than against them, but Jana seemed to agree with Nika on this one, so she was sort of outnumbered.

Paige found her own group of friends soon enough, and the rest of the year was spent as some sort of long competition between the two groups—Who can silence a room the fastest? Who can wear the most expensive clothes? Who can throw the best parties?—and neither one of them ever came out on top. It was a constant tug-o-war.

For some reason, Nika was under the impression that since Paige was from a different state, that meant she was only going to be in Virginia for a year before she moved away again. Nika spent the whole summer singing about how the next year was going to be a fresh start, an amazing, Paige-less year—she was ecstatic.

(One June day, Azzi was out shopping with her brother and she saw Paige browsing one of the shops. They made eye contact. Paige waved, and Azzi smiled shyly. It was their first real interaction besides sharing blushing glances in class.

Azzi didn’t tell Nika about that.)

After the interaction, she found herself hoping that, since Paige hadn’t moved away by June, it meant she would still be around for the school year. It was no surprise to her, then, when Paige walked through the doors of the high school on her first day as sophomore, looking really cute in her school uniform.

Nika nearly fainted, and Azzi pretended to be shocked and angry when really she was just hoping for a chance to speak to Paige this year.

And then they got paired up together for the biology assignment.

“Hey,” Paige had said after the teacher had announced their partners and instructed them to go to each other’s desks to get to know one another. “You’re Azzi.”

Internally, Azzi was flipping her shit. She had never seen Paige up close before, and she was even prettier when she was standing right there. Plus, there was a pink tint to her pale cheeks and she was wringing her hands nervously, which let Azzi know they were feeling more or less the same way.

But on the outside, Azzi was as cool as a cucumber. She was known for her I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude and effortlessly pretty smiles, and squealing at Paige’s closeness would be a foolproof way to ruin her brand.

“Yeah, I am,” she replied, and then she thought of Nika. She couldn’t keep something like this from her. She still didn’t understand why Nika and Paige hated each other so much, but she was in no place to argue against their little rivalry. All she could do was try to stay loyal to her best friend.

But that didn’t mean she had to be a bitch to Paige. Paige seemed nice, and if she was okay with setting she and Nika’s strife aside to be friends with Azzi, then Azzi was perfectly fine with that, too. Even if the friendship had to stay a secret.

Nika freaked when she found out, of course. She gave very specific instructions to Azzi—don’t speak to her unless it’s about the assignment, don’t let her into your house, and don’t, under any circumstances, tell her anything about the group. Anything and everything she said could be used against her, against them, as blackmail.

Azzi broke basically every one of these rules within the first week of she and Paige’s partnership. Because Paige was cool, and funny, and she told good stories and turned out to be a great listener. And, again, she happened to be very nice to look at.

They got an A on that assignment, and Paige didn’t stop coming over after they finished it.

Needless to say, Azzi soon realized why she got all giggly and nervous around Paige—it was because she had a crush. Which brought on a whole slew of identity crises and a lot of looking back at certain events in her life and thinking Oh, that makes so much sense now, but the side effects that came with realizing she was queer could be saved for later.

For the moment, all she could think about was how maybe, maybe, Paige just might have felt the same way.

Azzi spent a lot of time picking petals off flowers, she loves me, she loves me not, and analyzing basically every single thing Paige said and did while they were together. Paige grabbed her hand at a jumpscare in the movie, did that mean anything? Or what about when Azzi caught her staring and she looked away and blushed—that had to mean something, right?

The end of the year rolled around before Azzi could figure out if anything actually meant anything. Paige and Azzi made plans to see each other over winter break. The night after the last day of school, Paige showed up at Azzi’s front doorstep and said, “I like you a lot, and I don’t want to end the year without kissing you,” and Azzi said, “We’re seeing each other on Wednesday, silly,” and then she leaned forward and kissed her for the first time.

All promises about staying loyal to Nika flew out the window the minute their lips slotted awkwardly together, but that didn’t matter so much to Azzi anymore.

She’d pulled away and said, “We won’t tell Nika about this, right?”

“No,” Paige replied. “I guess not.”

And that’s how their relationship started—with a secret friendship and a hidden first kiss.

They are used to their world being confined in a tiny locked box, never to be opened by anyone but them. But worlds can’t grow, Azzi will come to learn, without space.

The curious thing about Paige is that she’s the type of person who looks like she could never, ever get angry, let alone at someone she loves as much as she loves Azzi. But then you catch yourself saying the wrong thing, or stumbling over your words at the wrong time, and she explodes, because when all that time you thought she was simply a happy, contented girl without a hateful bone in her body, she was really letting the anger sit just underneath her skin to fester.

Paige does not explode, however, in the way that explosions usually happen. Even when the anger bubbles up to the surface and bares its ugly teeth, she is quiet about it. She doesn’t scream, or demand answers, or stomp her feet and yell. She looks you in the eye, says what she wants to say, and leaves.

She leaves, and she takes your heart with her.

It has been four days since Azzi and Paige fought. Or, to put it more accurately, since Paige fought and Azzi sat there like a stump. A stupid, clueless stump. Azzi has been trying to contact her girlfriend basically every spare minute she gets since then, but there has been nothing. Paige’s ghosting her.

This isn’t the first time this has happened. Last year, they got into a fight much bigger and louder than this one, and in the middle of it Paige had said something like “I can’t do this anymore” before walking out the door.

Paige had no idea, then, that Azzi’s father left them after a big fight with her mother. She did not know that he had said almost the same words, worn almost the same expression as he walked away as if it were nothing.

Azzi panicked, surprised by the likeness of it all, surprised by her own reaction to it, surprised that Paige could leave her as easily as he did. Her mom found her in the bathroom, trying and failing to breathe properly because she’d driven somebody away again.

She was scared of the rejection that would surely come with reaching out, but she did it anyway, sending Paige one long text and reminding herself that this is why she doesn’t let herself care about people too much when Paige didn’t respond.

But the next day, Paige knocked on her bedroom door with a bouquet of flowers and begged to her, please, I’m sorry, I love you, and Azzi told her about her past, about why her dad isn’t around anymore.

Paige held her, and said, “I will never leave you again. I will stay right here forever. I promise.”

And yet, here they are. And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

But Azzi knows that, this time, Paige is not the one who needs to apologize. So, after four days of radio silence, she shows up at Paige’s doorstep after school when she is supposed to be at a soccer game, because Paige was right. Azzi has had to choose between Paige and everything else in her life for a long time, and she always goes for everything else when she’s pretty sure that Paige is her everything. So, here she is, missing a pretty important match, freezing her ass off on Paige’s front porch, and hoping that Paige will just answer the door and give her a chance to explain herself.

The door opens, but it’s not Paige. It’s Paige’s stepmom. “Oh, Azzi. Hi, honey.” She looks quite confused, for some reason, but not angry, which makes Azzi think Paige hasn’t told her family about what happened.

“Um, hi. Is Paige home?”

The confusion on her face deepens. “No, she went out with KK about a half hour ago. Said they were going to watch your soccer game.”

Azzi stops. She stops because this whole time, these past ninety-six hours, she has been terrified because Paige left. But now Paige is trying to come back, despite everything.

“Thank you,” Azzi says, and then she walks back to her car and pulls her phone out of her pocket just as it starts ringing.

“Azzi,” Paige says when she picks up.

“Where are you?” Azzi asks, because she needs to apologize in person.

“I’m at your house. I—I went to the school, to see you, but you weren’t there, and you’re not at your house either.”

“I know. I came to see you. It was more important than the match.”

There’s a pause, and then Paige exhales something like relief. “Come to me?”

Azzi starts her car. “Always.”

When Azzi was little—when her parents never fought, before her younger brothers were adopted—she had a universe for a bedroom.

Now, this is a very well-kept secret of Azzi’s, but she was sort of lame back in kindergarten. Her father was really into astronomy, and Azzi was able to read the stars like a second language before she ever opened a book. So, for her fourth birthday, all that she asked for was a space-themed bedroom.

She fell asleep in her older brother’s room the night before her birthday. And when she woke up, she had been magically transported to her own room, except it wasn’t her own room anymore. It had been professionally painted, and murals of all the planets in the universe had been painted on every wall, making her feel like she was taking a walk through the sky. The ceiling was split into two halves: on one side, there was the sun, this giant fiery ball of yellow that Azzi was sure would fall down on her if she wasn’t careful—and on the other, the moon sat not quite as bright nor quite as extraordinary as its counterpart, but Azzi thought it must have been much less lonely because it had all the stars and constellations for company and the sun only had itself.

That night, her parents lay in bed with her. Her dad pointed out all of her favorite constellations which the painters had so carefully constructed, and her mom stared around the room with something like wonder.

“So, we got you the universe,” her dad had told her as he tucked her in, after her mom had already left the room. “How can we top that for your big O-five?”

“Don’t be silly, daddy,” she’d giggled. “I can’t have the whole universe.”

“Why not?” he’d asked.

Azzi found that she didn’t know how to answer him.

It starts to rain while Azzi’s driving, and usually she would slow down because it terrifies her to drive in the rain, but today she can’t seem to be that scared of hydroplaning or careening or dying because all she can think about is how Paige hates the cold and she’s standing outside of Azzi’s locked, empty house with nothing but the roof over the front porch as shelter.

She gets to her house in ten minutes, which is a record time considering it’s a busy Saturday afternoon and there’s traffic lining every street. Paige is sitting on her porch in a t-shirt and baggy jeans when Azzi pulls into the driveway, and she gets out of her car, passes by without even looking at her to unlock the door. She hears her stand up, take a step towards her. “Azzi—“

She opens the door. “Let’s get inside. You’re gonna catch a cold.”

Paige looks at her a little hesitantly, but she does what Azzi asks anyway.

Once they’re inside, Azzi splays her palms over Paige’s forearms, thumbs rubbing at her cold elbows, animosity and fear forgotten for the moment, overpowered by the need to take care of her girlfriend. “How long were you outside?”

Paige stares down at Azzi for a moment, looking at her as if this is some sort of trick. “Azzi…” but Azzi levels her with a look that says later, and she relaxes a little. “I don’t know. At least ten minutes, I guess.”

“You should go change. You left your sweatpants over awhile ago. And I have your sweater from Tuesday.” They both flinch a little at the mention of Tuesday, like even mentioning it will take them right back there. Azzi backs away and nudges her towards the hallway. “I’ll make hot chocolate, and then we can talk.”

As soon as Paige is upstairs, Azzi goes to the kitchen and puts the kettle on to boil. She’s trying to think of how she should apologize, how she can make up for all the mistakes she’s made in the past year. Well, almost two years. Their anniversary is in a couple months. Which reminds her that she needs to start looking for a gift, because shipping is slow this time of year.

That is, if she and Paige are still together a month from now, if Paige doesn’t break up with her today. Which, yeah, maybe she’d deserve that because she hasn’t been a great girlfriend. But she doesn’t think she could get over it if Paige broke up with her.

The milk starts boiling just as Azzi starts crying just as Paige walks into the room, dressed in warm clothes and looking pretty enough that Azzi cries harder and turns away, embarrassed, busying herself with turning the stove on low.

Paige doesn’t say anything about Azzi’s sniffles or the way she’s wiping her eyes angrily with the sleeves of her sweater. She just grabs two mugs and moves Azzi’s hands away from the stovetop, pours the boiling water.

Azzi watches her miserably. “I’m supposed to be making it for you,” she hiccups.

“It’s okay, mama,” Paige murmurs, and Azzi knows that this is Paige’s way of comforting her without the risk of getting too close.

Azzi goes into the pantry, mainly to collect herself and to try to stop her lips from quivering anymore. When she comes out with three hot chocolate packets, the tears streaming down her cheeks are silent.

She pours them into the mugs—two packets for Paige, one for herself—and lets Paige stir them in, watching the milk turn brown and creamy.

By the time they’re settled in the living room, Azzi’s properly embarrassed. She hides behind her mug, pulling her legs into herself, and tries to remember how to speak. She’s spent every second since their argument going over how she’s going to apologize, what she’s going to say, what she’s going to do. But now that Paige is here, sitting in front of her looking tentative and a little angry, all of that seems useless. Instead, she blurts out the one thing that’s been in the back of her mind since she realized that Paige came back for her. “Are you here to break up with me?”

Paige sighs, sets her hot chocolate down on the coffee table. “Azzi, no.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” Azzi adds, but the words choke her up again so she closes her mouth.

“Just because we argued doesn’t mean I want to break up with you.” Paige avoids her eyes, picks at the expensive fabric of Azzi’s couch. She says, voice a little shyer now, “I asked you to come to me, didn’t I?”

Yeah, she did.

“Are you…” Azzi peers at her over the rim of her mug, “angry with me?”

“To be honest? Yeah,” she says quietly, like a part of her is scared to hurt Azzi. And it does hurt, a little bit, but Azzi would rather she be honest with her than hide her feelings for Azzi’s sake. “I’m not just angry with you, though. I’m also hurt, and sorta sad, and I miss you a lot, despite everything. And I’m mad at myself for how I handled…everything.” She meets Azzi’s eyes sort of sheepishly, and then shrugs like none of what she said matters.

Azzi opens her mouth to apologize, but instead what comes out is a soft, “I’m proud of you for telling me that,” because it’s always been incredibly hard for Paige to communicate, to put her feelings into words.

Azzi isn’t sure whether her being proud has any substance right now, but Paige’s eyes widen and then she smiles just a little bit, looking back down at the sofa bashfully. “Thank you,” she murmurs.

Azzi hums, and then she puts her hand on Paige’s knee, lightly enough that she knows she can move away if she wants to. She doesn’t move away, though, just lifts her eyes, and Azzi says, vehemently, “I’m really sorry, Paige.”

Paige nods, places her hand over Azzi’s, and watches her expectantly.

“What you said that day…Paige, I’m not going to say I hadn’t noticed the way I’d been treating you. I’m not going to say that I had no idea I’ve been putting you second to everything in my life for awhile now, because of course I did. Every time I chose someone, or something, over you, I was making a conscious decision to do that.” She stops to frown at herself—this is more difficult than she thought it would be. Paige rubs a thumb over her knuckles, gives her an encouraging nod, and that’s enough to make Azzi continue. “I guess it was just easier that way. It was easier to cut you out of my life whenever it was convenient, knowing you would come right back the next day acting like it wasn’t a big deal.”

“Which sucks,” Paige says.

Azzi looks down shamefully. “I know.”

“I know that what we’re doing is complicated,” Paige says, scooting a little closer to her. “But the way you’ve been treating me…it’s mean, Azzi.”

Tears well in Azzi’s eyes when she hears the hurt in Paige’s voice, and hearing that—seeing it written all over her face up close—she understands now the weight of everything she’s done, all the mistakes she’s made. And yet Paige is still here, holding her hand, willing to make this work.

And Azzi is sure as hell willing to change. For her. For them.

“I know,” she whispers again. “I’ve been a really shitty girlfriend.” She wipes a stray tear away with her free hand, and Paige’s lips wobble. She looks away, probably to pull herself together, and Azzi reminds herself of the one-cry-a-day rule that she put in place for herself a few years ago, which sort of helps her stop sniffling. “And I’m really, really sorry.”

Paige squeezes her hand. “I know you are.”

It’s not forgiveness, not yet, but Azzi feels better knowing that Paige knows how sincere she is.

“I could’ve handled it better, too,” Paige says after a silent moment. “I never meant to blow up on you like that, and especially not at such a bad time. I was just…I had had enough, I guess.”

“Why didn’t you talk to me sooner?” Azzi asks gently.

Paige gives her a sad little smile. “I was sort of hoping I wouldn’t have to.”

Paige hates conflict, but Azzi knows it’s not about that. It’s about the fact that she shouldn’t have had to talk about it—Azzi shouldn’t have kept treating her like shit until she reached the end of her line. But she did. And here they are.

“Baby,” Azzi breathes, a new wave of guilt crashing over her, and she wonders if she will ever stop feeling bad about this. It’s probably for the best if she doesn’t, anyway.

“I know,” Paige whispers. She takes Azzi’s hand off her knee, and for a moment Azzi is worried that she’s going to turn her away, but she just starts playing with her fingers like she does whenever she gets anxious. “I should have talked about it before I got so angry, though. Or I at least could have picked a better time to yell at you about it.” The teasing lilt in her voice makes Azzi smile a little, but then Paige’s wincing. “And I’m sorry for cussing at you. I feel the most bad about that.”

Azzi has spent the better part of the year treating Paige like she’s nothing more than a second thought, and yet Paige is still apologizing for something so small, so insignificant in the end, and Azzi almost wishes Paige would break up with her, find someone a million times better, someone who can treat her right.

“It’s okay,” she says, knowing Paige won’t let her dismiss the apology. “Hey,” Paige is avoiding her eyes, so she takes her chin, angles her face towards her until they’re looking straight at each other, “I’m going to be better, okay? I don’t care if my friends can’t know about you. I don’t care if it’s easier to keep them from asking questions than it is to ask you to stay. I care about you.” This, most of all, is what she wants Paige to know, because she deserves to feel nothing but loved, respected, cared for. “From now on, I’m going to show it better, okay? I love you. I love you so much I don’t even know what to do with myself sometimes. I want you to know that, even if it feels stupid to say.”

Paige juts her bottom lip out a little bit, and she leans into Azzi’s touch, leans into Azzi, getting close enough to her that Azzi can feel her breath on her lips when she murmurs, “Promise?”

“Promise,” she echoes, and she does. She stays where she is, letting Paige decide whether she wants to move away or close the gap, and she almost gasps when Paige bridges the space between them, even though she sees it coming. It’s a soft, tentative kiss, like they’re trying to remember how to fit together, trying to be gentle with each other in the way they weren’t four days ago, trying to say I love you and I’m sorry and I promise all at once.

It takes a moment to catch her breath when they separate because Azzi’s heart and lungs had already nearly forgotten what it was like to kiss Paige, but by the time she finds her voice again, she says, “Can you promise me something, too?”

Cupping Azzi’s face in her hands, Paige nods and pecks her on the lips.

“If we ever find ourselves here again, please do me a favor and dump me. Like, don’t be nice about it, either. Pull a Regina George and sabotage me, or something.”

Paige stares at her for a moment, and then she laughs, that loud, full laugh that Azzi loves so much. “You’re ridiculous.”

Something inside Azzi slides into place, like she’s been missing a vital organ and just got a life-saving transplant. “I’m serious! You need to have some self-respect, baby.”

“How about,” Paige kisses her again, “we just try not to find ourselves here again. Yeah?”

“Seriously,” Azzi says, more to herself than Paige, “you have such good ideas.”

Paige giggles, calls her a dork, and kisses her. Just like that, everything is right in the world once again.

[nobodyfamousposts]

It all started with a smoothie that went wrong. And not even in the normal ways a smoothie could go wrong.

It had been a good smoothie. Honestly one of the better ones she’d had. A nice mix of flavors with the added satisfaction of the fortune that brought everything together to create it.

Someone had left a pomegranate in her locker. No idea why. She checked around to see if it belonged to anyone. Maybe someone put it in her locker by mistake? Or if it was a gift, she at least wanted to know so she could thank them.

Sadly, no one knew. And no one else wanted it. Regardless, it felt a little sad to just leave it there. Not to mention wasteful. And Marinette hated wasting food. She was sure she could make something out of the fruit! Macarons? Tarts? Molasses? 

She was still debating the options when she happened upon an outdoor fruit stand. Which was rather unusual but not completely uncommon. And the nice man seemed to have some good stock to choose from, even if they weren’t in season yet. So she walked away with a fresh pear.

How lucky to get a pomegranate AND a pear? She was a little surprised to get them. Weren’t they supposed to be fall fruits? How were they even this fresh and ripe? It was still summer, after all.

Regardless, she took them home planning to make something out of them…only to forget about them for a couple of days until an all-nighter and a particularly rushed morning left her needing to make something quick for the go and she figured a smoothie would be good enough. Especially since she needed to eat them before they went bad. So chopped up and into the blender they went.

Which in retrospect, probably wasn’t the best idea.

In her defense, Marinette was very busy. Very busy and on an increasingly tight schedule. She had exams coming up, a report to right, and a commission she needed to complete, and a mock up she needed to start for her project—which was going to be evaluated by an outside panel of judges in an official setting, which she was completely unprepared for as it was. And if she thought she was unprepared for that, there was no way she was prepared for…this!

This being two unnatural but still very handsome men in her living room arguing with each other over which of them got to take her home. Which would sound very flattering and maybe enticing under most normal circumstances if the “Home“ in this case didn’t refer to places that weren’t even on earth. And that she had only vaguely heard of in stories that she was pretty sure weren’t real.

Or at least she HAD been sure before today. Will wonders ever cease?

Or maybe she was hallucinating?

“She ate the fruit of the Land of the Dead.” The blond one insisted, his voice rich and sending shivers down her spine in a rather intense and interesting way she hadn’t known could be a thing before. “That puts her under my jurisdiction.”

“I would disagree. She ate the fruit of the Wilds and thus is bound to my claim.” The blue—yes, blue haired man countered with a smile that would make her melt if not for the teeth. The unusual and sharp teeth.

Both of these men were otherworldly beings summoned apparently by her smoothie.

Both were also ridiculously hot.

And she absolutely did NOT have time for this!

“Look,” she interrupted their stare-off, bringing both gazes to her. “I’m late enough as it is. If you two could break and enter some other time, that would be wonderful.”

They both stared at her. And yes, she should be more concerned about these two (incredibly handsome) strangers in her apartment, but she was going to be late if she didn’t leave now and run—literally run to her first class as fast as possible.

She slipped on her shoes and grabbed her bags.

“Thanks! Don’t steal my stuff—you probably can’t use it anyway. Bye!” She called as she left.

The door shut behind her, leaving the two men behind in silence and a now empty apartment.

“Did she just leave us?” Asked His Majesty Thanatos, God of Death, Judge of Souls, and the current Ruler of the Underworld.

“So it would seem.” Replied The Erlking, Lord of the Wilds, King of Fae, and current Ruler of Underhill.

The two sized each other up while considering their position and options. It would be difficult to continue the argument without the subject present. Though it was quite off-putting that she would simply leave when they were in the midst of such an important battle to determine her future.

At this point, it appeared there was little more to do but wait. That was fine.

They were nothing if not patient after all…

Somehow, some way, a human managed to acquire both a pomegranate from the underworld and fruit from the realm of the Fae, then made a smoothie out of them. Now, Hades and the Fae are in a fierce argument regarding who the human belongs to.

[sophrosyncc]

— what's up bro ?

you call the chrysos heirs bro. how do they react to it?

warnings/tags : slight story spoilers (you'll only notice them if you squint your eyes), gender-neutral reader, crack, slight ooc behavior (for the comedic effect) author's note : apologies for suddenly disappearing out of nowhere. I have severely underestimated how busy I'd be 🥀🥀 a bit of silly stuff before the dreaded 3.4 arrives. might edit this later characters : aglaea, anaxa, castorice, phainon.

aglaea

in her many years of leading the flame-chase journey, the last thing she expected was to be called bro.

no. you aren't the first one to call her that. both children and teenagers in the recent age of amphoreus have approached her with that nickname. cipher and phainon are definitely at the scene of the crime as well.

if she dislikes you, she'll ignore you or politely tell you off. unless you're elder caenis which is an entirely different situation on it's own.

compared to the next person on this list, she doesn't mind it if you call her that around others. it'll be a bit awkward at first but she gets used to it. there are far worse names or titles that others have given her, and she's glad that yours comes from a place of no ill intent.

if you are associated with phainon and cipher to a good extent, expect her to ask you if you were dared to do that.

maybe she'll give you an amused smile or laugh a bit after you call her bro. aglaea enjoys the unpredictability you bring in her life filled with daily routines and responsibilities. it's a nice break from what she's usually used to.

the only time you shouldn't is if she's doing something important.

on the other hand, if you're her lover, she'll be a be more playful with you. she may or may not call you bro when you least expect it. what's even worse is that no one will ever believe you if you tell them. the demigod of romance calling you bro out of nowhere sounds more impossible than completing the flame-chase journey.

can you really blame her? it's funny to see you surprised. aglaea can and will be a tease.

if you try to catch her off guard, it won't work.

call her garmentmakers bro as well and she'll enjoy it.

"hm? I don't remember calling you by that nickname. perhaps you have mistaken the voice from one of my garmentmakers for me — some of them can be playful."

anaxa

first of all, why would you call him bro?

are you asking for a death sentence? an early entrance to the nether realm?

or to catch his attention?

we're talking about the man who doesn't want to be called anything but anaxagoras. the same one who corrects everyone to the point he's made it a personal rule — he has a voiceline ranting about his own name.

if the two of you are strangers, he won't hesitate to tell you off. if he dislikes you, he'll give you a glare too or straight up ignore you. he isn't going to waste his time on you when he has better things to attend to.

however, if you're friends or lovers with him, anaxa will stare at you for a few good seconds. the scholar's silently judging you. he doesn't know whether being called bro is better than being called anaxa. to put it simply, it's awkward. he still corrects you in the end.

continue calling him bro after the first time and he'll eventually get used to it.

no. he's not calling you bro. it'll only happen in your dreams.

the era nova will happen before anaxa calls you bro.

call him bro in the classroom or anywhere near his students and he'll give you the nastiest side eye you've ever received. anaxa does not need the troublemakers getting ideas from you. that includes the other chrysos heirs as well.

a huge emphasis on the other chrysos heirs. entertaining the thought of phainon, cipher or aglaea hearing about that gives him dread. give this man some peace please.

"first of all, that's anaxagoras to you and remember that well. secondly, i'm not your bro. refrain from referring to me with such nicknames next time."

castorice

she... doesn't know how to react.

speechless. quiet.

a bit flabbergasted, even.

no worries, you didn't offend her at all. castorice simply doesn't know how to reply.

you are most likely the first one who's ever called her that. congratulations!

not a lot of people approach the hand of death and call them bro casually. people have called her by many names or titles as well, similar to aglaea, and the last thing that comes to mind is a casual nickname. castorice is also aware that she isn't the liveliest person around.

whether you're a stranger or someone she dislikes, she'll give you an awkward nod or ignore you. if there's others around her when you call her bro, she'll think you're talking about someone else. anyone but her.

however, if you're a friend: despite the silly nickname, she likes it.

being called bro isn't something she's definitely used to, but it's a nice and pleasant surprise. it gives her a sense of normalcy and comfort. it'll take more time for her to get used to it compared to the others. call her that with other people in the area and she'll be a bit confused if you're talking about her or someone else.

castorice won't call you bro often, but sometimes she will.

not a lot will change if you're her lover. she'll still react the same for the most part, but I can imagine her surprising you with another silly nickname of her own. it has to be mutual.

please just don't call her that in front of aglaea or tribbie.

she will be a bit embarrassed.

"it's... alright. there's no need to apologize. I enjoy the nickname quite a bit actually. please— don't be scared to call me that again, or other similar words."

phainon

phainon takes it extremely well. too well.

in fact, he'll even reciprocate it.

no one is surprised at all.

it isn't the first time he's heard others call him like that or the first time he's called others bro. call him bro and he's calling you bro as well. equivalent exchange.

he has also called some of the other chrysos heirs bro as well. both of you are guilty of that.

the only time he won't do it is if he dislikes you a lot. if you've played the 3.3 story quest. depending on the situation and how much he dislikes you, he'll either firmly tell you to not do that next time, pretend you didn't call him that, or glare at you.

worry not, it takes a lot to have the deliverer hate you.

if you tell him to stop calling you bro, phainon will respect that. however, he'll find other silly nicknames to call you, ones that you don't mind.

if you're his friend or his lover... good luck. one way or another he'll turn it into a competition on accident or purposefully, and it'll only get more heated if you're just as competitive as he is. get ready to have bets over who can come up with the most absurd nicknames in one minute or something else.

just be careful to not drag anyone into it, lest the two of you want to replicate chaos that could rival penacony's disaster.

"bro? haha! I didn't expect that but I'm not against it either. I guess that means you're my bro now as well. what? don't look at me like that."

masterlist

[okwonyo]

OUT OF OFFICE ， 𝗉𝗃𝗌

SYNOPSIS. you have dreamed for years to move into a new apartment. a nice, spacious apartment in the middle of the city — not too for from your favorite restaurant, which you would love to work with some day. your two wishes are granted, with a hot single dad too.

ABOUT. chef !jay & web designer !reader

HASHTAGS. neighbors to lovers, coworkers to lovers, single dad–rich man– restaurant owner–loser–gym rat–girl dad! jay, photographer !sunghoon, reader has a rich dad, romcom, fluff, angst if you squint — WARNINGS. cursing, skinship, kissing

WORDCOUNT. 6k – 7k as of now ✶ 8k estimated.

taglist is open send an ask or comment to be added.

SOUNDRACK. out of office i will add more songs to it as i keep writing 💌

PREVIEW （ 1322 ） in which you meet your new neighbor: a cute little girl with a plushie that matches your own keychain. her dad comes along but it’s not the first time you meet him, though.

during the past two weeks, you discovered that moving wasn’t just fun — but also very exhausting.

it took you practically a month to open all your cardboard boxes, to buy all the elements for each piece of the immense apartment and to build every piece of furniture with your friends. it was rough.

there were also issues with lights that wouldn’t turn on or outlets that didn’t work. apart from that, your apartment was truly perfect.

you choose in the middle of the city, close to every business that would need your help, here in seoul. it wasn’t very far from your father’s work, which made you promise to pass by some time. most of your friends are nearby, there is a gym on the first floor and even a receptionist.

you saved your money for years to have the chance to afford such a huge apartment. a big room, a living room bigger than your previous place as a whole, a bathroom with a shower and toilets, another bathroom with a bath, a european kitchen and a beautiful restroom. nothing could be better.

now that you are fully moved in, you wonder how your neighbors could be. you never saw any of them.

however, that’s a conversation for later.

today is the first day of rest you have had in months. none of the clients need your help as for now. mr. park called you two days after the first time you talked. you both agreed for another meeting, which is supposed to happen in a week. it’s perfect, he gave you the time to do all the things you needed to do. now you can focus on his website.

well, after you finish your grocery shopping.

your fridge is completely empty. you don’t have fruits or vegetables. there are barely any snacks in your place, which is concerning. you can’t spend your money on restaurants anymore.

your grocery list is in the making. so immersed in it that you only notice the kid standing next to you after a few seconds.

the baby girl seems to wait for the elevator just like you do. when you look down at your feet, she is already looking up at you — her wide eyes make your heart melt. you think you have been looking at her for too long, because she grips tighter into her kurumi plushie yet her eyes don’t leave you for one bit.

crouching down, you rest your weight on your toes and make yourself a bit smaller to not scare your new neighbor.

“hello,” you greet her. your voice is barely above a whisper and filled with a sweetness that her father, watching from afar, can hardly describe. you introduce yourself, uttering your name so she can hear.

“i’m your new neighbor, i just moved here,” you say, pointing to your apartment. your eyes miss the man standing a few meters afar. “see?” the kid nods. “i hope we can get along!”

she studies you warily, with her fist clutching on her toy. eyeing the plush, you got a new idea.

“ah, kurumi!” you look for your keys in your burse. the keychain attached to them hangs in the air, the little girl’s eyes following its movement with attention. the tiny pink of the my melody keychain you own matches with the black of the kid’s kurumi plushie, “i have one too!”

the girl’s eyes dart from the keychain to her own plushie. her eyes are still worried, but it’s nothing that you warm smile can’t change. she steps closer to you, and at your crouched position you are still taller than her but she is soon to over you.

she grapes into the keychain and you let her, “we match!”

the little girl giggles. it’s shy, but she is starting to warm up to you. your heart squeezes at the notion.

“what’s your name, honey?”

she rocks on her heels, “mia.” her voice almost makes you audibly coo, but you smile instead.

“what a beautiful name,” she smiles at the compliment. “are you lost, mia?”

she shakes her head, “daddy is here.” her tiny hand points to the hall. at the hand of her index finger is a man in a suit, your eyes follow his form until meeting his face.

holy shit.

“m—mr.park?” you stutter out. the sweet look on his face takes you aback. he’s utterly smitten with how you treat his daughter. so gentle and kind, easily climbing through his daughter’s shy wall. taking your shared interests to talk to her.

he is already falling for you. not the mention that you are beautiful and have been lingering on the back of his mind since he first saw you.

he walks to you. letting mia hold onto my melody, you get up slowly so the keychain doesn’t slip away from her fingers.

“thank you,” he utter earnestly to you right when you were parting your lips. not everyone can be this patient with his daughter’s shy demeanor.

you frown, confused, “for what?”

“for being nice to her,” he chuckles. “although it’s not your job. she won’t want to leave your side now.”

you look down at the girl. her doe eyes are still on you, “ah,” you chuckle, looking back at him. “it’s nothing.” jay sees the sincerity behind your eyes, as well as the stubbornness lingering in them.

“so, you are our new neighbor?”

the information seems to have just reached your brain, “i guess?”

“well, welcome once again.” he recalls your first conversation at his restaurant.

“it’s a pleasure to have you with us.” his voice is filled with sugar, as always. you mutter a small thank you and he continues, “were you heading out?”

“yes, i need to buy some food,” you feel the need to add. “i have nothing in my apartment.”

“ah, i see,” he smiles, dimples showing off. “i was about to drop her to school but little miss forgot her backpack at home.”

you nod, looking at the tiny backpack in his hands, smiling shyly as the heat rises in your cheeks.

“daddy bought you a backpack, let the pretty lady’s keychain go now.”

he slips the complement into his sentence smoothly, it almost goes above your head. it makes you blush ever harder when mia adds, “wahh, pretty lady.”

she lets go of the keychain after a while and reaches for her father’s stretched out hand. the elevator opens and you all step into it.

“is the moving in going well?” jay speaks after a while. “do you need any help?”

you panic for some reason, “ah no, no, i finished everything just today!”

jay hums. “don’t hesitate if you need help with anything.”

chewing the inside of your cheek, you look away — avoiding his eyes carefully. you nod and a quiet moment installs itself in this elevator.

though, his eyes doesn’t leave you.

“do you want us to drop you off?” he breaks the silence once again.

the grocery store isn’t far from the place. it’s a quick ten minute walk and it’ll help you complete your steps goal, anyway.

“no, thank you,” the elevator stops at the floor you pressed — that mr. park pressed for you, in fact.

you look at mia one more time. with the smile that haven’t left your face, you give her a little wave, “goodbye angel.”

“good bye, pretty!” she exclaims back, which makes you and mr. park laugh.

you turn your attention to her father, “goodbye, mr. park,” you are already stepping outside before he can reply.

“you can call me jay!” his voice goes through the space between the closing doors.

jay is in a haze after you leave. he replays the moment you shared with his little girl over and over, feeling a singular feeling creeping in his stomach. he leans his head back against the elevator’s cold wall, hand running in his hair. he bites down a curse.

“are you going to marry her?” his daughter asks him.

he wonders where his daughter got this insight. it’s not like he can lie, she’d call him out immediately, “i wish.”

★ JIAH ! hi everyone .. so this might be surprising, i never talked about this on my account until today but i really got the idea last week and thought ‘don’t think, just do it’. i am very excited to share the work with you all, i am praying that my exam can come faster so i can post the full work TT i hope that you will like the little preview i have for you. if you are already in my permanent taglist, you don’t need to ask to join 🪽 mwah !

© OKWONYO 2O25

[mona-risms]

◆ MAIN COURSE: Rumi x boxer!gn!Reader

◆ TYPE: SFW, romantic

◆ ALLERGEN WARNINGS: None

◆ NOTES: Let's fucking try this AGAIN. Bc for some reason Tumblr decided to be a nasty little shit and post my draft HALF AN HOUR AGO when IT WAS CLEARLY SET TO "SAVE DRAFT" and I was fucking EDITING IT. But whatever I'm nonchalant

So when a boxer is found out to be dating someone, it's like. Basically fine. Whatever you have your own life outside of the ring, good for you. But when an IDOL does it, the entire world explodes. Rumi's most definitely always exasperated about this but also she's not really all that bothered--she likes her privacy (or as much privacy as a K-Pop idol can get anyway) AND she def likes seeing a side to you that only she will ever see :3c

You could just easily walk out after training and grab snacks you know that Rumi (and the others, bc ofc you can't just ignore your girlfriend's two closest people) loves to eat before heading back to the penthouse. You even get them their favourite ramyeon cups cuz why not? Maybe you even text her if she wanted you to pick up anything specific and she says that you don't have to! Before quickly following it up with what she actually wants and then like a sticker, probably of herself for comedic effect LMFAO

While you're doing that and making your way to the penthouse, HUNTR/X are doing a vlive. They probably just kinda have it so like they can just drop in and drop out whenever, so maybe while they're doing it together, Rumi gets your message and she smiles before she can even stop it. Ofc the viewers WILL pick it up and they're like "OH????? WHO GOT YOU SMILING LIKE THAT" to which the trio immediately scramble aka Rumi says she saw little turtles on her feed and sets Zoey off on a tangent bc they all know FULL WELL why Rumi's smiling. She probably drops out a little later to go do her own thing (code for texting you on the other side of the room)

And then 😭 you fucking arrive 😭 completely unaware of the stream going on, esp if you have earbuds on for music and stuff 😭. The lift doors open and out you pop, immediately making a beeline for Rumi at the kitchen section to say hi, to give her the bag of snacks you picked up on the way, to lean in so that you can--

"AAAAAAAH TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF--"

"I'M TRYING--"

You and Rumi immediately jump away from each other before the latter ducked down to hide behind the kitchen counter, taking you down with her.

"Shit," you hissed out quietly, "sorry, I didn't mean to--"

"No, no, it's okay," but Rumi winced at herself before continuing, "well, no, not really, but it's not your fault, okay? I probably should've told you we were doing a vlive. Plus this probably means that—" she raised her volume for the other two members "—WE SHOULD PROBABLY CHANGE THE COUCH FORMATION!"

"FINALLY! Thought it'd never turn off."

"BUT THE COUCH HAS SUCH A NICE VIEW!"

You stood back up, helping Rumi up in the process and wrapping your arms around her, "A nice view of me, apparently. Still, I probably screwed you guys over, didn't I?"

"What? Pshh, naaaah," Zoey waved it off haphazardly, "it's totally fine! I bet they didn't even notice and Bobby's not panicking whatsoever!"

Of course, it's followed by Rumi's ringtone, prompting her to pick it up—Bobby—and answer, "Heeeeey, Bobby, how's--"

"GIRLS, I'M PANICKING! EVERYONE SAW RUMI WITH SOMEONE ELSE AND NOW SOCIAL MEDIA IS ON FIRE WITH THEORIES ABOUT RUMI'S LOVE LIFE!" Bobby's very panicked screaming is then immediately snuffed out when he forces himself to stay calm, "It's okay. I'm okay. There's a reason you pay me 3% and I am going to PROVE--"

The call is immediately terminated with a beep when Mira, who you hadn't even realised had walked over to the kitchen island presses the merciful red 'end call' button, her other hand already making its way to grab at a snack in the plastic bag. "Anyway. Don't even worry about it. Best case scenario, they forget about it. Worst case scenario, they storm you and the internet for answers--"

"Not helping, Mira--"

"--but it's not the end of the world. You either just wait for it to blow over or own it," Mira opened the bag of crisps and took one in her mouth, "which I'd obviously say 'screw them' and own it anyway, but I know the fans can get a bit--"

"--wild?"

"--wild, crazy, all of the above." The tallest member moves back to her original spot on the couch, holding out the bag for Zoey to take some too, "Just let Bobby handle it—not like their face was shown clearly anyway. And if someone comes up too close to be weird about it, [Y/N]'s a boxer for a reason."

A small laugh left your lips as Rumi leaned back into your embrace and tilted her head to press a kiss on your face, further making herself comfortable, "I'd rather not have an assault charge on me."

"And I'd rather not have to visit them in jail," Rumi added.

"Hey, your loss."

Oh to make an entire twt AU about this.....unfortunately I'm lazy ay eff and will absolutely forget about it in like a day or two

I pray you have your socmed notifs off or else there's like an entire ONSLAUGHT of posts in every single postable platform. Kpop twt is on fire and even people outside of it are getting involved, there's like debates and fights like 'WHO JUST CAME INTO THE PENTHOUSE THAT'S NOT MANAGER-NIM👹👹👹👹" vs "let them live wtf yall crazy" and honestly it's really funny to read. Even Rumi finds it a little entertaining bc all this fuss just bc you walked into the frame and brought them snacks. Bobby and co. are trying their best but like. The devil works hard but the fandom works harder yk

And the THEORIES. Not just about what relationship you have w Rumi, but what you were gonna do before Mira and Zoey started screaming and who you even are in the first place. There's actual WARS happening about this, and fans are all on a scale from "omg happy for her" and "WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO US". This eventually reaches boxing twt somehow and it gets WORSE when they EVENTUALLY profile-match you LOL

Now YOU don't know peace either as you go outside. Suddenly ticket sales for when you're fighting TRIPLE bc everyone wants to see and bombard the mystery stranger with QUESTIONS about what your link with Rumi is. And before this, Rumi probably watched all your matches asw. Now she can't even do that bc of damage control 😓 and Zoey sends you pics of Rumi sulking during practice bc she's missing a match of yours thanks to the stream (that most likely has been clipped more than 20x now)

Eventually she'll end up getting so tired—especially if this is taking place post-demon reveal—of having to distance herself from you for a while thanks to the whole thing that at some point during a concert, imagine tone of their other songs has a segment like the Saki seat or smth

The arena had boomed with shrieks and cheers and HUNTR/X's music as they went through their setlist with deadly precision. Though you came to wonder why you were told to sit in this specific seat when before, you were often just given any other place to watch them from whenever they performed.

You weren't really given a lot of time to wonder, however, when the music gets to a certain part—one you knew required certain audience participation—but you simply cheered your girls on as your girlfriend made her way to--

Wait.

"Wh--"

You don't even get your words out before Rumi pulled you up, the spotlight pointedly following her just like the other two's line of sight, and pulled you in for a VERY public kiss.

"YES!" "Ugh, finally!"

But even their mid-song exclamations could only barely be heard at the deafening screams of the venue around you as the two of you are blatantly displayed on the jumbotron. Though it's not like you care, not at that particular moment, as you pull her closer to deepen the kiss.. before Rumi eventually pushes you back down on the chair lightly. The jumbotron shows your shared breathless state, along with the idol's unrepentant grin amongst slightly-smeared lipstick that stayed even as she jumped for the hoop that swept her away.

..Yeah, there was no denying anything anymore.

By god, you love this girl.

The internet implodes into itself after taht, with people showing recordings and clips of your public kiss. But honestly neither of you probably care atp 🤷‍♀️ at least you two can go out together and cling on each other without it being a huge question mark anymore. If anything she'll def own it—wearing your clothes and hoodies as she's spotted watching your matches and everything HAHAHA

[violet-hady]

I personally have 3 rules I personally use to determine whether or not a remake is, in my opinion, good.

1. The movie needs to be well made. By that I mostly mean that the characters and plot have to be well written. A good negative example is the Mulan remake. Maybe it’s just me, but I just don’t think it’s a good movie. It’s been a while since I watched it, but I remember the characters as boring, the plot riddled with holes, and the themes contradicting. And speaking of themes:

2. The remake shouldn’t contradict the themes of the original. Perfect negative example is the newly released Lilo and Stitch remake. They took the message “Ohana means family. Family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten.” And turned it into “Ohana is a nice idea, but it’s not real.”! They not only contradicted the themes of the original, but they also said “The themes of the original are bullshit.”! I know it’s only one of the many crimes that movie committed, but this is one of them.

3. The movie needs to do its own thing. Now, from the way it looks, many of the people making these movies think this one contradicts the second one. Most of the time they make their own thing, they break rule two. And when they try to not break it, we end up with movies like the lion king. Even if we ignore all the other flaws the movie has: The characters are mostly the same, the plot is mostly the same. Sure, there are small alterations to both, but it’s still very much the same movie (we’re still ignoring the other flaws). There is no reason anyone who has seen the original should watch the remake. And I haven’t seen it yet, but from what I heard from the How to Train your Dragon remake, I’m afraid it’ll fail in this category too.

Now, are there examples of movies actually fulfilling these criteria? In fact, yes, there are. They are just pretty rare. Best example I can think of is Maleficent.

- Good movie? ✅ (just watch it)

- Consistent themes? ✅ (true love conquers all vs. true love conquers all. They just replaced romantic for familial.)

- It’s own thing? ✅✅✅ (It’s basically a completely original movie, just using vaguely the same outline of the story.)

I also remember the jungle book to be pretty good at this, but take that with a grain of salt, it’s been very long since I’ve seen the remake, and even longer since I watched the original. I also heard good things about the Cinderella remake, but I haven’t watched it, so I can’t judge that. And that’s all the examples I can think of right now. Like I said, it’s rare. But those who fulfill these criteria are good movies which deserve to exist.

"What do you want from a remake" I DON'T WANT THEM. I DON'T WANT ANOTHER SOULLESS NOSTALGIA-FILLED CASH-GRAB. I DON'T WANT ANY OF THEM. I DON'T WANT ADAPTATIONS THAT KILL THE ORIGINAL MESSAGE OF THE THING THEY WERE BASED UPON NEITHER THE SHOT-BY-SHOT DESATURATED RECREATIONS. I WANT ORIGINAL STORIES!!! NOT REMAKES OF MOVIES THAT AIN'T EVEN 30 YEARS OLD!!!​AAGGGGGHHH

[moonstruckme]

Im obsessed with how u write Remus and james! This is a weird request but can you write smt smutty but maybe the reader has an insecurity about her butt/legs 😭 so sorry but I feel like I always see some about smaller chest but what about the girls with smaller butts mannnnn

Thank you for requesting angel!

cw: not very smutty but mdni please, reader is insecure of her butt/thighs being smaller, some d/s dynamics sorry I'm uncurable

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

Things escalate quickly once you get into Remus’ room. You’re supposed to be…well, you know Remus’ invitation to come inside so he could lend you his book was in earnest. You were earnest, too, when you kissed him sweetly in the sitting room. It’s just that after that, you’d both found out at the same time that his flatmate wasn’t home, which has never happened when the two of you were at his before, and so perhaps it was a collaboration of mood and timing and coincidence that’s led to your current circumstances. 

Your trousers and Remus’ shirt discarded on his floor. Tea left to cool in the sitting room. Heavy breaths and unquieted sounds in an empty apartment. Those circumstances. 

“Come here,” Remus rasps, his hand splayed over the small of your back. Remus has large hands, with long fingers, and the span of them makes you feel safe. He kisses you urgently. “Come here.” 

You laugh, breathless. “I’m here.” 

The throaty, dissasifed sound which emanates from him makes you laugh more. You feel airy with it, fizzy, bubbling over. Remus moves his hand from your back to hook it under your knee, pulling your leg further across his hip. You’re lying facing each other on pillows that smell like him. It takes you a second to figure out what he wants. 

When you do figure it out, rolling on top of him, you’re rewarded with a kiss so deep you half wonder what Remus is trying to draw out. If he’d only tell you, you’re sure you’d let him have it. You’d give him anything. 

“You’re amazing,” he breathes. His fingers curl around the back of your neck, thumb stroking your jaw as he kisses up at you. 

You feel amazing. You’ve never felt so beautiful, so desirable and cared for, as when Remus talks to you this way. You run a hand up his chest, feeling scars and muscle under your fingertips. You roll your hips over him. 

Remus groans low and deep in his throat. His grip on your knee slips upward, pulling you closer. Short fingernails dig into your buttcheek. 

You take in a stilted breath. Remus notices the difference. 

He pulls away, his hand on your backside turning gentle. “Sorry,” he pants. “Did I hurt you?” 

“No.” You shake your head, hard enough to dislodge something, hopefully. Your eyes close. “No, sorry.” 

“You can tell me if I’m being too rough.” Remus rubs up and down the back of your thigh, slow, comforting. Something in your stomach knots tight. 

You wish he would stop touching you there. It doesn’t feel like a fair thought to have when he’s being so kind. It’s not that you don’t like when Remus touches you, even, just that you wish he wouldn’t perceive that part of your body at all. Knowing he’s feeling it under his hand, you can’t help but narrow all your focus to that one area. It feels like the first time you’d brushed shoulders accidentally; sparks, except this time not in a nice way. 

“I’m sorry.” Remus looks worried now. He can tell something’s the matter, just not what it is. “I should have asked.” 

You shake your head. “No, I’m sorry.” You kiss him once in consolation before dropping your forehead to his shoulder with a sigh. “It’s not you.” 

Remus is silent for a few moments, though his hand covers the back of your head. He pets your hair. “It’s alright if it’s me,” he murmurs eventually. 

“No, it’s not you. It’s my bum.” 

You feel ridiculous saying it aloud, and so you laugh, quiet and half nervously. Remus laughs with you, also quiet and entirely confused. “Pardon?” 

“It feels weird to have you touch my bum, because it’s…well, I don’t have much of one, do I?” 

“What? Yes, you do.” 

“Remus, I’ve seen it.” 

“So have I.” He keeps petting your head. His other hand, thankfully, has drifted up to rest on the small of your back. Even in disagreement, Remus cares to see you comfortable. “Lovely, I feel like there’s something I’m missing here. Is it the size of it that bothers you?” 

You nod abashedly. 

“How would you want it to look?” 

“I don’t know. Different.” 

Remus hums pensively. “You know that I don’t share that opinion, don’t you?” 

“Yeah—I mean, I guess. It’s not like you’ve had a lot of time to form an opin—” 

“No. Look at me,” he interrupts you, in a no-nonsense tone you’ve not heard from him before. It stills you. “Y/n, look at me.” 

You do. Remus’ eyes are stern. “I think you are perfect,” he says. 

You stare at him. 

“Are you listening to me? You’re perfect. Every bit of you.” 

“Okay,” you say after a moment, your mouth dry. “Sorry.” 

Remus cups your face. His long thumb sweeps across your cheek. “I don’t want you to be sorry, sweetheart,” he tells you. “I want you to understand me. You can believe whatever you want about yourself; I can’t change that, even if I don’t like it. But I won’t have you believing that I think you’re anything other than beautiful.” He pauses, looking you in your eyes. “Do you understand?” 

You nod. 

“Use your words, please.” 

“I understand.” 

“Perfect.” He kisses the space between your brows. You shut your eyes into it, heart pulsing at the base of your throat. “Thank you.” 

Slowly, giving you a chance to stop it, Remus’ hand slips over the curve of your spine again. His hand is large enough to engulf your buttcheek when he splays his fingers, and it doesn’t make you feel as self-conscious as you might have expected. You feel safe. It’s not sparks; it’s easy, it’s slipping into a warm bath, it’s being desirable and cared for. Remus holds your gaze, and you feel amazing.

“Is this alright?” he asks softly. 

You nod. “Yeah.” 

Remus doesn’t look smug, or self-congratulatory, but his eyes warm with a sort of pride as he pulls you down to meet his lips again. You think it’s for you.

[munsonify]

rough edges

pairing. eddie munson x fem!reader

summary. a charming bookworm finds herself tangled up with the town freak, eddie munson

content warnings. kissing, eddie being a little shit (affectionate), eddie calling you beautiful and pretty, alludes to sex

word count. 838

disney princess collection

it was an odd sight, really.

loud, outgoing, shameless eddie seemed like the type of person who’d go for someone just like him. bubbly, talkative, someone with an edge to them. so, seeing him with you, hand in hand with him, steady walking down the school hallways, it was a little off putting.

you were nice, personable, a bit quiet. you focused on your education, something eddie figured he should pick up on. there was always a book secure in your hands, something that occupied your time. he liked a good book, though it was always fantasy. you? you read any book you could get your hand on. sci-fi, nonfiction, romance. he’s caught you red-handed reading unthinkable things, things that he used against you. he teases you endlessly for it, a soft sort of jab you knew to never take to heart. the big smooch he gives you afterwards proves that to you.

eddie saw the way people gave you two judgmental glances. he was sure you noticed, too, there was no way you didn’t. it never seemed to bother you. none of it mattered to you, not when you were as happy as you were with him. they could stare all they wanted. you were the one content with your life, not them.

you felt the way eddie’s gentle grip moved from your hip to your hand, fingers interlocking gently as he begins guiding you away from the path to your class. you noticed the way people glanced at you as he tugged you away, simply smiling, your focus solely on him. he pulled you out the back of the school, taking ahold of your bag and your book as you gawk at him.

“eddie we have class,” you told him in almost a whine, eyes shimmering up at him as he continues to drag you towards his van.

“well, sweetheart, i don’t really wanna go,” eddie told you, grip on your hand tightening slightly. “you don’t actually wanna sit through chemistry class, do you?”

you watched as he opens the back of his van, hand still in yours while he gently tosses your belongings inside. the moment he shuts the doors, he turns to you, tugging your body to his. with his hand in yours and his other bracing the side of your face, eddie kisses you long and soft, pink lips slotted between yours.

it was a little difficult for you to catch your breath after he’d released the kiss, especially with the way his fingers moved against your face, gently brushing strands of hair away from your face and behind your ear. with a small, exasperated sigh, you shake your head at him. “i do when i have an exam. which, by the way, is tomorrow.”

“i know it is,” eddie told you in a whisper, eyes half-lidded and gazing into yours lovingly, faces still inches apart. “but you’ve been studying all week. you’ll live without the review. i, however, cannot live without having some alone time with you.”

he began to tug you towards the passenger side of his van with intentions of driving you away from the school for the day. you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at him, a small smile on your lips. “you’re so dramatic, eds. you’ve made it this long just fine.”

“barely!” he proclaimed, opening the door for you. before he helped you in, eddie brought your hand up to his neck, pressing right against his pulse point for dramatic affect. “see? i’m dyin’ here, baby!”

you give him a quick kiss on the cheek, letting him assist you up into his van while giggles erupt from your chest. his pulse was fine, eddie’s heart was beating steady, and he was absolutely still breathing. you, however, let him keep up his theatrics. it was endearing. besides, you had been studying a lot recently, and you missed your boy incredibly much. you might as well let him drag you off for a much needed date.

“if only they could see you now, baby,” eddie told you, starting up his van the moment he hops into the driver’s seat. “sitting in my van all pretty, letting me take you on a date. it’s a beautiful sight, truly.”

it was an even more beautiful sight later that night. you were wrapped up in eddie’s sheets, one of his t-shirts covering your bare body, tiredness from how he’d just had you taking over you. you were sound asleep next to him, one of his arms wrapped protectively around your body as he flips through a fantasy book he’d been so close to finishing. he caught himself staring at you though, suddenly enamored with the thought of you.

eddie wondered how he got this lucky. how he managed to get someone as kindhearted and quiet as you are. he was grateful that he did, though, thanking whatever higher power granted him something this special. it was like you were made to soften up his rough edges, to make them more manageable.

[cloveroctobers]

SENDING MY LOVE | Jack Abbot[t?] (The Pitt) — summer prompts 

A/N: It’s definitely been up for debate if I wanted to try and give writing for this character a go so here’s this little thing?

PROMPT IS FROM HERE & I’m using: Imagine your OTP late into a long drive. The sun has set and the only lights are those on the highway and the soft glow of the moon. Person B tried to stay awake to keep Person A company as they drove, but the lull of the road quickly pulled them into sleep. Person A periodically glances over, smiling every time they see Person B scrunched up and sleeping peacefully in the dark.

WARNINGS: traveling fluff & bickering + probably language! Also wrote this with a age-gap in mind, reader being 30 & I think it’s canon that Jack it’s anywhere from 45-50?

<- read my previous summer anthology fic here.

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You left at night.

Jack’s idea since he was the night owl and stoked to do this road trip with you.

It was honestly a miracle that this was even happening, especially when there was a time that these plans—that were made in advance—were almost cancelled due to a major incident where all hands were needed on deck at PTMC.

The both of you were in the medical field so in a sense, days off were unheard of.

A drive from Pittsburgh up to Toronto was meant to be split in half, something you reminded Jack when he stopped to fill up the tank of his car before the official road trip began and grabbed any last minute items from the mini mart.

Jack whips his head around to you, his salt and pepper hair waving in the night thanks to the mid-July breeze as he clicks the pump into place, “Let’s see…the woman I love who has Astigmatism in BOTH eyes driving us at night? What could possibly go wrong?”

So now it made sense why he wanted to leave at night!

You were not the worst driver he’s ever seen and Jack wasn’t too finicky with his possessions but he’s definitely had to get a nail out of his tire a couple of times whenever you swapped cars. Which wasn’t necessarily your fault…you just tended to really get into your playlists and could miss certain things.

Your mouth drops, chucking a fruit snack at Jack, who sends you a crooked smile as the snack full of sugar doesn’t even reach his body but falls right by the front of his shoe.

“The eye sight you can’t really help but that aim? Maybe we can go to a batting range so I can teach you a thing or two.” Jack jokes, leaning back against the mid-size SUV, folding his arms to set his focus on the price matching what he paid for inside.

You scoff, “Okay Superman,” you tease tossing more snacks in your mouth in attempts to give you energy during this four to five hour ride, “I’ll help you into your tights too.”

Jack gives you a look, “He wears a bodysuit, not tights.”

Quirking up a brow you can’t stifle your snort, making Jack pause before he pushes off the car and decides to cross over the gas pump, making you squeal as you spin to yank on door handle, forgetting Jack is the one with the keys.

So now he’s got you caged in, making you sigh and slowly spin to meet his attempt at a menacing stare. If you didn’t know him, you’d probably be scared. Yet there was a spark in his dark jade eyes, one he claims he doesn’t have, that always lingered when he looked at you.

With one hand you grab the collar of his dry-fit shirt, making Jack peek down at your hand before meeting your eyes again, “…I’ll give you a fruit snack if you be nice.”

Jack pretends to think about it before reminding you, “Oh? Like the one you threw at my shoe a few seconds ago?”

“Did I?”

“You did.” Jack dips his head, letting his nose brush yours, “But I’ll settle for a kiss.”

You smile, “I can do that…long as you promise to let me know when your leg starts to bother you so I can take over. I even made sure that our glasses were packed.”

He’s cups the side of your neck, skin warm and soft against his large rough hand because of course you did, “I will.”

You hold his stare, yours being more of a warning and Jack doesn’t falter.

He always had the best poker face.

And he’s the one who kisses you first, making your fingers and tips of your toes tingle like always. He can’t fully pull away without pecking at your lips as you manage to get out, “Love you.”

“I love you too.” He rasps letting his thumb rub circles at the top of your jawbone, “Now get in the car and don’t eat all the purple ones.”

A HALF HOUR into the drive and you’re already fidgeting, from adjusting the neck pillow around on your neck, commenting on Jack’s poor taste in hot coffee in the summer mind you—with him insisting that you were going to talk shit anyway since it wasn’t iced—to trying to find a comfortable sitting position on the passengers side—about three times Jack counted, and bickering over the right setting to have the AC on since having the windows down was a NO-GO! thanks to getting slapped in the eye with some insect with wings like a drone, which required Jack to pull over into the emergency lane with hazards flashing.

“Stop.” Jack’s as calm as ever, latching onto your face with the passenger side door thrown open, “Let me see. Okay, slowly try to open your eye for me.”

He has a mini flash light on him, because why wouldn’t he? Shining it into your eye for any sign of the insect, “You’re good.” He confirms with a nod of his head, “We’re just gonna use some eyewash, you’re gonna sit back and try to relax. I’ll put the AC on and we’ll get going again.”

“Are you sure you don’t see it swimming in there? I’m not known for having dry eyes you know.” You grumble, dragging down your under eye to check it yourself in the mirror in the sun visor.

Jack’s already in the backseat, rustling through pouches for the said eye wash, “Postive babe. No wings. No ovum.”

“Eggs?!“

“That was a joke?” Jack says flatly, followed by a mutter, “Did you pack the CBD oil too? I think you might need that more?”

“Oh you be quiet, Jack!” You whip around with watery eyes, holding onto the side of the passengers seat, “If a snake flew through the windshield and bit you in the face or came up through the floor and bit your ass—I’d suck the venom out for you.”

He doesn’t laugh. He just sends you that look—that low-key affectionate one that says, Of course you would.

Jack finds the bottle, “I definitely hear the love from you and appreciate the sentiments but what’re the chances of that actually happening?”

“Did you forget what we do for a living?” You quirk up a brow, “We’ve seen some wild shit.”

The older man hums, “You’re not wrong,” before he’s out of the car again to get closer to you, “Tilt your head back drama queen and let me make it all better.”

Scoffing you fold your arms and throw your head back, making Jack snicker as he begins pouring the solution but not without having you hold the cap to it; while he reached over you to sanitize his hands throughly.

“Just because you love me doesn’t mean your bedside manner has to be so snarky.”

Jack pauses as a fingertip touches underneath your eye, “And just because you’re a OBGYN doesn’t mean you have to be so dramatic.”

“What? Do you want me to be careless towards my patients who are bringing life into this crazy messed up and sometimes beautiful world?” You fire back.

Jack tilts your chin back, “Of course not. That’s what makes you so excellent at your career. You’re empathic, kind, attentive, and always got your gears going to find the best possible outcome.”

“Aw.” You blink rapidly as the solution does its job, “Flattery’ll get you everywhere, Abbott.”

He smirks as you put your head down and he brushes his lips over your forehead, “I know. You good?”

“Always am.” You murmur, “Thanks to you.”

Most words from Jack are sarcastic, yet they have a soft undertone when he says it back, “Aw, honey.”

There’s that familar glint in his eye, the one you’ve only ever seen when he looks at you.

Then the door closes with a gentle thunk, sealing the moment in the warmth of late summer air and highway stillness.

ONE HOUR and fifteen minutes into the drive and these podcasts on conspiracies that Jack was firm on playing…almost has you dozing off.

Jack gets a kick out of these type of podcasts: Aliens were definitely real. Tupac still being alive and living somewhere tropical? Whatever makes you sleep at night. People being cloned? Perhaps. Birds could actually be drones and that movie by Jordan Peele, NOPE hinted at it! He gave his own commentary and what he thinks is absolute bullshit or is actually credible.

The road is empty, long, with the shadow of the moon shining in the rearview, and a little foggy beneath the glow of overhead lights. Sure, A flight would have been easier but Jack swears there’s magic in the open road.

Said it reminded him of being a kid.

Back when road trips were a thing his family did, backseat games and homemade snacks, before the fighting between the adults started, before he stopped getting excited about the drive as a pre-teen.

Doing this with you, although not with a ring or with children in the back, it was different. Your first major trip together. It felt like a beginning.

Not a test.

…At least until you accidentally whack him in the head with your colorful insulated bag.

“Seriously?!” Jack questions, turning his head towards you, raised brows and a creased forehead.

Laughing, you apologize, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to do that. It’s snack time. Want a tea sandwich?”

“No tomatoes?”

“I would never!”

A crooked smile returns to his face as you begin unzipping the colorful patterned bag.

He admits with a cup still full of coffee, “I’m not exactly hungry for lunch yet, so no thanks.”

“Okay,” you shrug as you pull out a scary looking figure from the depths of the bag, “Oh that’s where you went!”

Jack squints as you hold up your latest find. His hand darts out to grab it and hold it over the steering wheel, “What the hell is this?”

With your tongue sticking out the corner of your mouth, your hand is buried in the bag again and searching around until you pull out the real frosted item you were actually digging for before meeting Jack’s burning stare.

“What? That’s just lychee berry.” You causally answer, “Isn’t her outfit so cute?” Your nose crinkles at the berry and cream colored vinyl toy, sighing in satisfaction of it dressed up in a crochet strawberry onesie and hat.

Jack is blinking still holding it up by its chain, “You actually bought this? It wasn’t given to you by…I don’t know a kid?”

Frowning after yanking open the icee cover with your teeth you respond, “Excuse you. Those are the hottest things on the market right now and I’m so glad I have at least one Labubu before it became a huge trend. As for the crochet outfit, a patient of mine actually made it for me. And she’s older than me! You should see her collection before you judge me.”

Jack huffed, “I’m not judging! I just didn’t know you were into this type of collecting. A la-goo-goo.” He sits it on the dash like it might come alive and be the thing that bites him instead of that make believe snake.

Scrapping your spoon around the icee you sass, “Well now you know, Jack. And It’s LA-BOO-BOO but spelled with U’s. Now gimme my baby.”

With the spoon resting in your mouth, you free up one hand to snatch the labubu to prop up on the far end of the dash instead, away from your boyfriend’s grasp, yet still visible enough to make Jack side eye it (like it was doing him) despite your protective mode being on.

Jack shakes his head at you before listening to you scrape the spoon around, “And when did you have time to get icee’s? I’m surprised they haven’t melted.”

“All thanks to this baby right here.” You dip your head, spoon back between your teeth, handle of the spoon pointing at the bag you now had sitting beside your foot, “Three dollars from HomeGoods. And I couldn’t just abandon them.”

Jack snorts, “Why not? We have a thing called a freezer and we can get all the snacks we want once we settle into Toronto.”

You roll your eyes to his profile, leaning your elbow onto the console as you jam in the spoon into the slush, “Well what if I wanted a cool treat right now?“

Jack let’s out a deep sigh, “Then I’d have to pull over again. And we’d never get there.”

“So it’s my fault that a bug tried to go swimming in my eye?”

“It wasn’t.” Jack senses a disagreement coming on, “It wasn’t personal. It’s just doing what it’s made to do, fly. Nature ya know.”

Scrunching up your nose you poke his shoulder, hard, making him glare over at you, “Hey, you’re supposed to be on my side!”

“Jesus Christ.” He scowls.

Now you slap his arm.

“Ow!?”

“Oh, Did that hurt?” You mock, “Good!” You move your elbow from the console and lean towards the other side of the car, crossing your legs under you and start to give more force to the icee, like it wronged you personally.

It’s quiet now, tension in the air but not enough for it to be long lasting. Jack checks the GPS briefly leaving you to your own thoughts as another episode continues on auto play, that you’re so tempted to snatch the phone and put on some tunes instead but decide against it.

“Want some?” You decide to offer, spoon raised, “It’s orange flavored.”

Jack turns to you for a moment, gauging your mood, then leans slightly as you reach for him. You feed him a bite, and he hums as he begins to swallow, before you’re returning back to the middle of your seat.

“…that’s not bad.” Jack announces around the leftover slush.

You nod, “See. Why should they be at home when they could be with us? They’re even better than those slushies at the mart right?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Jack shrugs, “I don’t indulge in any of that crap. And that’s not gonna keep you awake if that’s what you’re aiming for.”

You narrow your eyes.

You know this man once devoured two bags of mini pretzels and a half-eaten churro in your pantry at 1AM before he got called in last minute on his night off to help.

Dr. Liar Abbott.

You don’t call him that though.

It’s not like you haven’t before…way back when.

Right now? You don’t.

You just lean back with your icee, wondering if this trip will bring you closer, or just give you more reasons to pick the hell out of each other.

TWO HOURS and fifty-five minutes.

That’s how long you lasted before slumber finally pulled you under.

Despite small sips of Jack’s hot coffee and your fruit infused water in your too large tumbler in the cup holder. Despite the spoon-fed sugar rush. Despite your very convincing argument that you could absolutely stay awake this time, Jack. For real.

He doesn’t let out a, he told you so, out into the car but he does glance over, slow and fond, at the sight of you.

You’re tucked along the side of the passenger door, zip up hoodie off and balled up like a second pillow, which is something you slept on back at home because it helped you sleep better, and it’s his hoodie actually but what’s his is yours.

A heather grey hoodie that’s stained yellow at the cuffs and you can’t get it out but it looks much better than it once did. Maybe because it kept you warm.

Jack almost wants to lean over, tug you gently to rest against his shoulder instead because he hates when you fall asleep along the door.

It’s hazardous.

It looks uncomfortable, too cold, too far away from where he is. From where you belong.

Except you’re already out for the count, arms curled around yourself as if you had more to say but fell asleep before you got to finish saying such things.

Jack’s never been one for disrupting your sleep since majority of the time you’re on different time frames. If he came home from a night shift and you still had hours to spare before it’s your turn to get up and get ready, living room light on just like the outside light for him, med journal in your lap, glasses ready to slip from the bridge of your nose and one fuzzy sock halfway off. He’d just cover you. Sit nearby for a few minutes with a glass of water.

Make sure you’re good.

Just like he’s doing now, mentally counting the rise and fall of your chest, spotting the goosebumps rising on your bare skin.

There’s only a tank top under the hoodie.

Which was too little for how cold the car’s gotten.

Without a word, he lowers the AC. Adjusts the vent nearest to you so it doesn’t blow directly.

The podcast is still playing but he’s no longer listening, last he checked it was something about time travel.

Bullshit.

He’s thinking about Toronto. About your younger brother and his Alt-Rock band. How you already had your favorite songs and made him promise to perform them just for you at the show on Friday. About what it means to show up for someone, even when they’re walking a different path than expected.

He thinks about your parents.

A oncologist for a mother who’s vocally combative yet protective over the ones she loves and a cardiologist for a father who’s deeply opinionated but always respectful.

Jack thinks over how he got their approval after some time despite him being in the medical field (so it’s been proven that it wasn’t just that they were looking for in their children or their children’s partners) and showed them that he doesn’t scare easily.

He’s seen enough that keeps him up at night.

Jack doesn’t plan on going anywhere when it comes to you.

Then there’s you he thinks about.

The long hours and impossible expectations, you never let him feel alone for it.

Yes it’s been a year and some change since you made it official and it wasn’t all golden.

Especially since it all started at work.

Typical frenemies to lovers.

When feelings were discovered underneath it all, it took time, with Jack having to decide if he was truly ready to open up his heart again after being a widower for at least five years now.

And you having your guard up and constantly dedicating yourself to your career.

Being here now made it all worth it even if it still felt fresh.

Jack wanted more holidays, traditions, and places to see with you.

Wanted there to be room for you both to build something a little different. Something slow. Something solid.

Jack reaches out on instinct.

His palm runs over the chilled bumps on your thigh a few times, not to wake you but to keep you comfortable.

His hand stops just above your knee, letting it rest there for a moment.

Your hand finds his not too much after, not even lifting your head or opening your eyes.

You’re familar with his touch.

Fingers weave right on top of his, second nature.

Half-asleep but still here. Still with him.

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When you popped up from your sleep, arms stretched up high enough to let your knuckles hit the top of the car’s ceiling, the first groggy words out of your mouth are wanting to take over.

Jack laughs a little at you, he peers over at you now sporting some shades he’s probably had living underneath his seat for decades, telling you it’s all good and that you both made it safely.

That’s when you realize you’re parked in the Airbnb’s driveway.

And the sun’s already up.

“Jack.” You glare. “You asshole. Why didn’t you wake me? I missed the sunrise.”

He blinks at you as if it’s obvious, “You needed the rest.”

Then he shuts off the engine, unbuckling himself, and pushing the door open so he could finally stretch his legs.

It’s something he always says and should take his own advice!

SIX HOURS and four minutes.

Jack let you sleep for four hours and fifty-one minutes.

You’re stumbling out of the car yourself, looking around for your phone just to find it wedged in the passenger door. Making quick work of unlocking your phone, you go to your family’s groupchat, pressing the microphone to let them know you made it and planned on crashing for a few more hours.

By the time you make it into your temporary stay, Jack carries the main bags upstairs while you’re shoving the food and snacks into the fridge for now, mentally promising that you’ll organize it later.

Making your way upstairs, Jack is sitting on the edge of the bed when you kick your shoes off in the corner. He’s shifting slightly, making work of taking off his prosthetic but you stop him by pressing your hand lightly on his shoulder.

“I got you,” you say gently sitting down on your knees while Jack leans back on the palms of his hands, watching you with care.

Later you’re massaging the tension in that thigh with the pink body gua sha, the one you always kept in your bag for moments like this.

“You don’t have to do all that,” Jack rasps with his eyes closed, breathing softly like it’s working.

It’s your turn to watch his face, “Yes I do. You take care of me, I take care of you. It’s simple really.”

Moments pass like that quiet and still, your breathing in sync. You end up halfway collapsed against his chest not long after, legs curled into him, your tank top strap slipping from your shoulder.

Jack holds you tightly, running circles against your back, “Shower later? We’re disgusting.”

Nuzzling your head against his chest you yawn obnoxiously, “Speak for yourself, Doc. I’m sending you my love and cleansing you with a much needed nap.”

He laughs peeling one eye open, “Is that how it works?”

“Mhm, Lychee’s even downstairs holding down the fort while we crash.” You explain, “And by the end of this trip, you’ll learn to love her too. Watch.”

Jack chuckles, “I’m too tired to make a bet.”

The morning light slowly bleeds through the blinds, like honey.

The birds chirp differently in Toronto.

The light scruff on Jack’s chin scratches at your forehead as he rolls his neck around before settling close to you, locking his hands together up behind your shoulder.

You press a kiss right where his ribcage sits, where his heart speaks. Protected at the warm front.

Neither of you bother to change.

The ceiling fan whips with soothing air.

His eyes fluttered closed as he takes in the shape of your sleep-heavy limbs. He doesn’t need to say anything more as you’re both pulled to rest.

Sealed in love.

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Continue with my summer anthology prompts here.

[bloggerspam]

Dear Darcy...

Another AU borne from the HHD server--Touch-starved DoM with identity shenanigans. Follow here on AO3!

===

It isn't until well into their acquaintanceship that Jason notices something odd about Phantom.

That's not exactly true—Jason noticed it on their third mission together in a passing thought, but decided to not care about it on account of all the bullets and daggers being thrown at him and his team at the time.

Phantom is an ally, of sorts. A consult, perhaps, Jason doesn't really know.

It's hard to really say when they still don't really know what he does.

Though, again, that's not exactly true—Jason supposes it's more accurate to say they still don't really know what he can't do.

They go to him when the supernatural is involved, introduced to them via Zatanna when Jason expressed an adamant dislike of needing to ask JL Dark for anything (needing to ask Bruce for anything).

The ghost, a big name in the so called Realms world, is friendly and happy to help most of the time. He's a delight to work with in Jason's book, seeming to use his so-called ghost sense to read the room empathically—filling in the spaces when the quiet is too dark for the team, trailing behind silent as a shadow when even breathing is too loud, staying mostly out of the way and chiming in when necessary.

It helps that if shit hits the fan, Phantom can do something about it—it helps that that's the only time Phantom will ever butt in.

The Outlaws, Jason, is still to raw to handle playing nice, but Phantom makes it easy.

Phantom makes it effortless.

It makes Jason's gut roil in ways he's not sure how to deal with, beyond shooting it.

Either way, Jason, Red Hood, isn't supposed to be here in the Realms.

It's not that he's not allowed, per say, it's just that he wasn't exactly invited to this particular corner and Jason's a Bat, sure, but even he knows the supernatural have rules.

Jason was trying to summon Phantom for a quick mission, an in and out kind of deal that may or may not have had a cult involved in it that made Jason a little leery.

Except the summons was denied, which can happen sometimes when Phantom is busy.

Only instead of the circle simply going dark, like usual, Jason got pulled in instead.

So now he's here, in what he assumes to be Phantom's lair.

It's nice, the lair, if a little dark and mood-lighted. It has a dome-like structure, with stars and constellations all over like a planetarium. There's even one of those big ass telescopes peeking out the roof like one, though it seems to only point outwards towards the green of the Realms. Symbolic, or decorative in nature.

There's bookshelves of astrology and astronomy and all sorts of science and space related things littered throughout the shelves. Every now and then the stacks of books are interrupted with some kind of LEGO space creation, or a miniature of a rocket, or some of those weird weapons Phantom sometimes pulls out.

There's a work area, neat and messy at the same time, with a work table and a large toolbox drawer set. Metal detritus is piled neatly next to it, a project or two laid out under a heavy dark blue cloth on the table to keep it from getting dusty or be moved around if Jason has to guess.

In another area, there's living room-like space with a big monitor and beanbags and soft chairs surrounding it, typical of a college dorm room-esque gaming set up. Just beside it there's a large computer that hums softly, a picture of a female werewolf acting as a screensaver.

In yet another, there's a gathering of plants of many varieties growing this way and that. Jason spots a couple he recognizes from his run-ins with Pamela, and spots a copious amount of plants he doesn't recognize of this Earth. Ghost plants, he's assuming, from the glow of them.

There is even, curiously, one of those "at-home" basketball games that can fold away reminiscent of the ones you can see at the arcade with a couple miniature basketballs. Beside it, some kind of sleek mechanical looking surfboard rests against the wall in metallic reds and black with another toolbox set hidden just behind where it leans.

The kitchen area has a fridge that's absolutely covered in magnets from all over the world, a picture in crayon that is disconcertingly good pinned up here or there signed by someone named Ellie.

And then, of course, the main draw at the center of the room: a bed of sorts, stacked with pillows and blankets and assorted plushies of varying sizes.

Buried within is Phantom himself, huddled up in a nest of pillows and breathing heavy, angelic face flushed green the way a human would in fever. Jason, for the first time since meeting the halfa, truly wonders extensively how much the he isn't telling them.

Which brings Jason back to the odd thing.

Well, the odd thing that Jason is focusing on right now:

Phantom, contrary to his self-proclaimed ghostly nature, is very solid.

More than that, he's very, utterly, alive.

It's all the more apparent when Jason takes off one of his gloves to feel Phantom's forehead, the way Bruce would when Jason was Robin.

The way Jason wishes he could with his family.

Jason realizes, with the kind of starkness that comes from a photo flipbook of memories cascading through him, that he's never touched Phantom before. Not skin to skin or outside of a spar, and never like this.

He realizes, as the pocket book extends to not just him but his team-mates as well, that Phantom's never touched anyone before.

Always hovering just 6 feet away, like quarantine.

Like the depth of a grave.

Phantom is not quite hot to the touch, as Jason expects he would be. He had suspected a fever, of a sort. But he supposes it makes sense that a ghost would run cold, considering.

In the first place, Jason's not sure what possessed him to touch the ghost—he doesn't even have a baseline temperature to compare to so there's no real point.

He's not sure what possessed him to think this was okay, touching an ally like this without consent.

Not when his touch has never been welcomed, especially not when he's Red Hood.

He's just about to pull his hand away, careful not to wake the ghost, when Phantom starts to purr.

It rattles through him, like it's not used to being let out, as Phantom nuzzles at the tips of Jason's fingers.

As if Jason's touch was wanted, as if it comforts the ghost, as if Phantom wants nothing more.

As if this very hand didn't burn buildings to the ground, didn't shoot men into the fathoms, didn't carry bloody duffle bags, didn't fucking hurt hurt hurt.

Jason withdraws his hand carefully, gliding as gently as he can manage, breathing slow and deep.

He's been trained bloody enough to know pulling back in knee-jerk reaction can give things away.

He does not want Phantom to know he touched him.

Jason puts his glove back on, tight and unforgiving, and steps back.

He flexes his hand once, twice. Shakes it, before forcefully relaxing every muscle, trying to melt away the cold traces of Phantom's skin on his.

He clears his throat once, twice a little harsher, until Phantom mewls and blinks glowing green eyes up at him. His gaze is hazy with fever, soft like feathers, child-like in confusion.

And here, another odd thing Jason has not noticed until now:

When did Phantom's Lazarus green eyes become comforting?

When did Phantom's watery green eyes become forgiving?

[mee30p]

Bourbon and Cigarettes

A/N: this was lowkey nice to write and for once it's not angst i know crazy right? i am the queen of angst i fear like majority of my work is angst so enjoy this purely fluff fic!

(Prompt is from my lovley friend @dixondisease, Go give them lots of love please. The prompt is HERE.)

☽ Summary: After seeing Daryl get hugged by another woman Reader gets jealous and decides to self sooth with a whole bottle of Jack Daniels when they inevitably end up at Daryl's front steps.

☽ Warnings: Drinking, Swearing, nothing else really this is just fluff. Reader and Daryl aren't in a official relationship.

☽ Word count: 1k

You knew you’d had enough by the fourth full glass of Jack Daniels but God it was calling your name like a sweet siren song. What set you off? Well only something so simple as seeing the man you so desperately wanted to be yours being hugged by another woman. You don’t even know her name but you know what millions of things you are wanting to do to her, Daryl hadn’t noticed your jealous glares even as you stood 2 feet away from the hunter. 

It wasn’t even that late at night when you started, if you remember correctly it was 10:00 pm when you took your first sip. Now it’s 12 am and you find yourself walking down the streets of Alexandria, bottle of Jack in hand and a cigarette in the other. Your mind doesn’t know where you’re heading but your body does make its way in auto pilot to the house that you’ve walked to numerous times, almost too many to count. You eventually stumble to Daryl's porch but for once you hesitate to knock even though you know Daryls awake the man never fucking sleeps. Instead you settle down on the grass right next to the pavement, it’s cold and wet from condensation but you’re too plastered to care or even notice. “Mmh where the fuck is my bottle” You mutter drunkenly as you pat the grass beside you feeling for the bottle of Jack when you finally find it you take a long swig before letting out a small giggle.

“Girlie what the fuck are ya doin?” Daryl says with a small huff of laughter but his face is painted with concern as he spots the almost empty bottle laying next to your head. You grin drunkenly at his presence and let out a small giggle as you sit up quickly. “Daryl, i was wonderin’ when.. You were gonna come out or if i was gonna av’ to crawl through the window” You slur as you stumble upwards and towards Daryl like bambi on Ice. 

“Jesus woman, how much do you ad’ to drink?” Daryl says as he catches you as you stumble over your own feet, He grabs you by the waist with two big hands. “Careful dolly” He mutters, a nickname he only uses when you’re drunk out of your mind and you’ll hopefully never remember him uttering such words. As you sway forward and backwards you giggle softly and grin at his face, in this moment you find Daryl beautiful, well you always do but in this moment it is magnified by a million and you can’t help but tell him. “You’re so pretty y’know that?” You say with a giggle in between words as Daryl walks you slowly and carefully up the stairs. “You’re hammered” The archer deflects as he looks at your drunken grin you’re clearly checking him out and he so badly wants you to stop because he is already whipped for you. As Daryl walks you up the stairs to his room you keep tripping over your own feet he sighs stopping to scoop you up bridal style in one quick scoop.

As you feel your feet leave the ground it elicits yet another drunken giggle which Daryl quickly shushes as he isn’t alone in the house. “Shhh dolly, ya gonna wake up everyone” He whispers so softly into your ear it’s painfully sexy. You pout at his words because in your drunken mind all your hearing is that he doesn’t want you to speak again. “What’s th’ pout for?” He says, shaking his head as the bedroom door opens slowly. You fail to keep the smirk off your face when he speaks. “Nothing..” You slur with a cheeky grin as he sets you down on the bed. “Y’know I love you?” You sigh as he helps you take off your boots, you stroke his hair which makes him shiver not that Daryl Dixon would utter that fact to a soul dead or alive. “Who was that woman that hugged you today? That pissed me off y’know?” You keep talking, if you remember this tomorrow you’ll probably stay in your house for the rest of eternity. “I can’t remember her name, I was just helping her fix some shit.. Why?” Daryl mutters suspiciously as he grabs your legs, swinging them into bed. “Good, so she ain’t tryna fuck you?” You say very bluntly, God you lose all filters when drunk. Especially the filter that muffles your huge crush on Daryl. “Tch.. nah” Daryl says shaking his head with a slightly annoyed look. “Good…s’ my job ya  know?” You giggle slowly as you look up at Daryl who has a tint of blush on his cheeks. 

“Yeah baby?” Daryl says with a small smirk as he lays you down slowly and moves the doona over you. At his words you grin harder than you’ve ever grinned in your life and you nod back enthusiastically. “Yah”

Daryl runs his big hand through your hair gently and tenderly for a moment as he looks down at you, then your lips then back to your eyes. God he wants to kiss you so bad but he wouldn’t dare not while you’re the only one drunk. Almost as if you’d read his mind you stare at his lips then his beautiful eyes again and giggle before speaking. “I wanna kiss you so bad right now but i know sober me would be so embarrassed”

“Yeah you would” Daryl says after a few moments of delay as he moves to his side of the bed shrugging off his vest, and jeans before crawling into bed next to you. You’d already passed out the second he’d stopped talking five seconds ago, Daryl didn’t even make it half a foot away from you before you were out cold. Daryl chuckles quietly before freezing as he feels you shuffle closer tucking yourself into his like a puzzle made for eachother. Daryl’s hands automatically find your waist and he pulls your cloer before slowly surrendering to sleep even if he wants to stay up all night looking at your beautiful face as you sleep.

“Good night dolly.. Love ya” Daryl whispers so quietly a pin drop would be louder. Almost as if you’d heard him from deep sleep you smile softly.

[firingstars]

no one asked for this, but this is a dissection of my own fic bc i love this characterization of bucky x reader and tbh i might just do this to other fics that i adore. <3

Bucky hated his phone, but he still texted you often. Texted you good morning and good night every single day.

guys bucky wrote reader a LOVE LETTER in the first fic and told her during their first date that he hated his phone and everything about it. however?? bro still texts reader like its his job. like its the only thing he knows.

You were pretty certain that he wasn’t joking when he said that he assassinated JFK, too. Except, you were drunk when he confessed that to you during a drinking game that you two were doing when you first started dating. You don’t know if you dreamt it. Bucky refuses to comment, like a true politician.

bucky tells reader everything. he told reader everything about his past. and obviously, she took it like a champ. this was part of his non-negotiables that he quietly hinted at during match made that he was kinda scared to actually say out loud. someone to accept him and his faults. the reason why he fully accepted reader to begin with was because during the first date she said:

“Well, you can’t run from me,” you smiled at him, “I already know your past. There’s nothing that you need to hide from me that I’ll be scared of.” (this is from match made not locked in lols)

AND SHE DIDNT EVEN KNOW THE EXTENT OF IT she js knew what was put online as the backlash bc of the mfs that were like ?? congressman assassin???!?!? extra: bucky once asked her what she thought abt that and she said she still thinks he's better than the other politicians by a loooooonnnnggg shot so she rly doesnt care extra extra: she's worked with clients that are way worse than him and never elaborated. bucky is confused on what that could possibly mean

You finish your own skincare routine faster than he does, as per usual.  “I don’t understand why the hell I have to do this, doll,” he grumbled as you left the bathroom. “I’m over a century old.”

bucky complains, but does he ever mean it??? no. bro is whipped. always whipped. do not forget man is the same man that did not understand reader when she said people generally have one love language. he has all five.

- “Just a present. Saw it, thought it would look nice on you.” - His card is slid into your palm, and his lips are pressed against your knuckles. “I’ll pay for you and Mel,” he said, giving you one more smile. - “I bought [these shoes] for you,” he said, tilting his head as he examined the design a little closer. ... he always wanted to be the kind of man that was able to spoil his girl rotten– to bring his woman to the best places and sign the check without batting an eye.

and the influx of flowers after reader confirms that she loves flowers teehee. he's always getting her flowers. there's always fresh flowers somewhere. always. if he sees the flowers he last got her wilting?? oh lord. someone's dying

- He learned over time that you just wanted silence, the same way that he did. - Bucky answered any questions that you possibly could’ve had for him, already knowing what you would’ve thrown his way. - ... you still had to do work when you came home ... Bucky seemed to plan for that, which is why he had a room specifically made for a home office for the two of you.  - “Do you know how many times you have ranted to me about the fact you hate restaurant proposals? You hate planning them, and you hate watching them. Why would I ever propose to you in a restaurant?”

the wording was very deliberate- bucky learned over time. do you know how many times. there was trial and error in the beginning of their relationship bc bucky still wasn't up to speed with modern dating (and obviously still isnt with how nervous he was about asking to move in) but reader was very patient with him throughout all the speed bumps bc she understands his struggles and his past, which is exactly what he was looking for from the very beginning of this whole matchmaking shenanigans

idk this entire fic was just a love letter to reader because i didn't feel like writing an actual

dear y/n, blah blah blah love, bucky

kinda thing.

someone did ask me what the love letter did entail and i rly did entertain the idea of writing the love letter... but i felt too lazy. so this fic if what came out of it. which honestly. feels like the opposite of laziness.

locked in

— a sequel to match made

congressman!bucky x matchmaker!reader

summary: you and your boyfriend have been together for a strong nineteen months and counting. problem is, you’re starting to notice he’s hiding things from you.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, semi-public (?) stuffs, oral (f+m receiving), hair pulling, face grabbing, fingers in mouth, unprotected sex, backshots, fingering, window… sex…, soft dom bucky, slight sub reader, language, no use of y/n, alcohol consumption, bucky is the best boyfriend ever and loves you very much

word count: 15.2k

a/n: due to popular demand, here’s a second part! this is also my formal apology for whatever happened in love, persevering <3 please accept. // also if anyone saw this get prematurely posted with NOTHING attached you didn’t fucking see it. i wasn’t made aware until EIGHT HOURS LATER and the fic wasn’t even done yet!!! 😔 i always make my fic intro template things before my fics are done for motivation

masterlist

You almost lost your fucking job. 

You expected it, honestly. With the amount of lines you crossed, boundaries broken, and toes you stepped on… Yeah. There was only so much that your boss could take from you— star employee or not. 

Thankfully, your boss kept the whole thing quiet from the rest of your coworkers to spare you the embarrassment since you had the decency to come to her and tell her the truth. 

It still meant you had to refund Sam Wilson the entire Ador Luxury Matchmaking Package, which your boss was not happy about.

Sam, on the other hand, was over the moon. 

When he received the refund transaction, he called you almost immediately. You had to go into a private conference room to answer the call, away from your coworkers.

“Mr. Wilson,” you answered the phone, trying to keep your tone light.

“Hey, Ms. Matchmaker,” he said, suspicion in his voice. “Did Buck cancel his membership?”

“That is correct,” you said, clearing your throat. 

“I thought we had an agreement. I paid you guys extra to not allow him to bully you guys into ending the program,” Sam said. You can hear the frustration in his voice. You don’t blame him. “What happened?”

“I can assure you– the refund is not due to Congressman Barnes just cancelling the service,” you said. “In fact, he is no longer in need of my services.”

“What? Then he’s been on a date?” Sam asked. “If that’s the case, then why the refund? If the date was successful, then doesn’t Bucky get the benefits or whatever?”

There was no response from your end for a good handful of moments. You were stuck, unable to respond. You couldn’t figure out how to say the words in the most professional way possible. You needed to find the right concoction, just in case there was someone walking down the hall at that exact moment,  and overheard your conversation. 

In the end, all you could think was that Bucky was a dead man walking.

You were going to kill Bucky. You weren’t sure how you were going to do that, seeing as he was the one with the years of experience of fighting between the two of you, but you would do it. You were hoping that he would’ve told his one and only friend that he had a girlfriend. 

Then again, Bucky refused to answer any of Sam’s calls. You texted Sam back most of the time when you got ahold of Bucky’s phone, pretending to be Bucky. Bucky didn’t care that you were doing that– though you wondered if Sam would be heartbroken if he ever found out. 

“Hello?” Sam asked, calling out your name. “Are you there?”

“Congressman Barnes terminated his membership with Ador as he and I have mutually decided to pursue a more personal relationship with each other,” you quickly answered him, cringing at your own words. You took a quick breath in before continuing, “The refund is due to my own oversight, and is serving as an apology to you for wasting your time on our service. I truly hope that you will forgive me for being unable to maintain a more professional connection with the client.”

It was Sam’s turn to fall silent. You had to check your phone to make sure that the call was still active. There was a slight rustle on the other end, letting you know that he was still there– that he was on the other end, dissecting your words, gears processing through his mind.

“The matchmaker I hired is dating my friend?!” he cackled. 

“Mr. Wilson, I truly apologize for the inconvenience–” 

“There is no inconvenience!” he cut you off, still laughing. “Holy shit, let me tell you– after that first meeting with you? I asked Bucky what he thought about you as his matchmaker and his only words? He thought you were pretty. Would not say anything else. Fuck, listen, let me call you back– or let’s all go to dinner. You, me, Buck, and my girl. I gotta head down to the office and harass Bucky right now.”

You went on an unpaid suspension for eight weeks after the refund transaction went through. The HQ of Ador had to undergo a full on investigation to figure out if you were worth keeping around as an employee or not, seeing as you ended up breaking client-employee conduct. 

Your boss wasn’t awful, though. In fact, she was only pissed off about the refund because she knew that headquarters back in London would have been alerted. Either way, it was still the right thing to process the transaction. She promised you that she would be your biggest advocate during the investigation, and she would try to argue for you to get the time to be paid seeing as you were the best employee in the New York branch.

The second you told Bucky– who told Sam– you found money wired into your account the next business day. It was the same exact amount that you had refunded back to Sam. It was still more money than you would’ve made if you were working those eight weeks. 

Neither man told you how they got ahold of your bank information. Neither man would look you in the eye when you questioned them. 

So, you had eight weeks of basically overpaid, free vacation to do whatever the hell you wanted, and a new boyfriend. Which meant you spent damn near every single day in his office, cosplaying as some government worker– an intern or secretary. And you were helping him. You actually were. 

“You really don’t have to do any of this, baby,” Bucky told you. You had been coming for an entire week straight at this point.

“If I stay stationary for two months, I think I might die of brain failure,” you told him, stealing a stack of his files from him. “Besides. You look like you need some help. You should really hire a secretary. Or someone to help you out. A personal assistant, maybe?”

“I can handle it on my own,” he sighed, shaking his head. Despite his words, he looked grateful as you took the files to the lounge area of his office and spread them out on the coffee table.

“Tell that to me when you sleep more than two hours a night, handsome,” you said, tucking your legs under you.

With less sensitive information that he was allowed to hand over to you, you organized and kept tabs on. You summarized documents for him perfectly that made his life easier. You helped train other onboarding interns that didn’t know what the hell they were doing. You managed his calendar when he looked like he was about to combust into flames. You got to spend time with him during his breaks, have lunch with him, eat dinner with him, and he would drive you home, and spend the night with you most nights.

Not that anyone knew that, though. They thought you were an actual employee of this official government building in New York. With the way that you walked side by side with Bucky every single day, holding files and looking down at his work phone– they really thought that you were working for him.

“Where’s your secretary today?”

You don’t know who asked the question, and you don’t really care. There’s about three other officials in this room that barged in out of nowhere, when you were on Bucky’s lap. 

Both of you had panicked, and he had shoved you into the hiding space beneath his desk before any of them could see the scandalous position he had you in. 

Unluckily for him, he had chosen the wrong place to put you. 

“At a training session with other interns,” Bucky said, tone clipped and short. He was irritated at being interrupted out of nowhere, but also at the fact that you were ignoring his warnings. 

You grinned, pressing an innocent kiss to the hand that gripped over your wrist. Tight, but not enough to hurt you. You continued to palm over his hardening length with your free hand. 

You weren’t paying attention to any of the fancy words that were being thrown around over your head, but you were certain that Bucky wasn’t either. You rested the side of your head against his thigh, feeling the muscle tense and hardened at your touch as you continued to lazily play with him over the fabric of his dress pants. 

Bucky’s metal hand slipped from your wrist to your hair, carding through it and stopping at the base of your skull– another cautionary message being sent to you as Bucky tried to focus on the sudden meeting thrown his way. Thankfully, these men loved the sound of their own voices. They couldn’t hear you slowly unzip him, and free Bucky from the confines of his slacks. 

“Your thoughts, Congressman Barnes?”

Your boyfriend cleared his throat above you as your lips kissed the tip of his cock, wrapping your hand around the base of him to keep him in place as his dick twitched in response. You fought back the small hum that threatened to come forth as you licked up the small bead of precum that leaked out.

“It’s a very… worrying matter,” Bucky said slowly, clenching his jaw as he took in a slow breath. You licked a thin strip up from the base of his cock– focusing on the thick vein that you knew was sensitive. “That is very worrisome. And we’ll get to the bottom of this uh– worrying... issue.”

You paused at his words, unable to believe what you were hearing from him for a moment. You pulled away from him for a moment, hand still wrapped around his dick as you pressed your face to his thigh, trying to hide your laugh into his flesh. 

Bucky’s hand tugged back on your hair roughly, pulling your head back and away from his thigh. Immediately, his metal hand shifted from your hair to clasp around your face, covering your mouth. His fingertips dug into the soft skin of your cheeks, daring you to make another noise. Surprise and excitement shot through your body in response.  

You could test him. You could press it. 

You decided against it, and licked his palm instead, closing your eyes. You could feel his hand twitch against your face— he told you once that his arm was calibrated to feel sensations. That he felt nerves like his other arm did. You smiled just a little, then kissed right where your tongue had just been. 

All the while, your hand was still pumping at his dick in lazy strokes. Nothing too much, nothing that would alert anyone of your presence, nothing that would make him let out noises that were only yours to hear. 

“Right,” one of the officials said slowly. “Well– we have lunch with some of the other representatives in ten minutes. You are welcome to join us, Congressman. If your secretary comes back from her training, she is more than welcome to join us as well. Lord knows we need a little more eye candy around here.”

A chorus of laughter rang around the room, but not from Bucky. In fact, he just stared at them until their laughter became uncomfortable, and they awkwardly excused themselves. 

The second the door to his office shut, Bucky’s chair was rolled back instantly, and your hands weren’t touching him anymore. 

You were still on your knees, looking up at him as Bucky stared down at you, hand still on your face to shut you up before you had been caught laughing at his inability to form proper words with your mouth on his cock.

“You’re so pretty like this, baby,” he murmured, hand shifting to cradle your face.

A metal thumb brushed against your lip slowly, a shiver running down your spine involuntarily. His touch was gentle. Reverent. He touched you like you were made of glass. Unlike the blown out, hungry look in his eyes, the gruff, low tone of his voice as he whispered to you. 

From the corner of your eye, you saw his other hand tuck himself back into his pants. When your eyebrows furrowed in response, he let out a soft chuckle.

Bucky leaned down, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead. Then, he stood up tall. He rolled his shoulders back, but you couldn’t focus. Your eyes were on him, and the aching bulge above his zipper. 

“I have to go to lunch, sweetheart. When I get back, you’re going to get exactly what you wanted from me, okay?” 

Your boyfriend left you there. Left you partially under his desk, still on your knees. What was supposed to be you teasing him, quickly shifted into you being extremely hot and bothered. You didn’t know how long lunch would take, either. 

You busied yourself with literally anything else. Not that it worked. Every footstep that came down the corridor, you were jumping in attention like some rabbit in heat.

Except, Bucky moved like a ghost. You wouldn’t hear his footsteps. 

When he finally returned, you didn’t even hear him until the sound of the office door locking caught your attention. You barely had the time to turn around before he was all over you. Lips were on yours as he hoisted you upwards, wrapping your legs around his waist to carry you to his choice of christening. 

An arm swiped his desk clear of any debris so no pens or other office supplies would be digging into your skin. He bunched your skirt up to your hips, and pulled your panties to the side. Bucky bent you over his desk with fingers shoved into your mouth to keep you quiet as he did what you wanted from the beginning. He curtained you, his chest pressed against your back as he whispered sweet nothings to contrast the punishing thrust of his hips— letting you know that he still very much adored you, but was also extremely annoyed by your little game earlier.

Afterwards, Bucky cleaned you up gently. Kissed you softly, held you tightly in his arms. Then presented you with food that he brought back for you– he ordered you lunch while he was out eating since he knew you wouldn’t have left the office while he was gone. 

You almost jumped his bones again right then and there for how considerate he was of you.

So yes, you almost lost your job, but you weren’t necessarily upset about it. Not when you got to spend an entire month with Bucky, helping him out at work, cuddling with him at night, and waking up at whatever time you wanted the next morning. On the rare days that you weren’t at the office with him, it was because you were somewhere else– still with him. 

Eventually, you were called back into work.

You convinced Bucky to hire an assistant to take care of his little things— stuff that you did for him to make his life easier so he could focus on more pressing things. It managed to ease his workload just a little bit, but not by a lot. Bucky still managed to bite more than he could chew, and you knew he was stressed from how slow the process was for passing bills and getting change to happen. 

Despite it all, the two of you were content. Happy. Overjoyed, really. He was perfect, and he swore to the heavens that you were, too.

A cacophony of voices, poppers, music, and sparkles were blasted into your face as you pushed open the door to the office. Streamers were shot directly into your face, colors cascading directly before your eyes, showering you with colors of the pastel rainbow. 

Your coworkers, all dressed to the nines, were cheering. A few of them held flutes of champagne. Two of them held balloons– together making the number twelve together. One of them held a cake that read congratulations.

There was a catering table set for the party that was clearly waiting for you. You saw the table set, ready for everyone to dig into. You knew your boss didn’t hold back when it came to celebrating any kind of achievements, especially not your own. You were the best at what you did here.

Your grin wasn’t smug, even though you had every single right to be. You shrugged your blazer off as you sauntered into the room, allowing the applause and cheers to wash over you. You dropped your purse and other materials off at your desk as your boss approached you with a grin, hands going to your shoulders.

“My star employee– our number one matchmaker!” she cooed at you, everyone shouting around you in response to our praise. “Tell me, with this wedding upcoming this weekend, how many will you be responsible for?”

You paused, only for dramatic effect. The ceiling looked suddenly oh so interesting as you smiled. Then, you guessed, “Twelve?”

“Twelve!” your boss roared, the girls around you jumping up and down with excitement and cheer. 

“Do a speech, a speech!” your deskmate urged, and you only let out a small, playful sigh as everyone died down around you.

You were handed your own glass of champagne, led to the front of the room, and turned to look at all the girls. Girls that you worked with for the past six, almost seven years. Your boss had been doing this job for well over a decade now. There were a few new faces that had just started a few months ago. 

With your glass lifted into the air, you smiled, “Love is all around. It’s easy to find the perfect match for someone.”

They squealed, toasting to you. The cake was brought to you, letting you blow out the candles as if it was your birthday or something– just a tradition your company had for good luck. Something to bring more successful matches and weddings to your clients.

Your two clients, Luke and Jessica, were tying the knot after twelve months of dating, and another four months engaged. One year and four months— which was a relatively short time, but who were you to judge? They both told you they knew the other party was the one after the first date. Who were you to stand in the way of them? 

Just because you were fucking bitter, and jealous that you couldn’t spend time with your own boyfriend despite the fact that Luke and Jessica got together three months after you two did didn’t mean a thing. Not a single thing. 

You masked your growing irritation well with your clients. After all, your performance margins had been going through the roof within the last six months. Your productivity has never been better, your clients have never been happier with your performance, and you have been churning out perfect match after match like you might as well have been Cupid himself. 

Yet, you couldn’t find a single time for your own boyfriend. 

When you had a free night, he didn’t. There was a dinner that he had to get to, one that required secrecy amongst government officials. You understood that. You didn’t hold that against him– especially not when he looked pained to tell you that you couldn’t join him when you offered to come with him the first time he said he had the work dinner. Because you didn’t mind joining him for work related activity. You just wanted to spend time with him, by his side.

But you were a fucking matchmaker. You didn’t have any business being in a government setting, and you knew that. He knew that. The entire government knew that. 

Sometimes it wasn’t even dinner. Sometimes, he wasn’t even in the city. Or the state. Or even the fucking country. Bucky always let you know in advance when he had to travel for work, but there was usually never any chance for the two of you to meet for even a brief look at each other across the road. Just to see each other in person before he had to hop on the plane and head hours away from you.

On the rare occasions Bucky had a free night, you most certainly did not. You had a proposal to plan for. Not a policy or business proposal like he worked on. A marriage proposal. One that had you sneaking around parks in bushes, setting up trails of rose petals, hiring and arguing with musicians– things that you didn’t need your boyfriend around to trail you like a lost puppy asking you if there was something that you needed help with. 

If it wasn’t a proposal, you had another work event. A client on the verge of a breakdown because their date cancelled on them, or some bullshit like that. You would be so close to finally being in your boyfriend’s arms, but you would have to cancel on your own lover to play therapist even though you were severely undereducated and underpaid for the position. 

Bucky was understanding. Too understanding. So understanding that it made you want to bash your head into the wall. 

The two of you had working hours that were strenuous, strange, and demanding. 

Bucky hated his phone, but he still texted you often. Texted you good morning and good night every single day. He reminded you to eat at least twice a day knowing you were only running on the fuel of your own brain to make it through your work hours.

Absence definitely did not make the heart grow fonder. If anything, your heart was growing irritated. Angry. These happy couples around you were pissing you off. 

Each and every single one of your clients that reported to you that they were falling in love with the person that you set them up with, was like another person setting you up for failure. You were a ticking time bomb just ready to explode, and the only one who would ever be able to defuse you is currently locked away in his office with his pretty fucking secretary that you know he doesn’t care about, but spends more time with than you do. 

You’re not jealous of her perse. 

You’ve seen them work together. It’s strictly professional. You don’t know if she has a boyfriend, and you don’t really care if she does or doesn’t– you trust Bucky, bottom line. He hasn’t given you a single reason to not trust him. You know he has eyes for you and you only. What you’re envious of is the time that she gets to have with him. She sees him every single day. She handles his schedule, hands him coffee, speaks to him face to face, sits with him during meetings, and discusses his fucking policies with him. 

You’re jealous of the time that you don’t get to have with your own boyfriend. You haven’t seen him in over a week and a half by this point. Last time you saw him, it was for a brief lunch that lasted forty-two minutes before you both had to run into meetings. Before that, two weeks. 

You scratch angrily into your notebook, then rip the page out. You crumple it up, throwing the wasted piece of paper into the bin with a frustrated groan before scrubbing a hand down your face. 

The time on the clock reads 1:44am.

Bucky should be getting home by this time, you think. Your phone hasn’t rang otherwise. There’s no good night text yet. 

This was easier before. Easier before you got so attached to him. Easier before your world got shifted on its axis, and started to rotate around him, just a little bit. Easier when you didn’t love the man so fucking much. 

You couldn’t dwell on this though. Not when you had to go to sleep. You had somewhere to be tomorrow, and you couldn’t look like death itself. You sent off your own text to him, then let your sorrows and loneliness cuddle you to bed. 

As much as you wanted to wait for him to text you back, you couldn’t. You had a battlefield to get to. A networking event. A bride to maybe convince that she wanted to marry her groom. 

By the end of the wedding, your purse was full of business cards, and your lips were full of promises to call women on Monday to get them on your books as clients. Your face muscles hurt, your feet ached, and your heart was breaking.

Your phone was full of notifications, and not a single one of them was from your loving boyfriend. Did he get JFK’d somewhere? He couldn’t have. It would have been all over the news already if he did. Sam would have called you, too. Besides that, the serum in his veins would have him feeling the murderous intent from a thousand miles away.

You were pretty certain that he wasn’t joking when he said that he assassinated JFK, too. Except, you were drunk when he confessed that to you during a drinking game that you two were doing when you first started dating. You don’t know if you dreamt it. Bucky refuses to comment, like a true politician.

You make it through the rest of the wedding, get invited to the afterparty, decline, and step out into the street to wait for your Uber to arrive. A car pulls up to the curb that you know is not a silver hatchback like the app indicates, so you ignore it–

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing all alone on a Friday night?”

Your head snaps up at the voice. Bucky’s stepping out of the driver’s side, holding a colorful arrangement of fresh summer flowers for you, wrapped in kraft paper, tied off with a bow. He’s dressed in a formal suit– bowtie and everything. You vaguely remember him telling you that there was a gala event that was happening tonight the last time that you two had a chance to speak on the phone. He must have had a chance to slip away from there. 

“Need a ride?” he asked, feet stopping just right before you.

You let out a laugh, looking up at him. You take a moment to admire him. Bucky’s smiling at you. There’s so much love in his eyes for you. There always is. In fact, it seemed as if there was more love there than there was than the last time he saw you. You were certain that there would be double the amount the next time you would meet.

“I have one,” you sighed, deciding to play coy with him. “Coming in about five more minutes.”

Bucky clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Five minutes? That’s too long. Shouldn’t make you wait out here for even a second.”

You couldn’t fight back the grin that makes its way onto your face. You close the remaining distance between the two of you, your hand resting on his chest as you lean upwards towards him to meet his lips. Bucky’s hand wraps around your back, holding you to him to stabilize you, a small sigh escaping through his nose. 

“Hi, handsome,” you hummed, parting from him. 

Your smile only widened a little more when Bucky chased after your lips instinctively, wanting more. Wanting another kiss. You gave him just a couple more pecks before you settled the heels of your shoes back onto the cement of the sidewalk. A laugh rumbled through you at the disappointed look on his face.

“How’d you know where my wedding was, Congressman?” you asked, looking back at your phone to cancel the ride. 

“Oh you know. A birdie told me,” Bucky said, shrugging as he moved to open the passenger door for you.

“You had Redwing spy on me?’ you raised an eyebrow at him, stepping into the car..

“More like I had Sam send a trail on you tonight. Don’t know if he used Redwing,” he corrected, holding the flowers out for you to take. 

You rolled your eyes at him as you took the bouquet. He was messing with you, and you knew it. You shared your location with him on your phone a long time ago, and he only just figured out how to use the function of it a few months back. He was even shocked to find out that there was such a feature so easily accessible on regular technology. Bucky even asked you if you had his location. You didn’t, and you told him that you didn’t want it. You figured he would be weirded out by that kind of stuff as a former spy, and you were right. He was more at ease after your reassurance. 

However, he did enjoy the fact that he didn’t have to go through several satellite feeds and camera playbacks to find where you were.

In the car, the music is soft. Low. Something from the forties that you don’t really listen to unless you’re with Bucky. He’s tapping his finger on the steering wheel to the beat of the song, and you find yourself relaxing into the comfortable leather of the seat. 

Neither of you are speaking, nor do you find the need to. 

Bucky knows you. You’re exhausted after an event like this. He used to ask you how the job went, like a mission debrief. To you, it is a mission. This was your battlefield, and you just fought against enemies and kept your cool against a thousand different obstacles that could’ve made the mission go sideways.

He learned over time that you just wanted silence, the same way that he did. Bucky used to think that you wanted to talk after these events, which wasn’t totally wrong. You talked if the event went horribly wrong and you needed to vent your frustration out to someone that wouldn’t get you fired. You talked his ear off because you couldn’t say what you wanted to in front of your own clients.

Bucky misunderstood and thought you wanted to talk after every single event. Eventually, he realized that most of the time, you enjoyed the peace and quiet of a job well done. That you wanted to sit without having to force a smile anymore, to close your eyes, and feel the weight of his hand on your thigh comfortingly as he drove. 

The sound of a text message coming through cut off the music momentarily. Your eyes cracked open, and on the center screen of Bucky’s dashboard, you saw there was a message from Bucky’s one and only friend.

Don’t Respond [12:08am]: Did she find out what you’re doing yet?

“What’s Sam talking about?” you asked, shifting to reach for Bucky’s phone that was in the cupholder. 

Bucky was faster. His hand left your thigh, grabbing the device before you could. He looked at the small screen momentarily, taking his eyes off the road for just a second. Then, you watched as he long pressed the side of his phone, turning it off completely before putting it back in the cupholder.

“Nothing, sweetheart. I’ll text him back later,” Bucky said, giving you a smile before looking back at the road. His hand returned back to its rightful place on your thigh. 

You stared at the side of his face, blinking at him. There was no more music in the car, since his phone was turned off. You were left in silence, just the low thrum of the engine and your thoughts being your only source of entertainment as Bucky turned into your apartment’s parking garage.

Bucky will text him back later? Bucky will text him back later?

No the fuck he won’t. 

As much as Bucky loves new technology like a nerd loves Star Wars, he hates it all at the same time. He thinks it’s disgusting for any sane person to spend the amount of time they do glued to their phones willingly outside of educational and work purposes. He’s a man that had zero choice in life, and he prefers to see the world. If he has free time, there is no way in hell that he will waste it typing away on a tiny screen to text back anyone. 

Except you, of course. He’ll only text and call you.

His reaction was even more strange. Bucky didn’t swat your hand away or anything like that. He didn’t scramble to get to his phone before you did– but he did react. He didn’t answer you. He deflected. He’s always answered your questions to the fullest.

Besides that, this wasn’t anything new between the two of you. You always texted Sam back through Bucky’s phone. When Sam texted, you would read it out loud, Bucky would answer, and you would type what Bucky said, but in a nicer… less aggressive way. In fact, 99% of the conversations Bucky had with Sam through text was done by you. Sam still did not know of that fact, and you were not going to be the one to tell him. 

You’re still reeling in your own thoughts by the time you get to your apartment. 

You shove your downward spiral for just a moment to accept Bucky’s extremely tempting offer to shower together– which is never anything sexual. 

Bucky enjoys the intimacy of being able to hold you, bare, and help you get cleaned from your day. It’s one of his favorite things to do. You revel in the way he takes his time, hands scrubbing at your scalp slowly to lather up the shampoo. He’ll ensure that not a single part of your body goes untouched.

You do the same for him. You take great care in every part of his body. You remember the first time you touched his scars– paid close attention to them. It looked self-inflicted. Nothing like a surgery or done by doctors or scientists, like how he said the arm was attached to him. When you saw his face, you knew you were right.

Every once in a while, you can still see the dark shadow casting over his eyes when your hands run over his shoulders. You simply move to kiss against the scars to quietly remind him that you aren’t afraid of him, and you watch as the shadows fall mercy to the light.

You finish your own skincare routine faster than he does, as per usual. 

“I don’t understand why the hell I have to do this, doll,” he grumbled as you left the bathroom. “I’m over a century old.”

“And I’m trying to make sure that you don’t look like it,” you replied over your shoulder. 

Bucky huffed, but continued with the routine that you strictly put him on. He complained, but he never went against your words. You knew that he was still following it even when he wasn’t spending the night at your place, too. He’s always been a handsome man, but you would say that he’s been leveled up even more since you came around.

While he’s distracted, you move towards his bag. 

You don’t distrust him, but you’re not stupid either. Turning off his phone, saying things out of character– yeah. Something is different. What’s even weirder is that he doesn’t have any of his usual things with him. There’s only his laptop. He doesn’t have any of his regular written notebooks or calendars that he usually carries around with him. The man loves his written, visual items. He likes to flip through pages and see things with his own eyes, to be able to edit with a pen instead of a tap of his fingers.

You hear the last cap of the bottle close, and shut his bag. You’re only left with more questions as you move his bag towards the hanger where your own purses hang.

“Ah– sorry,” Bucky apologized, seeing you move his stuff. 

“It’s alright,” you hummed, thankful you were able to play off your snooping.

The two of you move towards your bed, sliding under the sheets. You settled into his arms naturally, assuming the position that the two of you had found most comfortable in the almost two years of dating. Your head rested on his bicep like it was a pillow, his metal arm coming around you to wrap around your waist to keep you cool against his furnace of a body. 

“You ever respond to Sam?” you whispered into his chest, closing your eyes to snuggle closer into him.

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned, moving to grab his phone from the nightstand behind him. You immediately shifted, just slightly– to try and see the screen.

But so did he.

With one hand, he angled his phone so that it was distorted. The brightness was down low enough that you weren’t able to properly see the messages between both men. However, you saw him silence the chat. You saw the swipe of his thumb, and the icon that signified a silenced message.

Then, Bucky put his phone face down on the nightstand before returning to you.

“Good night, doll,” he murmured to you, hand moving to tilt your head up to him. He kissed you once, twice, a third time before settling back against the pillow. “I love you.”

“Night,” you whispered back, though your mind was everything but asleep. Suspicion was creeping up on you. You could feel it– the sign of something coming. You pushed your gut feeling down. “I love you, too.”

Bucky ❤︎ [2:48pm]: What days do you think are your most free days right now?

You paused, staring at the text on your screen. This is different. This isn’t a text that you normally received from Bucky. Especially not in the middle of the work day, either. Momentarily, you want to entertain the idea that someone stole his phone, but you were certain that someone would be injured or dying if they even got close to ever trying to rob Bucky.

Me [2:50pm]: Are you asking me on a date, Congressman?

Bucky ❤︎ [2:53pm]: I’m trying to plan one instead of our random spontaneous ones, yes. Can you let me know what days work best for you so I can look at my calendar?

Last time he ‘planned’ a date, the two of you went to Romania for your first year anniversary for a week. You didn’t even realize that’s what he meant by planning a date until you were at the fucking airport with no luggage. Except he packed for you, had your passport, and everything else you could possibly need. You were just completely oblivious to the entire thing. 

Me [2:54pm]: Is this a trip kinda date?

Bucky ❤︎ [2:55pm]: No, but I do need two days of your time.

Me [2:56pm]: You’re asking for a lot, handsome.

Bucky ❤︎ [3:01pm]: I promise I’ll be worth it.

You smile at your phone at his words. Of course he’ll be worth it. You take a moment to go through your calendar, flipping back and forth between all your different events. You cross check between client meetings, event plannings, meetings with your coworkers and boss, and then text him back with your response. 

Me [3:12pm]: Weekends are really bad right now. Mondays, too. Wednesdays are also surprisingly bad… Tuesdays and Thursdays are the best. Fridays are a hit and miss.

Bucky ❤︎ [3:25pm]: Tuesdays are bad for me. Rep. dinners on Tuesday nights and Wednesday morning debriefs. Can you block out Thursday and Friday for me two months from now? The 17th and 18th. I’ll give you more details about our date when it comes closer.

Two months? That’s more than enough time to block out. You’ll even take the weekend off for good measure, just in case. Still, two months is a long time to prepare for just a date. You can’t help but tease him a little bit.

Me [3:27pm]: You don’t plan on seeing me for two months? :( 

Bucky ❤︎ [3:30pm]: You’re funny. We’ll still have our random and spontaneous dates. Like tonight. I’m picking you up for dinner. Don’t call a ride after work.

Excitement flutters in your chest. You saw him four days ago, but you’re still happy. 

Time is thankfully on your side today, and he’s waiting for you outside your company’s building. You’re starved for food, for his affection, attention, and everything in between. 

Except all of that dies once his phone rings in the middle of dinner. Bucky silences it, and you see the screen. It has a name that you don’t recognize, then his phone goes faced down onto the table. A few moments later, it buzzes, indicating there was a voicemail left. Bucky swipes the device, pocketing it safely away. 

You’re really trying to not let this bother you. But change doesn’t just happen overnight, and this is Bucky’s personal phone. This isn’t even his work phone. He leaves his work phone in his bag, permanently silenced when he’s not working. This is his phone that he carries with him that he purposely ignores, that is only supposed to have two contacts in it– yours and Sams.

Bucky drove back to your apartment, even though his apartment is closer to the restaurant that he chose for the two of you to eat at tonight. 

You’re lying awake in his arms that night, listening to the sounds of Bucky’s soft snores as he sleeps beside you. It took him a long time to be able to sleep first between the two of you. You used to see how long you could stay up, to see if you could fall asleep after him. The first time he fell asleep on your lap, you almost cried.

Now, you’re staring at his sleeping face wondering if he thinks you’re a fucking idiot. 

The signs are right there. All the blaring signs are screaming in your face, loud and angry. The hidden phone screen, calls, and texts. Hiding his calendar, and all his written notes from you. The sudden trip planning, even though there was nothing special about two months from now. Two months was your twenty third month together. Not even the second year anniversary. 

Yeah, Bucky thought you were stupid.

The biggest sign? You’re currently sleeping in your own bed, and not in his. He’s hiding something in his apartment that he doesn’t want you to find—

An engagement ring. 

You go through Bucky’s drawers like those are your own clothes to wear because they are, and he loves to see you in his shirts. You once spent an entire weekend properly organizing his apartment in a way that made sense because his junk drawer consisted of bullets and lego pieces from when Sam’s nephews came over.

You once found guns and daggers in his apartment just by dropping pens and searching for them. There’s absolutely no way that Bucky can hide a velvet box anywhere in his apartment from you that you won’t accidentally stumble across. Hell– you found a loaded nine millimeter in your own apartment, and asked what the hell it was doing there. 

“Safety,” is all he answered with.

This was your job. This is what you did for a living. You helped other boyfriends hide proposals from girlfriends like this. This is exactly what you did– this is how you told them to do it, though you were a little more slick with it. You definitely made sure your clients weren’t hiding their phones from their potential fiance’s, that’s for sure. 

You made sure that your clients did not know that they were being proposed to. It was your mission, honestly. You saw enough of those TikTok’s where women truly had that gut feeling where they knew it was happening. You refused. It needed to be a surprise. You scouted out every single person in your client’s lives to ensure that every single moment would come to be a surprise. From ensuring that their nails would be done to the ring itself- everything would be perfect. 

Your boyfriend of almost two years was planning on proposing to you in two months, and he thought you wouldn’t find out? Jesus Christ– what were you going to do with him?

Marry him, you supposed.

If you were anyone else, if you were any less stable in your emotions, you would’ve thought he was cheating on you. Hiding his phone definitely made your eyebrow twitch for half a second, if you were being honest. Thankfully, you were able to maintain a rational and sane mind.

Sane was an overstatement. You were now planning an entire wedding in your head without the engagement ring on your finger. You were anything but sane. Insanity was taking over every single cell in your brain as you stared at Bucky, imagining your future. The thought made you extremely giddy. 

A smile crept up on the corner of your lips as you moved into the warmth of his embrace. His arms tightened around you instinctively, and he let out a soft, contented sigh.

You can’t keep it to yourself as the date starts coming closer and closer. 

Mel, who has graduated as your client and now has become your friend, is sitting in your apartment, telling you about her most recent date with her boyfriend of six months. Not in a way that she would when you were her matchmaker, but as friends would. You find yourself liking this arrangement much, much more.

“Enough about me though,” she grinned, swirling the wine in her glass. “Tell me about you and Bucky. How are things going?”

“You really wanna talk about the guy that your boss hates?” you asked, raising an eyebrow at her as you take a sip out of your own glass.

“I can separate work from girl talk,” Mel said, smiling at you. 

“Well,” you said, smiling at her, “If you’re free the rest of the evening, I was wondering if you wanted to get your nails done with me?”

“Nails?” Mel repeated, raising her eyebrows at you as she brought the glass to her lips.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I think Bucky’s gonna propose to me on Thursday.”

Her eyes widened as she choked on her wine, the alcohol spluttering back into the glass. You couldn’t hold back a laugh before you jumped to your feet. You turned, rushing to grab paper towels from your kitchen to wipe off her face before it dripped, and stained her clothes. 

“Shit– shit! I’m so sorry,” she coughed, patting her face. 

“It’s okay,” you said between laughter, desperately trying to compose yourself. “Do you– do you want more wine?”

“Do I want– No! What? We need to go to the salon now! One of us needs to drive! Why the hell don’t you have a car again?!”

“Uh… I just… order a ride everywhere, or Bucky drives me,” you answered her, sheepish. “I’ll just order us a ride, we’ve both had a glass already. We don’t need to drive there, Mel.”

“Must be nice–”

A knock on your door makes you both pause. You move, going to check the peephole and find your boyfriend standing there with a box in his hands. You rip the door open, shocked.

“Bucky?” you asked, surprised. “Don’t you have a dinner to get to soon? It’s Tuesday.” 

“Yes, but I wanted to drop this off to you,” he said, giving you a smile. He leaned over the box, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. “Just a present. Saw it, thought it would look nice on you.”

“What is it?” you asked as he transferred over the gift box to you.

“A dress,” he shrugged. “What are you up to today?”

“Mel’s here,” you said, opening the door further so he could see her. He looked past you, giving her a small wave that you’re certain that she returned back. “We’re about to go get our nails done. I was about to order a ride.”

“Oh? Don’t do that. I’ll just drop you two off. You’ll go the place you always do, right? It’s on the way to the dining hall,” he said.

“What? I don’t want you to be late,” you said, frowning at him. 

“It’s fine,” Bucky insisted, shaking his head. “They can start without me. Talbot is late more than a few times anyways.”

“It’s true,” Mel said from behind you. You turned around to look at her, finding that she was gathering her jacket and purse. “Talbot is always late.”

“See? Thank you, Mel.” There’s a bit of a gloating tone to his voice that makes you smack his arm. Bucky chuckled in response, a smile settling over his face. “Come on now, grab your stuff so we can get down to the car so I’m not too late for the meeting.”

You sighed, knowing that you wouldn’t be able to change his mind and get him to leave you. You put the box on the counter to inspect once you return later, and snatch your purse from where it’s resting on the table. Both you and Mel follow Bucky down to the car. He holds open the back door for both of you to climb into the backseat like he’s your chauffeur, and not your boyfriend.

Bucky drives in silence, you and Mel scrolling through pinterest hurriedly during the car ride for inspiration pictures for your nails while trying to be subtle about the fact that you know that you’re getting proposed to. Your boyfriend doesn’t seem to notice that you know, though.

Once he pulls up to the salon, Mel thanks him for the ride and slides out. You lean over the console to give him a kiss, and he grabs your hand, stopping you.

His card is slid into your palm, and his lips are pressed against your knuckles.

“I’ll pay for you and Mel,” he said, giving you one more smile.

You want to race down the aisle right at that moment. 

Instead, you get your nails done with Mel, swallow down butterflies that are forcing their way up your throat, and get to the restaurant that Bucky told you to meet him at while he runs late at his last meeting before your date. 

It’s a beautiful skyline restaurant in the middle of New York that your own company can’t even secure a date at. You’ve tried multiple times. In fact, your own clients have wanted to get proposals done at this restaurant. It just couldn’t be done. Reservations were booked out at least a year in advance, and somehow Bucky was able to secure the two of you a spot with two months to spare. 

There’s live music playing here by world renowned musicians. The chefs are even more well known. The lighting was low so that it wouldn’t take away from the view outside the windows. The time of night that Bucky chose was perfect– New York was lit up like stars on the ground from the table that you were sitting at. 

You were dressed in the gift Bucky bought for you. A backless, square neckline gown. The straps came up and wrapped around your neck like a halter top would, and tied around the back in a thin bow, the long straps kissing down your bare spine. It was soft and airy against your skin. 

Bucky arrived earlier than you expected, but you were sure he was still later than he wanted to be. Either way, he still had another bouquet of fresh flowers in his hands for you that you two had placed under the table. Of course, he didn’t take a seat before giving you a kiss for a greeting, and murmuring his apology for not being able to pick you up.

“You look beautiful,” he said, smiling at you. “I didn’t think you would wear it tonight.”

“I thought you bought it for me to wear tonight?” you asked as he placed the flowers under the table. You watched as he sat down across from you. 

“Mm… Well, I bought it for you to wear,” he said, reaching his hand across the table. You easily slipped your hand into his, watching him bring your hand to his lips to press a kiss to your knuckles. “When you wear it doesn’t matter to me. I just wanted to get you a present.”

“A present?” you echoed, unable to stop smiling. “Even though you already do so much for me?”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t want to do more for you, sweetheart,” he hummed. 

The waiter came by not a moment later, letting you know that the first course would be coming out momentarily. You both thanked him, and returned back to each other. 

“I feel like I don’t see you as much these days,” Bucky said, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. 

“It’s been really busy for the two of us,” you agreed, releasing a soft sigh. 

“I even contemplated hiring you as a matchmaker again, just so I could block out meetings and have you in my office again,” he joked, making you laugh. 

“That would be fraudulent, Congressman,” you teased, shaking your head. “For you and me.”

“What are they gonna do? Threaten to fire you again?” 

You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face is firmly planted, and isn’t moving anytime soon. 

“You know our dates don’t always have to be somewhere big or fancy, right?” you tell him, your voice softer.

“So you keep telling me,” he hummed, squeezing your hand a little bit. “I know, sweetheart. You said this to me. Several times. I just want to do this for you. For me, too.”

You soften a little bit at his words. You’re gently reminded of a previous confession he told you from when you first started dating. 

You told him that you were more than happy to just get takeout with him on busier days. To get fast food or something quick, if it meant that you two would have more time to spend together. You didn’t always have to sit down and eat somewhere nice. He said that he knew that, and he liked doing that, too. But as a kid in the forties, he always wanted to be the kind of man that was able to spoil his girl rotten– to bring his woman to the best places and sign the check without batting an eye.

This kind of thing was healing for him, too.

“We can get burgers tomorrow,” Bucky said, giving you a smile. 

“Deal,” you grinned at him. 

The first course of your meal was brought out to the two of you. You two never spoke about work over food. It was your rule. You talked about everything else. Sam. Mel. Your parents and siblings. The conversation Bucky overheard while he was in line getting coffee the other day. 

There was always a lot to talk about when you two never saw each other. Then again, you were certain that you would ever run out of words even if you spent every waking moment with him. If there ever came to be a time when that was the case, you were more than happy to spend the rest of eternity in a peaceful silence with him, as long as you were able to hold him. 

Topics never ran dry between the two of you. More than once, you two needed to remind yourselves to shut the fuck up in this fancy establishment because there were sophisticated people around you having very nice meals. 

“I’ll book a private room next time,” Bucky said under his breath.

“I don’t think they’ll let us come back, babe,” you whispered between soft, gasping laughs. “The host is glaring at us.”

That only made Bucky snort, which made you have to cover your own mouth in return before another fit of giggles wrecked through your body. It took everything in the both of you to compose yourselves before dessert was brought out. 

Once your table was cleared off, and you were left with just your wine glasses and the centerpiece on the table, you and Bucky smiled at each other. You were strangely reminded of your first date with him. So you told him that.

“This reminds you of our first date?” he said, his nose crinkling just slightly. “How so?”

“Mm… The ambiance,” you said, shrugging just a bit. You rested your chin in your palm. “You. Me.”

“It’s always you and me on our dates, sweethearts. Who else would it be?” he sarcastically joked, rolling his eyes at you.

“You know what I mean,” you scoffed at him, watching him smile a bit. “I just… feel a bit nostalgic. Just a… who knew, kinda thing.”

“I knew,” Bucky said, making you pause for a second.

“You knew?” you repeated his words, raising an eyebrow at him. Your heart picked up speed just a little bit. This felt like the start of a speech– the start to the speech.

Bucky cleared his throat, and your chest grew tighter at the sound. He shifted in his seat, and you watched as his hand dipped into his pocket. Oh, shit. It’s coming. Your eyes shot back to his face, and your mouth went dry.

“I thought you were the matchmaker, sweetheart. You didn’t know that we would end up together?” he clicked his tongue at you. “I knew I couldn’t trust a matchmaker that didn’t have a boyfriend of her own.”

“I have a boyfriend now, don’t I?” you asked, but thought– Not for long.

He smiled, eyes meeting yours. Then, a velvet box is produced. Placed right on the table in front of you. You can’t bring yourself to look down at it, not when Bucky is still looking at you.

“I want to spend the rest of my days with you. And it’s getting really fucking hard when I can’t see you all the time because we both live on opposite sides of the city, and have awful work schedules that keep us apart. Even so, I love you so much and I can’t imagine being with anyone else,” he confessed to you. Bucky takes in a deep breath that slightly shakes before he whispers out your name, nervous, “Will you move in with me?”

You freeze.

What the fuck?

“Move in with you?” you echoed, blinking.

Bucky opens the box. It’s a key. A shiny, silver key.

“I bought a penthouse in Manhattan,” Bucky said, sliding the box over to you to inspect the key even closer. “I want to see you more often. Not just the random dates when we both have time– I want to sleep next to you every night, and wake up to you in the mornings.”

“A penthouse… In Manhattan,” you said slowly. 

Your brain was short circuiting. In fact, it was fried. Gone.  You were still staring at the key, lips parted. He… wasn’t proposing to you tonight?

“I’m sorry. Am I– Are we moving too fast?” Bucky suddenly asked you, and you could hear the panic in his voice. 

Your head snapped up to look at him. His eyebrows were furrowed in worry, eyes scanning all over your face. You slapped yourself mentally. You could only imagine how you looked just now– staring at him and the key with a blank look on your face, and giving him no answer.

“What? No! No, Bucky– we’re not moving too fast at all,” you reassured him, hands darting across the table to take his hands in yours. “Most couples our age move in together by the first year or so. Mel and her boyfriend are already planning on moving in together when Mel’s lease breaks in a couple months.”

Bucky lets out a breath of relief, and you watch as his shoulders drop. You feel guilt surge through you at the pure stress that is released from his body at that moment.

“God– I just… You know, the penthouse… It’s fully furnished. I’ve been– Sam has been helping me out, actually. He helped me meet with some realtors, get the place fully furnished and decorated,” Bucky said, dragging a hand down his face. “I’ve been living there for the past two and a half months while waiting for all the furniture to come in, and it’s finally all finished as of yesterday and it never occurred to me that you could possibly say no until just now.”

“You’ve been– Is that why you take me back to my apartment after our dates? Instead of yours?” you asked, surprised.

“I already got rid of my other place, sweetheart,” he said, giving you a small, anxious smile. You can see him bouncing his leg up and down just slightly. “Got the penthouse so that we could have enough space for your stuff and mine.”

“You took me out to a fancy dinner, and prepared a speech for me to ask me to move in with you?” you whispered, your heart feeling fuller by the minute.

“I grew up in a time where couples didn’t move in together until after they were married, doll,” Bucky reminded you, his voice small and soft. 

You’re speechless, for just a moment. You take your eyes off of him, to look down at the key in the box, a smile finding its way on your face. You look back up at him, watching as he mirrors your own smile.

“I think it’s time to head home, Congressman.”

Bucky trails behind you quietly as you step into the penthouse. The elevator directly leads to your home– something that you had only ever seen in movies before. You barely took a step into the rest of the home before you were running numbers into your head.

“What’s my share of the bills?” you asked, heart racing as you look up at the high ceilings. “And don’t you dare tell me not to worry about it, Bucky. If we’re living together, then we’re splitting bills. I don’t care that you make more money than me–”

“We’ll talk about finances later, baby,” he cut you off, hands rubbing your shoulders to soothe you. “We’ll split it equally based on our incomes. Just go explore for right now.”

“I don’t know if I can afford this, Bucky,” you said, turning around to look at him. You were freaking out.

“Your salary was put into play when I got this place,” he said, cradling your face. “Sam and I met with the banks. We met with financial advisors to ensure that this would be feasible for both you and me. Please don’t ask how we got your information.”

“Is there a loan–”

“There’s no loan,” he assured you. “Do you trust me?”

“I do,” you answered instantly. 

Bucky gave you a smile, then pressed a kiss to your lips. You melted into his embrace, feeling your worries wash away with just one touch. He wrapped his arms around you, rubbing your back comfortingly. When he pulled away, another kiss was pressed to your forehead. 

“I’ll give you all the documents later to look over. If you still hate it, then we’ll break the lease, and we’ll find somewhere else. I don’t care where we live. I just want to be somewhere that’s with you,” he promised. 

“Okay,” you breathed, nodding. 

Bucky’s hands leave your body, and he steps away from you. He’s quietly urging you to take a look around. 

You had two floors to explore. The elevator opened up the first floor, where there was an open concept condo. You were staring at a living room, kitchen, floor to ceiling windows, and there were built-in shelves on the wall that held Bucky’s books– and had empty spaces for your own books. Down here, there were two doors– one leading to a half bath and the other leading to a home office. 

You saw two desks, separated by a bookshelf. Bucky’s desk was already occupied with his things, while yours was empty and waiting to be used. On the shelf were pictures and other momentos collected by Bucky over the duration of your relationship so far. There was space for you to decorate with whatever you pleased. On the other end of the room was a daybed and some other furniture to cozy up the area. 

Upstairs, there was a platform for another lounge area. Also furnished to hang out in case the two of you ever had any guests come over. Here, your bedroom was behind a closed door. 

A king sized bed was in the middle of the room, along with two nightstands on either side of it. There was a full walk in closet, Bucky already having his stuff hanging on his side with yours waiting to be filled. The windows are touching the floor just like they are outside, and Bucky has the curtains pulled back so you can see the city lights from your bedroom window. 

“What if I get fired?” you whispered, Bucky’s arms wrapping around your waist from behind. “I won’t be able to pay my share of the bills.”

“I’ll pay then,” he said, pressing kisses to your bare shoulder and neck.

“What if you get fired? Or what if you quit? Join Sam and return back to action?” you asked, heart racing. 

Bucky chuckled against your neck, squeezing you against him. 

“Iron Man’s late wife donates a large portion every year to the heroes that do the work. If that’s me, then we’ll be fine,” he promised you. “It’s how Sam gets paid right now.”

“Oh,” you breathed, nodding a little dumbly. You tilted your head to the side, allowing him more access to more skin. You felt him smile against you. 

“You like the place then?”

“I can’t believe you hid this from me.”

“I hide you from the entire American government so you can continue to walk the streets of New York without being asked about politics that you don’t care about. I hid Romania from you. I think I can hide an apartment,” he listed off, scoffing softly at the end.

All of your hair is gathered in one of his hands to get it out of his way as he continues to press dizzying, nipping kisses against your body.

“A penthouse,” you managed to correct.

“Same thing,” he muttered, and you felt him tug on the string of your dress. A moment later, the soft fabric was sliding down your body, and pooling at your feet, “C’mon, sweetheart. We gotta christen the place.”

You’re being turned around to face him, and your arms move to slide up his chest and wrap around his neck. Bucky’s lips met yours in an opened mouthed kiss halfway, tongue gliding over yours easily. 

Your eyes fluttered shut, and you sighed into his mouth, feeling his hands glide up and down the sides of your body. Something about him being fully dressed, and you with nearly nothing at all did something to the both of you.

Your fingers grabbed onto the collar of his dress shirt, tugging him into a deeper, needier kiss. Bucky groaned into your mouth in response, hands finding purchase on the flesh of your ass. His fingers dug into the supple skin, making you moan softly as he groped you.

Your boyfriend gently pushed you until your back was pressed against the window. Once you were situated where he wanted you, Bucky parted from your lips, only to attach himself to your neck once again. He kept shifting, moving down to your collarbones, your chest, your sternum. Lower. 

You watched helplessly, every inch of you thrumming with desire and need as Bucky slowly shifted to his knees in front of you. His hands moved down your body, dragging your underwear down your legs as he positioned himself to sit back on his feet, thighs spread just a bit for comfort. You’re certain your breathing was erratic as you stared at him.

Usually, you were the one on your knees for Bucky. This was different– this was new. You were more than certain that you would still be the one at his mercy.

“Don’t your feet hurt in these heels?” Bucky asked, hand closing around one of your ankles to lift your foot off the ground slightly. “They look uncomfortable. Very tall.”

“It’s not too bad,” you whispered, unable to trust your voice to speak any louder. “I like these shoes.”

“I bought them for you,” he said, tilting his head as he examined the design a little closer.

“That’s why I like them,” you murmured.

Bucky chuckled just a little bit, shaking his head. He moved slowly on purpose, undoing the strap around your ankle and slowly pulling it off of your foot like you were some sort of princess. He gently led your foot back down to the floor, keeping an eye on your posture to make sure you didn’t suddenly fall from the shift in height. When he was certain that you were stable, he switched over to the next foot, repeating the same process.

Except, he didn’t put your foot back onto the ground. Bucky lifted your leg higher, pressing a kiss to the inside of your ankle, eyes closing as he did. When they opened, he met your gaze, never looking away as his kisses went higher and higher up your leg. He settled your knee to hook around his shoulder, moving to fully kneel before you as his hands went to grab your waist, keeping you pressed against the glass behind you. A firm, tight grip. 

You wouldn’t be able to run from whatever he was about to do to you. Not that you would ever want to.

If he wasn’t holding you up, you were certain you would’ve folded over and collapsed the second his tongue met your heat. The vibrations from the groan sent shockwaves through your entire body that made you tremble above him, hands darting to grab onto his shoulders for an extra form of stability as his tongue parted your folds and flattened against you.

“Shit, Bucky,” you moaned, your mind going blank. All you could feel was him. 

His tongue dipping just slightly in and out of your aching hole, only to drag up to your sensitive clit to swirl figure eights around the nub. Bucky’s hands on your torso, his thumbs  drawing circles into your skin to soothe you against the stimulation he was giving you. The heat of his body radiating against yours from where he was positioned beneath you. 

“Your pussy is squeezing around nothing, baby,” he murmured, pulling away from your core for just a moment, a whine ripping through your throat in response. Bucky clicked his tongue at you, and kissed the inside of your thigh to subdue you. “Have I been neglecting you? Not fucking you enough for you to be so needy?”

Definitely not. Maybe it was the fact that everything was crashing down on you. The fact Bucky went so far to secure the two of you an entire home without you knowing, furnishing the whole place, meeting with financial advisors– all of it made you incredibly desperate for him. 

It was like that one time when you watched him do the dishes for the first time at the beginning of your relationship. He was at your apartment, doing your dishes that you were too lazy to do before he came over. You don’t know what the hell happened to you at that moment, but you just watched him. The second the water turned off, you were unzipping his pants and giving him head. It confused him, but he also wasn’t complaining. 

“I’m always needy for you,” you barely managed to answer him.

Bucky’s lips parted, eyes scanning your figure above him for a few moments. Then, one of his hands left your waist, and two fingers were shoved into you without a single warning. 

A moan ripped through your throat, and you weren’t given a chance to even recover before his mouth was back on your clit, sucking and flicking at the sensitive nub. His fingers entered and exited you at a delicious speed, and he could feel you coming apart around him. Your body was beginning to tremble, walls beginning to shake– and he curled his fingers the way he knew you liked.

You came undone, Bucky’s hand moving to press against your stomach to keep you from collapsing forward. Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths as you whimpered his name, tugging on his hair weakly to pull away from your overstimulated body. 

Reluctantly, he released you. Bucky’s hands never left you as he stood, keeping you upright. Your legs were still shaking when you had both feet on the ground, but fuck if you were going to let Bucky stay dressed. 

You had every intention of returning the favor once Bucky was just as bare as you were. Bucky saw it in your eyes, too. The way your gaze dropped down his torso to his cock that was stiff and high up against his stomach, waiting for you. You barely moved your hair to the side before you were being spun back around, chest pressed to the glass– eyes to the view of the New York city skyline. 

“Next time, doll,” he promised, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade that made you shiver. You let out a small moan as you felt him drag the length of his dick through your folds, coating himself in your slick to get him ready to enter. “Gotta be inside you right now or I might go insane.”

“Hurry up, then,” you whined to him, pressing your ass back further into him. A mistake, and you knew it. Not that it really was a mistake on your end though.

His hand came around from your stomach, gripping your throat and jaw, pulling you back into him. Your back was arched, hands resting on the glass for some sort of security in the position he had you in. Bucky forced your head to turn, to look at him. 

Bucky wanted to watch your face contort with pleasure as he finally slid in, watch as you fell apart as he speared you full with his cock. There was a look of satisfaction and fucking arrogance in his eyes with the way your mouth fell open in a noiseless moan. Bucky took advantage of it, shoving his tongue into your mouth to swallow up any of the noises that he knew would start coming once his hips started moving.

You couldn’t keep up– not with his kiss, not with the pacing– not with anything that was happening right now. His hips were snapping into yours at such a brutal pace, his metal hand gripping your hip to keep you in place, and you barely managed to pull away from his lips to breathe. 

“So good– so good,” he groaned as you turned back to the glass, chin falling to your chest for a moment as you moaned in response. 

Bucky didn’t let your head hang for too much longer. He pulled your head back up to look out the window, and you could feel his breath against your ear as he continued to pound his hips from behind you.

“Isn’t the view so nice, baby?” he whispered to you.

“Wh… what?” you moaned, mind spiraling for just a moment.

“It’s so nice,” he continued, grunting behind you, “I know your pussy loves it– loves it when I fuck you in front of all of New York to see.”

Excitement shoots through you, and you unexpectedly clamped around him. Bucky’s hips stuttered as he cursed softly. You were close– again– and Bucky wasn’t making this any better for you. Then again, you almost just brought Bucky over the edge with you.

“Shit. I knew you were a fucking freak when you tried giving me head in front of my coworkers,” Bucky muttered, a small laugh falling from his lips.

“Bucky,” you whimpered. “I’m so close–”

“It’s too bad. New York can’t have you,” he cut you off, pulling out of you. 

The sense of loss is immediate, but not for long. Once more, he’s spinning you around. This time, he’s hoisting you up like you weigh nothing at all. Your legs are wrapping around his waist immediately, and he’s sinking you back down on his length within seconds. 

Your lips are collided with Bucky as he’s fucking you against the window now, holding you up in his arms as you hang onto him for dear life. Your fingernails are digging into the muscles of his shoulders, scratching down his chest in a way that he once admitted that he loves, and you’re moaning into each other’s mouths.

The thrusts are growing sloppier as the kiss grows messier– there’s no need for words between the two of you anymore. You both know your tells at this point.

Bucky angles his hips just slightly to hit that one spot in you, forcing you over the edge as his own orgasm threatens to take him. Your body seizes, and you can’t kiss him back anymore. Bucky busies himself with your neck, leaving marks on your skin as he fucks you through your high, chasing his own that comes just moments later, coating your walls and dripping down onto the new floors of your new room together.

You’re still panting and trying to catch your breath, head dropped onto his shoulder when Bucky moves, carrying you to the bathroom to clean up. His kisses are softer as he walks over, his words more gentle. His body separates from yours as he rests you on the edge of the bathtub so he can start the water to fill the tub.

“How’s the view?” Bucky asked you, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

A soft laugh rips through you, and you can feel him smile against your skin.

“The view is perfect, handsome.”

You didn’t find a single number out of place in the documents he presented you either. You took an entire weekend going over the numbers while Bucky watched you quietly. He didn’t bother you while you did so. In fact, he just stayed nearby and took the days off work, too. Bucky answered any questions that you possibly could’ve had for him, already knowing what you would’ve thrown his way.

Which only made your heart grow fonder for him, if you were being honest. He knew you like the back of his hand.

Once you were satisfied with everything, he helped you move all your stuff from your previous apartment over to your new home. Bucky timed the move in perfectly– your lease was about to break the following month, so you had just the right amount of time to tie up all your loose ends. 

All you really had to move over to the new place was your wardrobe, books, and sentimentals. You found out very quickly that during your random dates where Bucky would come home with you, he started taking stock of all your little things around the house. Anything that was running low, he just went ahead and bought so it was already at your new home, ready for you to use.

The last couple weeks were spent with you listing all your unneeded furniture up on the marketplace for an extra few bucks. Things like your dining table, sofa, coffee table– everything that Bucky had already bought and decorated for your home together. 

“You know this couch?” Sam asked you as he flopped down on it. “And the coffee table? The rug? Those barstools? The fucking light fixtures?”

You and Bucky invited him and his girlfriend over for dinner for a small celebration– a little get together to commemorate the fact that you and Bucky were officially fully moved in together now. 

“What about it?” you asked, handing him a bottle of beer.

“I picked it. Me. Bucky just swiped his card. You’re so fucking lucky, matchmaker. Your boyfriend sucks. If I wasn’t there– shit. You would’ve had clashing colors and patterns in this luxury penthouse,” Sam scoffed, taking a long swig. “I had a fucking headache just standing there. The sales associate thought we were married the way I was arguing with him in the store.”

“You two basically are,” you said, grinning against the rim of your own bottle.

“Don’t say that,” Bucky muttered, a shudder running through his body. “I’d rather die than spend the rest of my life with that idiot.”

“God, I’m glad we agree,” Sam groaned, shaking his head. 

“We picked more neutral stuff,” Bucky told you, sitting beside you on the couch. An arm draped over your shoulders, pulling you into his warmth. “We thought it would be easier for you to add whatever additions or colors you’d want in the future.”

“Oh, so you did think about me when you purchased an entire penthouse and furnished the whole damn thing without telling me,” you teased. 

Bucky rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t fight the smile on his face. “Yes, sweetheart. I thought of you.”

With the two of you living together now, it was easier for you both to see each other. You reveled in the fact you could fall asleep every night in his arms, even if you went to bed first. He didn’t want you waiting for him if he had an event that had him staying out late, but you would often wake up to him pulling you into his embrace.

In the mornings, Bucky would usually be the one to wake up and leave first. 

You no longer set an alarm on your phone. Bucky’s sweet kisses were your wake up call every morning. He wouldn’t leave until you kissed him back, no matter how long it took you to wake up. 

“Morning,” you would whisper to him.

“Morning,” he’d reply, kissing you one more time for good measure. “I made you breakfast. It’s on the table.”

“Wake me up earlier tomorrow so I can eat with you,” you whined to him, though you just rolled over on your side, closing your eyes again.

Bucky chuckled, leaning over your body to press a kiss to your temple. You sighed, letting the morning wash over you for just one more moment before you pushed up off the bed. You’d follow him downstairs, watch him grab his blazer off the seat of the dining table, and you’d tie his tie for him at the door.

“I’ll be home early tonight. I don’t have any events today,” you said, smoothing out the fabric on his chest.

“You’ve been coming home early every night,” he said, raising his eyebrow at you.

“So have you, Congressman. Almost like there’s something you’re running from. Something you’re avoiding at work?” you teased, smiling at him.

“No. Just trying to get home to you,” he hummed, smoothing out your bedhead with both hands before he held your face gently to kiss you one more time before he went off into the world.

This was your new daily morning routine. 

The trade off on coming home early meant that you still had to do work when you came home. Both of you. However, Bucky seemed to plan for that, which is why he had a room specifically made for a home office for the two of you. 

You two would spend your evenings there before dinner for a few hours, finishing up any work that you weren’t able to do at your respective offices. You two would be silently working on your own jobs.

You, researching your clients preferences and trying to match them up based on their profiles. You would also be looking up the best date spots, trying to keep up with the latest trends for dating, and making sure that you weren’t falling behind on anything else.

Bucky would be going through packets upon packets of different meetings that he would have attended. There were several different duties that he had acquired since you first started dating, and there were a lot of responsibilities that he had started shouldering. You were certain that he was also helping Sam on the side, though he couldn’t tell you full details as per usual. 

Usually, you would stop working when you heard Bucky stop working and open the door to the office. He normally ordered food for the two of you, and would go out to the lobby to pick it up, and bring it back for you two to eat.

It was your signal to put everything down, and relax with him for the rest of the night.

You heard him close his binder, heard the wheels of his chair roll backwards, but you didn’t hear the elevator open and close to signify his departure down. You shook it off– wondering if he just went off to the bathroom or something.

Then, you felt him behind you. 

Bucky’s chest was pressed against your back, enveloping you in his warmth. His hands were on your shoulders, and as always, the left side of your body was colder from the touch of his metal prosthetic. 

“Hi, handsome,” you said, a smile coming onto your face. “Is it time for dinner?”

“Almost. Delivery is on its way,” he answered you.

His hands slid down your shoulders, goosebumps rising on your bare skin as his hands moved all the way down to cover your own hands. He left his hands on top of yours, and you hummed, happy to feel him all over you for just a moment. Bucky’s head pressed against the side of yours, then he dropped his forehead into the crook of your neck.

“Are you okay?” you whispered, tilting your head to the side to give him more space to rest. He took it, burrowing deeper into you.

“Yeah. Just a little nervous,” he murmured into your skin, taking a breath. 

You were about to ask him what he was talking about, to turn around and look at him properly. Then, you felt his hands slide up just a little bit, resting now on your wrists instead of covering your hands completely. Except, there was a weight he left behind that wasn’t there before. Your eyes shifted downwards, and your breath caught in your throat at the ring he slipped onto your finger– the cool metal that he masked with the metal of his own arm.

Your breath is caught in your throat, your eyes widened at the sparkling star on your finger. Bucky plucked this thing out of the fucking sky– he had to. There was no way. 

“Marry me, sweetheart?” he asked softly. There was a slight tremor to his voice that you caught. A slight shaking in his right hand that you could feel. 

You couldn’t repeat what you did at the restaurant, make him freak out with worry over your quiet shock and silence.

Your sudden jolt into standing surprised him, but he didn’t seem to mind when you wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing his lips, then his cheeks, his eyes– everywhere you could as tears were beginning to well up and spill over. You couldn’t help it. You felt Bucky’s anxiety release with each kiss, his hands resting on your waist to hold you against him.

“Is that a yes?” he asked, smiling at you.

“Why would I ever say no to you?” you demanded, making him laugh. “Fuck– I thought you were going to propose to me at the restaurant when you asked me to move in with you!”

“The restaurant?” Bucky asked, blinking. “What– really?”

“Yes!” you nodded, wiping your tears away roughly. Bucky caught your hands, putting them down to your sides so he could wipe your tears away in a more gentle way with his thumbs.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” he said, looking appalled. “Do you know how many times you have ranted to me about the fact you hate restaurant proposals? You hate planning them, and you hate watching them. Why would I ever propose to you in a restaurant?”

“If it was you, then I would have changed my mind about it right away!” you argued with him, stubborn. “If it was you, you could’ve proposed to me with a candy ring, and I still would have said yes! We can elope– I don’t need a fancy wedding or anything. I just– just you. I just want you, Bucky.”

You watched as his eyes softened for you as he looked all over your features. You were certain that you looked like a mess right now, but you were finding it harder to believe that with the way he was looking at you right now. He looked as if you were the one that created the universe, and solved all his problems. There was nothing but admiration, love, joy. These were eyes that only you had the privilege to see. 

A smile came onto his face, one that you adored. A smile that you were going to be able to have for the rest of your life.

“Well, I’m your fiancé now, but you’ve already had me from the beginning, doll,” he said, “I’ve had this ring for over a year now, actually.”

“A year?” you whispered, eyes wide.

“I’ve been trying to find the right time to ask,” he admitted, a bit sheepish. “And just… right now. It felt right.”

“Me working in the same room as you felt right?” 

Bucky rolled his eyes at your blatant sarcasm. Except, he’s still smiling. He never gives you a real attitude. He wouldn’t dare. He loves you too much to ever do that.

“The fact that we’re both able to do our own thing in silence, but still be together felt right. We don’t need to speak. We don’t need to be touching. Don’t get me wrong, I love all those things, but… When I looked over at you just now— I felt at peace. Peace that I never thought I was ever allowed to have. So yes, it felt right.”

You’re about to cry again. You’re about to start fucking ugly sobbing in your boyfriend– your fiancé’s arms. You have a thousand things to say, but you know none of them will make sense right now. So, you bury your face in his chest and hug him tight, his arms coming to hold you even closer to him. 

“I love you,” you settled with, your voice breaking slightly.

“I love you, too,” he chuckled in response.

You listened to his chest rumble with laughter under your ear, felt his head rest against the side of yours. He led your bodies in a gentle sway, rocking the two of you back and forth. He took in a breath, releasing it slowly in a contented way. 

Your mind is racing still, and you ask one single question– just one to get his opinion. 

“Where should we get married?” you whispered to him. 

Bucky’s quiet for a few moments. A few moments too long. You pull back from him to look at his face, finding a smile on his lips, and a small sparkle in his eyes.

“I have some friends that want to meet you. Do you think you’re up to traveling to Wakanda?”

masterlist

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @ifuckwithyouanyday @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla @simp4f1 @its-in-the-woods @lvrrinx @herejustforbuckybarnes @djotummy @star-yawnznn let me know if you would like to join my general bucky taglist for whenever i post a fic!

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Lull

part 2 of Astray

note: the auxiliary member of the PT that is mentioned is the reader from @hypnoswrites's fic Onlooker

Chrollo x female!reader

Part 1 | Part 3 (coming soon)

Warnings: mentions of death, mentions of creepy behavior, mentions of torture

Word Count: 6k

It was nearing 2 AM when you found yourself making your way up the stairs to your unit. Given the late hour, it was deathly quiet in the apartment building, the only noises you could hear being the buzzing of the fluorescent lights above you in the walkways and your own shoes on the steps as you trudged your way upwards. No doubt all of your neighbors were asleep, having turned in hours ago. You would soon be doing that yourself, probably passing out as soon as your head hit your pillow.

Or maybe you would stay awake again while you stewed in your own upset emotions.

A sour look took over your face as you were fully aware that was the more likely outcome.

Due to the blanket of quiet that covered the building, the clinking of your keys sounded even louder as you pulled them out when you approached the door of your unit, as did the lock when you turned it open. A long, drawn out sigh left your lips as you opened your door and closed it, all the while you fought the urge to slam it shut behind you. Soon enough you were sitting on your couch, your bag on the floor next to your feet. Today had been a long day and you were exhausted. Even though you should probably head straight to bed, you wanted to take a moment to breathe and relax, and you leaned your head back in favor of staring at the ceiling.

….. There was a water stain set into the newly painted ceiling above your head.

Your expression soured when you saw that. So that dishwasher in the unit upstairs was still leaking, despite what the maintenance guy had told you. Great.

And evidently not all of your neighbors were asleep, as through the thin walls of your own unit, you could hear the distinct noises of bed springs creaking loudly that was accompanied by loud moaning.

At two in the morning? Really?

Reluctantly, you pulled yourself up from the couch, ignoring the way your body protested after managing to become comfortable. With heavy steps, you made your way to the small bedroom within the unit in an effort to escape your neighbors.

That time, you slammed the door.

Stumbling forward in the dark until you found your bed, you all but fell on top of it.

Unfortunately, your earlier prediction turned out to be correct, because as you lay there wishing for sleep, to temporarily escape into your subconscious, you weren't allowed even that. Because all you could do was stare up at the ceiling while thinking about how you shouldn't be here right now.

That this wasn't how things were supposed to be.

After that job at the Pelletier's – six fucking months spent being at the beck and call of those goddamn assholes and the rest of the uppity staff – you should have been done with this. That job was supposed to be your windfall, giving you the means to live a nice, comfortable life while you left your current occupation behind.

Escaping the illegal activity in which you supported yourself with was something you had wanted to do for some time now. Sure, there was a certain thrill that came with infiltrating somewhere and making off with whatever valuables your clients had bid you to, but you didn't want to do that forever. Because one misstep on your part, one person recognizing the face you were using, one ability that was able to see through your hatsu – any and all of those could come into play during a heist which could spell the end for you and the life you currently had. While what you had wasn't the best, you weren't willing to trade that for a jail cell.

Which was why the diadem job had been a godsend. It was well within your capabilities, and with the buyer being an old socialite with ties to the mafia through her late husband, she had the funds to pay the enormous price for that old piece of jewelry. She was desperate for it even, having an obsession with it that was well-known by those who knew her. Though the communications you had with her were brief and through her servants, Letizia Bianchi's claims of being directly descended from Princess Despoina were well communicated to you, which she in turn made the the claim that the diadem was hers by right. Why she felt the need to justify herself was unknown to you, if the history of her late husband was anything to go by.

Not only that, the princess in question had died in a bloody revolution with nothing to indicate that she ever had children before she was executed. Plus there was the fact that most historians agreed that she didn't appear to have any interest in men. But at the end of the day, you didn't care all that much what the reasons were as to why the Letizia wanted it. All you cared about was what you were going to be paid for the job.

And a twelve billion payout was enough to get you motivated to do your best.

So for the six months you spent in the Pelletier household, you learned the habits of the staff and owners, figured out the code to the vault, chose the best time to make off with it, and got everything together for your escape. All of that would be in exchange for an end to this line of work. “One last job,” you had told yourself.

That would have been the case had it not been for a certain thing – or rather, a certain group of people:

The Phantom Troupe.

You'd heard of them before this – anyone involved in underworld dealings at the very least knew the name, as the group of thieves had achieved something of a legendary status within a relatively short amount of time. They always struck out of nowhere, hitting their targets with efficiency and leaving nothing behind that could lead back to them. Were it not for the fact that almost all of the stolen items that ended up in their possession sometime after made it onto the black market, most people might have assumed that those items truly had been spirited away by ghosts.

Though not all of their actions were ones of violence and theft, as you had heard rumors of the troupe putting up the funds needed for various orphanages in a variety of more unfortunate areas of the word. But when you considered how out of line that sounded with their general MO and how sappy it seemed, you were inclined to think that was just a stupid rumor spread around for shits and giggles.

Rumors aside, the Phantom Troupe was a force to be reckoned with. Enigmatic and devastating, shrouded in a reputation of ruthlessness. Their deeds were many, and the incident at the Pelletier mansion was just another note on a long list of their crimes, with the Diadem of Princess Despoina being just another acquisition of theirs.

Except no.

Because against all odds, you had been the one to steal it.

You groaned, fighting the urge to smother yourself with the pillow as you pulled it over your head in frustration. Of all the screw-ups and mistakes you'd made in your life, you never would've dreamed that you'd fuck up so badly that you would put yourself on the Phantom Troupe's radar.

But how the fuck could you have known? How was there any way you could have known that the troupe would go after the Pelletier's at the same time as you? How could you have known that they had come to the same conclusion as you, that the best moment to take the diadem away was when the Pelletier's would be occupied with an event?

You couldn't. No one in the entire world could have ever predicted such a thing could happen.

But that didn't really matter, because even if you didn't mean for it to happen, you had stolen the troupe's intended mark.

Which only meant that, if they found you out, they would make sure you paid for it.

Fuck

You groaned again as you rolled over onto your front, keeping the pillow pressed against your face. You needed to do that, otherwise you knew your focus was going to go to the air vent on the wall that sat just above the floor. If that happened, you knew you'd spend the rest of the time you were awake staring at it with the image of what you had hidden inside of the vent etched into your mind: that of the cardboard box in which you had stuffed the diadem into because you didn't know where else to hide it.

Just another addition to the piece's rich – or perhaps sordid – history: from sitting atop the head of a princess to being stuffed into a maid's closet, then from a display case within a museum for everyone to behold until it moved to a display case within a private collection. And now in a vent, sitting there in the dark and unclaimed by the buyer. A piece that was worth billions yet you couldn't sell it, because if you tried, all it would take was one whisper to the wrong person for the most deadly group in the world to descend upon you and make the remainder of your life a living hell.

All because Letizia, who went as far as making a whole song and dance about how she was descended from the original owner of the diadem, chose to go back on the deal. Even with her being as powerful and well-connected as she was, not even she wanted to cross the Phantom Troupe.

And you didn't have any other choice but to accept it when you were told that. Because what were you going to do? Go to the police? Take her to court for not paying you and claim a breach of contract? Yeah right. That'd go over well.

You were stuck with no option other than to deal with it, to take on the jobs that would help you get by while she continued on as normal. That left a bad taste in your mouth, but the best you could do was to continue to work and hope for another high-paying job like one Letizia was supposed to pay for while you figured out what to do with the diadem at a later date.

Though as you lay there and told yourself such things, you were very well aware that another job as lucrative as the diadem one was unlikely to come about.

It wasn't supposed to be this way, you told yourself again.

Your thoughts went back to that night when you had stolen the diadem, the thoughts you were throwing around in your head as you considered the possibilities for your future. From laying on the beach with expensive drinks to staying cozy beneath a warm blanket in a nice lake house, or simply traveling where ever you pleased whenever you pleased. There had been no end to what you could have done for yourself once you had gotten your twelve billion.

But instead of enjoying that nice, comfortable life, you were left to rot in a shitty apartment, which was the best you could get after you had spent what was left of your savings just to get to the Begerosse Union. You wouldn't be able to leave this particular area for a while, more than likely, as you had burned several bridges professionally when you chose to take the diadem job. Because you could do the job yourself, and because of that, you wanted the payout all for yourself.

Any truly high-paying jobs wouldn't come for some time.

Another long groan left your lips as you shifted, pulling your head away from the pillow and turning to face the wall. You'd figure this out, you told yourself. You've been in worse situations and you've gotten out of them – this would be no different. It just feels worse because of the way you were stiffed. Another opportunity will come. Keep doing what you're doing for now, and it'll all work out.

As had become the norm for you, you fell asleep listening to your own disingenuous inspirational thoughts.

Chrollo's morning began in the same way it often did, with him waking up well before the sun had risen and being unable to go back to sleep after. That in turn had him passing the time by reading until the first rays of dawn properly graced the world. Depending on just how early he would wake up, the time he had before the rest of the world was also awoken could be as little as a single hour or as many as four, as his internal clock only had become more erratic as the years had went by. It wasn't ideal as it had caused the bags beneath his eyes to only become more pronounced, and despite his numerous attempts at looking, Chrollo had yet to find an ability that could help him sleep through the whole night. For the moment, he had resigned himself to the fact that he would likely never get a full night's sleep again.

At least the predicament had allowed him more reading time, and as the many homes and apartments he had across multiple countries were always stocked with various different book collections, it ensured that he would always have something on hand to read during those deadly quiet hours of the early morning.

On this day, however, things were different. He could only carry so much on him while he was traveling. As a result, he only had four books on his person, and he found himself faced with a predicament: reread the third book he had packed, or continue with the fourth one that he had stopped reading a while earlier when he found that he wasn't enjoying it?

He ultimately chose to pick up the third book for a second time, as he still felt no desire to attempt to finish that fourth book. How a book like that – one that he couldn't stand to finish – had ended up in his possession, he had no clue.

But as Chrollo opened up the pages of the third book for a second time that trip, his thoughts were less focused on the words on the pages and more on the fact that this journey was taking him longer than he had expected, with no sense of when it would come to an end.

No sense of when he would find 'Minette' again.

Upon thinking of the maid, Chrollo yet again found himself uncertain if he should be exasperated or impressed that the matter had gone on for as long as it had. At the very least she deserved a certain amount of praise for her disappearing act – just as it wasn't often that an outside force managed to interfere with troupe business as effectively as she had, it also wasn't often that someone could vanish so thoroughly that even he was at a loss as to how she had managed it.

At first he had been confident that finding her would be an easy matter, as the theory that she had left by boat seemed sound at the time. After stealing an item as valuable as the diadem, leaving the country entirely was the best move to take. Yet there had been no sign of her, even when Shalnark had helped in pouring over every available security tape and log of the passengers who had departed from the docks in the time frame after the maid had vanished. Even when they had searched beyond the limits of the coastal town in the event that Chrollo's hunch about that route being incorrect, there was nothing.

The maid he had seen in the mansion was nowhere to be found no matter where they looked.

As expected, that dampened the mood of the troupe once the heist was over. Not so much due to how the diadem had been lost, but that someone had managed to sneak away in the way that she had. Just like him, some of the others had been impressed while certain members were angry, but all anticipated that the maid would be found. If not by the manner in which you escaped, then by tracking you down when the diadem went on the market. Whoever you truly were, Chrollo had felt that you would attempt to sell it, as it didn't seem to him that you were the type to keep expensive baubles just for the sake of it. Even from his brief interaction with you, he was certain that this was just a job for you.

And yet, even months later, there had been nothing.

At first it made sense. With the mass-disappearance at the Pelletier mansion and the media circus that had followed, that you would lay low was expected. But now that the heat had died down and the news had moved on to other stories, leaving the events in that mansion as a mystery while those in the underworld had an idea as to what had happened, there was still nothing for him to pick up on. No shred of evidence, no whispers of the diadem being placed on the market. Absolutely nothing.

Only two things had been discovered that could potentially be connected to you, the first of which being a small fire that had been set in the dumpster of a church near the area of the Pelletier mansion. Why that had happened was still a mystery to him and it could have easily been a strange coincidence that it occurred on the same night as the heist. Either way, there was nothing to go off of in regards to that instance.

The other bit of information that had been discovered was the face of the maid showing up in an unexpected way. At Chrollo's bidding, Pakunoda had shared the memories of the maid with the rest of the troupe in the unlikely event that one of them might come across her after the heist. It was a long shot that any of them would happen to see her, and yet, not long after the troupe had dispersed for the time being, Kortopi managed to come across something that only left more questions: a story about a memorial being erected for a woman who had died in an accident in the Odrana region. The instant Chrollo saw the photo of the woman the article had listed he knew immediately that it was her; that was the face of the maid that he had been searching for.

But it only brought him to another dead end. The woman in question had been dead for more than five years now, and even if the face had been the same, the hair was wrong, as was the apparent height of the deceased. Once again Shalnark's services were used, this time to look into her history as well as that of her family, and there was nothing to be found. It truly appeared that she had died, and there was nothing to indicate that her family or anyone close to her had taken over her identity. There was no connection to the Pelletier's, either.

Thus Chrollo had been left at a loss once more, only having ideas as to what was going on without any concrete proof.

He needed to find you again. Not so much out of a desire to have the diadem as he had planned initially, but simply out of principle; no one was allowed to steal from the Phantom Troupe and get away with it. Some of the others were far more passionate about that belief and wanted you to pay severely. With one of those particular members being Feitan, who had offered to torture you to death once you were found, your fate would have been a miserable one had Chrollo not ordered the others to leave the matter of tracking you down to him. That had been enough to make them back away, as they trusted him to take care of the matter.

And he would take care of it. Though how exactly the matter would be settled depended entirely on the nature of your ability.

And whether or not he could steal it.

Chrollo blinked, snapping himself out of his thoughts as he found that despite how the minutes had ticked away, he was still only on the first page of the book he had chosen. Clearly, he wasn't able to focus on his usual way of passing the time. His own internal musings were simply too loud at the moment.

With a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, Chrollo shut the book and placed it onto the small coffee table that not far from him. He then stretched out slightly before he leaned back in his seat, glancing through the thin sliver between the curtains to see the world outside his hotel room. Unsurprisingly, it was still dark outside; dawn wouldn't come for a few hours more.

Unlike with most things in his life, there was little Chrollo could do right now other than wait. Wait for the sun to rise so he could continue with his journey, this time taking a flight to Canzas.

He'd never been to that city before. Had never even heard of it in any capacity, yet when he had been looking at the available flights, instinct had him choose that one.

A clear result of the ability that was now guiding him.

Chrollo stood up from his seat as he parted the blinds further and allowed himself a better look at the darkness beyond his window.

It had been months since the heist at the Pelletier mansion, and with no sign of where the maid or the diadem had gone, Chrollo found himself growing impatient. While waiting for you to slip up was an option, doing so when he had access to an ability that could speed up the process was a far better use of his time.

Thus, he had found himself enlisting the help of a woman who served as an auxiliary member of the Phantom Troupe.

It hadn't been a terribly long time that she had become associated with the troupe, yet there had been many times that her ability had come in handy. Intertwining fates, she called it. Using nen to link people together and ensuring that one day, the two that were linked would cross paths.

A hatsu like that was perfect to link particular troupe members with particular targets that had proved difficult to get to through other means. Because no matter the person, whether they were an ordinary person or a nen user, they weren't able to resist the link. No matter what the two would come to meet, someday, somewhere.

It wasn't the first time Chrollo had the auxiliary member use her ability on him, as he had bid her to use it once before so he could get close to an heiress who had an annoyingly competent security detail. But back then, it had only taken him a week to get to the heiress.

This time around, however, it was taking much longer to reach his target.

Though perhaps it was a miracle that the link was able to be made at all. The linking ability required an object that the target had touched, and all Chrollo had been able to produce were some bed sheets that had been at the bottom of the chute, ones that both he and you had landed on after jumping in. Aside from the linen cart you had been pushing when he came across you, that was the only thing he could take from the scene that he knew for certain you had made physical contact with. The only reason he had grabbed any of them was a precaution; in case he couldn't find you on his own, in case he needed to go to the auxiliary member for just this reason.

It was a good call for him to have taken that precaution. Had he not done so, Chrollo wouldn't be here at this moment, traveling a destination that was currently unknown, but where exactly he was headed wasn't that important.

What mattered was that this journey was guaranteed to have you at the end of it.

And what he would do when he found you…..

That would be determined once he found out the exact nature of your ability. Once he found you, once he had you secured, he could then take his time to learn about your hatsu. If he couldn't steal it, then it would be a simple matter to retrieve the diadem and dispose of you. As much as Feitan would bemoan the fact that Chrollo had denied him a torture subject, it didn't feel worth it to transport you overseas just for you to die by the torturer's hands. Better to take end things swiftly as opposed to dragging them out.

But if he could steal your hatsu, then things would be different.

There was always a certain amount of vexation he felt whenever he came across a hatsu that couldn't be stolen, especially when it was an ability that he knew he could put to good use if he could get control of it. Such was the case with the auxiliary member, who had carefully linked her own ability to herself so no one else could use it. Her taking such a precaution felt as though she anticipated that he might try to take it. While there had been some disappointment on his part, it ultimately still worked out in the troupe's favor as she was willing to work with them.

Her close relationship with Uvogin also meant that she was unlikely to betray the troupe, and if such a thing were to happen anyway, Uvogin would take care of it – as would Shalnark, he suspected, as the suspiciously placed cameras around her home were a good indication of his presence around her. What exactly was going on there wasn't entirely clear, but based on the knowing look Uvogin had shared with him when he noticed the cameras, the enhancer was at least aware of them. If Uvo saw no issue, then it wasn't Chrollo's place to question it.

But as for the issue that was you, Chrollo could only see you being willing to work with the troupe under duress, and even if you attempted to do so to save yourself, the rest of the troupe wouldn't be satisfied with that. The best outcome you had from this point onward was if he could steal your hatsu, because that would guarantee that you would keep your life.

And although he wasn't inclined to say it out loud, Chrollo found himself quietly hoping that your ability was one that he could take. In part for the sake of adding another useful hatsu to Skill Hunter.

But also because he wanted to see what would happen when he stole it from you. How would you react? How would you respond to him when he told you that your hatsu belonged to him?

What would you do when he made you powerless?

Chrollo smirked to himself. It wasn't the first time he had thought of such things. Even as far back as the night of the heist itself, he had found himself thinking of you often, wondering things about you, scrutinizing every second of that conversation he had shared with you in that brief amount of time you had shared.

He thought often of the brief glimpse he had gotten of you in that hallway – the real you. The one who had broken through the polite maid persona that you had been trying so hard to keep up in order to sarcastically suggest that he take care of you in order to make up for your lost income.

He thought of the brief look of panic that had hit you after you said that, when you realized that the sort of tone you had taken was not at all acceptable for what your apparent position was, and how you had scrambled to give a more polite response.

Both moments happened within seconds, but they replayed in his mind endlessly and to a point that what had started as a simple interest had grown into a mild obsession with who you truly were.

All because he made the decision to venture towards the Pelletier's living quarters before the heist had begun after seeing how lax the security was. All because he saw you seemingly at work and made the choice to toy with you a bit.

Those actions of his were what led to him seeing that side of you and had planted the seeds of obsession in his head. Had he not seen you personally and had that conversation, he may have delegated the task of finding you to someone else. But there he was, trekking across countries himself just so he could find you again.

Strange how simple actions that seem insignificant cause such monumental consequences in the way events play out.

Dawn was no closer to approaching as Chrollo continued to stare out of his window, his eyes drawn to the flicker of electric lights that sat within the darkness. The concept of sleep would no doubt continue to elude him, and his mind felt too busy to settle down and relax with any of his books. It would be several long hours of waiting before he could move once again, this time to take his flight to Canzas, which itself would be several more long hours of waiting.

And all of those hours would no doubt be filled with thoughts of you.

What were you doing now, Chrollo idly wondered.

What were things like for you after you had stolen the diadem?

What was your reaction when you found out about the troupe's involvement in the Pelletier's?

All questions he could only ask once he found you.

As had happened so many times now, your words echoed again in his head, where you made the off-handed comment about him taking care of you.

Depending on how things turned out, Chrollo felt that he may very well take you up on that offer.

This is bullshit.

You went so far, spent so much time and even came close to death – regardless of you knowing that fact at the time – and this was where you ended up?

She doesn't get to do this to you.

Not without paying for it.

Those thoughts struck you as you were eating your sad affair of a dinner: a microwavable meal consisting of chicken and pasta with a side of broccoli. Broccoli that you didn't realize until after you had opened the package had unpleasant looking brown spots in places that left you unwilling to eat it. Maybe you should've figured that would be the case considering it was a microwavable meal, but you had gotten it only because you didn't feel you energy to cook anything. That lethargy could have been due in part to a depression over how badly things had turned out for you.

What you didn't count on was just how much more depressed eating it made you feel, as if it was the physical embodiment of everything that had gone wrong for you since the diadem job. A shitty frozen dinner in a shitty crumbling apartment.

Meanwhile, Letizia was no doubt continuing on as normal, living the nice life you had wanted for yourself without a single care in the world, and she had more than likely completely forgotten all about you and the way she had wasted your time. You had given up a lot to pull off that job – opportunities and jenny from your own savings, not to mention your time and energy – and how did the bitch repay you? By flaking out and relying on the knowledge that there was nothing that you could do to make her pay up, nor could you easily take revenge, not without angering some important people in the underworld.

At this point, trying to get paid was a fool's errand – you weren't going to see the jenny she owed you. You accepted that.

But if she was going to screw you over with no remorse, then you were going to do the same to her.

And what better way to do that than to have her take the blame for the theft of the diadem?

Within an instant, you were on your laptop, searching Letizia's name to find out what you could on her current activities. With her being in the public eye, that was easy enough to figure out.

Less easy was figuring out how you could use the information you found to your advantage, and at the moment, there didn't appear to be anything that could help you. Letizia seemed to still be in Canzas at the moment, which likely meant that she was spending time at her main house in the area. That wasn't great for you. Preferably, she would be out of town when you struck, because with the amount of staff and bodyguards that surrounded her, it was simply a smarter choice to wait for that home to have as few people inside it as possible, and you didn't want to wait another six months infiltrating the staff and earning trust.

No, it was better to wait when she was away – on business or leisure, you didn't care which. Just as long as she and the army of people she employed were gone. Because once that happened, you could sneak into her mansion, place the diadem inside, and then call in an anonymous tip that a piece of jewelry related to a mass-disappearance was in her possession. With the rumors of her being connected to the mafia, the police would use that as an excuse to gain entry, and then everything would crumble for her.

In that way, you could get your revenge.

Of course, she would know it was you. She'd let her contacts know as well, not that they'd be able to do anything. You didn't give out your real name or even let anyone in the underworld see your true face for a reason, and even with all the power that people like Letizia had, none of them would be able to hunt down a person when they didn't even know their name or face.

You would need to leave the area after this stunt, just to be safe, and that would mean starting from scratch and with little to nothing to your name.

But that was fine. You hated this place anyway. And with your ability, starting over would be easy. You'd just been hesitant to go through with it before due to the hassle.

You didn't care now, because you weren't going to roll over and let people walk all over you, no matter who they were.

The thought of all of it made you feel a little giddy. If everything went in the way you wanted it to, she would be disgraced, and depending on how public things became, not even her mafia contacts would be able to protect her.

Not only that, but the Phantom Troupe's attention would be directed towards her as well. No doubt they would have wondered who exactly was responsible for foiling their heist, and with a person taking that blame, they could very well take revenge on her. That would be another worry taken off your shoulders. Whether she lived long or not, that wouldn't be your concern.

That's what you get when you screw over the people you hire, you old bitch.

You made yourself take in a deep breath. Once more, you were getting ahead of yourself. As much as you wanted to relish in the thought of her comeuppance, you needed to actually enact your revenge first. Based on what you were seeing from the news about her, you weren't going to get that chance any time soon.

But you could wait. You didn't have the patience for another infiltration, but you could wait for an opportunity to present itself.

And when it came, you would take it.

[artstennisracket]

Sativa! ib: sativa by jhene aiko please listen while you read!

author’s note: this is a collab fic i made with ava (@tacobacoyeet) bc she’s the one i always bring music inspo to when I hear a song and it makes me want to write bc ik she’ll understand. when I brought this idea to her she helped me flesh out the idea and the rest was history. i love her so much it’s ridiculous and we each wrote 2 parts each and melded them together so I hope you guys enjoy!

summary: You can’t take it anymore. The stuffy dresses, the snobby people, you need to escape yet another event rich people only go to in order to flaunt their wealth. So you text the one person you think might be able to save you.

pairing: patrick x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw (18+), drug use, fingering, p in v, smoking while fucking

i know you won’t leave me hanging, smoking weed out the container

The champagne tasted like boredom. Flat, expensive, and trying far too hard to be impressive. You took another sip anyway, because it gave your hands something to do, and because the flute made a nice little clink when it tapped against the gold railing of the rooftop terrace.

Below, the gala sprawled in all its glittering misery—crystal chandeliers, murmurs over chamber music, men in tuxedos with cufflinks more expensive than most people’s rent. Women swanned around in couture like walking centerpieces, gloved hands clutching clutches, smiles sharp enough to slice a soufflé. Somewhere inside, a string quartet played a Vivaldi arrangement no one was truly listening to.

You’d made it exactly forty-two minutes before sneaking upstairs. Forty-two minutes of fake laughter, tight smiles, and your stepmother introducing you as "our little darling" like you were a rescue poodle. You knew this world inside and out—had grown up attending galas like this since you were old enough to toddle in patent leather shoes. It was all an exhausting pantomime. Your family’s wealth stretched back generations—old money, museum-donor, building-name-on-the-wing kind of money. And with that came expectation: charm, poise, silence, discipline. The good daughter. The pretty one. The polished porcelain kept on the top shelf.

But lately, the mask had started to slip. You weren’t sure when it began. Maybe it was the third boarding school, or the fourth therapist. Maybe it was the year you turned twenty and realized you didn’t care about charity auctions or legacy internships. You were supposed to inherit the world, and all you wanted was to escape it.

The dress tonight was Dior—custom-fitted, a shade of moonlit pearl that clung to your hips like obligation. Your hair had been twisted into something that would hurt by the end of the night, and you were wearing earrings that once belonged to your great-grandmother, the kind that required insurance. And none of it felt like yours.

You set the glass down and checked your phone.

Nothing from him.

Yet.

The screen glowed in the dim rooftop lighting. You opened your messages, thumb hovering. You shouldn’t. You really, really shouldn’t.

But your lungs itched, your throat burned for something more than champagne, and your skin felt too tight in this couture prison of a dress. You needed out. Not just from the party, but from the whole fucking night.

You opened your texts and scrolled until you found him.

you up?

A beat. Then another. Then:

i need to get out of here. i’m going to lose it.

are you close?

please.

You exhaled like you'd been holding your breath for the past hour, which… honestly? Maybe you had.

Another 20 minutes pass by and you started to give up hope. Maybe he was already sleeping. Or just with another girl or guy or whatever. Clearly you were not getting saved by your knight in shining armor. Until your phone buzzes once more.

im outside

You down another glass of champagne before making your way outside. He was here, in his 2007 Honda CR-V. Still fairly new, only a few years old. But a punishment from his parents nonetheless, for crashing his BMW the summer after highschool ended.

Climbing into the passenger side and shutting the door behind you, you can already tell what he had been doing that night, “So you’re not gonna share?”

He laughs, pulling away from the venue to park in an empty parking lot. “Been here less than 2 minutes and you’re already making demands. I rolled a fresh new joint just for you, princess.” It’s demeaning. A nickname he gave to you after a different late night smoke session where you opened your heart out about how being in this uppity world feels. Yet it still fuels the pit in desire you feel in your stomach. It’s been building for some time now.

He smirks, leaning over to open the glove box. He takes out his grinder, rolling tray, and rolling papers. He takes a little baggy out of his hoodie pocket and gets to work. You watch him intently. He’s focused. More than focused that he ever was at school or his latest tennis matches. He takes this craft seriously. More seriously than the craft that’s supposed to pay his bills.

Licking the paper to place his final seal, “The perfect joint. Best one I’ve rolled all week,” he murmurs. Holding it between two fingers with the mouth end facing you. You take it from him expectantly, placing it between your lips loosely. He takes out the roach he had tucked on top of his ear like a pencil to bring to his lips. Lighting it up, being careful not to burn his fingers.

You look at him, eyelids low with fake annoyance, head tilted in waiting. He knows you never carried lighters. You didn’t smoke enough to. You don’t smoke without him. This was maybe the third time you ever have. With your back pressed against the car door and your body shifted so you can face him. He rolls his eyes, leaning over the center console to light the joint between your lips.

You take a drag, blowing the smoke directly in his face. He smiles, finishing the roach to toss it out the window. You knew it would be long before he asked for yours.

“You’re getting good at that. Be careful, people might think you’re a stoner.”

“Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad,” He can hear the glint of mischief in your voice. But there’s was something deeper underneath. Tier to your utter dislike of the world you had to live in. Fancy parties, gallery opening, charity benefits. Appearances meaning everything. Your parents planning out every step of your life. You having no say. You’re sure they wouldnt be happy about this. This was not apart of their plan.

He studies you for a second too long. The curve of your cheek in the streetlight. The way your gown is folded awkwardly in the cramped seat, hitched up just enough to show the expensive sheen of your thigh. Smoke curls from your lips like you were born for it. He swallows something that tastes a lot like trouble. There’s a flicker of something darker in his eyes—like he’s watching a secret unfold just for him. Like the sight of you in his world, already a little undone, is his favorite kind of victory.

You glance at him, eyes narrowed. "What?"

He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "Just thinking how funny it is. You, sitting in my busted-ass car, looking like that."

You smile lazily, teeth barely showing. "Maybe I like busted things."

His gaze drops to your mouth. "That right?"

You take another drag. Hold it. Blow it slow, right past his lips. He doesn’t move.

The tension is thick—coated in weed smoke and something warmer. Hungrier. Your hand lowers, brushing the edge of the console, knuckles grazing his. Not on purpose. Not really.

But you don’t pull away.

His fingers shift just slightly, meeting yours. It’s barely a touch—more suggestion than contact—but it shoots heat up your arm like he’d kissed the inside of your wrist. You can feel the air change, the quiet crackle between you.

He doesn't look at you right away, just passes his joint back with a casual, "You good?"

You nod. You take it from him and inhale deep, holding it for a beat too long, eyes locked on the slouch of his shoulders, the lazy way his legs are spread. When you hand it back, your fingers brush again. Deliberately.

His mouth quirks. Not quite a smile. Not yet.

The tips of his fingers trail from your knuckles up to your wrist—lazy, exploratory, like he’s just thinking out loud with touch. He taps the back of your hand gently, then lets his fingers slide up the soft skin of your forearm, featherlight.

Your breath hitches. Just once.

He leans in. “Princess,” he says low, amused. “You’re fidgeting.”

“Am I?”

“You’re squirming.”

You meet his eyes. Challenge blooming in your chest. “And what if I am?”

He lets his fingers keep going. Slow and smug. “Then I’d say you’re high. Or bored. Or...” His hand brushes the bare skin above your knee now. "Just looking for a better way to pass the time."

You don’t answer.

Because you know exactly which one it is.

You shift a little closer. Your knees could touch now—just barely. The air between you is humid with tension and weed and your perfume, some expensive jasmine blend that clings to your skin and his memory.

His hand lingers at your thigh, but this time it doesn’t just brush—it settles. Warm, solid, fingers splayed casually like they belong there. He watches your face the whole time, like he’s waiting for you to flinch. You don’t.

You lean forward again. Not for the joint. For him.

His breath catches before he can school it. You’re so close now, he could count your lashes, could taste the ghost of champagne on your breath if he dared to lean just half an inch more.

You tilt your head. “Still think I’m fidgeting?”

He laughs, but it’s quiet. Strained. A little rough. "No."

Then you swing one leg over the center console. Onto his lap. Slow. Intentional. Your dress rides up, the fabric pooling around your thighs as you settle, straddling him in the front seat like it's the most natural place in the world.

His breath catches—like he can't believe you're actually doing it. Or maybe like he can, because he knew you'd end up here eventually. They always do, when he pulls just right.

His hands go to your hips automatically. Instinct.

And now you're both holding your breath.

His hands grip your hips a little tighter—firm, possessive, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. Your hands find his shoulders, warm under the hoodie, and you press into him just slightly, enough to make his breath stutter. His head tips back against the seat, and that’s all the invitation you need.

You kiss him.

It’s slow at first. Curious. His lips part with a quiet sigh against yours, and your fingers curl into the fabric at his shoulders. You kiss him like you’ve been meaning to for a while, like you’re tasting the idea of him. Weed and mint gum and something soft, unexpected. He hums into your mouth, one hand sliding up your back, finding the zipper of your dress but not tugging—just resting there, like a promise.

Then he kisses you back like he’s starving.

His mouth moves against yours with a sudden urgency, teeth grazing your lower lip, his other hand gripping your thigh hard enough to make you gasp. You shift in his lap and feel him already hard beneath you, and it makes you move again—just enough to draw a reaction. He groans into your mouth.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, breath warm against your cheek.

“Shut up,” you whisper, kissing him again, deeper this time, rolling your hips once—twice—until he’s cursing and dragging you closer.

His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft skin just beneath where your dress has ridden up. He pushes it higher, bunching the delicate fabric around your waist, exposing you fully to his hands, to his eyes, to the heat blooming between you.

“You’re seriously in Dior right now,” he says, voice low and wrecked, eyes flicking down to where the silk is gathered around your hips.

“And you’re seriously hard in sweatpants,” you shoot back, breathless.

He laughs, sharp and dizzy, before pulling you into another kiss—this one filthier, deeper, with his hand sliding beneath the hem of your panties like he’s done it a hundred times before.

And maybe, in his head, he has.

Your head falls forward onto his shoulder as his fingers find exactly where you’re already wet for him. “Fuck,” he says into your hair. “You’re soaked.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, mouth at the base of his throat. “So do something about it.”

He does.

Patrick’s fingers start slow—just the faintest brush along your slit, dragging through the wetness he found like he has all the time in the world. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes half-lidded, watching every little twitch of your mouth, the way your lashes flutter when he circles your clit with the pad of his finger.

You grind down into his hand, chasing pressure, but he pulls back just a touch. Not enough to stop, just enough to make you feel how deliberately he’s holding back. “Pat—”

“Shhh,” he breathes, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Let me take my time with you.”

One finger slips inside, slow and deep. Your jaw goes slack. You cling to his hoodie, nails digging in, and he groans at the feel of you clenching down around him already.

“So fucking tight,” he murmurs, kissing your neck now, biting softly just below your jaw. “You get like this at every gala, or just when you’re slumming it with me?” His voice drips with something filthy—amusement, maybe. Or pride. Like he likes knowing he’s the one who makes you forget what you’re supposed to be.

You don’t answer. Can’t. Not when he’s curling his finger just right, when his thumb is back on your clit, drawing soft, steady circles that make your thighs shake.

He adds a second finger, and you gasp—hips jerking, breath hitching. “There she is,” he says, mouth ghosting over your collarbone. “Knew you’d let go for me.”

“All that polish and pedigree, and you’re falling apart in my lap,” he whispers, more to himself than you. Like he’s savoring it.

The rhythm is relentless but controlled. He fucks you with his fingers like he’s playing a game he’s already mastered—like he’s memorized every sound you make and exactly what each one means. Your hips start moving without thought, chasing every press of his hand, every graze of his knuckles.

“Patrick,” you gasp. It’s all you can manage—his name, like a warning.

He slows. Eyes locked on yours. Thumb easing off your clit.

“Not here,” he says, voice low and wrecked. “Not like this.”

You blink at him, dazed.

“I want you,” he breathes, pressing a kiss to your jaw, then another just below your ear. “But I want space. I want to lay you out. You deserve more than cramped angles and my fucking center console digging into you.”

You exhale shakily, heart racing. Then you smirk.

“Isn’t that what the backseat’s for?”

His eyes darken. Your answer hits him like a spark to dry tinder. He smiles, crooked and dangerous. “Yeah. That’s exactly what it’s for.”

“After you Princess,” he nods towards the space between the two front seats. You made your way to the backseat as gracefully as you could, crawling between two car seats. You stop to sit on the center console with your back facing him.

Moving your hair so the dress zipper is exposed, he gets the message, unzipping your dress. Taking his time. His eyes follow from the nape of your neck all the way down your now exposed spine. He traces lightly, fingers ghosting the slight curve of your spine. All the way down until he stops right above the waistband of your panties, “No bra?” he questions barely above a whisper.

You continue pulling your dress and panties off until you’re left in nothing. Leaving both articles of clothing abandoned in the passenger seat where you once sat. Before making your way to the back seat finally.

You sit on the right side, back pressed against the soft cushiony seat. You could sit here and explain the intricacies of Women’s clothing and the decision making process behind when to wear a bra and when not to, but instead you opt for the more fitting, “Are you complaining?”

It’s more of a rhetorical question. His eyes are already locked on your exposed boobs, nipples hardening from the light chill of the AC. His eyes drag across your body until he reaches your eyes. Smirking just to add, “Me? Complain about you? Never.” Rolling your eyes to hide how the light sarcasm in his tone is turning you on more than it should.

He follows, sitting right next to you. Clothed thigh pressed against your bare one, but not for long. He takes off his hoodie (no t-shirt underneath, shocker), sweatpants, and boxer briefs, with a sense of urgency.

He pulls you into his lap so you’re straddling him, mirroring the position you were just in minutes ago. You both lock eyes. His eyes roam your face like he’s trying to immortalize this moment. Cradling the back of your jaw, while grazing his thumb across your bottom lip. Without a second thought, you open your mouth slowly. Maintaining that eye contact while sucking his thumb into your mouth.

He sucks in a breath, subconsciously biting his bottom lip. You suckle his thumb, swirling your tongue around it, tasting yourself. The grip on your waist tightens, his fingertips digging into your skin and pulling you closer. Letting his hardness slide back and forth between your folds aided by your slick. A small whimper caught in your throat as his tip catches against your clit.

You see the way his eyes darken despite being surrounded by the darkness of the night. Like a switch flips in his head, he can’t wait any longer.

He cradles the back of your head as he changes positions, laying you down on the seats while he hovers over you. Slowly pushing inside you so you could really feel him filling you up inch by inch. You can feel the way your body stretches to accommodate his size. Your walls gripping him, sucking him in, in a way that makes his jaw tense. “Fucking hell,” he mumbles against the crook of your neck where his head had fallen.

“Patrick,” you gasp as he bottoms out. Nails digging into his upper back pulling another moan out of him. He starts his strokes off slow. Like he’s trying to savor the moment. Or maybe he’s trying to ingrain his spot in your body.

He lifts his head up, green eyes meeting yours. The sliver of light descending from the street light cascades across his face, allowing you to really see him for the first time tonight. You always used to tease him saying his eyes were actually hazel and not green, but up close you can tell he was right. Freckles sprayed over his face. They were your favorite physical feature about him, but you’d never tell him that. His brow was furrowed, the effort he was exerting visible. Sweat starting to form as he picks up the pace, “Fuck Princess, you’re so fucking tight. Gonna be the end of me I swear.” Not a hint of sarcasm behind the nickname.

Moans falling past your lips after he adjusts his angle to hit that spongy spot inside of you. But you can’t let him think he’s got you, yet, “Don’t tell me you’re close already,” you try to say as smooth as you can but the breathiness laced in your words gives you away.

He pulls out, making you whine at the loss. Wiping the sweat on his forehead before grabbing your hips to flip you over. Slumped over with your head resting on the seat while your ass sticks up in the air. He pushes back inside of you, quick and easy with how wet you are , “Big words for someone who’s dripping for my cock.”

He takes a moment. You can hear the lighter spark twice behind you, followed by the light sizzle of Patrick taking a drag from the previously forgotten joint. He keeps one hand on your hip, pulling you back to meet his thrusts over and over again. Other hand free to help him continue smoking.

You can’t see him, but the mental image combined with him assaulting that perfect spot inside of you is getting you really close to the edge, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Patrick! I’m so ah—you’re so deep.”

He takes another drag, not letting up on his pace, “Yeah does it feel good? Me fucking my cock so deep inside you. Shit. Taking it so well.”

You nod, the side of your face dragging against the fabric of the car seat. You’re slamming your hips back to continue meeting his thrusts while you move one hand underneath you to start playing with your clit. Rubbing back and forth, Patrick’s balls slapping against your folds while his cock presses up against your g-spot and, “Ah ah I’m coming, fuck Patrick. I’m coming, I’m coming oh fuck.”

“There we go,” he grunts as your walls spasm around his cock. He places what’s left of the joint in a cup holder before gripping your hips with both hands so he can finish. Using your body to get off, your slick and cum starting to pool around the base of his cock. A few more hard thrusts and, “Shit baby, so fucking hot. Came all over my dick ah, m’gonna cum. Your tight fucking pussy ah—shit, fuck Princess, fuck,” he’s spilling inside you. Staying all the way pressed inside, ensuring you take it all.

After he pulls out, his hands rest on your ass. Fingers spread over your cheeks as he holds you open to stare at where he’s filled you up. Still trying to even out his breathing, “I don’t have any napkins or wipes in here.”

Blissed out from your orgasm you just hum in acknowledgment. Lazily you start, “So how am I gonna—“ you get caught off by the feeling of Patrick’s tongue diving into your hole. It’s slow and deliberate. Half like he’s trying to clean you up and half like he’s trying to make another mess. You wince from the overstimulation but whimper from the pleasure. “Patrick,” you whine. Subconsciously pushing back on his tongue a little bit. It didn’t take long until you were clean (debatable). The cum being replaced with spit.

He leans back to sit, grabbing the joint and lighter again before resting against the car door. You maneuver yourself so you’re sitting next to him. He throws his arm over your shoulder, pulling your face towards his chest. You watch in silence as he sparks the joint once again. Taking a drag before wordlessly placing the joint at your lips. You inhale while he holds it, exhaling after he moves it away.

You both sit there in silence. Skin to skin. You can hear the steady rhythm on his heart beat from where your ear is pressed against his chest. Silence broken by Patrick after another drag, “Wanted to do that since forever.”

“The fucking me part or the smoking while fucking me part?”

“Both,” he lets out a low chuckle. Giving you the last hit before he rolls down the window to toss out the roach and air out the mixture of smells in his car, sweat, weed, and sex.

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[karikitdemonrp]

-----

Core purred softly. "Well, I am a kitsune. We're known to be crafty and dangerous." He teased with a slight smirk. "I'm just happy to be able to pamper you since you never pampered yourself. But, then again, we have that in common." The fox gave a she chuckle, letting out a soft sigh.

"I always get mixed emotions when I see your scars. But I still love them." He hummed softly. "Just like with mine, each one tells a story. A story of survival, of endurance, strategy,, and then some. They're lingering moments that brought you here. Sure, you were hurt, some nearly killing you most likely, and I hate the thought of you in pain... but at the same time, without them you might not be here, with me, being pampered."

The kitsune gave a chuckle and continued to pamper Kohaku lovingly, peppering gentle kisses all over the demon slayer's body with a gentle passion. "I may not like the thought that you got hurt, but I'm grateful you survived to be with me. I love you fully and completely, I hope you never ever forget that." Core's voice was soft and filled with a genuine warmth. Core kept massaging Kohaku, taking note of Kohaku's suggestion and gave a slight snort.

"Always the flirt. But I'll keep it in mind. Wouldn't want either of us to get riled up again. We'd only serve to make ourselves sore. But I doubt either of us would mind a round two. I know I wouldn't." The kitsune stifled a laugh, moving to carefully massage Kohaku's sides, noting that the demon slayer's wound was healing up nicely. "Your wound is probably gonna leave another scar. Another story for the books." Core hummed softly, being careful around the surrounding area then moving to massage Kohaku's legs.

"The way I see it, strength isn't just about being strong physically. It's about being strong mentally too. Which includes knowing when to rest, when to back down, admitting hard truths, and so on. It's easy to lie, but it takes real strength to admit the hard truth. You're so strong yet you refuse to rest and recharge. It hurts to admit but I do the same. We over work ourselves so much. That's why I love to pamper you so much. I get to see you relax. I know it's weird to say but I love seeing you like this, resting without much to worry about. I'm not sure why, maybe the content look on your face or just knowing that you feel that comfortable in my presence. I'm not sure how to explain it."

Core moved to massage Kohaku's feet now, applying firm pressure but being sure not to hurt the demon slayer. Core was focused now, just letting words spill from his mouth as a gentle, thoughtful expression crossed his face. "I know you don't relax while we are outside much, so when we travel we're both always on edge. Which makes sense, if we aren't we could be jumped and robbed or killed. But when in a village we have numbers and at least some protection. But even then I always notice you're at least a little tense. Though I suppose that helped us out earlier with the durian. It still bugs me a bit about those kids. Some of the villagers are very kind, but others are... like that. I know why they do it, it's how humans had to survive for so long. But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt." He sighed softly only to blink a few times, blushing a bit.

"Oh, uh, sorry. Guess I was rambling." The fox gave a nervous laugh then moved to curl around Kohaku, kissing his cheek with a gentle affection. He pulled Kohaku closer with a gentle tug then draped his fluffy tail over the demon slayer's side. "I love you so much. My beloved warrior." Core purred softly, his chest rumbling rhythmically as he closed his eyes to get some rest.

=K

Kohaku let out a slow, almost indulgent sigh as Core’s hands worked across his shoulders. The tension, what little remained after their passionate moment, melted away under the fox’s skilled fingers. “Mmm… you’re dangerous like this,” Kohaku murmured, eyes fluttering shut as Core’s lips brushed against the base of his neck. “You’re going to spoil me beyond saving.”

His voice was low, edged with a playful growl as he tilted his head, giving Core more room to explore with those kisses. When he felt Core’s lips detour toward his scars, Kohaku’s breath caught. The gesture—reverent, gentle—hit deeper than any teasing or flirtation. “You really mean it when you say you love all of me,” he whispered, voice hushed by something far more intimate than touch. “Even the pieces most wouldn’t want to see.”

He turned slightly so he could see the kitsune from the corner of his eye, his smile softer now, tinged with gratitude. “You always say I’m the strong one, but you’re the one making me feel like I can truly rest for once.”

Then, as Core continued with the pampering—his tail swishing and body moving with devoted care—Kohaku let out a content chuckle. “Suggestions, huh?” he hummed, his voice returning to that familiar flirty tone. “Well… I wouldn’t mind your hands lingering lower next time. But for now, just stay close like this. Let me feel you.” He reached back to run his fingers along Core’s arm, a grounding touch full of appreciation.

He turned his head slightly to press a kiss to the fox’s wrist. “We’ve both been through so much. So if tonight is about peace, about pampering… then this? This is perfect.”