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artficlly · 1 month ago

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lessons in lovemaking [part five]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader

You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Tags: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fingering, kissing, making out, kitchen sex/foreplay???, reader guiding bucky, praise, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, mentions of previous sa, stake-out mission, wow! they're actually doing their jobs this chapter!!, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, bucky barnes needs a hug, angst, bickering, reader is lowkey not doing good, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, gif does not represent reader's appearance, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 13.9k

A/N: it's finally here! this was... a fucking beast to write. only took a month of agony. this got so, so long, i ended up cutting an entire scene near the start so hopefully it doesn't jump around too much. let me know if you enjoy! on a more personal note, just wanted to give you all an update. i had put a few posts mentioning how i've been very unwell mentally and physically. it's made it really hard for me to write while also studying full time. but um yeah basically i was diagnosed with a?? kinda scary?? chronic disease lol?? which explains why i've spent the last 6 years of my life exhausted and feeling awful, and turns out my depression/anxiety is likely a result of this. but yeah, after all these years of dismissal and misdiagnosis, i know what's wrong so i'm getting medicated for it. i'm hoping it gives me a big energy boost to juggle uni and my hobbies (like writing) more efficiently. anyway, this authors note is so long, if you have any questions or thoughts on this chapter, reblog or send me an ask! thank you all so much. as always, sorry for any typos!

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Bucky didn’t respond at first.

His jaw ticked, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. From the way he shifted, feet planting wider, shoulders drawing back just enough that you almost suspected he was bracing. Not for a conversation, but for a hit. As if he expected you to launch across the balcony, heels and all, and pummel your fist directly into his face.

As absurd as it was, it almost didn’t surprise you. You’d become strangely used to his defensive reactions, the expectation of raised voices and violence, the way he always prepared his body for pain, like he expected even you to punish him.

And maybe the worst part was that deep down, he thought he deserved it.

Maybe you could’ve hit him. Pounded against his chest or disarmed him with words, if nothing else. You could’ve demanded, snarled questions as to why you were some secret mistake he didn’t dare let anyone see. Why are you ashamed to be around me? Why are you embarrassed?

Do you even care about me?

Do you care about me in the same way I care about you?

The ache in your chest flared thinking about it. Deep down, you knew the answer.

So, you held yourself back. Quiet, still, observing. Not because you weren’t angry, not because you weren’t hurting, but because you had become disturbingly good at packing that raw pain into tidy boxes and sealing them away.

Bucky adjusted the wrist of his leather glove, tugging it tight like it gave his hands something to do other than shake. You lifted your chin.

“Alright.” He spoke finally, voice a little hoarse, and for a split second, you wondered if he had been crying. “Talking… that’s usually where the trouble starts, isn’t it?”

His attempt to be light-hearted, to gauge your reaction, was short-lived. You met him with silence, exhaling slowly from your nose as you looked him up and down. He immediately folded, metaphorical throat bared as he met your gaze with his signature puppy-dog eyes.

For all your guilt, for the sadness and longing you had felt these past weeks, you still had enough self-respect to keep it together. You’d spent too many years of your life making excuses, compromises for those around you. For once, you would stick up for yourself, for once, you’d let someone other than yourself know you were hurting. You weren’t sure if that was a strength or a weakness. You were sick of being the one who met insults with sarcasm, tired of being the one who shouldered every blow and sting for the sake of others' comfort.

For once in your life, you would take the teeth you were born with and learn how to bite.

“You hurt me.”

Bucky’s fidgeting stilled instantly, face taut, his eyes searching yours already wide with creeping dread. “I—”

“Let me finish.” You cut over him, and his mouth clamped shut.

“I know this…whatever it is between us is complicated. There isn’t exactly a rulebook for this stuff. I know it’s messy, I know we never defined anything, and maybe we should’ve talked more…” Your body shuddered as you sighed, hesitant as you decided on your slow wording. “But what I understood, what I thought we both understood, was that there was trust. If there wasn’t anything, there was always trust… and what you said, that broke it.”

You paused, trying to steady your voice. Bucky had gone deathly still across from you. You watched his expression crumble. Guilt bled into every crease on his face, each of your words weighing down on him.

“I know that I lied to you about Nat, and I’m sorry. I know I should’ve said something, but I was scared that you’d react badly. That you’d react in the way that you did. I’ve never pretended to be easy to be close with. I know that I can be guarded, cold, or distant but…” You hesitated, sucking in a sharp breath.

The words burned behind your teeth.

“I always cared. I do care.” Your voice softened momentarily, despite the bile rising in your throat. “I gave you my time, my trust, I took you seriously, Bucky, I told you things I haven’t even really told anyone, not even myself, I—”

You crossed your arms over your chest, fingers digging into your sides. You could feel that stone in your gut, tears pressing just behind your eyes. You wouldn’t cry, not here, not now. You’d say your peace, lay it all out before him and see what he did with it.

“I get that you’re scared. I get that you feel shame, shame that you don’t quite understand. I understand that you have an instinct to protect yourself, to control how others see you because you’re afraid to push it too far, afraid to upset anyone…” The words tasted bitter, but they kept coming like a flood, hot and vile even as Bucky looked across at you like he was seconds away from crumpling to the floor. “But what you said was cruel. It hurt me. I just need you to understand that. I need you to understand that whatever it is we’ve been doing, friendship, lessons, whatever… It was never a joke to me.”

As you met his gaze directly, he flinched, jaw clenching so tightly that a muscle in his cheek twitched.

“You acted like I was beneath you, like you needed to downplay all that has happened for the sake of saving face. I understand you want to keep things private, I respect that, but a desire for privacy is very different to belittling me in front of Steve.”

Bucky’s shoulders slouched, his entire body shrinking in on itself. You half expected him to drop to his knees then and there from the way his eyes locked onto the balcony, too ashamed to meet your eye.

“I can be your secret, I can help you, but we are equals,” you muttered, quieter now. “I won’t chase after you, begging for scraps of decency. I’m not going to accept you pretending I’m invisible, that you’re disgusted by me the second someone important walks in the room.”

You looked away, breathing deeply through your nose as you willed the weight pressing on your chest to leave. “I’m not asking you to be perfect, god knows I am anything but that. I just need you to understand that I’m… I’m sick of making myself smaller just so other people can feel comfortable. I’m sick of the constant judgment, the way people don’t think I realise. I’m sick of all of it.”

When you finally looked up again, he looked like he had been punched in the gut. Not physically, but in that hollow, breathless way that left someone stunned and struggling to stand upright. Like every word you’d laid out between the two of you had knocked the air clean out of him.

His mouth parted, but no sound came. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, staring past you without actually seeing. You could see it written across his face, the guilt, the lingering panic, the way his whole body trembled. It was the slight hitch with each inhale, the way his shoulders rolled tight beneath the strain of his suit jacket like he wanted to crawl out of it, crawl out of his own skin.

He was close. Too close, seconds away from spiralling into the kind of anxiety that devoured everything in its path.

So, you gave him space. Silent and steady, let him work his own way through it.

The breeze stirred around you, catching a few strands of loose hair. They tickled against the nape of your neck. Below you could hear the hustle and bustle of the city nightlife, the chatter, the cars. The muffled sound of the party music just beyond the glass windows separating the balcony from the rest of the tower.

Bucky’s chest rose, then held, then he released it slowly. You watched him, silent, as his eyes flicked around. One smell, two things he could feel, three things in his line of sight. Good. He was grounding himself.

You watched without interfering, letting him work and find his own rhythm. You could practically read his mind now, how the cogs turned, each minuscule mannerism telling you which step he was at. You’d coaxed him through enough of these moments to know the signs. And maybe there was something bittersweet about it, the fact that he was steady enough to guide himself, no longer dependent on the comfort of your voice to guide him through.

“You’re right,” Bucky said at last, the words rasping out like they had been lodged in his throat for hours. “You’re right, I hurt you. And I hate myself for it.”

His hands flexed at his sides, fists curling and releasing as if unsure of what to do with them. A flicker of movement crossed his face, a wince, maybe, and then he lifted his eyes.

“I was a coward.” He continued, voice hoarse. “I’ve been replaying it in my head every day since. Over and over and… thinking about you. About how I made you feel.”

He took a half-step forward, caught in the pull of wanting to close the gap. His foot faltered mid-air, stopping him. He planted it back on the ground, shoulders locked, as if he was worried you’d dash if he closed the distance between you.

“I should’ve apologised that day, the second it left my mouth,” he muttered, words almost lost to the breeze. “I should’ve followed you instead of hiding and hoping it would fix itself.”

He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “And I know it’s not an excuse… I was just so afraid.. Afraid that I had fucked up so badly that I would lose you. Guess it didn’t matter in the end because I lost you anyway—”

“You didn’t lose me,” you cut in, firm but soft. “I’m right here.”

He blinked hard at that, as if he couldn’t believe what you were saying. His chest trembled as he dragged in a sharp inhale.

“I’m sorry.”

There. That was it, the moment you’d been waiting for, the thing you’d needed from the very beginning. Not grovelling, not guilt, not the sight of him unravelling, just understanding. You hadn’t wanted to watch him spiral or flinch beneath the weight of his own remorse. That was never the point. You only wanted to be seen. For him to see you, the ache you’d swallowed, the silence you’d worn like armour.

You weren’t the kind of person who held pain like a weapon, who dangled forgiveness just out of reach. But you were tired, bone-deep tired, of being stepped over, of shrinking yourself to keep the peace. Tired of wearing humour like a mask, sharp and dry, to cover the bruises he couldn’t see. All you’d wanted was for him to get it. And now… now he did.

All you ever wanted was for someone to listen to you. Truly listen.

“Yeah?” Your voice cracked slightly despite yourself.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry. I’m not embarrassed by you, if anything, I’m embarrassed about how I acted—”

“Bucky…”

“And don’t you dare say it’s okay,” he interrupted quickly, almost desperate. “Because it isn’t. I should never have said that, never have even thought that. After all you’ve done, after all the kindness and patience you’ve shown me, and I repay you by shaming you—”

“Repayment…” You cut over him, rolling the word slowly over your tongue, head shaking. “You don’t owe me anything, remember? That’s how it works with us, yeah?”

He exhaled hard. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Handle all this so gracefully…Have such a pure heart despite everything.”

“If I were to describe my heart,” you said with a dry little huff, “it would not be pure—”

“You’re killin’ me here—” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and for the first time in days, the edge of your mouth twitched into a smile. Sly, wicked, and entirely involuntary.

His gaze caught it instantly, and his breath stilled.

You took the initiative, closing the distance between you in a handful of steps, until his breath hitched slightly, his eyes locking onto your face.

“I am sorry.” He murmured, voice less desperate now. “Seriously. I don’t expect forgiveness, hell, I don’t want forgiveness unless you really mean it, and you’re not just saying it to spare my feelings—”

“Bucky—”

“No, don’t say it—!”

“Bucky.” You breathed his name. Your hands found the front of his tie, fingers curling around the black silk. You wondered if it was the same tie you had blindfolded him with, if he had subconsciously chosen it to feel closer to you. You nearly smirked at the thought, a warmth in your belly despite the surprised expression flooding his features. You tugged gently, and he didn’t resist. He leaned into the pull, breath catching again as you drew him in close, close enough for your foreheads to nearly touch, for your breath to ghost across his lips. “I forgive you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, like the words had struck him physically. “I don’t know if I deserve you—”

“Bucky.” You hummed, almost scolding. “If I’m honest, I forgave you weeks ago.”

His eyes opened, a spark of confusion flickering.

“I was just… sabotaging myself,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “Because that’s what I do when things get complicated. I cut people off, I burn bridges, I destroy my own life. I convinced myself that you hated me, because I lied to you about Nat.”

He quickly shook his head. “I could never hate you.”

And there it was.

You exhaled, something soft breaking inside you, not the kind that shattered and left shards punctured into your heart and lungs, but the type of crack that let the light in. Your hand slid from his tie to his chest, resting lightly over his heart. Beneath your palm, it thudded unevenly and wildly.

“Stop looking at me like I’m not real,” you muttered.

“I’m not—”

You shook your head with a snicker, fingers tracing across his shirt to the lapels of his suit jacket. You tugged at it, and he stiffened in surprise, but didn’t stop you as you twisted around him, easing the jacket from his shoulders. He shrugged it off wordlessly, leaning into your guidance, and you knew he was secretly relieved to be rid of the thing.

“I know you hate these things,” you murmured, voice teasing. “Can’t move properly, too tight around your shoulder ‘cause Tony never gets them tailored right.”

Bucky blinked at you, lips parting slightly, some of the tension still lingering in his brows.

“You remembered that?”

“Of course,” you smiled faintly, smoothing the sleeve as you folded it over your arm. “You know, at this point I think I remember more about you than I do about myself.”

His lips curved at that. “Tell me something then?”

“Like what?”

“Something I don’t know about you. Something you’ve never told anyone.”

You blinked, caught off guard. For a long moment, you just stared at him, stunned into stillness. No one had ever asked you that before. Not really. Not with that quiet, open curiosity. Not like they actually wanted to hear the answer. People were always eager to talk, to fill the silence with their own stories and needs. But here he was, waiting, willing to listen.

It left you a little breathless.

There were still entire corners of your life shrouded in fog, moments you hadn’t unpacked, parts of yourself you hadn’t dared to explore. You’d spent so long watching others, peeling back their layers, learning what made them tick. It was instinctual how you kept yourself safe. Quietly observant, always listening, always careful. You didn’t mean to be secretive. It wasn’t some deliberate act of mystery. It just… never came up. No one had ever made space for you like that. No one had ever lingered long enough to want something beyond the surface.

Until now.

“I don’t know.” You mumbled, gaze dropping. “I guess… I guess pick at my nails when I’m nervous?”

He let out a soft, almost fond huff of laughter. “Yeah, I picked up on that one months ago.”

“Shit. That obvious?” You glanced down at your hand, suddenly extra aware of the damage. The nailbeds were raw and uneven, the skin around them puffy and inflamed from restless fussing.

Then Bucky did something unexpected. He reached out, slow and careful, the soft creak of his leather gloves barely audible. His gloved fingers brushed against yours first, the cool and smooth material almost foreign in feeling. You watched, breath caught in your throat, as he gently threaded his fingers between yours.

“Maybe a little,” he murmured with a quiet snort, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Without a word, he began to tug a glove off, leather resisting slightly before giving way. You swallowed and helped him, pinching the fingers and easing them free, and then repeated with the other side.

His bare fingers closed gently around yours again, his palm warm and calloused. Your jaw snapped shut as he traced his thumb over the jagged cuticles in a comforting, rhythmic motion.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you breathed in, sharp and shallow, and shrugged in a small, embarrassed motion. “Well… I don’t know, then, I’m probably an insomniac who relies too heavily on coffee to get by.”

That earned a proper laugh from him, and warmth pooled in your belly like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

“You and me both,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners.

You hesitated then, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek as your faint smile faltered. Your mind turned inward, digging past the surface, searching through the fog for something true, something buried a little deeper. Your brow furrowed as your gaze dropped again, fingers twitching faintly in Bucky’s grasp like they wanted to pull away but didn’t quite make it.

“I’m claustrophobic,” you admitted at last, so quietly you didn’t think he had heard you.

His laughter cut off mid-breath, a soft sound dying on his tongue. The stillness that followed was immediate. His hand stopped mid-motion, thumb frozen against your knuckles

You forced yourself to keep going. “I don’t like small spaces. Feeling… trapped. It’s why I never take the elevator. It’s why I… freaked out on you at training the other week.”

“I’m sorry—” he began, voice already thick with regret.

“It’s okay.” You shook your head quickly, eyes flicking away. “You didn’t know. It just… it just reminds me… reminds me of things I’ve tried to bury.”

His free hand rose then. You didn’t flinch as his fingers brushed your chin, tilting it upward with such deliberate tenderness that it made your breath catch. His touch was featherlight, and when your eyes met his, the air sucked out of your lungs.

“I understand.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “I’m sorry that I freaked out on you. I should’ve—”

“No.” His tone deepened, firm but gentle. “It’s okay. You don’t apologise to me for that. Ever.”

His voice was low now, so low it vibrated in his chest, a soft rumble that thrummed through the narrow space between your bodies. “You never have to apologise for setting boundaries.”

The words hit you square in the chest, like the impact of something you didn’t see coming. Your knees weakened, just slightly, and you gripped his wrist to steady yourself, though whether it was to anchor you or to keep from moving closer, you weren’t sure.

For a moment, everything else faded, the hum of the distant city life, the soft swish of the breeze, even the bass from the party. All that remained was him, warm, close and achingly sincere.

A part of you wanted to kiss him. Badly. The urge bloomed like heat in your chest, climbed up your throat, burned behind your lips. But then your gaze flicked, just briefly, to the giant pane of glass windows behind him, floor to ceiling, offering a clear view into the party beyond. You were almost certain Steve and Nat were watching from somewhere, probably with popcorn.

So instead, you smiled, small and almost rueful, and didn’t move. Didn’t lean in.

But he did.

His hand, still cupping your chin, shifted just slightly, tilting your face upward with a touch so gentle it barely registered as pressure at all. His eyes searched yours for a heartbeat longer, as though committing you to memory, as though asking are you sure? without even speaking a word.

And then his lips met yours.

Every nerve in your body buzzed, and his lips were warm and plush against yours. You could feel the way he held himself back, like he was afraid of falling too deep into hunger.

His hand hovered at your waist, fingers brushing your side, hesitant to pull you closer unless you gave him a sign. The other remained at your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge of it in a gentle rhythm, anchoring you. His breath mingled with yours, sweet with the faintest trace of spearmint, his chest rising and falling unevenly against the few inches that still lingered between you.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes blinked open as though waking from something half-dreamed. A breath of laughter broke from your lips, soft and stunned, and you shook your head slightly. Still, you didn’t move far, fingers tangled loosely in his tie. “People could be watching, you know—”

You were beginning to think that none of it mattered anyway, not when he looked at you like that.

“Let them.”

You didn’t even flinch as he pressed in again, slow and exploratory, the faintest drag of his lower lip over yours, testing the shape of your mouth with a tenderness that sent a ripple down your spine.

But something in him had shifted, restraint thinned, weeks of built-up tension bleeding into a desperate need.

His mouth moved with more certainty, lips parting yours just slightly, enough to deepen the kiss without taking too much. He coaxed rather than claimed, a subtle tilt of his head aligning you closer, a soft press of his tongue just barely tasting the seam of your mouth.

Your fingers curled tighter back into the front of his tie, tugging him closer as that familiar rush of heat flooded your chest and belly. You responded, parting for him, letting him in, and the reward was a low, pleased hum from deep in his throat, vibrating through his chest and into yours.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, the slick warmth of his mouth lingering, his gaze was heavy-lidded, pupils dark, lips parted just slightly. A faint smear of your lipstick sat crookedly above his upper lip—evidence, as obvious as a lovebite

You blinked at him, lightheaded, dizzy in the best way, like the floor had dropped out from under you and all that held you upright was him. And then, to your own surprise, you giggled. Actually giggled, breathy and unguarded, a sound you hadn't heard from yourself in far too long.

“They’re going to be insufferable now, you know that?” you said, grinning against the glow that refused to leave your cheeks.

He tilted his head, lips quirking. “Who?”

You gave him a pointed look. “Steve and Nat.”

“Because their little scheme worked?” He snorted. “Shit, you’re probably right.”

“I’m already bracing myself,” you muttered, mock-exasperated. “Nat gets this tone in her voice when she’s feeling particularly smug. It’s the worst, she doesn’t even try to hide it. Drives me crazy, I swear—”

“Sam knows too,” Bucky said, a little too casually, but his voice dipped just enough to betray him, quiet like he almost hoped you wouldn’t catch it.

Your smile faltered. “Oh?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking briefly away. “Yeah… after the little, uh… slip-up in training, he knows everything now.”

“Everything?”

Bucky winced, shoulders hunching slightly. “Yeah. I may have told him and Steve the whole story.”

You gaped at him a moment, speechless, before you found the sense to speak up. “The full story… as in, lessons and everything?”

“Maybe…” He gave you a look so sheepish it bordered on boyish. “Do you wanna know what Sam said when he found out?”

You groaned, almost too afraid to ask. “What?”

“‘That sounds like an HR nightmare.’”

You broke into laughter, a real, bubbling laugh that rose out of you before you could stop it. “Shit. We’re in deep now.”

He watched you, fondness etched into every line of his face. His expression had softened again, that rare, open version of him shining through. You pulled back enough to look up at him properly. His eyes were gentle, amused, but earnest—so goddamn earnest it made your chest ache.

“I feel… good about this,” he said, and the quiet conviction in his voice struck you deep. It rasped low, his tone threaded with a sort of rough certainty that made your stomach flutter. “For the first time in… I don’t know. I feel good.”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide and a little dazed. Warmth bloomed steadily in your chest, curling beneath your ribs and climbing up your throat. It spread like honey through your limbs, soft and molten, loosening something inside you that had been wound tight for far too long.

“Careful, Bucky.”

“I’m tellin’ the truth, doll.” His hand brushed your arm, knuckles grazing like static, his eyes trailing down your body as if you were committing you to memory, curve by curve, inch by inch.

“Keep talking like that,” you murmured, “and I might kiss you again.”

His smile curled slowly, crooked and dangerous. “Oh yeah? Just kissing?”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze drop to his mouth. “Maybe more… if you’re lucky.”

He laughed, a low, husky sound that vibrated through you. Then he took a single step closer. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, once, then again, just to see the way his expression shifted. Bucky let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan, one hand snaking around your waist as he pulled you in again for just one more kiss.

—

After the disaster that had been the training session—where you and Bucky had gone so hard it probably qualified as attempted murder in at least three jurisdictions—Steve, Natasha, and Sam had clearly smashed their heads together and prayed they could cook up a plan to get you two talking again. The infamous balcony had been plan B, and to their endless delight (and your mutual dismay), it had actually worked. But that small victory left them scrambling, because now they had to try to cancel the other contingency plans they’d set in motion, like overexcited matchmakers who’d gone past their pay grade.

God only knew how many schemes they’d cooked up. From your current predicament, it seemed they’d well and truly scraped the bottom of the barrel. Because here you were, wedged into the backseat of a car far too small for three muscled idiots, on what was technically a stakeout, but what felt more like slow torture. You were hours into waiting for some crypto-genuis kid, Karpin’s pet money launderer, to finally come home. And the whole reason you and Bucky were here at all? Steve and Sam had begged Fury to approve your presence on this op, convinced this was plan C, the masterstroke that would fix things between you two if the balcony gambit failed.

But the balcony hadn’t failed. The balcony had worked spectacularly, and now Steve and Sam were left trying to undo their apparent meddling, scrambling to pull you off the mission. Too late, Fury had signed off, likely with one of his signature scowls and a clever quip. Everything was greenlit. No take-backs.

You’d managed to pry this information out of Steve within the first three hours, much to the absolute dismay of Sam. Now both of them were currently avoiding your gaze like their lives depended on it, and you were simmering, imagining at least five creative ways to end them before the kid even showed up.

“So this was your brilliant plan C, huh?” you hissed, exasperation curling through every word as you craned your neck forward, arms braced on the back of Steve’s seat, peering between him and Sam in the front. The centre console dug uncomfortably into your ribs, but you hardly noticed over the heat pricking across your skin. “Cram us into this metal coffin and hope the awkward tension does the trick?”

Steve still kept his eyes stubbornly fixed on the street ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel like he might snap it in two if he had to endure one more minute. The muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing. Sam, slouched in the passenger seat, had perfected the art of looking like he wasn’t there at all, staring out the window, face blank, like maybe if he wished hard enough, he could astral project somewhere far away from this cramped nightmare.

Beside you, Bucky had sunk so low in his seat you half expected him to disappear into the upholstery. His arms were crossed tightly, his long legs awkwardly angled to avoid pressing too much against yours. Though your thigh and shoulder still touched, the contact was warm and sticky. Secretly, you didn’t mind it that much.

“Are you gonna bring it up and whine about it every 5 minutes or—” Sam finally drawled, and you leant over to smack the back of his seat in warning. You could’ve sworn the jolt made his eyes roll harder.

“It wasn’t my first choice—” Steve spoke at last, voice strained, and you scoffed, flopping back into your seat. You shot a glare up at the rear-view mirror, where Steve steadfastly refused to meet your eye. You resisted the urge to kick the back of his seat. Sam’s lip twitched, and you weren’t sure if he was fighting a smirk or a grimace.

“Yeah, yours was the training session, wasn’t it?” you muttered, shifting in your cramped seat, your thigh brushing Bucky’s. “The one where we nearly killed each other?”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Steve protested.

“You paired us against each other—!”

“I thought it would help work out the tension—!”

“Oh, genius move, Cap. Almost as subtle as the balcony stunt. Remind me…” You said, glancing between the two of them with an exaggerated patience. “How much money did you lose to Nat over us making out within twenty minutes?”

Bucky choked on air beside you.

“Nope,” Sam cut back, smirking, eyes on the windshield but clearly enjoying himself. “She made me promise not to spill what she put down.”

“She cleaned up, didn’t she?” you said, grinning despite yourself.

“Let’s just say I owe her a drink…or five,” Sam muttered.

“And you two just went along with it. And when that actually worked,” you went on, voice rising as you gestured vaguely at the cramped space around you, “you didn’t think to, I don’t know, maybe… cancel this mission?”

Steve gave a long-suffering sigh, “I already said we tried—”

You blinked, turning to Bucky, who was doing his best impression of a statue. His ears were pink. God help him, he was blushing. “Are you hearing this?”

“Loud and clear,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw, eyes fixed on the upholstery like it was the most fascinating thing in the car. “I’m starting to think we’re the mission, not the kid.”

Sam barked a quiet laugh at that, then immediately tried to hide it behind a cough.

You smirked, leaning back just enough to make your knee knock into Bucky’s. “At least someone finds this funny.”

“Oh, I do,” Sam didn’t even try to hide his grin now, eyes glinting in the rearview mirror. “You know, Buck folded like a lawn chair after that training room mess. Didn’t even need to interrogate him, he just started confessing.”

You blinked, glancing sideways at Bucky, and sure enough, his shoulders tensed, jaw tight, face flushed red. Yeah. You’d heard about that. After you and Bucky had practically torn each other apart during that disaster of a sparring session, it hadn’t taken long before Bucky caved. All it took was one pointed look from Steve, and he’d apparently spilt everything. The lessons. The gala mission. The whole messy, complicated truth. He hadn’t wanted to hide it anymore, and they hadn’t judged him. If anything, they’d been supportive, but god, had it given Sam and Steve endless material to work with.

“I didn’t fold,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face, trying to hide the red creeping up his neck.

Sam’s grin widened. “Oh no, you practically snapped in half. ‘It’s not what it looked like! I swear!’”

Steve, who had been studiously pretending to focus on the rows of beach houses, finally let out a quiet snort.

Sam continued his onslaught. “He was trying so hard to be chill. Said something about ‘It’s not like she was giving me sex lessons or anything!’ Swear to god, I thought you were about to write us both a formal apology letter.”

Your brow shot up, heat blooming warm and easy in your chest. Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“Jesus, can we not—”

“So…” Sam began, tone too casual to be innocent. He swivelled half around in his seat, arm slung over the headrest. “What exactly do these lessons involve?”

Bucky shot him a glare that could have melted steel. “Not talking to you about this.”

“Right. Right, of course.” Sam nodded solemnly, lips twitching. “Just curious. Is there, like… a syllabus? A final exam?”

Sam looked over to you, and you rewarded him with a blank, unbothered expression. All of his attempts to get under your skin so far had fallen flat.

“I swear to God, Sam—” Bucky huffed.

“Okay, okay!” Sam laughed, hands raised in surrender. “Damn, Barnes. Touchy!”

Bucky grumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to physically wipe away the heat creeping across. He exhaled through his nose, visibly trying to collect himself, jaw working like he was biting back another groan.

The moment stretched, the car settling into a beat of silence.

Then Bucky leaned back, voice dry as bone, as if he was looking for punishment, “I still haven’t forgiven you for not packing snacks, by the way.”

It earned a sharp bark of laughter from you before Sam twisted around, indignation written all over his face. “You were supposed to pack snacks!”

“You’re the reason we’re here in the first place!” Bucky shot back, arching a brow, the edge of a smirk threatening his mouth.

Sam groaned, tipping his head against the headrest like a man resigned to his fate. “God, please. Can you just shut up—?”

“You’re the one who has been talking this entire time—”

“Eyes up.” Steve’s voice cut through the bickering, sharp enough to snap the tension like a taut wire. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as his gaze fixed out the windshield.

You straightened instinctively, pulse kicking up, the lingering humour of the quarrel evaporating as your attention followed his line of sight.

A sleek, silver car, a little too flashy for the neighbourhood, rolled up the driveway of the house you’d been watching for hours. The low purr of its engine smothered the quiet hum of distant gulls in the air. The driver door swung open, and out stepped a kid who looked like he belonged more at some overpriced frat party than tangled up in Karpin’s operation. Early twenties, hair artfully messy, sunglasses pushed back onto his head like he thought he was some kind of tech mogul already. His clothes screamed new money, designer labels, logo-heavy, just subtle enough to look casual if you weren’t paying attention.

From the back of the car, the trunk popped, and a scruffy golden retriever leapt out with a thump, tail wagging like mad as it bounded up to the kid, nearly bowling him over. The kid laughed, ruffling the dog’s ears, before slinging a backpack over one shoulder and heading toward the front door.

“Target’s home,” Steve muttered, already shifting into command mode. His voice went flat, but with that edge of anticipation that always crept in when the waiting was over.

Sam sat up straighter, his earlier grin gone, eyes sharp. “Finally.”

Bucky leaned forward, his knee brushing yours, the tension humming back into his frame like a coiled spring. “What’s the play?”

Steve didn’t take his eyes off the house. “We move in quietly. Sam, you cover the back in case he spooks. Buck, I’ll need you two with me at the door. No heroics. We’re here to talk, not smash up his house.”

You gave a tight nod, hand already sliding to the door handle. “Copy that.”

“Let’s move,” Steve said, and the car doors clicked open almost in unison, the stale warmth of the vehicle giving way to the salty breeze as you slipped out into the early afternoon air.

— The dog’s tongue lolled out of its mouth as it bounded after the tennis ball you lobbed down the yard for what had to be the fiftieth time. The poor thing was all enthusiasm and no aim, skidding through flowerbeds and trampling what was clearly someone’s expensive landscaping project. You didn’t have the heart to stop him. The quiet thunk of the ball hitting the fence made you sigh, shading your eyes with one hand as the retriever scrabbled to chase it down.

The house loomed behind you, modern, sleek, soulless, and through the open patio doors, you could hear muffled voices. Mostly Steve’s, low and steady. Occasionally, Sam’s sharper edge cut through, exasperation bleeding into his tone. You couldn’t make out the words, but you didn’t need to. This was dragging. Of course, it was dragging.

You glanced at the sky. How long had it been? Too long. Definitely too long.

The dog trotted back, panting, ball slimy with slobber, and you took it with a grimace, wiping your palm on your thigh before tossing it again.

The screen door creaked, and you turned just in time to see Bucky step out, rubbing the back of his neck. His jacket was off, henley sleeves rolled to his elbows, expression carved from tired frustration.

“Well?” you asked, arching a brow, catching the ball one-handed as the dog dropped it at your feet.

Bucky exhaled, dropping onto the steps beside you. “It’s not going well. Kid’s a wreck. Just keeps freaking out, throwing out half-baked lies, hoping we’ll get bored and leave him alone.”

You smirked, tossing the ball lazily. “He doesn’t know those two very well then, does he?”

Bucky’s lips quirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’re trying for a good cop, bad cop thing… don’t think it’s going too well.”

You dusted off your hands, straightening. If this dragged on any longer, it would be nightfall, you were entirely sure there was a better and faster way to get the kid to spill. “It’s my turn to play cop, don’t you think?”

Bucky looked up at you, wary. “You sure? He’s on the verge of passing out.”

“All the more reason to cut the bullshit.”

The living room was too clean, not lived-in, just staged, like everything else in this house. The kid sat on the edge of the pristine white couch, hunched over, elbows on his knees, wringing his hands so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His chest hitched, breathing fast and shallow. Steve was standing nearby, voice soft, like he was talking him down from a bridge. Sam loomed near the window, arms crossed, scowl in place.

You didn’t bother asking. You just dragged a chair across the floor, the legs screeching deliberately against the polished hardwood as you flipped it around and straddled it, resting your arms along the back. The kid’s red-rimmed eyes snapped up at the sound, wide with panic, sweat beading at his temple.

“Okay, everyone, let’s take a breath.”

Steve shot you a sceptical look, brows knitting together like he wasn’t sure if you were serious. Sam, arms still folded tight across his chest, arched a brow, glancing at you like, really? The kid—Brandon, that was his name, you remembered now—just looked outright bewildered, as if the suggestion was the most alien thing he’d heard all afternoon.

“One deep breath. All of you.” You spoke pointedly, daring a glare over at good cop and bad cop respectively. You dragged in a slow inhale through your nose, filling your chest until your ribs ached, then let it out in a long, audible exhale. You exaggerated it, not for theatrics, but to show there was nothing complicated about it. Just air. Just calm.

Steve, bless him, always the good soldier, mirrored you next, drawing in a slow breath like he was trying to set an example. Sam followed reluctantly, like he hated admitting that maybe you had a point. His chest rose and fell, but he kept side-eyeing Brandon the whole time.

Brandon hesitated, his gaze flickering between you all like he was waiting for someone to yell gotcha! His knee bounced erratically, fingers twitching. You half expected the kid to bolt—not that he’d make it far, you were sure either of the three men would take absolute delight in tackling him to his shiny, expensive floors.

“C’mon, Brandon,” you coaxed, leaning forward just slightly, head tilting. “You’ll feel a whole lot better. Just one breath. Try it.”

For a beat, you thought he might refuse, too locked in his panic to even try. But then his shoulders sagged a fraction, and he sucked in a shaky breath, a wet, uneven sound that hitched halfway through. He let it out in a rush, but it was something.

“There we go,” you murmured. “Better, huh?”

Shit, maybe you were good cop.

He stared at you, wide-eyed, chest still shuddering from the uneven breath he’d managed. Like he couldn’t quite believe the panic hadn’t immediately swallowed him whole.

You didn’t rush him. Instead, you took another slow, deliberate breath, and with just the faintest glance to the side, you caught Steve doing the same. Bucky too, silent and steady at the doorway, setting the rhythm without a word. Even Sam, though he tried to look like he wasn’t following your lead, let his shoulders loosen as he exhaled through his nose.

“Good,” you murmured after another long beat. “Let’s just stay right here for a second. Was getting far too tense in here, wasn’t it?”

Brandon sucked in another breath, still ragged, but at least it wasn’t the frantic gasping from before. His hands were still trembling on his knees, but they weren’t clenched into fists anymore.

“Okay. Let’s rationalise this, yeah? One step at a time.” Your voice dropped low and warm, the kind of tone you’d use with a skittish animal. The type of tone you used with Bucky when he was spiralling.

“Do you know who he is?” You tilted your head toward Steve.

Brandon hesitated, but his eyes flicked to Steve, and he gave the smallest nod.

“Say it out loud for me,” you urged gently, fingers drumming softly on the back of the chair.

“H-he’s Captain America,” Brandon whispered, voice weak, almost like he wasn’t sure if saying it would make it more real.

“That’s right,” you said, offering a small smile. “Good. That’s good, Brandon. You’re thinking straight.” You pointed with a lazy flick of your finger at Steve. “And do you really think Captain America of all people is going to hurt you?”

“No.”

“Good. But those other two—” you jerked your thumb toward Sam and Bucky, your voice dipping into dry humour, “—those ones you wanna watch out for. Absolute wildcards.”

It earned you a quiet snort from Sam, and Bucky’s mouth twitched, but Brandon let out a breath that was almost a laugh. His face was pale, but some of the sheer panic had started to ease at the edges.

But the hyperventilating wasn’t gone. His chest was rising too fast again, his eyes darting around the room like he couldn’t help it.

“Hey, hey. Just breathe.” Your voice stayed patient, casual but focused, like you had all the time in the world. “I just need to ask you a few questions. Can you handle that?”

Brandon’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. His wide eyes glistened beneath the overhead light, flicking between you and the silent figures of Steve, Sam, and Bucky like a cornered animal. Though, it wasn’t the wild panic of a man about to bolt. It was something else. Defeat, maybe. The heavy, sinking weight of realising he was out of moves.

His mouth opened, shaky. Closed. Opened again. He wet his lips, voice barely a whisper.

“They’re gonna kill me if I snitch—”

“Who’s gonna kill you?” Steve’s voice cut in, instinctively taking a step forward.

You lifted a hand, a silent hold up, and Steve froze mid-stride, eyeing you warily but ultimately submitted to your lead.

You exhaled slowly, studying Brandon, the trembling hands on his knees, the sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his leg bounced like he might still have been weighing the odds of making a run for it. Your head tilted, voice dropping just a hair softer.

“How about this,” you hummed thoughtfully. “I tell you what we know… and you help me fill in the gaps, hm?”

Brandon blinked, uncertain, but you saw the subtle slump of his shoulders. “O-okay…” he croaked.

“You’re from a middle-class family. Did well in school. Kept your head down. Got all A’s in college, IT, tech stuff, right?”

His eyes widened. He glanced at Sam like maybe he’d confessed those details without realising. Sam just arched a brow, impressed despite himself.

“You got into cryptocurrency to make a little money on the side…” You continued, your tone easy, conversational. “And that’s when Karpin found you. Asked you to help him move his money until it was basically untrackable. Paid you more than you’d ever seen in your life to keep quiet and work with his buyers.”

Brandon’s mouth parted, but nothing came out.

“You probably don’t even know what he’s really selling,” you added, shrugging lightly. “Just that it’s illegal. Because you’re smart, you could see it a mile off. But you didn’t ask. Why would you? You’re making more money than you ever dreamed of.” Your gaze swept the room, the expensive furniture, the sleek floors, and the view of the ocean just beyond the windows. “Beachfront property? At your age? You’re making more than most people see in a lifetime.”

Brandon gave the faintest, almost imperceptible nod.

“But now you don’t want to talk. Not to us. Not to anyone. Because Karpin’s dangerous, right?” You softened the words further. “Because he told you as much, because you know you’re in deep…Because he threatened you. Maybe even people you care about, said if you ever ratted him out, it wouldn’t end with just you?”

That hadn’t been in the brief, but you’d spent enough time in Karpin’s club, in his VIP rooms, hanging off his arm like his latest pet to know his game.

You didn’t even need to hear the confirmation from Brandon, just one look in his glassy eyes told you the truth. You were right. Your eyes flickered over to Sam and Steve, watching as they exchanged a look.

Bucky hadn’t moved, leaned quietly against the doorway, face carefully neutral. But his eyes—oh, his eyes tracked every word, every shift of your body. And though his mouth was set in a firm line, there was something under it. A shameless flicker of pride. That soft, secret warmth, like he was quietly glad to see you work your magic.

Brandon’s breath rattled, his fingers fisting the fabric of his shorts. His wide eyes darted from you to Steve, then to Sam, as if one of them might swoop in and end this interrogation—or maybe mercifully his life. His voice cracked as the words tumbled out in a rush.

“I didn’t know, I swear! I mean, I knew—I knew it had to be something illegal, but not this illegal! I thought it was just drugs or something!” His chest heaved, breath coming fast again, panic starting to claw its way back up his throat.

“Hey.” Your voice cut through the rising spiral of his fear, leaving no room for argument. “We’re not here to decide if you’re guilty or not. That’s not why we’re here. We want to talk to you about one of the buyers, the one Karpin does the majority of his sales to. Do you know who I’m talking about? The Russian?”

Brandon hesitated, throat working as he swallowed. “Yes…”

“Good.” You hummed, slow and encouraging. “I need you to tell me anything you know about him. A name, a bank number, an address. Anything you can give us.”

Brandon’s shoulders hunched, his head shaking, wild-eyed. “I can’t—”

“Why?” you pressed.

“Because… because they’ll kill me!” He burst out, breath hitching again. “If it’s this bad, if it’s really this bad, I know they’ll hunt me down if I say anything—”

“They’re not going to be able to reach you, Brandon.”

His head snapped up, desperation shining in his eyes. “How can you guarantee that?!”

You sat a little straighter, drawing in a slow breath yourself. You knew the feeling currently roaring through Brandon’s veins, you recognised it like an old enemy. The panic, the sick weight of fear coiled tight beneath your ribs. The terror of the unknown. It was like wading blind through pitch-dark water, searching for a foothold, for anything solid to cling to, with no promise of light ahead. You’d felt it too many times before, felt it in your bones, felt it define you. And like every time before, your mind scrambled to make sense of it, to wrestle the chaos into something you could control. But how could you, when you didn’t even know the shape of the fight you were facing? How could you rationalise the storm without knowing where it might end, or if it ever would?

If only, you thought bitterly, if only you’d had the foresight back then. The knowledge. The map that would’ve let you navigate those shadows instead of stumbling through them, bruised and broken.

You knew exactly what the kid needed to hear.

“Do you want me to explain what’s going to happen to you after this conversation?”

Brandon nodded wordlessly.

“The police are going to come.” You reassured, recognising the instant dread in the kid’s wide eyes. “They’re going to arrest you, not hurt you. They’re going to keep you in custody while Karpin and his buyers are investigated, tracked down, and arrested. You’ll be safe. No one can get to you inside.”

“You’ll hire a lawyer,” you continued, voice even, matter-of-fact. “And that lawyer is going to tell you to take a plea deal. That means you’ll testify against Karpin. The deal might mean you walk free under witness protection, or maybe you serve a few years, but nowhere near as much trouble as if you stonewall us now.”

You smiled softly, leaning forward, lowering your voice to a comforting hum. “Brandon, all you need to do is cooperate with us.”

He blinked hard, tears threatening now, though he fought them, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “I’ll be protected? Will my family be protected? You’re sure?”

“If you help us?” You shrugged, glancing at Steve and Sam. “You’ll be protected. So will your family. By the people we work for. There’s no shame in having made a mistake, Brandon. You think we’re innocent?”

Your grin tilted, dry and a little wry as you thumbed toward the guys. “These three destroy half of New York every other week, and you think people are just fine with it?”

Sam gave a short huff of laughter, shaking his head. Steve smirked faintly, arms crossed over his chest, watching the way you worked with no small amount of admiration.

“We can do what we do because we have the right friends in the right places,” you went on, gaze locked steady on Brandon’s. “If you tell us what we need to know, we’ll make sure you and your loved ones are protected. That’s a promise.”

Brandon let out a shaky breath, the tension bleeding from his frame, if only slightly. He swiped the back of his hand across his damp face, voice rough as he finally nodded.

“O-okay. Okay. I’ll help.”

—

The mission had wrapped up without much fuss once Brandon finally cracked. A little breathing room, a few well-placed reassurances and the kid had spilt more than you’d hoped for. And after a long morning of waiting and watching, the team had been cleared to stand down. The beach house, a backup in case the op had dragged on, was yours for the night. No one had expected things to go so smoothly, but no one was about to complain either.

Now, with the sun bleeding gold over the horizon and the promise of an early flight hanging over your heads, you were determined to steal a few hours of peace.

You lay stretched out on a sunbleached towel at the base of the porch, toes buried in the warm sand. The last of the afternoon rays bathed the world in honey light, glinting off the waves as they lapped the shore. The ocean breeze lifted your hair and carried with it the brine of the sea, the faint tang of salt settling on your skin where the sweat had dried in the heat. You tilted your face up now and then, soaking in what little warmth was left, letting your eyes fall half-shut.

The beach house itself was small and sweet, worn blue paint with white trim, seashells lining the windowsills, wind chimes and catchers swaying and singing softly in the breeze. The kind of place that felt like it belonged to the sea as much as to the people.

On the porch steps, Bucky sat like a man trying to blend into the scenery. His arms rested heavily on his thighs, his boots planted solidly on the wood. There was tension in him, subtle but sure. He watched the waves, mostly. Sometimes he watched you. His gaze would flicker your way when he thought you weren’t looking, then back out to the horizon like it could give him answers. He’d tried the sand once, made it a few steps before muttering something about not wanting it grinding into the plates of his arms. The steps were his compromise, close enough to be near you, far enough to avoid what unsettled him.

Steve and Sam had gone into town, promising a dinner worth eating—something fresh, not from a takeaway joint or gas station, which was the usual menu for missions, especially stakeouts—before you all shipped out at dawn. The house, the beach, the world itself felt hushed in their absence. Just the occasional cry of gulls, the gentle crash of waves, and the music of chimes above.

It was Bucky who broke the quiet first. His voice was almost tentative, as if he’d been sitting with the thought some time before letting it out.

“You were good with that kid today.”

You cracked one eye open, shading it with your hand from the sun. The breeze caught his hair, tugged at the soft cotton of his shirt, ruffled the hem where his sleeves strained over the gold and black glint of vibranium.

“You’re good at talking to people,” he went on, not looking at you now, but at some fixed point beyond the waves. “Understanding them.”

A soft, tired huff escaped you. You let your eyes fall closed again, the sun warm on your cheeks. “What I understand about people is that everyone wants kindness. That’s all. They want to be seen, heard, given a little grace.”

You let your head loll to the side, gaze following the slow roll of the sea. His eyes were on you again, you could feel it, watching, like he was trying to piece you together, to see past the practised ease of your words.

“How did you know all that?” he asked after a beat, quieter now. “About lawyers, plea deals, witness protection?”

Your lips curved, a wry, sad little smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I lied.”

You felt him shift. His boots creaked against the steps, his spine straightening. “You lied?”

You rolled onto your back, brushing the sand from your skin, fingers playing idly at the tie of your bikini. “I told him what I knew he wanted to hear. That’s all. A kid like that, scared, cornered…He responded well to knowledge. It doesn’t matter if I don’t know what they’re gonna offer him, maybe they will offer him a plea deal, but at least he won’t feel like he’s in the dark.”

The breeze tugged at the chimes again, the gentle clatter filling the quiet that followed. Bucky didn’t speak, just watched you, thoughtful, a crease between his brows. His gaze was steady now, no longer flickering away like he was seeing something in you that you didn’t want him to.

“I just…” His voice was gentler now, but insistent. “I just think that version of you, the one who talked that kid down, the version I know... sometimes I think it’s the real you.”

You turned to him properly then, one hand propping you up, the other shading your eyes against the glare. “The real me—Jesus. Are we doing this right now?”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t look away.

“I think they’re still in your head,” he said simply. “The same way… the same way H.Y.D.R.A is still in my head. You just wear the mask better. Pretend better. It took me too long to see it, but now I do, and I can’t unsee it.”

The air left your lungs like you’d been tackled from behind, a cold rush tearing through your veins, leaving you sick and hollow at the centre. H.Y.D.R.A. Bucky almost never said it aloud. That name lived in the shadows. But now he had given voice to it, like he was fucking invoking it.

You stared at him, heart tight, the sincerity in his voice cutting deeper than you expected. He was right. Of course, he was right. There had been far too many occasions where he had seen through you, seen through the walls, the humour, the deflection—and for what? For you to be afraid, to continue to pretend, to deny him entry to the truth you both knew he had already discovered?

“What are you trying to say, Bucky?”

He hesitated, just for a breath, as if he was weighing his following words before he went all in. “Why are you still in this job?”

Your pulse spiked.

“Because it’s what I’m good at?” you snapped back, a little too fast, a little too brittle.

“Bullshit.”

You sat up fully now, towel forgotten beneath you, heat rising to your cheeks. Whether it was anger or shame, you weren’t too sure anymore.

“What do you want me to say?” Your hands lifted, fingers splayed in frustration. “This is all I know, this is what I was trained for. There is no other alternative, and you of all people should understand that.”

There was a pause. A longer one than you expected.

“Do you know what Sam said to me after today?” His eyes met yours, sharp, intent, almost fierce in their focus. It pinned you where you sat. “He said, ‘I think I finally get what the hell those lessons were about’. He saw it. He saw you. The way you connect, the way you see people. I think you’re far more than what you limit yourself to.”

You let out a breath that tasted of defeat, bitter at the back of your throat. Or maybe it was a laugh. You couldn’t tell anymore. “I do this job because I want to make a difference, Bucky. Maybe I want to make a difference because no one ever tried to help me, or Nat or Yelena. We had to help ourselves.”

“And you think the only way to do that is by tearing yourself apart in the process?”

You snorted, shaking your head, though the motion felt heavy. “Tough words coming from you.”

He huffed his own small laugh, but there was no humour in it.

“I just…” His voice was lower now, the edge of frustration softening into something that sounded almost like pleading. “You really plan on doing those missions forever? The ones where you use your body to get information? I see how it weighs on you. How it tears you down piece by piece.”

You dug your fingers into the towel beneath you, staring at a seashell half-buried in the sand—anything to avoid the look in his eyes.

“What am I supposed to do instead, huh?” Your voice was tight, controlled, though you could feel the cracks forming, the storm just below the surface. “I’m good at what I do. That’s why I do it. I know how to get what the team needs. I know how to play the part, no one expects me to be anything else. So I stay in that box, because it works. End of story.”

Bucky was shaking his head before you had even finished your stubborn spiel.

“I think you have more potential. I think you get people. Really get them, in ways none of us do. You always say the right thing, know how to calm a room, and make people feel seen. I think you’re wasting that, wasting you, because you’re too afraid to ask for more.”

You forced a laugh. “Bucky, just because I’m nice to you doesn’t mean I’m good with people—”

“Steve told me what you said that day,” Bucky cut over you, quiet but unyielding. “What you said when he walked in on us. He told me how genuine you were. How much you cared. Said he never expected it, not from you.”

For a moment, your throat closed up tight as your mind skidded, fishtailing toward anything that might sound coherent.

“This all just sounds like you’re the one who’s got a problem with my line of work,” you said finally, trying for lightness, humour, anything to take the weight out of his words. “What, you jealous or something?”

But the joke fell flat between you. Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. His voice carried an assured edge like he was giving up hiding behind anything. “No. I think you have a problem with it.”

Your breath snagged, ribs pressing in tight like you’d sucker punched.

“I think you’re destroying yourself,” Bucky went on, tone stripped bare, nothing left but truth. “I think, deep down, you’re punishing yourself. And I don’t know why. Or what for, but I know the signs, doll. Because I do the same damn thing.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. The wind stirred between you, the gulls cawing above and the hush of the surf. The world felt too still, too intimate, like the air itself was holding its breath.

“Where is this coming from?” you managed, voice smaller than you intended.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe because watching you today, watching you work, impressed me. I know it impressed Steve and Sam. Maybe it just got me thinking about how things could be. How things should be.”

“I don’t want things to change,” you said, too fast, too sharp. “I like it how it is now.”

“Oh yeah?” His gaze still unflinching. “And what about all this makes you so happy?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Swallowed hard.

“You,” you said quietly, bitter as the ocean air. “You make me happy. I like helping you and talking things out with you. I like lessons, or when we just hang out.”

Your voice softened, as if that could make it truer. “I’m comfortable. I’m happy.” But even as the words left your lips, they curdled. They felt wrong. Hollow, like smoke in your mouth, like ash on your tongue. And you knew—God, you knew—he could see it. He could see right through it, through you.

Deflect. Deny. Subvert. The old playbook. Your armour, your sanctuary. The instinct that came too easily, a reflex honed by years of keeping the world at bay. You reached for it like a lifeline, tried to wrap it around yourself before he could press further, before he could dig up what you’d buried so deep even you barely dared look at it. Anything was easier than letting him see the soft, frightened parts. Anything was easier than letting him reach them.

You sat still for a heartbeat longer, the weight of his gaze heavy as a hand at the base of your throat. And then you moved. You pushed up from your towel, brushing sand from your palms as you crossed the short distance to where Bucky sat, stiff and watchful on the porch steps, his eyes lifted to yours, wide and unsure, as if he wasn’t sure if you’d strike him down or pull him in.

You lowered yourself, just enough to meet him, just enough to cage his face between your sand-dusted hands. You knew the grit would drive him a little mad, would catch in his stubble, smudge across his cheekbones, probably lodge itself somewhere in the joints of his vibranium arm. But you did it anyway. You did it because it was the only way you knew how to say what wouldn’t form on your tongue.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” you murmured, voice low, breath hitching in your chest. The wind tugged at your hair, lifting it from the damp heat of your neck. Your thumbs traced his cheekbones, light as the breeze. “Is that okay?”

His lips parted, maybe in a silent plea. “Yes.”

It wasn’t neat or gentle. It was messy, hungry, your mouth slanting over his, tongue sliding past his lips as he groaned low in his throat. His hands came up, tentative at first, like he didn’t know where to touch you. Then the dam broke, and his fingers threaded through your hair, pulling you closer, his other hand bracing your hip. The taste of him was salt and heat, the faint bitterness of coffee from earlier lingering on his tongue. Your breath mingled, quick and uneven, as you poured everything into it, the frustration, the fear, the need.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. The windchimes clattered softly, like they’d been eavesdropping on the whole thing.

You gave him a look—part promise, part challenge—and turned, heading inside. You knew it was wrong. Christ, maybe he knew it too. Knew that this was what you did when the truth got too close, when his gaze stripped you bare and the panic rose sharp beneath your skin. You’d reach for what you knew worked. The kiss, the heat, the distraction. Anything but the raw honesty of what was unfolding between you.

Your bare feet padded across the worn wooden floors, the little beach house warm with the last of the sun’s heat. You shook out your towel by the door, brushed sand from your legs and arms as best you could, then made for the tiny kitchen, rinsing your gritty hands under the tap.

You were just reaching for a towel to dry your hands when you felt him behind you, the silent, solid press of his body, the familiar weight of his hands wrapping around your waist. His fingers splayed across your bare skin, like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to be but couldn’t stay away. His breath was warm against your ear, his nose brushing along the curve of your neck as he nuzzled there, the stubble of his jaw rough but welcome.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” Bucky murmured, voice low and earnest, the words vibrating against your skin. “I’m not trying to argue. I just care about you.”

“I know.” The words barely made it past your lips as you turned in his arms.

His hands framed your face, his mouth on yours. His thumb brushed your cheek, his other hand slipping down to your waist like he knew the shape of you by heart. The scent of salt air clung to him, to you. The kitchen felt impossibly small, the world shrinking down to just this. Just him, just now.

When he finally pulled back, breath warm against your lips, his forehead rested lightly against yours. “You make me happy too, you know,” he murmured, an honest confession. “More than I think you even realise.”

Your heart gave a traitorous lurch, and you swallowed hard, your hands still resting at his sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t say things like that,” you whispered, but there was no bite to it, no real protest.

“Why not?” His mouth quirked into a soft, crooked smile. “’Cause you might believe me?”

You let out a breath, half laugh, half sigh, leaning into him. “Hmph…”

His mouth found yours again, slow and searching. His thumb kept stroking your cheek, tenderly, while his other hand slipped lower, fingers curling around the curve of your hips as if to steady himself as much as you.

The worn floorboards creaked softly beneath you both as you shifted, as he nudged closer, fitting his body to yours like a puzzle piece. The scent of him—spearmint, sea salt, the faint leather tang of his jacket still clinging to him—filled your senses, dizzying in its familiarity.

Your hands slid up his chest, fingers splaying over the hard lines of muscle beneath the soft cotton. His heartbeat thudded steadily and sure beneath your palm.

Without thinking, without planning, you found your back hitting the edge of the counter. His hands followed the movement instinctively, guiding, steadying, as you hitched yourself up onto the worn wood.

Bucky stepped in, between your parted legs, his hands finding your thighs, thumbs tracing slow, absent circles over your skin. His lips sought yours again, deeper now, as if he couldn’t get close enough. And you let him, you gave yourself over to it, to him. Your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, greedy for his touch, his taste.

The kiss deepened, your breath mingling, your pulse thundering in your ears. Your hand skimmed lower, a slow, teasing path along his stomach, until your fingers brushed under the edge of his waistband, intent on taking control the way you always did, the way that felt safe and predictable. A soft sound escaped you, half a plea, half a groan.

He stopped you, catching your wrist gently just as your palm began to slip beneath the fabric. When you looked up, his blue eyes met yours, dark with heat, yes, but steady. Sure.

“No,” Bucky said, voice low, roughened by want, thumb brushing your wrist. “I want to make you feel good.”

You stilled.

Pure, unfiltered, raw panic slammed through your gut like a punch you didn’t see coming. It rose fast, too fast, thick and all-consuming, choking the breath in your throat. The edges of the kitchen blurred, vision tunnelling to just him. The closeness of his body, the heat of him, the solid press of the cabinet at your back—

You dragged in a breath, but it scraped through your chest ragged and raw. Metallic fear coated your tongue, your pulse roaring too loudly in your ears to even think.

Your free hand twitched, half-formed in the start of that signal—the three taps. You could feel the ghost of it against his arm already, your fingertips itching to retreat into that small mercy, that lifeline you’d always given each other without question.

But you didn’t. God, you didn’t.

Because if you did, this would change. He would see. He would know. And then the questions would come, the soft ones, the careful ones, the ones that peeled you open in ways that scared you more than anything. And what then? What would become of you?

No. No, you couldn’t let that happen. The thought made your heart pound harder, made your throat burn. You needed to do this. Needed to show him, show yourself, that you were fine. That you weren’t broken. This was different. He was different. That you could be the person he saw when he looked at you, brave, whole, unflinching.

Even if inside you felt like you were unravelling at the seams.

Your breath shuddered as you forced it deeper, trying to steady the wild beat of your heart. You blinked hard, trying to clear the haze creeping at the edges of your vision, trying to quiet the voice in your head screaming. And you clung to him, to Bucky—

Your Bucky.

He could never hurt you.

You swallowed hard, trying to drown the panic, trying to push it down where he couldn’t see. You could do this. You would do this. You trusted him. More than anyone.

“Can I make you feel good, doll?” His voice was soft, low, threaded with something that almost sounded like hope. His palm glided slowly up your forearm, warm and steady, the rasp of his calloused skin grounding. He didn’t see the storm behind your eyes, didn’t feel the stone lodged deep in your gut.

“Is that what you want?” You whispered, your voice hoarse.

“Yes.” The word came out on a breath, “more than anything.”

And for a moment—just a moment—fear loosened its grip.

Your mind spun back, unbidden, to all the nights you’d lain awake wanting this, wanting him. The ache of it. The sleepless hours where your hand found your own skin, your own heat, and you pretended, just for a heartbeat, that it was his touch. You thought of the months you and Bucky hadn’t spoken, how that want had burned hotter because of it, how his absence had left you hollow and restless.

And now here he was. His body so close, his hands gentle where they held you. And you remembered every time he had touched you. His hesitance, his tenderness, his devotion hidden in the brush of knuckles, the graze of fingertips.

It stirred a molten heat in your gut, one more welcome than panic.

“Yes.” The word tore from you roughly, your forehead tipping to his, your eyes fluttering shut as frustration and need coiled tight inside you.

You felt his breath hitch, felt the tremor, the hesitation in his hands even as they touched you, almost shy as they smoothed along your exposed thighs. His breath was warm against your cheek, his lips hovering just near your jaw, like he wasn’t sure he had permission to go further, like he didn’t trust himself to do this right.

“Bucky…” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair, coaxing him to look at you. His gaze flicked up, blue eyes wide, the vulnerability in them making your heart squeeze. His palms were broad and heated where they held you, but they trembled ever so slightly, like the weight of wanting was almost too much to bear. “Are you sure?”

“I—” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his thumb tracing slow circles just above your waistband. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”

The honesty in his voice, the way it cracked around the edges, nearly undid you. You cupped his face, feeling the prickle of stubble under your palms and the tension coiled in his jaw.

“You won’t,” you murmured, stroking softly beneath his eyes. “You can’t. Just… touch me. However you want. I’m right here.”

Something within him eased, you felt it against your mouth as you leaned in, trying to pour every bit of reassurance into the slide of your lips. His hands roamed more boldly, exploring the dip of your waist, the curve of your thigh. It felt like worship the way he took his time, mapping your skin, committing it to memory.

The heat built between you, slow and consuming, and the edge of panic drowned out. You arched into him as his mouth followed, kisses pressing into the sensitive hollow beneath your ear, down the line of your neck. The small kitchen disappeared, the world narrowing again until it was just him, just this. His hands moved as if guided by instinct now, though there was still that delicious edge of hesitance that made every touch precious. His hand skimmed lower, calloused pads slipping beneath the thin band of your swimsuit bottom. You gasped, fingers fisting in his shirt.

And for the first time in far too long, maybe in your entire life, fear didn’t spike. You didn’t choke, you melted—

His breath stuttered, and he froze just over your mound. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his voice uncertain. “Tell me what to do, doll. I want to—I just… I don’t want to hurt you.”

You smiled, the kind of soft, private smile only he ever got to see. Your fingers found his wrist gently, guiding his hand down, slipping it fully beneath the fabric, where you were already warm and wet for him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. You’re perfect. Just… slow. Start slow.”

You saw his lips part, saw his pupils blow wide, felt the tremor in his fingers as they touched you where you wanted him most. His gaze flicked to yours, awed, wrecked.

“That’s good,” you breathed, the words tumbling out on a shaky exhale as your heart thundered against your ribs. Your hips moved instinctively, chasing his touch, tilting into him, desperate for more. “That’s so good, Bucky…”

His fingers trembled, tentative but eager as he explored. He traced the slick heat of you, learning every reaction, every way your body responded to his touch. Your hand slid over his, guiding him gently.

“Here,” you whispered, voice thick with want. His breath stuttered as his fingertips grazed your clit. “Feel that? That’s where I want you.”

A shaky breath left him, and he followed, so careful it made your heart ache. Your own nervousness forgotten, you arched a little, legs falling open wider, encouraging him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. I promise. I want this. I want you.”

That seemed to steady him. His fingers slid through your slick heat, finding your clit again. You shivered. But still, he hesitated, waiting, watching your face.

“Circle it,” you murmured, voice low and pleading, your hand tangling in his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you gently urged him on. “Gently. Like this…” You rocked your hips, showing him the rhythm, slow and steady, letting him feel how you moved beneath him. And God, he followed, so tentative at first, testing, learning, then growing surer as he felt your breath hitch, your body tense, your pulse race beneath his hands.

“That’s it,” you gasped, pleasure building, slow and deep, coiling low in your belly. “Good. Fuck, that’s good Bucky.”

The praise tumbled from your lips, and it only seemed to fuel him. His fingers moved with more purpose now, every breath, every sigh from you making him more confident. His thumb found a rhythm, steady and sure, as two fingers slid inside you, filling you, and the low groan that broke from him when he felt you clench around him made the heat bloom hotter, deeper.

He buried his face against your neck, nose brushing your skin, breath warm and ragged in your ear. You kept guiding him, your voice cracking as a pleasured sob bubbled in your chest. “That’s good—Please just…You’re doing so well, Bucky. So well.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself just feel. Let him take control, knowing he would never misuse it.

Every time you gasped or sighed his name, you felt him react, his body pressed closer, his kisses growing hungrier, his fingers more confident. His vibranium hand anchored at your waist, holding you steady as he worked you. His mouth brushed your ear.

“You’re… so beautiful like this,” he managed, voice rough, as if the sight of you unravelled him.

Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut, the world outside the two of you blurring to nothing. The kitchen, the sea breeze, the clatter of seashell chimes, all of it faded, lost beneath the crash of pleasure building inside you. His thumb kept that perfect rhythm, his fingers filling you, stroking you. Your hips rolled, chasing him as you found yourself already trembling on edge.

You tried to keep guiding him, tried to tell him how perfect it was, how right, but the words blurred as the pleasure built, as he guided you through every tremble, every sharp breath, every subtle roll of your hips.

“You feel so good,” he muttered, voice wrecked, lips brushing your jaw, your ear. “So fuckin’ good like this…”

And then you couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but hold on as he pushed you over the edge, his name falling from your lips in a broken moan, toes curling, back arching, body trembling apart under his hand. Your breathing was ragged as Bucky’s fingers kept moving, slow and sure, guided by every gasp, every shiver he coaxed from you. His forehead pressed to yours, fingers gentle now, soothing you through the aftershocks. His focus was absolute, blue eyes darkened, intent, watching you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing. And you were. To him, you always had been.

“I think I get it now,” he murmured, voice rough-edged, low like a secret.

Your lashes fluttered, your mind hazy with the pleasure he so patiently built inside you. “Hm?” you managed, head tipping forward. You opened your eyes to find him watching you, like you were the most incredible thing he’d ever seen.

Then, softly, with that mix of wonder and affection that always, always undid you, he spoke.

“Why you like watching me finish.” His voice was a rasp, reverent and wrecked all at once. And before you could reply—before you could even think—you watched as he brought his fingers to his mouth, slow and purposeful, tasting you, sucking his fingers clean with a soft, satisfied hum.

It was obscene.

Your body nearly gave out. You gripped the edge of the counter for support, chest rising and falling, heart pounding so hard it drowned out the sound of the sea and the chimes.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, dragging a shaky hand through your salt-tangled hair, trying to catch your breath. The strands clung to your damp skin. Your bikini bottoms were twisted at your hips, darkened with wetness, your thighs still trembling from the slow burn of his touch. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

---

hello! thank you for reading, let me know your thoughts! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to keep being notified of my updates please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on post notifications! <3

#bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes smut #bucky fanfic #beefy bucky #bucky smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #winter soldier #marvel fic #thunderbolts*#marvel au #marvel #lessons in lovemaking

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kianamaiart · 3 months ago

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Growing an audience takes time and getting people to care about your characters can often take more time. I've done a bunch of OCs in the past but none of them really got traction until my IDWTBAMG OCs. I steadily grew my social media following for well over a decade. A lot of checking socialblade, looking at analytics and generally drawing/posting everyday. I have a whole doc available about this type of stuff.

There's no particular shortcut other than happening to go viral or getting really lucky. But I will say "branding" or carving out a niche for yourself over time helps. Although I've been in a number of different fandoms over the past 15 years I've been on the internet, the kind of art I do has been pretty consistent. Lots of shorter, light hearted comics or vignettes highlighting relationships (be them romantic, platonic or familial) and people started enjoying my work for my writing style more so than just what fandom I was creating for.

Finding your community, creating stuff that aligns with those communities and engaging with others is huge. A lot of my work prior to IDWTBAMG centered queer people (specifically sapphics), Black and Asian folks and stylistically is very anime/modern western cartoon inspired. It's what became known for in fandom spaces and what people were following me for. So when I finally did make IDWTBAMG, a concept with anime influences, in a western cartoon style, with two Black, sapphic leads, it just fit right into what I was already doing. Like if you grew your following from doing cute, slice of life stuff, then suddenly dropped a psychological horror comic, chances are it's not gonna grab a large part of your audience. Might bring some new folks in, but you're ultimately kinda starting over and pivoting (that's why rebrands are hard to pull off). This may not be the best example but hopefully you get what I mean. Appeal to the communities you've fostered!

I hate using corporate speak for art but if you ARE trying sell your ideas to people and get your work out there, you do kinda have to learn how to market yourself and your art to some extent. Get in the head of a marketing agent or a brand manager. What's popular right now? How can I use that to my advantage? What times should I be posting my artwork to get the most eyes on this? Who is my target audience and how do I effectively appeal to them while staying true to my own work? Stuff like that. Genuinely, studying how social media managers operate as well as just observing how businesses market their products helped me a lot. "Okay I'm making this animatic, but it won't come out for the next four months. How do I keep people interested and hyped for that amount of time leading up to the pilot's release? I'll keep doing comics here and there so people connect with the characters by the time the pilot comes out. Once I get he VAs recorded, I'll make posts to get people hyped for the casting. I'll upload snippets and behind the scenes stuff to give people a taste of what's to come. I'll release during Black History Month since this is a Black led project with Black characters. I'll have a specific upload time at peak hours to get a good amount of people watching for the premiere and to give the pilot a good running start." This was all stuff I was taking into consideration and planning for.

Then generally, I think people connect to characters more than anything. You can have a cool concept and fun world building ideas but if your execution is bad and your characters aren't compelling, what's the point, y'know? IDWTBAMG isn't a particularly novel concept imo, but I think its strengths lie in the characters and how they interact. The concept is just a tool to give the character dynamics and relationships legs to stand on. So few of the comics I've done with these guys have to do with their lore, it's just small interactions of the girls in class, at a convenience store or just talking to each other in a void. Even though it's simple, that's often the kind of thing people connect with.

Then there's just the technical aspect of having appealing drawing! Getting better at your craft, if nothing else, is good for catching eyes and helping with your execution of your project. While it's not always necessary, I think it helps a lot. I know there's a lot of people who follow me just because they personally like my art style and character design.

Not sure how helpful this actually is LOL. It really does just kinda take time. We all have to start somewhere. I was a "small artist" too at one point. It was years of trial and error, mental breakdowns, finding my own artistic voice and posting artwork almost daily for like 5 years straight. I do think that's why IDWTBAMG ended up being so special to me. It really does feel like a culmination of everything I've learned and all that hard work up to this point and people can kinda feel that.

#ask mai anything

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prettygirl-gabi · 1 month ago

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Maddie Rooney🏀 is unavailable

Pairing: Paige Bueckers xFiancé!Reader

Fandom: WNBA-Dallas Wings

Summary: oh it was a surprise indeed

A/N: just wanna thank @thatonesuschix for being a pawn in my plan

🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @cowboybueckers , @unknowgirlypop , @yailtsv , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @elalfywhore , @starfulani , @authentic-girl03 , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @elswhore , @italyyy , @lightsgore , @private-but-not-a-secret , @aubreygriffin , @issilovesherself , @graceeeeeesblog , @sayurireidotcom , @let-zizi-yap , @latenighttalkinqwp , @fairyblossomsav , @liloandstitchstan , @kaliblazin

I should’ve known Paige was up to something the second she left the house wearing that smug little smirk she gets when she knows she’s keeping secrets.

“You sure you don’t wanna come?” she asked, adjusting the collar of her oversized purple Nike x Supreme tracksuit in the mirror, roots perfectly hidden under her beanie.

I was standing in the kitchen, unpacking dishes from the last moving box while rocking a wrinkled tee and pajama shorts.

“Nah, I’m good. The couch and I are in a long-term relationship today.”

She chuckled and came over, kissed my forehead, and whispered, “Alright, just remember I’ve got a surprise for you tonight.”

I squinted. “Is it something I’ll love?”

She winked. “Hopefully. No promises though.”

Then she walked out in that baggy purple fit and all-white Air Forces like she wasn’t about to change my entire emotional state in less than four hours.

I spent the next couple hours organizing the bathroom cabinet, lighting candles, and scrubbing mystery spots off the kitchen counter.

Boring.

Domestic.

The kind of stuff that should’ve given me peace.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about what this surprise was.

Paige had been teasing it all week and I thought maybe she had a spa day planned, or got us Beyoncé tickets or something.

What I wasn’t expecting was to be betrayed in 4K.

I was sprawled across the couch with a blanket on my lap and a bowl of popcorn beside me when I casually opened Twitter to see NBA Draft updates. I typed Paige’s name into the search bar for fun—just to see if she’d made her appearance yet.

I wish I hadn’t.

The first photo that popped up stopped my whole heart.

There she was, at the Dallas Mavericks Draft Watch Party, posted up at the edge of the court in that same purple Nike x Supreme tracksuit. But the beanie she had one was long gone… and in its place?

A blunt healthy chop.

And fresh platinum blonde roots.

I nearly dropped my phone into the popcorn bowl.

“NOOOO,” I yelled, sitting up like I’d been electrocuted.

I clicked on the photo, zoomed in, and stared at her sleek, straight hair—the same head I’d been kissing just this morning, except now it looked like it belonged in a shampoo commercial.

“This is the surprise?” I muttered to myself. “Oh, she’s sick for this.”

I immediately swiped up and hit FaceTime.

No hesitation.

She had one chance to explain this before I spiraled.

It rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

Nothing.

I stared at the screen like it had betrayed me too.

She always picked up.

Even if she was in the middle of something, she’d at least text back a quick “can’t talk rn, will call after.” Or a “kiss my ass.” But now? Radio silence.

I tried again.

Same result.

“Okay,” I muttered, pressing my lips together. “That’s how we’re playing this.”

I went back to Twitter and kept scrolling.

Clip after clip, angle after angle—Paige talking to reporters, Paige laughing with fans, Paige crouched down and talking to some sweet little kid reporter in a Dallas jersey. Paige doing Paige things. That new hair shining like she just walked out of a Dyson Airwrap ad.

And me?

Completely out of the loop.

The longer I watched, the more I paced.

I wasn’t mad that she cut it—I mean, she looked incredible.

Of course she did.

Paige Bueckers could shave her head and still look like she walked off a runway.

But to not tell me?

To keep it secret and then hit a whole red carpet rollout for the public before letting me, her fiancé, see it?

I grabbed my phone again, thumb already holding the audio icon down before I could second guess it.

“So not only did you touch up your roots… you cut your hair, and didn’t think to tell me—your loving girlfriend of six years, fiancé of one, by the way? Come on, P… be so for real. And THEN. And…and Then..you let me find out through Twitter? Of all places? Ohhhh, fuck you, Paige Madison. Fuck. You. Ohhh you are so sleeping on the couch tonight.”

I sent it.

And for a solid ten minutes, the only response I got was her leaving me on read.

Which would’ve been fine.

If she didn’t then post a video of herself lip-syncing my audio message to her Instagram Story, standing center court like she was accepting a Grammy for “Best Betrayal.”

I kid you not.

A video of her in the green room, dramatically lip-syncing to my audio.

She even clutched her chest and gasped when I said her full name.

Fans were already losing it in the comments.

“They’re unhinged I love it.”

“This relationship is peak entertainment.”

“Y/N really said ✨drama✨.”

I threw my phone on the couch and flopped down with a groan.

She thought this was funny.

She thought me discovering her haircut via Twitter was content.

She was lucky I loved her.

I heard the door open and close softly. Paige walked in like she was trying to sneak in past curfew, even though she knew I was still awake.

I didn’t say a word at first.

She peeked into the bedroom, still in the same tracksuit, and smiled sheepishly. “Hey…”

I didn’t even look at her. “Hope Twitter treated you well tonight.”

She sighed. “You’re still mad?”

“You got a whole haircut and didn’t even text me.”

“It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“Yeah. And I found out through Twitter. That’s not a surprise, that’s a jump scare.”

She walked over slowly and sat on the edge of the bed, her freshly cut bob brushing just above her shoulders. The soft lighting made her look even more unfairly attractive. Rude.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” she said, voice quiet. “I just… wanted to feel fresh. The season’s been crazy. The move. The press. I needed something for me.”

“I would’ve supported that,” I murmured, softer now. “I just wish I’d been part of it.”

Paige reached for my hand. “You always are. Even when I’m bleaching my scalp in a stranger’s salon.”

I snorted. “You look hot. That’s the worst part.”

She grinned. “You think so?”

“Don’t act brand new. You’ve been trending since 7PM.”

She laughed, brushing her fingers up my arm. “So… what if I said I booked us massages tomorrow? And brunch. And maybe… just maybe… there’s a box in the closet with your name on it from Coach?”

I raised a brow. “Are you trying to buy my forgiveness?”

“Absolutely.”

I tried to glare, but the truth was, I’d already melted. Her new hair looked incredible, and she smelled like vanilla and champagne and expensive night outs. I caved.

“Alright. But next time you cut your hair, you better text me a ‘brace yourself’ warning.”

She nodded. “Deal. Can I sleep here tonight? Or is the couch calling me?”

I pulled back the covers. “Only if I get to run my hands through your freshly done hair.”

She laughed and slid in beside me, wrapping her arms around my waist.

As I tangled my fingers in her freshly-cut hair, she whispered, “You’re still gonna use that in arguments, aren’t you?”

I grinned. “Oh, definitely. I’m getting it framed.”

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

-Thank You For Reading!💚💙

-prettygirl-gabi✨️💗

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heirofshadowsingers · 10 months ago

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Wanna be yours

pairing: azriel x reader

summary: When you fall alseep on his shoulder, Azriel does not know what to do, and everyone are being so damn loud

word count: 2.2K

warnings: this is pure fluff and azzie being utterly smitten and fussing shadows

a/n: hiii! this is the first fanfic i've written for acotar, i've fallen down the rabbit hole lately and made this blog. and i just had this idea and had to write it, thought i might as well post it. hopefully someone will enjoy it<3

Azriel thought he had learned how to master his cool mask. Beyond everything he had experienced as The Night Court’s spymaster, nothing had tested him more than his family – a bunch of busybodies who drove him insane most of the time. He had played the role of chaperone between Cassian and Nesta, had been the one to drag Cassian’s ass out of The Summer Court when he wrecked that building and, for the third year in a row now, he had to re-decorate after Cassian and Feyre decorated the living room drunk.

Actually, the more Azriel thought about it, Cassian was usually the one who tested his control and threatened to ruin his cool composure.

And yet, despite years of practice, he forgot how to breathe when your head fell onto his shoulder. He had to force himself to remain nonchalant as your luscious scent overtook his senses. The river house was still loud and full of life, and the rowdy Winter Solstice party had not yet reached its peak. It was long past midnight and his family showed no signs of slowing down. The faelights above cast a golden light over their drunk faces as Mor continued to pour wine into all their glasses, declaring, “No one is allowed to go to bed until dawn!”

Which was why, an hour ago, Azriel had found himself slipping away to the couch in the corner of the room. Varian had joined him shortly after, the two of them chatting quietly while watching everyone else continue their quest to get as drunk as possible. Azriel didn’t know if it had been wishful thinking, or just pure naivety, that had made him believe Winter Solstice would be calmer after Nyx was born, but he had been wrong. After Feyre and Rhys had put him to bed earlier -- Rhys had been the one to pull out the fancy bottles.

While it warmed him to know that nothing had really changed, that his family was still the same after everything they had been through, Azriel was also the same; he still preferred to wake up the next day and remember what had happened the night before.

Although, he doubted he would ever be able to forget anything that involved you. You had joined him and Varian in the corner a while ago, stumbling and falling next to him on the couch in a drunken mess. His shadows danced around you as you giggled to yourself, and Azriel thought that the sound of your laughter was the best Solstice gift he had ever received.

The knitted gloves you had made and given to him earlier were a close second.

“So your hands won’t get so dry from the cold,” you had told him shyly, your cheeks flushed, and his heart had nearly burst out of his chest. Two days prior you had spotted him coating his hands in a thick layer of the salve Madja made for him, his scarred skin tended to get tight and uncomfortable, and even worse so when the temperatures dropped and the air became crisp and dry.

He most likely would not get the chance to wear them very often, the soft silky yarn was not made to withstand any fighting or training, and he could not bear the thought of ever losing or ruining them.

But it had still not stopped him from blushing as he opened the gift -- Cauldron, he blushed just thinking about them. The image of you rushing home and knitting him a pair of gloves after he told you how dry his hands became during winter... yeah, Azriel would never forget anything when it came to you.

And when you sat so close, your body pressing tightly up against his, warm and inviting, there was just no way to overlook the emotions that sparked in his chest. Your words were slurred as you talked about an elderly female you had met at the market earlier that day.

Though, it did not matter that the story you were drunkenly telling him was so ridiculously incoherent, your soft voice still enthralled him. Because if you wanted to talk to him, well, he would listen to whatever you had to say. Always.

But when your voice had faltered and your head fell to his shoulder, Azriel did not know what to do.

Varian was quick to join the others again when he noticed you leaning on him, leaving him alone with you in the corner. Despite Cassian’s and Rhys’s loud voices booming through the room, arguing about something that had happened during the snowball fight that morning, you had fallen asleep right there on his shoulder. Your lips set in a small pout and your dark lashes resting delicately against your cheeks.

Azriel could not move, could still not breathe, in fear of waking you. A single shadow brushed against your cheek, soothing and gentle, and you let out a content sigh. It took everything not to wrap his arms and wings around you and winnow away; the urge to tuck you in under a heap of blankets and hold your body close overwhelmed him.

And you were not even doing anything more than leaning on his shoulder. But it was all it took for Azriel to lose his cool completely.

‘So beautiful’ his shadows whispered around him. It had been a year since you had first walked into the training ring, into his life, and the shadows had not stopped whispering about your beauty since.

As you had introduced yourself as the new healer, employed specifically to help Madja with the Valkyries and their injuries from training, Azriel had struggled to restrain the shadows. He had never felt them be so curious before, swirling eagerly around him before darting off toward you. He had managed to call them back just before they reached you, but they had still caught your attention, and when he tried to apologize -- you had ignored him.

Instead, you had focused on the fresh wound on his chest and scolded him for not having it looked at. He had been too stunned to say or do anything else.

But the shadows had not lied; you were the most beautiful female he had ever seen. Your hair flowed around you in effortless waves, eyes shining with compassion, and you had not looked at him in fear or reluctance like most did. No, you had reprimanded him and forced him to sit down while you tended to his wound.

You had owned his heart from that very first day, even if he had not told you that yet.

“Feyre, look!” Cassian’s voice made him snap back into reality. “There’s your new painting!” Azriel glanced up only to discover that his family had turned their attention to the corner, looking at him and you with knowing smirks.

“Ohh yeah, I can see it,” Nesta mused and bit the inside of her cheek to stop the grin on her face from growing. “'The love-sick Spymaster and his dreamy Angel.'”

Feyre could not stop her giggles even as she tried to end his suffering, “C’mon guys, don’t tease him. I think it’s sweet. They are taking things slow and at their own pace, leave them alone.”

Azriel's face grew hotter, and yet, he remained as still as possible, afraid that any sudden movement would make you stir and wake up.

Though, he would have to agree; you were an angel. The kindest, most loving, and charmingly stubborn angel to exist in the world. In any world.

“Sweet?” Amren rolled her eyes. “You need to grow a pair and tell her already, boy. We are all sick of watching you two dance around the fact that both of you want to devour each other whole. It’s nauseating.”

Cassian let a loud howl thunder through the room but quickly smacked a hand over his mouth to stifle it as Azriel sent a icy glare in his direction.

“Shut up,” he hissed, trying to keep his voice low. He let his gaze fall to you again, hoping the annoying chatter had not disturbed you. “You are going to wake her.”

“I think you just proved our point, Azzie,” Cassian sniggered and shared a mischievous look with Rhysand, no doubt contriving more ways to get under his skin.

And the only response Azriel could think of was, “Shut up.”

Thankfully, they seemed to take some pity on him as they returned to whatever conversation had kept them busy earlier.

Or perhaps, they noticed how his shadows had moved across the room, swirling along the walls in annoyance, ready to strike at any moment if anyone disturbed you. Azriel released a heavy sigh of exasperation, reminding himself that they were just a bunch of idiots and that he loved them dearly.

“You know, your voice is far more comfortable to listen to than theirs,” you murmured suddenly, your voice full of sleep and still slightly slurred. Azriel couldn’t stop the shiver running down his spine, his shadows quickly drew themselves back and danced across your smooth skin, checking to see if you had been bothered or needed any assistance.

When he looked down your eyes were still closed, but a playful smile flickered across your face.

Azriel’s mouth ran dry, “I’m sorry-- I tried to tell them.”

“I know,” you told him and opened one eye to peek up at him, clearly amused. “I heard you.” You made no attempt to move away from him, and, for that reason, he did not attempt to move either. When you closed your eyes again he could’ve sworn you pressed yourself into his side a little bit closer and, Gods, had it always been so difficult to breathe? Azriel wasn’t sure anyone's presence had ever made him feel so utterly captivated.

And, he just really, really, fucking adored you.

Before he could think of a proper reply though, you spoke again, “We should do this more often. You make a good pillow.”

When your lips twitched into a small smirk, Azriel knew you could hear how fast and hard his heart was beating, and his ears burned from his own awkwardness. So all he said was, “I think it’s time to get you to a real bed.” He shifted his body to get up, lifting his arm to wrap around you. “C’mon, I’ve got you,” he kept his voice low; only for you to hear. Your slender hand stopped him, pressing into his thigh dangerously high, forcing him to remain on the couch.

“Noo,” you pouted. “Please don’t make me move yet... can’t we stay here like this for a couple more minutes?” It did not help his poor racing heart slow down. “...Or maybe even an hour?”

And how could he deny you that when you looked at him with those beautiful eyes? How could he ever deny you anything?

“Fine... here,” he mumbled and reached for an actual pillow, placing it in his lap. “At least lay down so you won’t strain your neck.”

The smile that broke out over your face; it needed to be Feyre’s new painting. Perhaps he would have to let her into his head, let his High Lady see your joyful eyes and glowing face, to make sure your smile could be captured forever for everyone to see.

As you settled down, your head now resting in his lap, Azriel could not help himself. He let his hand fall to your head, threading his fingers through your soft hair. His shadows settled on his shoulders, peering down at you as well, and he could not focus on anything else. The world could be on fire and he would not have been able to tear his eyes away from you.

“Azzie, stop looking like that.”

You glanced up at him again, brows knitted together in a small frown, and Azriel couldn’t stop himself from laughing, “Stop looking like what?”

There was a moment of silence, the hollering of his family a distant background noise, as your eyes met his. The sparkle in his chest became more intense, impossible to control, and even as you tried to look annoyed with him, the smile twitching at the corner of your mouth gave you away.

Eventually you huffed and curled into him a little more, “... you’re lucky you're so beautiful.”

And as you pulled his hand away from your hair and laced your smaller fingers through his, Azriel knew there was no turning back -- knew that there was no one else.

He raised your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it before whispering, “You are beautiful.”

Azriel thought he had learned how to master his cool mask, but when a golden thread weaved itself between his soul and yours, Azriel realized he was more than willing to let his mask slip for you.

ps, english is not my native language, so if there was any spelling or grammar issues; sorry! Thank you for reading <3

#acotar fanfiction #acotar fanfic #azriel #azriel acotar #azriel fanfic #azriel fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel fluff #azriel shadowsinger

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askagamedev · 6 months ago

Note

Thoughts on the Bioware restructuration/lay-offs?

I've long said that any AAA game studio, no matter how strong, is always 2-3 flops in a row away from closure. Bioware did very well with Inquisition, but Mass Effect Andromeda and Anthem's sequential failures resulted in DA4 being their make-or-break release.

One factor was that 2024 was the first full year since 2012 that Bioware didn't have SWTOR on their books anymore - SWTOR went over to Broadsword in late 2023. For the past decade, all of the money earned by SWTOR (which is significant, the game isn't growing but it does more than earn its keep) was considered in Bioware's accounting. That sizable income helps offset the money being burned in other areas like ME:A, Anthem, ongoing DA4 efforts, and other internal projects (like the many failed KOTOR 3 pitches) to the accountants and executives. Without SWTOR to inject additional cash over the year, the Veilguard costs look a lot worse to the money people.

DA4 itself was a bit of a mess during development too. The development of the project that eventually became Veilguard was actually restarted at least twice - they were already working on preproduction for DA4 as of late 2015. The process was long and arduous, and the finished game was... mid? It wasn't underwhelming, it wasn't overwhelming, it was just... whelming. Veilguard also made the somewhat controversial choice to hang everything on sales and not go with post-launch DLC to help monetize further. This gamble really did not pay off. Veilguard missed its sales target by 50%, which was the third nail in the coffin. Each of these failures seems to follow the same pattern - significant dev time spent going in circles because the leadership can't commit to core elements of the game, resulting in something thrown together at the end in order to ship something.

As a result of these issues, the Sword of Damocles that dangles above every studio fell on Bioware. While Bioware remains as a label and the next Mass Effect game continues development, Bioware as a studio is no longer a stand-alone entity capable of building a full game from start to finish like it used to be. Bioware is likely no longer going to have as much of a cohesive identity like it used to - it will be a label more than anything else. If Mass Effect gets a green light for full production, they'll likely have to "borrow" a bunch of floating developers from EA's other studios to build it out, then disperse those borrowed devs to other EA projects once it ships and leave a small team to incubate the next "Bioware" project, at least until they can get two sequential big hits again and warrant a larger injection of funding to start growing again.

My heart really goes out to all of those who are affected by this - the Veilguard devs were really behind the 8 ball when they started and the current economic situation in video games isn't good. I hope that they're able to find something soon, hopefully at a studio that makes better high level leadership decisions.

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mariasont · 4 months ago

Text

lace and lime

you feel insecure in your sundress, spencer makes you feel the opposite

pairing: spencer reid r x shy!reader warnings: fem!reader, post prison spencer, pre relationship pining, reader wears a sundress, spencer and reader drinking margs, penelope and emily being drunk asf prompt: here wc: 1k

You swirl your margarita — too strong, courtesy of Penelope’s generous pour — your head buzzing in a way that feels almost nice. Your cheeks are toasty. Probably the alcohol. Hopefully the alcohol. The ocean breeze dances over your knees, lifting the hem of your dress no matter how many times you tug it down.

It had seemed perfect in your room mirror, all vintage charm and sweet lace trim, but out here, surrounded by the entire team, it suddenly feels like a decision made in poor lighting.

Had it always shown this much leg? Of course, it had. Who let you buy this? And the neckline, well, you’re positive it sank an extra inch out of sheer spite on the walk from the house.

“I think Emily’s finally met her match in tequila tolerance. Pretty sure Garcia could drink her under the table.”

Spencer’s voice comes from much closer than it was an hour ago. He’d migrated steadily, subtly, and now he’s sitting comfortably beside you. Somehow, it wasn’t making you nervous.

You glance up just in time to see Penelope pouring — or, more accurately, emptying — the tequila bottle into her already overflowing glass while Emily reaches for the bottle with the coordination of a drunk toddler. Her swipe misses entirely. She giggles and stumbles into Penelope’s shoulder.

You grin, hiding your smile behind the rim of your glass. “Ten bucks says they’re both face-down in the sand by dinner.”

“That’s a bet I’m definitely not taking.”

You swivel toward him, just slightly, and the hem of your dress skims his knee. It’s accidental, but it makes the air between you suddenly a little more delicate.

“You’re not scared of losing, are you?”

“No,” he says with kind eyes. “Just experienced enough to recognize a losing wager when I see one.”

Peeking at him through your lashes, you give Spencer your best innocent smile, feeling a little bolder with every sip of Penelope’s overly ambitious drink.

"You never know — sometimes taking a chance on bad odds turns out better than you'd think." You pause. "And if not, I promise to spend your money wisely."

He pretends to think it over, but you can see the corner of his mouth twitching. He’s enjoying this. You think.

"Alright,” he finally concedes, “as long as you promise it'll go toward something just as nice as this."

His fingers catch at the edge of your dress, right by your thigh, and that’s it. Your brain is gone. Just steam now. Pure, useless steam.

You’d forgotten to feel self-conscious. Just for a moment. But now his fingers are there, and you remember everything. The hemline. The way the fabric clings. The way this dress, your dress, feels too much all over again.

Your skin feels loud under his fingertips and your confidence, brief and borrowed, slips a little.

“Um — thanks… I — yeah.”

Spencer’s eyes crinkle at the corners, clearly amused but merciful enough not to tease you.

You glance away, fingers fidgeting uselessly. The words almost come out — This dress feels like too much, I feel like too much — but instead, you just press your lips together.

His voice drops a little. “You look beautiful, by the way. I probably should’ve led with that instead of the tequila commentary.”

Not nice. Not cute. Not that dress looks beautiful. Just… you look beautiful.

Is that something people just say? Is he being polite? Is he just saying that because you looked weird for a second? Is that what this is? A verbal pat on the head?

Except, no, his eyes are far too soft for that. He means it. Or you think he does. Or maybe you just really want him to.

Either way, your heart is doing weird fluttery things, and for once, you’re not sure if it’s the nerves or something… else.

“Thank you,” you mumble, the words nearly stolen by the wind.

Spencer doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you.

“You know,” he starts gently, “you don't have to worry so much about how everyone else sees you. They're just happy you're here.”

You blink. Did you say that out loud? Because it really feels like he just pulled the words straight out of your head. You wonder if he’s like that one guy, the unsub who thought he could read truths in people’s faces, like some kind of twisted human polygraph.

Except this doesn’t feel twisted. It just feels accurate. Weirdly comforting.

“Easier said than done.”

“Maybe,” he says, holding out his drink like he’s offering a toast — or maybe just an excuse to shift the mood. “But it helps when you trust someone else's judgment.”

You glance down at the glass, then back at him, heartbeat picking up. “Like yours?”

He grins, nodding once. “Exactly like mine.”

You glance at him, and he meets your eyes for just a second — no words, just a small, soft smile passed between you like a secret. You don’t lean in, and he doesn’t move closer. But somehow, it feels like you already have.

“So,” he murmurs playfully, turning his head slightly toward you, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “When Garcia and Emily inevitably collapse, are you going to help me drag them back inside?”

You laugh, shoulders easing just a bit. “I don’t know — depends. Do I get half the ten dollars if I do?”

“I thought we agreed it was going toward a worthy cause."

“And if that worthy cause is ice cream?”

He nods solemnly, deadpan. "Then consider me thoroughly convinced."

join me at the beach for my 1 year/4k event!

💌 click here to check in → confirm your room (and crush)

maria's spring break getaway masterlist

#mariasspringbreakgetaway #mariaversegetawaytrip #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds fic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid flangst #spencer reid angst #spencer reid hurt/comfort #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fem reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x shy!reader #spencer reid x shy reader

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thatfeelinwhenyou · 6 months ago

Text

SAFE & SOUND — part 3

Navigating one year post-apocalypse, when the dead began to walk and the living proved to be no better, you decide that trust is a luxury you can no longer afford. But after a run-in with a group of seven peculiar survivors, you learn that there are bigger problems than just the undead roaming the streets. You also start to wonder if there’s more to survival than simply staying alive.

word count: 7.4k

MASTERLIST

Whispers.

Soft at first, like the rustling of leaves in the wind. But they grow louder, more insistent, wrapping around you like tendrils of smoke. You’re alone. Back in the forest, standing in the middle of that clearing.

You spin around, your heart pounding in your chest. They’re here.

Rotters.

They shamble toward you from every direction. Some are missing limbs, dragging broken legs behind them. Others have half their faces torn away, flesh hanging in ragged strips. But it’s their eyes that hold you captive—clear, human, and horrifyingly aware.

They’re whispering.

You can’t make out the words, no matter how hard you strain to listen. The whispers slither into your mind, incomprehensible and maddening, sending a shiver down your spine.

You take a step back. They take a step forward.

Every time you blink, they’re closer. Closing in, tightening the circle around you. You’re surrounded.

“Y/N.”

Their whispers begin to merge, forming one singular voice. It echoes through the clearing, sharp and cold, making your blood run icy.

“Y/N.”

It’s louder now. They’ve reached you. Hands—cold, skeletal hands—grab at your shoulders. Tugging. Shaking.

“Y/N.”

The voice isn’t distant anymore. It’s right there. Right in your ear. Your chest tightens, your breath caught in your throat as panic seizes you. The hands grip harder. Shaking you so violently you think they might throw you to the ground.

There’s nowhere to go.

You’re going to die.

“Y/N!”

You gasp, your eyes flying open. The forest, the rotters, the whispers—they’re gone. Instead, you find yourself staring into a familiar pair of dark eyes. Jungwon’s hands are on your arms, gently shaking you awake.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice soft but steady. “It’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe and sound.”

Your chest heaves, your pulse still racing as the remnants of the nightmare cling to you. Sweat beads on your forehead, and your hands tremble as you push yourself upright.

Jungwon’s brow furrows with concern. “You were shaking. I tried waking you earlier, but you wouldn’t come out of it.”

You swallow hard, trying to find your voice. “It… it was nothing,” you say, your voice hoarse. “Just a nightmare.”

Jungwon doesn’t look convinced. His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer before he sighs, leaning back slightly. “You sure?”

You nod, forcing yourself to steady your breathing. “Yeah.” But even as you say it, the whispers linger in your mind, a haunting echo you can’t quite shake.

You take a look around, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as the surroundings come into focus. The others have already alighted the van, their silhouettes moving quietly in the dawn light. The sky is painted in soft hues of orange and pink as the sun slowly rises from the horizon, casting long shadows over the road and surrounding trees.

“Are we there already?” you ask groggily, your voice raspy from sleep.

Jungwon, still seated beside you, reaches for his canister and hands it over without a word. You take it gratefully, the cool water washing away the dry, bitter taste in your mouth.

“No, we ran out of fuel,” he replies.

You glance toward the front of the van, where Ni-ki is tinkering under the hood, muttering quietly to himself. Jake stands nearby, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders, his gaze drifting toward the distant village down the hill.

“Jungwon,” a familiar voice calls from outside. Heeseung appears at the foot of the van, one hand resting on the roof for support. “We’re thinking about checking out the village down there. Hopefully, siphon some gas and scavenge for supplies.”

Jungwon nods thoughtfully, his eyes scanning the horizon. He’s calculating the risks, weighing the possibilities before making his decision.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Let’s do that. But not all of us. Just a few.”

You watch as the group gathers around to discuss the plan, their voices hushed but purposeful. There’s an underlying tension in the air—a shared understanding that every move counts, every decision could mean the difference between life and death.

Heeseung crosses his arms, his sharp gaze landing on Jungwon. “Who’s going?”

Jungwon’s eyes flick between the group, assessing each person in turn. “Jay, Ni-ki, and I. Us three will check out the village. You guys stay here to keep an eye on the perimeter.”

Sunoo lets out a scoff from where he leans against a tree. “You’re sending Ni-ki? What if we need the van fixed while he’s gone?”

“We’re not leaving him behind,” Jungwon says firmly. “If there’s gas to be found, we’ll need someone who knows how to siphon it properly.”

Ni-ki straightens from where he’s crouched by the van, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Relax, Sunoo. I’ll be back before you miss me.”

The feeling of guilt rises again—a familiar weight you’ve carried for far too long. It creeps up your spine and settles deep in your gut. You shouldn’t be sitting here, letting them take all the risks. They’ve already been through enough. And yet here you are, another mouth to feed, another body to protect.

It doesn’t sit right with you.

The words slip out before you can stop them. “No, Ni-ki should stay.”

Jungwon’s gaze snaps to you, his brows knitting together in confusion. “What?”

Ni-ki frowns, his usual playful expression replaced by something more serious. “Why? I’m the only one who knows how–” and he yawns. Self-explanatory.

“Because you’ve been driving all night,” you reply, your tone steady but resolute. “You need rest”

“I know how to siphon gas,” you say, your voice firmer this time. “My dad’s a mechanic back in the province. I used to help him all the time at his shop. I know what I’m doing.”

The group falls silent, everyone turning to look at you. The weight of their stares presses down on you, but you stand your ground, refusing to back down.

“You’ve done it before?” Heeseung asks, tilting his head slightly as he studies you.

You nod. “Plenty of times.”

Jungwon’s expression remains unreadable as he considers your words. His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s going to shut you down. Because at the end of the day, whatever he says goes. But when he speaks, his voice is measured but tinged with something you can’t quite place—concern, maybe.

“It’s not just about siphoning gas,” he says. “It’s dangerous out there. You saw what we ran into last night.”

“I know,” you say quietly. “But I can handle it. You need me to do this.”

The silence stretches for a moment before Heeseung speaks up, breaking the tension. “She’s got a point.”

Jay scoffs from where he’s still leaning against the tree, arms crossed over his chest. “This is insane. We barely know her, and you want to let her go off into the village?”

“Jay,” Jake’s voice cuts through the tension, sharp and steady. “Again. Not your place to speak.” He doesn’t even look up from the med kit he’s reorganising again for the tenth time, but his tone is enough to silence Jay instantly.

The weight of Jake’s words hangs heavy in the air. You can see Jay tense, his jaw clenching as he looks away. It’s clear Jake hasn’t forgiven him—not entirely. That wound still festers beneath the surface, a quiet reminder of what they’ve lost.

You take a breath, your fingers curling into your palm before you speak. “Trust me. Or better yet, don’t trust me. If anything goes wrong, it’s easier to leave me behind anyway.”

Your words come out too easily. Too naturally. They’re the kind of words you’ve told yourself for days now—an unspoken truth you’ve lived by. The moment they leave your mouth, though, you see the ripple of discomfort they send through the group.

Every one of them shifts, guilt flickering across their faces. Heeseung’s hand falters over the strap of his bag, Sunoo looks away entirely, and even Jay’s hardened expression cracks for a split second.

“Y/N, that’s not—” Heeseung starts, his voice soft with concern, but you cut him off before he can finish.

“I was just joking,” you say quickly, forcing a smile you don’t feel. “Relax, guys.”

But no one laughs. No one even cracks a smile. Instead, their discomfort seems to deepen, the awkward silence stretching longer than you anticipated. It hits you then—you’ve triggered something you didn’t even realise was sensitive. Maybe it’s because those words carry a truth they’ve already lived through. Maybe it’s because the thought has crossed their mind before.

Either way, the tension is palpable. You’ve misjudged your audience.

Jungwon steps forward, his expression calm but serious. His voice, when he speaks, is quiet but firm. “Don’t joke about that.”

His words linger in the air, not harsh, but weighted with something you can’t quite name. There’s something in his eyes—a heaviness, a flicker of guilt or regret—that makes you realise he’s not saying it to admonish you. He’s saying it to comfort himself.

You hold his gaze for a moment, searching for the meaning behind those words. There’s no accusation there. Just a quiet plea.

“Alright,” you say softly, nodding once. “I won’t.”

The group falls into silence again, but it’s different now. Heavier.

The road leading into the village is eerily quiet, the only sound coming from the crunch of your boots against the gravel. Jay walks a few steps ahead, his bow slung over his shoulder, his posture tense as he scans the area. Jungwon stays closer to you, his gaze sweeping over every abandoned house and overgrown field, ever the vigilant leader.

It’s a small village—the kind you’d expect to see bustling with life, where neighbours of neighbours know one another by name, where doors are left unlocked, and everyone exchanges gifts on Christmas and rice cakes on New Year’s Eve.

But now it’s nothing more than a graveyard of memories. Weeds grow wild through the cracks in the pavement, creeping up the sides of empty houses. Windows are shattered, doors left ajar, swaying gently in the breeze as if still waiting for someone to come home. Faded signs and rusting bicycles lean against walls that haven’t seen a human touch in years.

Unfortunately, a small village also means there’s no need for cars to travel around. No gas for you to siphon.

But among the dense field stretching miles out of the village, something catches your attention.

Overgrown crops, long since withered and dead, stretch endlessly in every direction. Tangled weeds twist through the rows, choking out what little life might have remained. And in the middle of it all, sitting like a forgotten relic from a time before, is a tractor. Its rusted frame gleams faintly in the early morning light, patches of red paint barely visible beneath layers of rust and grime.

Gas.

The three of you stop at the edge of the field, taking in the sight.

“That thing’s been sitting there for a while,” Jay says, his tone sceptical. “No guarantee it even has gas left.”

“Only one way to find out,” Jungwon replies, already moving toward it.

You and Jay exchange a glance before following him, cautiously weaving your way through the wild weeds and brittle stalks.

The field is too quiet, too still. The kind of quiet that makes your skin crawl, as though something is watching from the shadows, waiting for the right moment to move. The overgrown weeds brush against your legs, and every rustle sets your nerves on edge. It feels like something is going to pop out from beneath the ground and take a chomp out of your feet.

The unease prickles at the back of your mind, but you push the feeling aside.

When you reach the tractor, Jungwon pulls out the siphoning kit Ni-ki packed for you. He hands you the tube and a canister. You kneel beside the tractor, unscrewing the fuel cap before inserting the tube.

“Let’s hope this thing’s got something left in it,” you mutter, giving the tube a few pumps. It takes a moment, but then—finally—liquid begins to flow.

Jungwon gives a small nod of approval before stepping back to keep watch. Jay crouches nearby, pulling out a knife and absently running his thumb along the edge of the blade.

The silence stretches as you wait for the canister to fill. The distant rustling of leaves in the breeze is the only sound. Until you decide to break it.

“It might not mean anything, but I would’ve done it too,” you say softly, your voice carrying across the field. Both Jungwon and Jay turn to look at you, confusion flickering across their faces. You meet Jay’s gaze, holding it steady. He knows what you’re referring to, but you spell it out anyway.

“Going after him—I mean.”

Jay’s jaw tightens, and he looks away. “You don’t have to lie to comfort me. I know what I did was wrong.”

“There’s no right or wrong in the apocalypse. But even if you think it’s wrong, you don’t regret it” you say, your tone calm but unwavering.

Jay’s head snaps back toward you, his brow furrowing. “What are you trying to say?”

You shrug, leaning back slightly on your heels. “What I’m trying to say is, what you’re feeling is valid. If it were up to me, I would’ve shot him in both ankles. Make sure he couldn’t run to begin with.”

There’s a beat of silence. Jungwon shifts slightly, his gaze flickering between you and Jay, but he doesn’t interrupt. He’s listening too.

Jay’s expression is guarded, his lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re not scared to say that? In front of him?” He gestures toward Jungwon with a tilt of his head.

“Why would I be?” You glance at Jungwon briefly before turning back to Jay.

“You probably already figured it out,” Jay says quietly, his gaze fixed on the blade in his hand. “But the whole point of this group—the way Jungwon leads us—is to make sure we don’t become the monsters we ran away from.” He pauses, his jaw clenching briefly before continuing. “Whatever Jake or the others feel about what I did… that’s valid.”

You watch him carefully, noticing the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers tighten around the knife as if it’s the only thing keeping him steady. There’s guilt there, deeply rooted, but also defiance. He doesn’t regret what he did—he regrets what it cost him.

“Protecting your loved ones comes at a much too high cost sometimes,” you say softly, your voice steady despite the heaviness of the conversation. “Frankly speaking, if I saw someone I love die in front of me, I’d do much more than just shoot someone in the ankle.”

Jay’s knife stills in his hand. For a brief moment, something shifts in his expression—a crack in the hardened exterior he’s built around himself. In that moment, he looks younger. Less guarded. More human.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, tinged with something close to regret. “It doesn’t bring her back, though.”

“No,” you agree gently. “It doesn’t.”

The words hang between you, heavy with shared understanding. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the sound of the wind rustling through the overgrown field filling the silence.

“But,” you add, your gaze locking on his, “you seem to forget that it’s also human to want justice. Or revenge. Whatever you want to call it.”

Jay lifts his head slowly, his eyes meeting yours. There’s a flicker of something in his gaze—recognition, maybe. Like he hadn’t allowed himself to think of it that way before.

“Justice or revenge,” he repeats, almost to himself. “I guess it depends on who’s telling the story.”

You nod. “Or who’s left to tell it.”

He lets out a quiet exhale, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “I don’t know what that makes me, though. A monster or just… someone who’s trying to survive.”

You offer a faint smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Maybe it makes you both.”

Jay huffs a soft, humourless laugh. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Jungwon, who’s been standing quietly off to the side, finally speaks. “It makes you someone who’s still here. Someone who’s still fighting. That’s all that matters.” His voice is steady, filled with that quiet authority that makes people listen. Jay glances at Jungwon, something unspoken passing between them before he nods.

The canister fills with a soft glug, and you pull the tube out, wiping your hands on your jeans. You glance at Jay again, his gaze distant as he processes your words. You screw the fuel cap back onto the tractor and Jay picks up the canister.

The three of you head back through the field, the morning light casting long shadows across the overgrown crops. You and Jungwon walk a few feet ahead while Jay trails behind in silence. For the first time, the silence between you and Jay feels a little lighter. A little more bearable.

Jungwon doesn’t say anything, but you can feel the weight of his unspoken words in the way his gaze flickers toward you. He glances at you, then away, like he’s searching for the right moment to speak—or maybe the right words. It’s subtle, but you notice it every single time.

It’s fascinating, really.

Just days ago, back at the auto shop, he was an impenetrable shell. Guarded, unreadable, every word measured and calculated. His presence then felt heavy with the burden of leadership, the weight of keeping the group alive pressing down on his shoulders.

But now? Now, you see something else. There’s a quiet shift in him. A softening.

It’s in the way his shoulders aren’t as tense, the way his eyes don’t carry the same storm they did before. He still holds himself with purpose, still walks with that quiet confidence that commands respect. But there’s something more now—something vulnerable. Something real.

He’s finally living up to his name.

Garden.

Not the enclosed, walled-off kind. But an open, untamed one. Wildflowers breaking through cracks in stone, soft green creeping over hard surfaces, reaching out toward the light despite everything.

And it makes you wonder if you’ve planted yourself there, too. If, without realising it, you’ve taken root in the cracks he kept so tightly sealed. The thought sends an ache through your chest—one you can’t quite place, one you’re not sure you want to name.

But it doesn’t change the facts.

Your plan to slip away quietly still stands. It has to. The moment you start to care too much, the moment you feel like you belong—that’s the moment everything falls apart. You’ve learned that lesson the hard way, and you’re not about to forget it.

You glance at Jungwon, his gaze once again flickering toward you before settling ahead. There’s trust in his eyes now, trust you never expected to earn. And it terrifies you.

Because when the day comes, when you finally decide it’s time to leave, it won’t be as simple as walking away. You’ll not only have to pull yourself out of that garden—you’ll have to dig. Dig deep. Find every root, every tendril of connection that’s wound itself around your heart, and sever it.

And that’s what scares you the most.

You’ve always been good at surviving. Good at keeping your distance. But something about this group, about him, makes you question whether you’re as detached as you like to think.

You push the thought aside, your grip tightening on the knife at your belt. Not yet. Not today.

For now, you keep walking.

But with each step, the weight in your chest grows heavier. The more you procrastinate confronting this—the way your walls have started to crumble, the way the cracks are widening—the deeper the roots grow.

And one day, those roots will grow too deep. So deep that no matter how hard you dig, no matter how determined you are to sever them, they’ll remain. Buried beneath layers of regret, fear, betrayal and everything you’ve been running from.

And deep down, you know this. You’ve always known.

It terrifies you.

Because in a world where nothing is certain, where survival often means cutting ties and leaving before things fall apart, you can feel yourself tethering to something—or someone—that you’re not sure you’ll be able to walk away from.

Knowing this and yet, you keep walking.

The three of you near the foot of the hill, the climb back to the van just ahead. Your legs ache from the trek, and your mind is still spinning from your earlier conundrum. But just as you’re about to start the ascent, something stops you cold.

At first, you think it must be your mind playing tricks again—another hallucination brought on by exhaustion. But no. These voices are real. They’re vivid, sharp, and far too close.

“Get down,” Jungwon whispers, already crouching low. His eyes scan the surroundings, quickly assessing the situation.

You drop to your knees, heart pounding in your chest. The voices grow clearer, drifting through the trees just ahead.

“When are your stupid friends coming back with the gas?” It’s a voice you don’t recognise—rough, impatient.

“If they’re taking this long, it better be because there’s so much gas for them to siphon,” another voice replies, laced with irritation.

“Or maybe there’s no gas at all, and you idiots are just wasting your time on us.” Sunoo, the ever so convincing diplomat. He might as well tell them to shoot him right there and then.

Jungwon glances up from his crouched position, subtly peering over the tall grass. His blonde hair, ironically, blends into the wildflowers scattered around, making him almost invisible from a distance.

He raises two fingers, silently indicating the number of visible threats.

Jay crouches beside him, his bow already in hand, an arrow notched and ready to draw. “I can easily take them out,” he whispers, his tone steady but eager. “One shot each.”

“No.” Jungwon shakes his head firmly. “Think about it. Sunghoon, Heeseung, and Ni-ki could’ve taken them out themselves. They wouldn’t let themselves get caught off-guard. Which means there’s more of them. Armed. Hidden.”

The realisation sends a chill down your spine. Of course. It’s not just two men holding your friends hostage—there’s a whole group. And they’re lying in wait, hidden in the trees or behind the van, ready to strike if anyone makes a move.

Jay curses under his breath. “Fuck, I knew I should’ve brough the pistol along.”

Jungwon’s jaw tightens, his eyes scanning the area for any possible advantage. His mind is already racing through options, calculating risks. His hand twitches toward the knife at his side, but he doesn’t draw it. Not yet.

“We wait,” he says quietly. “We need to figure out how many we’re dealing with.”

“And if they hurt them?” you ask, your voice wavering despite your best efforts to stay calm.

“They won’t,” says Jungwon, his voice filled with quiet conviction. “Not yet. They want something. And as long as they think they can get it, they’ll keep them alive.”

You swallow hard, nodding. But your eyes drift back toward the direction of Sunoo’s voice, your chest tightening with worry.

The seconds crawl by, the tension weighing heavier with each passing moment. Every whisper from the strangers ahead feels amplified, mingling with the rustling leaves and the distant calls of birds. You try to focus, straining to pick out anything useful—a clue about how many of them there are or where they’re positioned—but the sounds blur together, indistinct and frustratingly useless.

Then, from the corner of your eye, you catch it—a flicker of movement. Your head snaps toward the tail of the van, heart pounding. For the briefest moment, a hand emerges, fingers twitching in a silent signal.

Three.

The hand disappears just as quickly as it appeared, but the message is clear. You nudge Jungwon lightly, your fingers brushing his arm. His gaze follows yours to the spot where the hand had been, and you watch as his expression hardens. His eyes narrow in that calculating way you’ve come to recognise.

Three.

No—more. The hand reappears, flashing another quick signal.

Five.

Your stomach twists, the tension tightening like a noose around your chest. Five? Does that mean five hidden threats, or five including the two already standing out in the open with your friends? You curse under your breath, frustrated that you hadn’t thought to establish hand signals with them sooner. Anticipating a situation like this should’ve been second nature by now.

Your heart skips a beat as the hand emerges once more. But this time, it’s more than just fingers. You catch a glimpse of hair, dishevelled but unmistakable.

Sunghoon.

His hands are tied behind his back, but he’s doing everything he can to communicate. His fingers form a fist, except for his thumb and index finger, which he cocks repeatedly.

“They’re armed,” Jungwon whispers, his voice low and steady, cutting through your thoughts. He’s already figured it out. Of course he has. Sunghoon’s making the universal sign for guns, cocking his thumb like a makeshift trigger. When he raises two fingers, it clicks.

Two guns.

Three hidden threats.

Five in total.

You turn to look at Jungwon and Jay and it’s pretty clear they figured it out too. Their faces mirror your own dread, their expressions tense and focused. There’s no room for error here.

Sunghoon’s hand twitches again, slower this time. He forms a clenched fist before making a sweeping motion inwards, his fingers pointing to the back of the van.

“He wants us to come up behind the van,” you whisper to Jungwon, barely able to hear your own voice over the pounding of your heart. Jungwon gives a slight nod, his eyes never leaving Sunghoon.

But then Sunghoon’s fingers start counting down.

Five.

Wait, what?

Four.

Panic flares in your chest. What’s the plan? There’s no time to figure this out.

Three.

Jungwon’s jaw tightens, his hand inching toward the hilt of his blade.

Two.

If you rush out now, you’ll be spotted. You know it. You’ll be shot before you even make it to the van.

One.

You freeze.

“So, what’s the plan, lady and gentlemen?” Sunoo’s voice rings out, light and sarcastic despite the weight of the situation. “Gonna stand there all day?”

He’s creating a distraction. Of course he is. Turning the strangers’ attention to him, giving you a window of opportunity to sneak around. For a brief moment, you’re struck by how well this group operates together—how they fill in the gaps for each other. It’s seamless, even in chaos.

You also catch the nuance in Sunoo’s words. Lady and gentlemen. One woman. Four men.

One of the men steps closer, his rifle glinting in the light. “Keep talking, pretty boy. See how that works out for you.”

“I understand,” Sunoo says lightly. “But I really do need to pee. Would you be so kind as to help me out?”

The man doesn’t even flinch. “No. Pee your pants.”

Sunoo lets out a dramatic sigh. “Oh, come on. I know it’s the apocalypse, but you can’t strip me of my basic human rights. Back in the day, you’d be charged with kidnapping on multiple counts.”

“This isn’t ‘back in the day’ now, is it?” says one of them.

“Fine. But at least unzip my trousers and help me take it out, please!" you make a mental note that Sunoo and lack of decorum do not go well together, even in the apocalypse.

The man’s face twists in disgust, and a woman’s voice pipes up from the other side, exasperated. “Ugh. Just help him.”

There’s shuffling. Movement. Now.

You push yourself off the ground, body low as you crawl across the curb and step into the open road. You creep behind the van, the gravel crunching quietly beneath your boots. Jungwon and Jay follow close, silent shadows trailing in your wake.

Sunghoon stands just a few feet away, Jake perpendicular from him, both still bound. The tension between the three of you is palpable, a shared understanding that one wrong move could cost everything.

Unfortunately, from your position, you can't see where the oppressors are without risking exposure. The van offers some cover, but it’s not enough to make a clear assessment. Your pulse drums steadily in your ears as you scan your surroundings, searching for any advantage.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you notice Jake shifting slightly. At first, you think he’s adjusting his position, but then a glint catches your attention—a flash of sunlight reflecting off the knife secured in his belt. Your brow furrows, curious.

Jake moves again, this time more deliberately, tilting the blade just enough to catch the light. The reflection bounces toward the treeline, and you realise with a start that he’s not just adjusting—he’s positioning himself to show you something.

He’s using the reflection to signal.

You narrow your eyes, focusing on the faint gleam in the knife. It flickers as Jake tilts it, revealing small glimpses of what lies beyond your line of sight. Through the distorted image in the reflection, you can make out the silhouette of a woman standing near Sunghoon. She’s clinging to the arm of a man with a rifle.

Jake tilts the knife again, revealing two more figures standing near the van’s hood. They’re not moving much, but the muzzle of a rifle glints faintly in the light.

Four.

Your chest tightens as you try to piece together the situation. You glance at Jungwon, who’s crouched nearby, his gaze locked on the same reflection. His lips press into a thin line as he absorbs the information.

Four by the van. One unaccounted for.

“What? Are you going to watch me pee?” Sunoo’s voice drifts through the trees, loud and mocking. He sounds far too relaxed for someone tied up and at gunpoint. It would almost be funny—if it wasn’t terrifying. But you know exactly what he’s doing—keeping the focus on himself. No, not just that.

The pieces fall into place. Four by the van. One with Sunoo. Two confirmed firearms.

You take a risk, tilting your head just enough to peek beyond the edge of the van. The road stretches out before you, dappled with sunlight filtering through the trees. And then you see it—an opportunity.

Your gaze sharpens as the woman catches your attention again. She’s unarmed, still clinging to the man with the rifle, her hands trembling slightly. The way her fingers grip his sleeve, the tension in her posture—it tells you everything. She’s scared. Not just for herself, but for him.

Girlfriend? Wife? Sister? It doesn’t matter. It’s a weakness.

Your heart pounds as you glance at Sunghoon, signalling with a subtle nod. He inches to his left, giving you a clear path. Every movement is slow, deliberate. The woman remains oblivious, her focus entirely on the man she’s holding on to. You shift your weight, exchanging a glance with Jungwon. His eyes narrow, and in an instant, he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

Don’t.

The silent message is written all over his face. His hand twitches, reaching toward you, a last-ditch effort to stop you. But you’ve already made up your mind.

You step out from behind the van, your footsteps soft but purposeful. The knife in your hand feels like an extension of your arm. The woman’s head snaps up as she senses your presence, her eyes widening in shock.

Before she can react, your arm wraps around her neck, pulling her close. The blade presses against her throat, just hard enough to make her freeze. A gasp escapes her lips—a fragile sound, filled with fear.

“Move and I’ll slit her throat,” you say, your voice cold and unyielding. Something in it that scares you even. The woman stiffens in your grip, her breath catching in her throat. The man in front of her spins around, his rifle swinging toward you before he freezes, wide-eyed and panicked.

Beside you, Jungwon stays hidden, crouched low behind the van. He signals to Jay with a subtle nod, motioning for him to circle around to the front of the van now that every pair of eyes is locked on you.

“Let her go!” he shouts, his hands tightening around the weapon.

"Not a chance," you reply, pressing the blade just a little closer to the woman’s neck. Her breath hitches, a strained gasp breaking through the tense silence. She trembles in your hold, her fingers clawing weakly at your arm—not to fight you off, just instinct, pure desperation. Her nails barely scrape your skin, like she knows it won’t help but can’t stop herself from trying.

You know what must be running through her mind. You wonder if she feels like prey in a trap, heart pounding, mind racing to find a way out. Your mind spirals further, unwanted thoughts clawing at the edges of your focus.

This moment is a reflection. A sickening déjà vu.

Would this woman be feeling what their friend felt when that man held her at knifepoint?

Would this man be feeling what Jay had felt when he witnessed his loved one on the verge of death?

Would they see you in that same light?

Then again, why would you care what they think about you? It’s not like you’ll be staying long anyway.

So, you don’t let go. You can’t let go. Because you know what will happen when you do.

The man with the rifle looks like he’s calculating his odds, his gaze flicking between you and your hostage. The tension is palpable, each second stretching out endlessly. The woman whimpers, her body trembling against you. She’s scared. Good. Fear keeps people compliant.

“You don’t have to do this,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “We didn’t come here to hurt anyone.”

You scoff, the sound bitter in your throat. “Funny. That’s not what it looks like.”

The man with the rifle shifts again, and your grip on the woman tightens. “You really want to test me?” you ask, tilting your head slightly. “Because I promise you, I don’t care about her life nearly as much as you do.”

“No!” he shouts, his voice raw with desperation, his grip loosening on the rifle. “Don’t hurt her!”

For a moment, everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion. The trees sway gently in the breeze, the leaves rustling like whispers of a long-forgotten world. The morning sun filters through the branches, casting dappled shadows on the road. And yet, all you can focus on is the pulse beneath your hand—the steady, panicked thrum of the woman’s heartbeat against your arm.

Mentally slapping yourself out of your trance, you command. “Drop your weapon.”

He hesitates, his knuckles whitening around the rifle. His fear is palpable, radiating off him in waves. You press the knife just a fraction deeper against the woman’s skin, enough to make her whimper. “I said, drop it.”

The man hesitates for a long moment, his grip tightening. His gaze flickers to the woman in your grasp, then back to you. You can see the conflict in his eyes, the way he weighs his options. But you also see something else.

Fear. Not fear of you—but fear of losing her.

That’s the thing about love, isn’t it? It makes you vulnerable. It cracks you open, gives someone the power to hurt you. And if someone knows where to press, that love becomes a liability.

Slowly, he lowers the rifle, the barrel pointing toward the ground.

“Good,” you say, your tone steady. “Now kick it over.”

The rifle skids across the asphalt, stopping just a few feet from Jungwon. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Jungwon’s expression—tense, calculating, but not surprised. He moves slowly, staying low as he presses himself closer to the van, positioning himself to take control of the situation once the opportunity presents itself.

"You don’t want to do this," another man, closer to the hood of the van, says slowly. His voice is calm, measured. Too measured. Like he’s trying to steady not just himself, but the entire situation. His eyes flick between you and the woman you’re holding. He’s trying to be the voice of reason, the negotiator, but there’s a tremor in his tone—one he can’t quite hide.

"You don’t want to hurt her."

"Don’t tell me what I want," you snap, your voice cutting through the tense air like a blade. Your grip on the knife doesn’t waver, but inside? Inside, it’s chaos.

Because he’s right. You don’t want to hurt her. Not really. Not if there’s another way out. They’ve got guns and they’re desperate, just like you.

Desperation makes monsters of everyone.

The thought claws at the edges of your mind as you adjust your grip on the woman. She’s trembling, tears slipping down her face, but she stays silent. Her breath comes in short, shallow gasps, her chest heaving against your arm. You can feel her fear, taste it in the air, and it makes your stomach turn.

This whole situation, it’s just the natural order of things now. The strong preying on the weak. Demanding supplies, food, whatever it takes to keep their own people alive. You’ve seen it before, lived through it. Hell, there’s a whole organisation running rampage out there doing exactly that.

Regardless of their intentions and how they do it, it’s survival. But that doesn’t make it any easier to stomach.

And you know—you know—these people aren’t much different from you and your group. They’re just trying to survive, trying to keep moving, to keep the people they care about alive. They don’t want to hurt you any more than you want to hurt them. At least not until you give them a reason to.

And you did. The moment you grabbed the woman, the second your knife pressed against her throat, you gave them all the reason they needed to pull the trigger. Because you touched something they care about.

That’s the thing about people. It’s all about who and what they care about. And when you touch it, threaten it, everything changes. Logic, reason, morality—it all flies out the window. And now? Now they’re counting down the seconds until they can shoot you in the face without a second thought.

But they forget one thing.

They touched your people first.

"You’ve got about thirty seconds," you say, your voice steady, cold. "Drop all your weapons, let my people go, or I swear I’ll slit her throat."

You glance at Jungwon out of the corner of your eye. He’s still crouched low behind the van, waiting, watching. His expression is unreadable, but you know him well enough now to see the tension in his shoulders, he’s waiting for the right moment.

Jay is out of sight, somewhere on the other side of the van. You can’t see him, but you know he’s moving, circling, trying to find an angle. Trying to protect your group the only way he knows how.

Your gaze flickers to the others. Jake and Heeseung is still bound, but their eyes are locked on you, a mix of shock and something like pride flickering in their expression. Sunghoon remains frozen, his body tense but ready to spring into action the second he gets a chance. Ni-ki is pinned down on the hood of the van but his eyes are on you, unwavering, waiting.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch a flicker of movement in the treeline—Sunoo. His figure is barely visible through the dense foliage, but you can tell his hands are free. He must have managed to cut through the rope binding him, probably using the rough bark of a tree. That—or the guy tasked with watching him isn’t very good at his job.

You keep your gaze locked on the man in front of you, careful not to let your eyes betray Sunoo’s presence. The last thing you need is for them to catch on. Instead, you let your peripheral vision do the work, tracking Sunoo’s slow, deliberate movements as he inches forward, his footsteps light and calculated.

He’s closing the distance. The guy guarding him hasn’t noticed. Too busy shifting from foot to foot, fidgeting nervously with his knife. He’s jittery. Out of his depth. They’ve clearly never done this before. Not properly, at least. There’s no confidence in the way he stands, no calm resolve you’d expect from someone used to wielding power.

But the man closest to you—the one with everything to lose—is different.

His jaw clenches tight, muscles flexing as he shifts his weight. You can tell he’s getting impatient, barely containing his frustration. His hand twitches at his side, fingers curling and uncurling like he’s itching to do something, anything. He keeps glancing at the rifle on the ground—probably kicking himself for letting go of it in the first place.

“What’s your plan here?” he sneers, voice low and venomous. His eyes bore into you with disdain. “Think you’re walking out of this alive?”

God, you hope so.

But hope isn’t a strategy, and you know that better than most. You don’t answer him. Instead, you move deliberately, swinging your free hand up to cover the woman’s face, pressing your palm over her eyes. She gasps, stiffening in your grip, her hands scrabbling weakly at your arm. She doesn’t fight hard enough to hurt you—too paralysed by fear.

The man in front of you frowns, taking a cautious step forward, his confusion clear in the crease of his brow. Yes, that’s right. Let him think you’re escalating the situation. Let him think you’re panicking, acting out of desperation.

But It’s nothing more than a calculated move—meant to look like you’re trying to intimidate her further. Really, it’s to cover her vision. Keep her from seeing Sunoo.

“Shh,” you murmur harshly against her ear, low and threatening. Your voice doesn’t waver, even as your heart pounds relentlessly in your chest. She lets out a muffled whimper, trembling, and you press your hand more firmly over her face. The other man with the rifle steps forward, his brow furrowing in confusion. Perfect. Let him focus on you. Let him take the bait.

Sunoo is closer now, creeping along the treeline like a shadow. His footsteps are almost silent, his movements fluid and precise. He’s patient, careful. Waiting for the right moment.

Behind you, you sense Jungwon shift slightly, adjusting his stance. You know he’s seen Sunoo too. His hands hover near the discarded rifle on the ground, his body taut like a coiled spring, ready to move at a moment’s notice.

But it’s Jay’s absence that nags at the back of your mind. Where is he? He should have circled around by now, taken position. The fact that he hasn’t reappeared yet only heightens the tension coiling in your chest.

“Let her go,” the man demands, his voice harder now. “We’re done playing games.”

Games? You almost laugh at that. This isn’t a game. This is survival. Still, you keep your tone even, your grip steady. You tilt your head, letting a slow smirk curl at the corners of your mouth. “It’s kind of fun though, isn’t it?” you mock, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “This little game.”

Sunoo’s almost there now. Just a few more steps. He’s inching closer, creeping along the treeline with the precision of someone who knows how to stay invisible. His hands flex at his sides, ready to act.

And then—

The sharp crack of a branch echoes through the air like a gunshot. The noise is deafening in the tense silence, slicing through the moment like a blade. Your heart lurches into your throat as the man with the rifle reacts instantly, swinging his weapon toward the sound, his finger tightening on the trigger.

“Sunoo—now!” you shout, your voice breaking through the moment of standstill.

Bang.

A singular gunshot rings out.

part 2 - warmth | masterlist | part 4 - blood

♡。·˚˚· ·˚˚·。♡

notes from nat: *laughs menacingly* i'll shout out the person who guesses the title of the next part first when i post it HAHAHA also lowkey had a breakdown writing this part because of the whole sequence at the back. it was so challenging trying to portray her anxiety and levelheadedness at the same time.

perm taglist. @m1kkso @hajimelvr @s00buwu @urmomssneakylink @grayscorner @catlicense @bubblytaetae @mrchweeee @artstaeh @sleeping-demons @yuviqik @junsflow @blurryriki @bobabunhee @hueningcry @fakeuwus @enhaslxt @neocockthotology @Starryhani @aishisgrey @katarinamae @mitmit01 @youcancometome @cupiddolle @classicroyalty @dearsjaeyun @ikeucakeu @sammie217 @m1kkso @tinycatharsis @parkjjongswifey @dcllsinna @no1likeneo

taglist open. 1/2 @sungbyhoon @theothernads @kyshhhhhh @jiryunn @strxwbloody @jaklvbub @rikikiynikilcykiki @jakesimfromstatefarm @rikiiisoob @doublebunv @thinkinboutbin @eunandonly @wilonevys @sugarikiz @jellymiki @adoredbyjay @rebeccaaaaaaaa @strawberryhotlips @baedreamverse @bamguetismee @flwwon

non-gray/underlined = cannot tag

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weeping-treee · 2 months ago

Text

A Desperate Man- Part 8

Simon is so desperate for you, and he—still—can't bring himself to care.

All parts here

1536 words

(It's 6am again.. so enjoy it my pretties😭)

With the way Simon's hand reaches down to softly squeeze your thigh when Soap teases the both of you about being deranged and perfect for one another, you can finally confirm you're not delusional.

Simon plucks a strawberry from your bowl and pops it into his mouth—casually, like he's done it a hundred times before.

As if you’ve been together for years.

You give him a pouty glare, and he just shakes his head with a smirk as he squeezes your thigh once more.

In fact—his hand never leaves it. He rests it there, steady and warm—like he needs the comfort.

Like he needs you.

You're comfortably included in their morning chat. Gaz and Soap both seem more than happy to have you there, engaged in the jokes and conversation with them. Both ecstatic that Simon finally has someone who pushes the gloomy raincloud that lingered above his head away—hopefully for good.

You sip your coffee, listening to Soap rant about some post he read online, when the mess hall doors open and their captain walks in.

Price.

His normally warm and welcoming presence turns serious as he heads straight for your table. All the men turn somber, nodding in greeting.

Price glances at each of them, but his gaze lingers—brief but questioning—on how close you and Simon are before he speaks.

His tone brooks no argument.

"Mission debrief in ten. Wheels up in an hour. Don’t be late." He doesn’t wait for a response before walking away.

The air changes. Everyone silently prepares for what’s to come. You just sit there, watching Simon’s subtle shift—the way he finishes eating quickly, the tension in his shoulders, the hardening of his eyes.

He glances at you, and his expression immediately softens when he sees the anxiety in your gaze.

He smiles gently. "Don’t you worry about me, love. I’ll be back before you know it." He rubs your thigh softly, then leans in and presses a quick kiss to your forehead before pulling his balaclava back down.

He exchanges glances and nods with the others as they clear the table.

"Hey," you stop him with a hand on his upper arm. "Be safe out there… okay?"

He huffs out a light chuckle as he stands. "Always am." His hand lingers on your shoulder before he follows Soap and Gaz to discard their trays. He gives you one last look before leaving the mess hall with them.

You get up and refill your coffee, shaking the anxiety away before heading to the medbay. But your mind lingers on Simon.

Forty-five minutes later, Simon appears in the medbay doorway. Kitted up and ready to leave.

One date in, and here he is—waiting for your attention just to say goodbye before a mission. It makes your heart melt and ache all at once.

You finish tending to your current patient, heart fluttering the whole time, before stepping into the hallway where he waits.

"So?" you ask softly, looking up at him.

"Standard op. Should be back tonight." He says it like Ghost—voice clipped, cold. The softness from last night tucked neatly away.

You nod. "Come see me when you’re back? Even if it’s late. Wake me up. Please."

He smirks beneath the mask. "Down that bad for me already, are ya?"

You roll your eyes and playfully shove his chest. He doesn’t budge. "Shut up."

You’re quiet for a beat before he pulls you in—wrapping those big, strong arms around you as he cradles your head to his chest. His gloved hands rub your head and back softly. You respond instantly, wrapping your arms around him. Not caring about how uncomfortable the vest and its attachments are.

You pull back and look up at him, a smirk tugging at your lips as you echo the night before.

"Can I?" you ask, nodding toward his mask.

He chuckles and makes it easier for you, pulling the balaclava and attached mask off.

You stand on your tiptoes and pull him down by his dog tags to kiss him.

His hands find sanctuary at your waist. Your free hand rests gently on his cheek.

This time, the kiss is different—deeper. Hungrier. Like he’s memorizing you.

Like you're memorizing each other.

It carries weight. As if both of you understand the gravity of missions.

And you do.

Anything could happen.

...

Your day continues as usual—patching up and discharging soldiers. It's a quiet night, 8pm and you've barely got a handful of charts. You’re about to go on break when the call comes over the radio.

Price’s voice. “Standby. Injured soldier incoming. Touchdown in ten.”

That’s all it takes for your heart to drop.

It can’t be him. Even if it is… you have a job to do. An oath you took—and still stand by. You shake off the anxiety and get to work.

You join the organized chaos of the medics and trauma team. Prepping the trauma bay for whatever’s about to come. Stocking up the crash cart: O Neg blood, needles, pain meds—the full list.

...

A simple mission. In and out.

That’s all it was supposed to be.

That’s all it should’ve been.

But there he is—stubborn, even as he bleeds out.

Five minutes ago, it was just a normal op: get in, get intel, get out.

But a simple slip-up just put his life in danger.

He should’ve seen the tripwire.

He knows that.

And still—he's there. Smoke and rubble around him, shrapnel from God knows what embedded in his arms, legs, and abdomen.

He blames himself, despite the wire being practically invisible.

Soap is there a minute later, sprinting toward the smoke the moment the explosion hit.

"Fuckin’ hell, Lt.," the younger man cusses as he slides to his mate’s side, assessing the damage.

"Request for backup. Ghost is down—injured but responsive. We need med-evac now." Soap speaks into the radio frantically, stemming the bleeding where he can with a gloved hand.

Simon blacks out before evac even arrives.

When he comes to, he’s on a stretcher in the helicopter. The flight medics are already working to keep as much blood in him as possible. He’s bleeding out—yet still shrugging them off.

"I’m bloody fine—" he begins before Price puts a hand on his uninjured shoulder, pressing him firmly back onto the stretcher with that stern dad look.

Simon huffs and lies down, silently pouting like a petulant child.

Price grabs the radio and informs base: a wounded soldier is inbound. Standby.

All Simon can think about is you.

How you’ll react to the news.

And then… to seeing it’s him.

...

When the chopper lands, medics rush out like always.

Your heart races, waiting to see who’s on the stretcher.

And your world crashes when you realize it’s Simon.

You start to move—instinct taking over—when Price steps in front of you.

"Call the other surgeon. You're too close to this. You want to be here? Fine. But you’re here as family, not as a doctor. Understood?"

His tone leaves no room for protest.

All you can do is nod and offer a quiet, “Yes, sir.”

As much as your heart wants to follow him inside, you don’t. Your feet carry you to Soap instead. You take his bloodied gloves, sliding them off gently.

Even Johnny—always cracking jokes—looks stunned.

"What happened?" You get no answer. You turn him to face you, away from the scene behind him. "Focus, Sergeant. What happened?"

Soap finally snaps out of it. "Tripwire went off. When I got there, he was conscious. But silent."

You nod and guide him to rinse off the blood.

"My team is damn good. Don’t worry about him—he’ll be okay." You say it as reassuringly as you can, even though your own heart aches.

You stay with Soap and Gaz. The younger men are just as anxious as you—though they try not to show it. You serve as a quiet anchor, keeping your own fear at bay.

By the time your surgical fellow comes out, you hadn’t even noticed the hours slipping by.

She gives you all an update. He’s stable—but he lost a lot of blood. They removed the shrapnel, and he should stabilize with more transfusions. He’s sedated now—for comfort. For rest.

Everyone exhales.

You let his teammates go in first. Your fellow, knowing you too well, quietly takes your caseload for the night so you can stay.

You sit outside the room, leg bouncing, eyes unfocused.

You barely register Price and Gaz leaving—offering quiet support on their way out. When Soap finally follows, giving you a small, knowing smile, you mirror it—barely.

You’re on your feet the moment he’s gone. Legs moving before your brain catches up, taking you into the ICU room.

Simon lies there—stitched, bandaged, vulnerable.

Your heart throbs.

Your chest aches.

Your head? A jumbled mess of anxiety.

You look over the injuries, assessing them automatically. You can’t help it—it’s muscle memory. Your eyes drift to his maskless face, and you blink away the tears that threaten to spill as you lean down and press a kiss to his forehead.

You take his hand and sink into the chair beside him.

The monitor beeps—a steady, rhythmic reminder that he’s still here.

Still with you.

All you can do now is wait.

Wait for him to wake up.

Wait for him to come back to you.

Taglist🏷️: @tysukier @hypertail @tessakate @givemeangstorgivemedeath

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley cod #simon ghost fluff #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley smut #call of duty #simon ghost x you #slow burn #johnny soap mactavish #john price #kyle gaz garrick #a desperate man

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sosickastro · 2 months ago

Text

Indulgence: Chapter 3

BTS x chubby reader

Poly Bts x Chubby Reader, Soulmate au and Idol au

Summary: Poor broke and isolated mc gets the chance to go to a concert with an old high school friend, with hoping to find their soulmate and see the biggest boy band in the world. A new shocking reality hits her while at the concert.

Chapter Warnings: degrading thoughts, poor writing and grammar, gender confused reader, anxiety, mc being a loner, mentions of weight insecurities, swearing, yander themes, mentions of stalking (lmk if I miss anything)

a/n: wooow look at me posting the 3rd chapter of this book that should have never seen the light of day lolol. Again, thank you for the support, guys, as well as 100 followers! If you're wondering why updates are taking too long, just blame the friend that made me start this whole thing, Lmaoo, we all know the drill. Grammarly is my lord and savior, but even they can't fix my awful spelling mistakes. If you see anything, ignore it, cause I can't be bothered to fix it lolol

word count: 2899 (so close)

(Thank you Corinnecousins on Pinterest for this picture)

Previously on Indulgence:

“Well, maybe we should head to your guy's places since it's getting late.” I changed the topic to hopefully not down Laurens' hopes too much. The other two girls agreed as we packed up and paid for our food. We walk down the once busy streets, now it's just a few stray people going home like us. When we came into view of Clare's beat-up car, I sighed in relief. Today was fun, a lot of it if I dont think about how much money I just spent, but there is still this nagging feeling in my chest that something is wrong, and that my soulmate is closer to me than I think, and with the article? I dont know what to think at all, I just want to enjoy the concert and leave this stupid city.

I watch as our soulmate gets into the back of her friend's car, and my chest aches as I see the small pout on their face. Soon, you will be with us.

The car ride back to Clare and Laurens' place was quiet; the two lovers made small talk here and there, but I couldn't find it in myself to try and pitch in the conversation. Not that I dont love to talk, I’m an oversharer at heart but after reading the headlines being posted about BTS having an 8th soulmate, I more than wanted to curl up into a hole and die, Again I am not that delusional to believe that I am their soulmate but the thought that I am still alone while these seven millionaires just gain another one; doesnt excatly sit well with me.

God–dude, get a grip, it's not that serious. The car ride dulled into a comfortable silence as we made it to the girls’ apartment, which they are somehow able to afford. The cracks on the sidewalk, paired with the old brick really show the age of the two-bedroom apartment. With the keys getting stuck in the keyhole, some mild cursing from Clare, and the strong smell of oldness, we get inside the place. Hardwood floors and two cats meowing greet me at the door. Us three shuffle to the kitchen, sitting down all the bags onto the table.

“Let me show you your room,” Lauren tells me, grabbing some of my shopping bags as the floors groan as she walks to the opposite end of the small place. Opening the door, I'm greeted with storage boxes, cat toys, and a simple-looking bed. Lauren sets down the bags on the bed and looks around sheepishly. “Sorry, it's a little messy in here.” She says lamely as her hand rubs the back of her neck. I give her a small smile. “It's fine, girl, I lived in way worse,” I say with a laugh. She lets out a small giggle, “I will let you get all set up, and one of us will call for dinner.” She gives me a pointed look. “And yes, you are eating with us.” I roll my eyes at her as Lauren closes the door behind her.

Some moments later, listening to my own breathing standing in this bare but filled room, coming to the realization I'm going to see my all-time favorite band the next day, I hear some pots and pans with some mild yelling coming from the kitchen. I sigh out loud as I flop down onto the bed, creaking and complaining as I do so. I flip myself over dramatically as I stare at the plain ceiling. A million thoughts go in and out of my head, and the one thing that stays consistent is the fact that I was so close to my soulmate, but I couldn't even catch a glimpse of him. I was so focused on the loosening of my pinky finger that I didn't even look up till it was so late. I feel like a huge idiot.

I grumble to myself as I pull out my phone. Notifications from all social media flood my home screen as I scroll through all of them, no texts, as I suspect, as I don’t have many friends. Some posts were sent to me by some online friends, mainly about the 8th soulmate of BTS being revealed. I sighed and shifted once more, sitting up with my legs crossed, head hanging low, and Google opened up. My fingers hesitated as I searched more about the soulmate of BTS. Tons and tons of articles show up in a single second as the blue light from my phone damages my eyes. More accounts of Namjoon speaking out about it, apparently, the other member with Namjoon earlier today was none other than the youngest Jeon Jungkook.

Fuck man this 8th person is so so lucky. God truly picks favorites. I sigh some more as if my own lungs can’t generate enough oxygen for my anxiety that's filling my body to the brim. I read some more pages, cross-checking with the army’s as well as official statements being published by BigHit themselves. The story goes that the boys were in a rush getting off their bus, Namjoon and Jungkook being the last ones off as Jungkook felt the tug and alerted Namjoon, who looked around and spotted their other soulmate, but, apparently, they had to be rushed out before anything could happen. Namjoon states that their 8th soulmate's gender was hard to tell, but looks a bit younger than Jungkook, but not by much.

Other than that, there's nothing. Some more paragraphs about how the members are disappointed by the events and wish to meet them, and how they hope to find their 8th soulmate. Which reading these makes me wonder if SoulTies has been updated, I mean, they have to. This mysterious group of people probably already knows this person's names and is writing them down on the page. I type the website into the browser as it loads, and chew my bottom lip nervously. As the page loads up, I got into the search bar and typed in Bangtan as the page loads

“Hey dude,” My eyes shot up to see Clare in the doorway with a bashful look on her face. I tilt my head at her as I close and lock my phone. “What's up? Did Lauren burn down the kitchen?” I laugh dryly, and Clare chuckles a little before shrugging her shoulders. “Actually, I burnt the food, it's my fault, and Lauren thinks it's better if we just order takeout.” I stand up as Clare leads me into the living room. I pat her shoulder, “It's okay, everyone burns food once in their cooking life.” We see Lauren sitting on the kitchen island, phone in hand, and looking very serious. “Pizza or Chinese?” she asks both of us. Clare plops down onto the couch with a groan. “Chinese, please, you know my order.” Lauren looks at me, “Are you okay with that?” I nod at her as I bounce over to her, peering over to look at her phone. “Definitely,” We spent the next few minutes ordering and crying over the price for delivery. Clare already has some anime playing on the tv time me, and Lauren joins her.

Time the food comes, we are already 5 episodes deep into Clare’s current obsession of the week, and eating goes by in a flash as we complain and yell at the TV. Attractive characters, people dying, weird potlines, etc, etc. I clean up after myself, stomach screaming at me from eating too much, and excuse myself to go to bed since we have an eventful day tomorrow. Lauren and Clare wish me a good night as I retire to bed, who loves to complain about my weight. I roll up in the blanket Clare gave me as I stare up at the ceiling. Sleep didn't come easily to me.

The man in front of the window chews his lip nervously, and anxiety fills the hotel room where seven men stand. Some are sitting, pretending to be calm, while others are pacing around. Hair all ruffled from the countless times of ran their hands through their hair. The silence is sickening as no one makes a move to speak. “Hyung,” The youngest starts as he looks over to the leader in the center of the room. In the middle of this mess, his eyes closed as he collected his thoughts. “I know Jungkook, I know,” Namjoon finally says, drawing the attention to himself as the others pay close attention to him. Hope fills their tired eyes as Namjoon looks more like a lighthouse in the foggy night. “SoulTies contacted the company, giving our reputation, they are holding off the name of our 8th soulmate of their own safely.” He explains calmly, but his body language is anything but that. “But,” he tries to continue, his own voice gets caught in his throat. “But, they did reveal the name to us, the company is searching for anything concerning this 8th person.” SeokJin finished the leader's sentence, placing a calming hand on his shoulder.

They give each other soft nods in understanding. “Do you think we will find her again?” Jimin's voice comes out more timid than he would like, his eyes shaking as he wishes he had stood back to at least take a look at their last person. They knew for the longest time that their soul group was incomplete, a missing puzzle piece, and another example of a metaphor for missing someone. Sleepless nights, stress, and a dozen unfinished songs center around this person. Jimin runs a hand through his pink hair.

“We dont know this person's gender, Jimin, we shouldn't just assume it's a girl.” Namjoon gently scolds him, Taehung looks off to the side as the remaining people stay silent, taking in the information. “When will this information be released?” Yoogni questions, well, it sounds more like a statement, his eyes zero in on the leader, and the only one who saw their supposed last person. Namjoon sighs as he looks around at everyone before turning his attention back to his older member. “Until we are ready to. Soulties agree to keep the information from the public till we give them the go-ahead. I would imagine this is well after the fact that we have this last person in our arms.” Yoongi hums at this, watching the youngest member pace in front of the window. “What if we dont want to release this information to the public. Kept them a secret.” Hoseok asks, posing a possibility. The possession raiding from his body is apparent. Hoseok has always been one to keep what's his close.

Namjoon shakes his head, “Not possible, as much as it would be nice. Keeping this person locked away. It's dangerous for our little soulmate, plus the media already knows about the 8th soulmate.” Hoseok grumbles at this, taking the empty seat next to Yoongi, who slings his arm across the dancer's shoulders. “But, this means SoulTies gave you the name of our soulmate, then?” Jimin asks, his hands absentmindedly tracing patterns into Taehyung's thigh, hoping it would calm his growing nerves.

Namjoon nods at this, and a small smile graces his face. “Yes, we have their name at least. Our team will be able to find her as well as–.” He gives a pointed look at Jungkook, who finally stops integrating his footprints into the floor. Wide-eyed, he looks at the leader, “--Our Jungkookie here has been following her all day today.” The other members look at him sharply. Jungkook gives a shaky nod in confirmation. Namjoon brings the younger over to the middle, a hand wrapped around his waist. He whispers lowly, “It's okay, you're not in trouble for following them, I would have advised you to do it anyway.” Jungkook looks at his leader in shock before giving him a huge smile, the embarrassment leaves his body as the excitement enters. “You should have seen them, hyung.” Stars grace his eyes, and a soft blush on his cheeks. As the other get excited at the thought of meeting this person.

“So this person's name, what is it?” A deep voice broke out, Taehyung feels his skin itch in jealousy at the two. Namjoon lets go of Jungkook as he takes a deep breath in “Their name is…”

The door busts open as I feel a weight jump onto me, I groan out as I shove the person off of me, eyes still closed. I feel hands grab onto me, shaking me more awake. “Wake up! Today is the day!” A voice screams into my ear, I open my eyes only to see Lauren sitting on the bed with the biggest smile on her face. I groan at her rolling over and trying to go back to sleep. Lauren huffs at me before she jumps off the bed and rips the blanket off of me and darts out of the room laughing hysterically. I yelp out as the cold air sends goosebumps all across my body. My body curls up to combat the cold as I debate burning down this very apartment.

I sigh dramatically as I sit up, yawning as I run my hands across my face and into my hair. I grumble as I grab my phone. I flinch at the bright light looming from the box device. ‘11:30 am’ stares back at me as I grumble some more. Slowly, I get off the bed as I check my notifications while making my way into the kitchen. “Why didn't you wake me sooner?” I complained, sitting at the kitchen island as Lauren passed me some hot coffee. Clare giggles at that, scrolling through her phone across from me, eating cold Chinese food. “Lauren thought you could use the sleep, giving you had that long bus ride.” I hum in agreement, blowing on the hot liquid before taking a slow sip, trying not to burn my tongue.

“Yep!” Lauren claps her hands. Isn't she so cheerful this morning? “We should all get ready and leave in the next hour so we can get a decent parking spot as well as a hopefully not horrible stop in line,” Clare and I agree with her as we all shuffle off to get ready. The next hour of me trying to get ready was a teenage angst nightmare coming to life. As much a I like the outfit I got yesterday and how confident I feel in it, the old habits die hard as I nitpick everything that I see. To the softness of my arms and stomach, to the slight acne on my chin, my hair not being how I wanted it to, and the fear of smelling bad, made me almost drown myself in a half bottle of perfume like those girls back in the middle school locker room

We all managed to leave semi on time, only a little bit late because Lauren couldn't find the pair of shorts she wanted to wear. Claiming anything else will ruin her perfect vision. The drive over was more or less filled with loud off-key singing and the GPS bugging out. Making us almost take a few wrong turns. Unfortunately even us trying to leave early there was no cheap parking close to the venu, seriously you pay a half of a fortune on tickets and a full fortune on paying for shitty parking. I grumble slightly as we pull into a spot, being a 10-minute walk away from the place. Double-checking we have everything and taking pictures of where we are parked, we hastily make our way out of the parking ramp and down onto the streets to the venue.

“I really need one of you to pinch me,” I say out loud as we get to our seats. I yelp as I feel a sharp pain in my side, and Lauren looks guilty. I glare at her as I take my seat. “This is so amazing!” Clare shouts, almost falling out of her seat with how jittery she is. I nod my head in agreement as I look at the stage, the big screens having “Love Yourself!” in bolden letters as everything fills in slowly. My breath gets caught in my throat as I never would have thought this moment would come. I always dream of going to a concert like this, seeing all seven of them performing. Watching them sing the songs that helped me through the darkest times, I would give anything to give each of them a hug.

I shift my attention to Clare and Lauren, who are talking about the songs they wish to hear. I giggle at them as I join in, for the next hour, we all talk about the concert, a few other armies joining in our discussion as well. We exchange social media with a few people as we all get each other hype up. The lights go out as everyone yells in excitement, as the air is buzzing with electricity, music begins to play, and the screaming gets louder. Then, at long last, all seven of the band members come out and start to sing and dance to the song playing.

Everyone gets impossibly louder as I lose my voice in my throat. Tears welled in my eyes out of shock, no, no God, no, why. My heart shrinks in my chest as I look up onto the stage, my red thread every so loose as I see it branch off into 7 different lines, all of them linking to the 7 men dancing and singing on stage. My heart physically stops in my chest as all the air in my throat quickly escapes as if even my oxygen can’t believe my fate. My body gets set into a panic as tears trickle down my cheeks, rivers quickly form on both lakes that my eyes are turning into as my reality, my fate, my life all come crashing down onto me. My soulmate, no, my soulmates are the seven superstars of the world. This can’t be happening to me, dear lord above, I was joking all those times I wanted to be (y/n) in those BTS mafia fanfics I used to read in middle school. Please don’t make this my reality, please dont let them be my soulmates. My heart can’t take it; it just might kill me.

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

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soobkwann · 2 months ago

Text

I GOT YOU || ~ LEE CHAN ⟢

Synopsis: Golden boy Lee Chan has never missed a deadline, failed a test, or skipped a study session— until you came along.

NOTES: NSFW, Dino x fem!reader, slightly dom!reader + sub!dino, riding, slight angst? brief descriptions of a panic attack, not proof read, LMK IF ANYTHING ELSE!!

WC: 1.5k || >_<

A/N; Hiiii, I haven’t posted in a bit and wanted to deliver you guys something! MY SVT POST YAY!! This was written so late into the night hopefully you guys enjoy! Likes and reblogs appreciated!

Lee Chan was used to being ahead of schedule.

Color-coded notes, flashcards organized by subject and difficulty, study playlists curated to match his mood—he had it all down to a science. Professors loved him. Group projects revolved around him. His GPA was the kind most people would kill for.

Then he started dating you.

Not that he regretted it. God, no. You made him laugh even when he was burnt out. You kissed his forehead lines of stress away. You pulled him out of the library and into your world where midnight pillow-talk mattered more than textbooks.

But the thing was… he never learned how to say no to you.

Not when you asked for “just one more episode.” of the show you both started.

Not when you begged him to ditch the study hall and get ice cream instead.

And definitely not when you snuck into his dorm room, sensually lying on top of him and whispered that you “missed him.”

So now here he was—The Ultimate Academic Weapon —sitting inside his lecture hall, palms sweaty, eyes wide, staring down at the test paper he hadn’t even realized was today. The mind where countless fun-facts used to lie now empty. Suddenly, his chest felt tight. Too tight. Like the air wasn’t getting in correctly.

He ducked out of the room mid-exam. Fast. No one even tried to stop him. His legs carried him blindly through the building until he ended up somewhere quiet—maybe a storage hallway or a back lounge—he didn’t know. All he knew was that he was freaking out.

—

You find him—slouched against the wall, face pale and hands trembling slightly as he tried to remember how to breathe right. He didn’t even notice you.

“Chan?”

His head snapped up. His eyes were glossy, panicked. You rushed to him, kneeling down beside him.

“I didn’t study,” he whispered, like it physically hurt to admit. “I didn’t even know the test was today. I—I’m gonna fail.”

Your heart ached. “Oh, baby…” You reached for his hands, grounding him with touch. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time.” Your voice was filled with regret. You knew how much your boyfriend’s education mattered to him, yet you still couldn’t help but be selfish and keep him to yourself.

He shook his head quickly. “No, don’t say that. I wanted to be with you—I still do—it’s just…” He looked away. “I don’t know how to balance all of this.”

You leaned closer, your voice soft and steady. “Let me make it up to you.” You take his hand gently, your thumb brushing against the trembling line of his knuckles.

He blinked at you.

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Come with me.”

Chan stares at you with a questioning expression, still shook with nerves.

“Come on,” you say softly, standing up and giving his hand a tug.

He doesn’t ask where you’re going. He just follows—quiet, stunned, trusting.

You lead him through the maze of a narrowed hallway lined with old vending machines and locked lab rooms.

Most of the students never come this way..

At the end of the hall is a door—unmarked except for a faded label that probably used to say STUDY BREAK ROOM before the letters peeled off.

You push it open. It’s small, kind of forgotten-looking, with a couch against the wall and a dusty whiteboard that no one’s touched in months. The overhead light buzzes faintly.

You close the door behind him. “Sit,” you whisper, nudging him toward the couch.

He does.

You take a seat beside him and he instantly scoots closer to your side, brushing your smaller shoulders against his broad ones.

You lean to face him and press your forehead against his, he’s burning up—panic cooking his skin. Your hand makes his way to his warm cheek, stroking it lightly with your thumb.

Chan lets out a low, shaky breath. Your presence alone could easily steady his heartbeat.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice cracking. “I should’ve—I should’ve been better managing my time, I should’ve cancelled some of our plans, I know you would’ve understood but I just—“

“Stop it,” you whisper firmly. “You don’t have to apologize for giving me attention.”

His eyes flick up to yours, glassy and filled with unshed tears. He doesn’t speak, but you hear his throat bob as he swallows hard.

“You’ve been holding everything together yourself,” you continue, softer now. “Trying to be perfect. Trying not to slip.”

You slide your hand down to his chest—his heart hammers beneath your palm. “But even you need a break. That’s why you have me.”

A silence stretches between you. You don’t look away.

“Let me help you feel better,” you whisper. “Just breathe. I’ll take care of the rest.”

He takes a deep breath and nods, leaning closer to you and connecting his lips to yours.

Chan’s slightly warm lips meets your glossed ones, instantly picking up the flavors from the gloss he loves so much on you.

He grabs your waist deepening the kiss, stealing your breath away. His fingers press into your sides—desperate but careful not to hurt you. Like he’s still making sure you’re really here. Really his.

You shift closer, your hand threading into his soft hair, tugging just enough to make him gasp into your mouth.

You break the kiss, a small string still keeping you and Chan slightly connected. His lips are red, glossy, and parted in shock like he doesn’t know how to breathe without you.

You look into his eyes with a soft smile, hands gently tugging at the waistband of his sweats.

“Can I?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He swallows hard, nodding eagerly before answering. “Y-Yeah. Yes —please.”

You push the fabric down slowly, just enough to free him, and he groans at the feeling of cool air against hot skin. You lean in to kiss him again—slower this time, deeper—and his hands return to your hips.

“Y/N…” he whispers, slowly trailing down to your shorts, pulling yours down too. You slide out of them with practiced ease, your underwear following after.

You straddle him warm and bare—guiding his hands back to your waist as you kiss him one more time, sweet but breathless.

You break the kiss and line yourself up with his leaking tip, the warmth of your folds teasing his slit.

His breath catches.

And then—you sink down, inch by inch, letting him feel every second of it.

Chan’s whole body tenses beneath you. His hands drift down to your thighs, holding on like he’s drowning.

“F-Fuck, Y/N,” he chokes out, eyes wide, voice wrecked.

Once your walls completely cage his cock, you stay in place, letting out a small sigh at the fullness.

Chan is already on edge, thighs slightly shivering, he screws his eyes shut tightly and leans his head back against the couch.

Your hands rest on either side of his shoulders, looking down at him you can’t help but be endeared by his fucked out expression. “You’re so tense, baby,” you murmur, leaning to give a small peck to his adam’s apple.

“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”

“You need this,” you murmur against his mouth, rolling your hips over his.

He gasps—completely unprepared for the grip you have on him. His eyes flutter shut, head falling against the back of the couch.

You start to start to quicken your pace but with every drag of your hips, Chan’s body responds like he’s being lit from the inside out.

His hands grip your thighs hard, fingers digging into soft flesh. He tries to hold still, to let you lead, but he’s trembling—jaw slack, brows furrowed in desperation.

“You feel—fuck, Y/N—so good,” he gasps, voice wrecked.

“I know, baby. Just let go. You’ve earned this.”

You shift your angle subtly and he chokes on a moan, hips bucking up instinctively. You meet him halfway, —now chasing the edge you both feel creeping up.

His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you in like he needs to anchor himself. His forehead presses to your chest, breath ragged.

“I-I’m not gonna last,” he stammers, eyes squeezing shut.

“That’s okay,” you whisper into his hair. “Let go, Chan. I’ve got you.”

With one more roll of your hips, one more squeeze of your walls around him—he shudders, clinging to you like you’re his lifeline.

You feel him spill into you with a soft, drawn-out groan. The warmth of his cum making you shiver. His body goes limp, chest rising and falling fast against yours.

You don’t move right away—just stay there, curled into him, holding his warm, trembling frame.

Eventually, you lift your head and smile. “You okay?”

Chan breathes out a laugh, cheeks flushed. “Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering open to meet yours.

You slowly try to pry yourself off of him, his strong hold on your waist keeps you in place.

“You didn’t get to cum.” He says lowly, you feel his cock hardening once more inside you.

“I don’t need to baby, this is about you.” You reply with a smile.

Chan shakes his head in disapproval and leans in to deliver a heated kiss while bucking his hips into yours.

You moan into his mouth at the sudden regain of pleasure.

Breaking the kiss off, you ask him breathlessly— “What about your exam?”

“It’ll be okay,” he replies smugly, his cock now brutally drilling into your soaked cunt.

“They’ll let me retake it, I’m top student.”

— End.

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#˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ :: soobkwann writes!#svt dino #dino x reader #dino smut #dino x y/n #seventeen x you #seventeen x reader #seventeen scenarios #seventeen drabbles #seventeen smut #svt x reader #svt fluff #svt fanfic #mingyu x reader #jeonghan x reader #seungcheol x reader #wonwoo x reader #kpop smut

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covenofagatha · 7 months ago

Text

A dance with death (and her wife) (Part 6)

You go to confront The Witch and Lady Death

Word count: 3900

Warnings: smut, fingering, more murder

You try to call Tony on the way over, but his number isn’t there. You scroll through your text messages, his thread isn’t there either. You try recent calls. Nope.

It’s like he’s been entirely erased from your phone.

You’re getting frantic, desperate, and you know that you can’t exactly look up the personal phone number for the director of an FBI branch, so on a complete whim, you check your blocked contacts.

Fucking Rio.

She must’ve gotten into your phone when she came by to get your clothes that night and made sure there was no way you could reach your life outside of Westview. No way you could get help.

Fingers gripped around the blade of the knife, you’re about to leave the room when your phone lights up with a call. Tony. You scoff, decline it, and block him. You don’t have time for that.

Grimacing, you massage the area between your eyes. You’ve made a huge mess of everything.

You unblock him and call him and he picks up on the first ring.

“Y/N, where the hell have you been?” He barks and you wince at his scolding tone.

“Things here have…developed,” you start, weighing how much you should tell him.

He scoffs. “None of my calls or texts have gone through. I thought you were dead!” You try to say something but he barrels over you. “I’m on my way to Westview right now. I’m supposed to land in about an hour. I don’t know what’s going on there, but I’m bringing you back to Miami.”

“No!” You cry out. He can’t. “Please, Director, I’m so close, I’m about to get them right now. I know who they are and where they are, I’m on my way.”

You can hear his sharp intake of breath when he realizes what you’re about to do. “Agent, stand down. That is a direct order. You are not to engage with them.”

A blush spreads through your body as you remember just how much you’ve engaged with them.

“It’ll be fine,” you assure him. “They don’t want me dead.”

The sound of him hitting the tray table on the jet reverberates through your phone and you almost jump. “Dammit, Y/N, this isn’t a game! This is life or death, and you are not to try and get them all by yourself. Turn around from wherever you are and go back to your motel and do not leave until I get there!” You’ve never heard him this mad.

But you can’t. You’ve come too far to let them slip away like this. You have your gun and maybe the element of surprise on your side. You have the power to end this tonight.

Tony’s still ranting about how irresponsible and impulsive and stupid you’re being, so you hang up. The call ironically disconnects in the middle of him saying how you never listen to anything he says.

You’re more convinced than ever that Agatha and Rio did something in the woods that day that fucked you up beyond measure.

And who was that other woman?

Somehow, after all of that, you had ended up in the hospital with hypothermia and pneumonia, and the post-traumatic and retrograde amnesia accounts for the block in your mind. Did you hit your head on something?

Or did someone hit you on the head with something?

Agatha and Rio and the mystery woman had been so shocked and afraid when you came across them doing something bad that they had clobbered you in the hopes that you would forget, or die?

It’s plausible.

If nothing else, you need answers before you kill them tonight. Maybe knowing what they did will give you some semblance of peace and you can sleep without fearing that you’re going to murder innocent people.

It can hopefully get rid of your headaches, at the very least.

When you get to the address left on the note, Agatha’s car is already parked out front. You breathe a sigh of relief and the tension in your shoulders you didn’t know you were carrying seeps out. They’re here. They didn’t send you on a wild goose chase.

Your heart is beating so fast you think it might fly right out of your chest and you try to slow down your breathing before entering the viper’s nest.

There’s no telling what you might find in there, or what tricks they have up their sleeves, so you want to be mentally prepared.

When your breaths are finally under control, you get out of the car and immediately slip on ice. You crash down to the pavement with a thud and you struggle to get your bearings and

Snow.

Clearing in the woods.

The woman beckons you forward and you find her with two other women. Out of the three, there’s two brunettes and one with gray hair. The gray-haired one looks older, lines prominent on her angry face. She’s standing against a tree.

The two brunettes smile.

When you get closer, you can see that the gray-haired lady is standing in the middle of a big mound of sticks and branches.

Why doesn’t she just move?

The cold ground bleeds through your pants and brings you back to reality. The big mound of sticks and branches coupled with the fire you started seeing…was she on a pyre?

One thing at a time, you remind yourself, pushing yourself up with the help of the car next to you.

You silently slink up to the front door. It’s slightly open. You pause and press your ear to the wood, listening for anything that might indicate a struggle happening.

Nothing.

You push it all the way open and carefully step inside, wincing when the floorboard creaks under your foot. It’s so silent in the front corridor of the house that you think you can hear your blood rushing under your skin.

There’s flickering light coming from the living room and you make your way in that direction when you hear something. You strain your ears and stop against the wall to try and discern what it is – is that a smacking noise?

Are they kissing?

You dare to peek around the corner and yes, not really to your surprise, Agatha and Rio are making out amidst a crime scene.

A dagger sits on the kitchen table next to a plate of the same cookies from their house, two purple azaleas, and two containers.

Two people, a man and a woman, are laying on the ground gasping for air. Their skin is getting tighter, shriveling, lines etching into their face as their cheeks hollow out.

Their chests are still intact though. Maybe they haven’t gotten to that step yet? Clearly Agatha and Rio have been sidetracked.

You should go help them. You should go in there and save their lives, you should stop The Witch and Lady Death. Why do you feel so hot? You must have a fever, there’s no reason your body should be this warm.

But then you look in their direction and you’re enraptured, all other thoughts leaving your head.

The skeleton mask is thrown on the floor and the glow of the fireplace lights up Agatha and Rio trying to devour each other’s mouths.

A flush of heat stutters through your body as Rio reaches her arms around Agatha’s neck and tries to pull her even closer. Agatha’s hands are clasped on her wife’s cheeks and you can see her tongue sliding into Rio’s mouth. The electricity under your skin is back, roaring to life, while your eyes move from the people on the floor, taking their last breaths, to Agatha and Rio, still kissing like their lives depend on it, to the

Snow.

The clearing.

The sound of a match striking against the matchbox.

You watch it fall, almost as if in slow motion.

A brilliant blaze of fire erupts.

Agatha’s foot squeaks on the floor as she walks Rio backwards, mouth never leaving hers. Your fingers tighten around the gun so hard you think you might snap them. You should shoot them. You should shoot them both right here, right now.

But you can’t move.

You’re stuck, rooted to the same spot around the corner, watching as Agatha’s lips trail down Rio’s neck. The younger woman’s head drops back to give her wife more room and you can almost feel the pleasure she does.

“Agatha,” Rio whines and you never thought you would hear her beg. But the mighty therapist, the same woman who poisoned you after eating you out on your couch, is reduced to holding her wife’s hair so she doesn’t move away.

Your breath comes out in sync with Rio’s, like you’re imagining that you’re her instead of you, that you have Agatha pressed up against you instead of being pressed against a wall.

Rio’s fingers dig into Agatha’s thick locks and she switches positions, whirling Agatha around, and she takes control of the kiss. Your eyes are wide, rapt with attention, not daring to look away as Rio moves down to Agatha’s chest and rips her flannel open, revealing her pale chest and lacy black bra.

Your mouth waters and the ache, the same one you felt in the woods and in your motel room, the same one you feel whenever you’re around them, floods through you, settling right between your legs.

Rio nips at Agatha’s breast over the fabric, mouthing at her nipple, and you would kill to be with them. Agatha is watching her fondly, with heat in her eyes, and you think Rio must be looking up at her.

Now would be the perfect time to shoot, so why can’t you move?

Because you like this too much, your body answers for you. You have to tug at the neckline of your sweater as you feel too hot.

Rio kneels down, hands sliding up and down Agatha’s thighs while she sucks on the smooth expanse of her wife’s stomach. Your body is swimming with desire, it’s dizzying almost, and you think you need to cum soon or you might die.

Agatha gasps when Rio sinks her teeth into her skin roughly and then soothes the spot with her tongue. She reaches up, moves Agatha’s hair out of the way, and unclasps her bra and you feel a guttural moan form in your throat. You have to bite your lip hard so it doesn’t escape.

The pale skin of her chest is flushed red and there’s a slight sheen of sweat on her clavicle. Her nipples are a dusky rose color, pebbled and hard, and you want them in your mouth so fucking bad.

Rio surges up to do exactly that, tugging on them with her teeth, and Agatha groans, eyes fluttering shut.

Your brain finally forgets about shooting them, forgets about the fact that they’re serial killers at all, and you do possibly the stupidest thing you’ve ever done in your entire life.

You put the gun into the waistband of your pants and you step out from behind the corner.

Agatha’s eyes fasten on to you immediately, but instead of looking surprised, she looks impatient. Like you should’ve been here thirty minutes ago.

“There’s our superstar,” she drawls, hands tangling in Rio’s hair, forcing her still. “What took you so long?”

You try to think of something to say, anything at all, perhaps a remark about how you caught them, when Rio rakes her eyes up and down your body and chuckles. “Look at her, Aggie. She didn’t just get here. She’s been watching.”

Agatha smirks in agreement. “I wonder what got her more hot and bothered, watching us” She nods to the surely dead couple on the ground. “-or watching them die.”

“You two are crazy,” you say, willing your hand to grab your gun, but it doesn’t obey. The heat in your voice betrays you, though.

Rio simpers, advancing toward you with Agatha in tow. You clench your teeth as they start circling you like sharks. “Want to know how we do it?” Rio purrs into your ear and you shudder.

“No,” you spit out, trying desperately hard to keep your eyes from darting down to Agatha’s breasts. She’s made no move to cover up. Her nipples are still hard.

“First,” the detective starts. “We lace the cookies with a delicate mix of hydrofluoric acid, acetone, isopropyl, and a few other things meant to just confuse test results. It slowly decomposes their body from the inside out and they’re dead within minutes.”

Rio moves your hair out of the way to press kisses to your neck and it sends goosebumps down your spine.

“And then,” Rio says right against your skin while Agatha’s hand slithers from your waist to your stomach up to around your throat. You can feel your pulse throb against her fingers. “I take my knife and carve out their hearts. The first cut is always the sweetest. After that, we use bleach to wash it away and hydrogen peroxide to eat away anything we left: blood, fingerprints, DNA.”

“Voila,” Agatha says, snapping her fingers that aren’t around your throat. You hate how wet you can feel yourself getting. “That’s how you get away with murder.”

Rio’s hands are on your hips now, squeezing in time with the hand on your throat. Your airway is constricted, you know you should be scared, but you meet Agatha’s blown-out pupils and are sure yours look the exact same.

The therapist finds your gun and disarms you. “Or in your case,” she says right into your ear, jabbing the muzzle into your back. “You just lure them into the woods while you’re unconscious and slit their femoral arteries.”

All the air leaves your lungs, both from their proximity and your own weapon being used against you.

“Get on your knees,” Agatha orders, letting go of your throat so you can immediately drop down.

Your knees hit the ground hard, but you barely even register the pain, looking up at them eagerly to await what’s next.

Rio slowly walks around until she’s standing next to Agatha and tucks the gun under your chin, forcing it up even more. “Look at how much she’s getting off on this,” she says in a hushed voice. The air between the three of you is thick with tension, the dead bodies only a few yards away completely forgotten.

“You’re capable of so much more than just being a profiler,” Agatha says wistfully, stroking your hair with some sort of affection. “You can be so much more.”

Snow.

The match drops.

Fire.

The gray-haired lady screams.

You’re running through the woods. Are you being chased?

There’s a crack as your head hits the ground.

“What did you do to me?” You ask, voice breaking. “What did you do to that woman?”

Rio drags the gun up the side of your face, traces your cheekbones, and then presses it to your lips. Instinctively, your tongue darts out to flick at the cold metal, and both their eyes flash. “You still don’t remember everything?” Rio asks.

“I remember that you killed her, and it fucked me up,” you tell them, voice level as it’s finally making sense to you. “I found you two in the woods. You burned her, and then what? You tried to kill the ten year old who saw it? And this is — what? Your way of finally tying up all those loose ends?”

Agatha snorts and Rio scoffs.

“Look at our superstar, thinking she knows everything. We don’t want to kill you,” Agatha says, rolling her eyes. Rio takes the gun away from your mouth and tosses it onto the couch.

Your gaze flicks between them, not sure who to look at. “What do you want then?”

Agatha winds her fingers through your hair and yanks you off your knees, dragging you in for a kiss, biting your bottom lip hard. A metallic taste fills your mouth and it only makes you hungrier, so you open your mouth and shove your tongue into her hot and waiting mouth.

You feel Rio’s body pressing against your back and her hand delves under your waistband to cup you over your soaking underwear. Your hips involuntarily jolt at the contact and you moan, but it’s swallowed up by Agatha’s lips.

The detective pulls your shirt over your head as Rio pushes your underwear to the side and lazily spreads your wetness around your cunt.

There’s a tugging in your gut, a burning, aching, guttural tugging that is going to be the death of you. Electricity skates through your veins, lighting up your blood and setting it to a boil.

You’ve never felt so hot in your life.

Agatha’s lips on your neck do little to quench your thirst for more and Rio shoves two fingers into you with no warning and a gasp tears its way out of you. Agatha bites on your collarbone as Rio twists her fingers and you groan loudly.

“She loves this, Rio,” Agatha says like you aren’t even there. Rio whimpers and curls her fingers, her other hand snaking around to grab Agatha’s throat. The older woman’s breath hitches as she kisses along your bra, tasting the perspiration on your cleavage.

Rio’s fingers inside you and Agatha’s mouth now sucking on your nipples, having pushed your bra down, somehow isn’t enough.

You need to feel them.

Your hands find Agatha’s breasts, kneading them and pulling on her nipples. She makes a noise against your skin and it only sears you more. You slide your fingers down her stomach, over the red marks from Rio’s mouth, and dip them into her pants.

She’s just as wet as you are, and you gingerly rub her clit, gathering wetness from her entrance and bringing it back up to swirl at her. She pants hotly against your skin and you can feel her hand creep behind you to Rio, who has set a slow pace inside you.

“Aggie,” Rio breathes and bites down onto the back of your shoulder. Agatha chuckles breathlessly and you’re able to twist your head just enough to see Agatha’s hands down the therapist’s pants too.

It makes you clench around Rio’s fingers. You’re all being fucked, and fucking someone, and you can feel Agatha’s wetness the same way Rio is feeling yours, the same way Agatha is feeling her wife’s.

You slide your middle finger into Agatha, groaning when her walls flutter around you. Rio squeezes a third finger into you and you keen at the stretch, but then she starts fucking roughly and it’s everything you need and more.

Her thumb swipes at your clit and you try to time your thrusts into Agatha with Rio’s into you.

Rio’s teeth find your shoulder blade again and dig in, and the pain just makes your body feel even more alive.

You’ve never felt like this before. The intensity is tenfold what anyone else has ever given you.

Your ring finger joins your middle and Agatha nips at the curvature of your breasts. Your free hand palms hers and you roll her nipple, enjoying the way she gets tighter around you. Rio plays with her wife’s other boob, and you don’t think you could move a muscle either way because the two women are wrapped so firmly around your body, holding you in place in the middle.

But that’s nothing new. You’ve been intertwined with them since you’ve gotten here, maybe even almost your whole life.

Agatha’s lips capture yours and you can feel her muscles in her arm strain against your bicep. You curl your fingers and find the spongy spot that pulls a resounding gasp from her mouth right into yours. Rio pauses, pulls out, and when she presses back at your entrance, your head almost falls back when you feel four fingers posed.

The detective seems to know because she chuckles against your lips, sucks on your tongue.

And then she pulls away as Rio plunges four fingers into you, the stretch burning. But the pain gives way to even more pleasure and when she twists them upward, you almost cum.

“I’m so close,” you moan and Agatha leans behind you and out of the corner of your eye, you see her kissing Rio. And then Rio pulls your head back by your hair and her mouth is on yours and then there’s a flurry of tongue and teeth and lips and you don’t even know who you’re kissing but it’s someone and it’s so good and you’re about to —

— Rio’s fingers stop inside you and you whine, frantically rolling your hips. Your fingers are still pumping at a steady rhythm inside Agatha and you can feel by the movement in her arm that she’s still fucking Rio.

“Why did you become a profiler?” Rio asks into your ear. “Tell us and we’ll let you cum.” Her thumb brushes against your clit and you’re so sensitive, you think you might be able to cum anyways with that and the fullness.

“You guys…you killed her so I wanted to know why you did, how you could,” you choke out and Agatha peppers kisses all over your chest. The livewire in your body is about to snap.

Rio gives you one harsh thrust and you almost sob. “Try again,” she orders.

Tears prick in your eyes and your fingers falter inside Agatha. You can hear Rio’s breaths becoming shorter and shallower, indicating how close she is. Agatha’s eyes dart from your dark pupils to your swollen lips. She’s still holding onto her composure, better than you and her wife are at least, but you can tell she’s on the edge.

“I don’t know,” you say, but is that the truth?

The thrumming in your head comes back, like a memory knocking on your brain, asking to be let in.

You give in.

Snow.

The clearing.

The three women: two brunettes and one with gray hair.

You can now see that the gray-haired lady is tied to the tree.

The sound of a match on the matchbox.

The match is flicked onto the sticks by someone, igniting the stake and a brilliant blaze of fire erupts.

Who set the fire?

Your eyes snap open, the entire block in your mind gone and the memories flood through your head.

“I wanted to understand why I did it,” you gasp and you know that you finally got it right when Rio starts fucking you with a renowned vigor.

It takes no time at all before you cum explosively all over her hand and the two of them follow shortly after. The feeling of Agatha orgasming around your hand triggers another one in you and you cling to both of them while you come down from the most intense high of your life.

They soothe you, whisper sweet nothings, press kisses all over your face, and you wince when Rio pulls her four fingers out of you, the emptiness filling you.

You start to shake and you don’t realize you’re sobbing until they’re kissing your lips and you can taste the saltiness from your cheeks.

“It’s okay, baby girl,” Agatha says, and they wrap their arms around you, holding you and letting you cry. “We got you. We’re not letting you go.”

You sniff and lean into their embrace, feeling whole for the first time in your life.

#agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha harkness x reader #agatha x reader #agatha x you #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness smut #agatha smut #agatha all along #agatha x rio #rio vidal x agatha harkness #rio vidal x reader #rio x reader #agathario x reader #agathario #rio vidal smut #covsfics #dance with death

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yandere-romanticaa · 9 months ago

Text

can you feel my heart?

❝ can you hear the silence? can you see the dark? can you fix the broken? can you feel, can you feel my heart? ❞

synopsis: Your love for Albedo burns brighter than any flame, but what happens when an imposter ruins everything? Furthermore, what else awaits once you start walking side by side with the imposter, only for him to end up falling for you instead?

yandere! imposter! albedo x gn! reader

a/n: this story was originally published back in earlyish 2022 and I haven't really touched it since. It was better received on my Quotev account, in which I also wrote a chapter two. However, I recently got the spark back to maybe continue this and if there's a demand, I'll post the 2nd chapter on here too and try to continue it.

The echoes of footsteps rang in your ears as you desperately tried to keep your vision steady and clear, but the endless amounts of ice and snow decided to make that task difficult for you. You had just recently stepped foot into Dragonspine, the urge to help out your friends too strong to stop. Amber had recently complained to you that a lot of strange things had been happening on Dragonspine and while she never dwelled on the details you could tell that something was terribly wrong. You were hardly a seasoned adventurer, if you could be even called one. Most of your commissions stemmed from collecting herbs, helping the locals, keeping guard of trade routes and simply cleaning up the great statue of Barbatos, which would take you countless hours because you did not posses a Vision. Even so you weren't too shabby with a sword and you had been on the icy mountain countless times much to everyone's surprise. Ever since the sudden Stromterror attack on the city, Albedo became a wonderful ally as he took you under his wing to show you all of the beauty and mysteries the world could offer. You sat through countless lectures, written and read endless theses and notes but you still lusted for more, just as much as Albedo did.

The only difference was, knowledge wasn't the only thing you craved in the long run.

It really wasn't that hard to fall for the alchemist, he was so oddly charming that you couldn't help but to be utterly smitten. He had his quirks that others thought were strange but you adored them, it were those little habits that made Albedo, well, Albedo. You wouldn't change anything about him. Your silent adoration came with a price, a price your poor heart just wasn't ready to pay - you had to suffer all by your lonesome. Albedo clearly did not see you in such a light, you were just a student and a friend to him. You doubted he even noticed your longing stares let alone the frantic beating of your heart.

Being in love was hard.

But not being loved back was even worse.

You silently hoped that by doing these tasks he would notice you, he would see you as his equal and hopefully more but that was asking for too much. You were willing to settle for anything, that's how desperate you were. Dragonspine was more than a training ground to you, it was a chance, a chance for you to seize and conquer the heart of the person you admired the most in this world because if you didn't, it felt as though the earth itself would open and it's jaws would swallow you whole! ...well, that is a bit dramatic but that really was how you felt. Even if you couldn't have him, even if he could not love you, just being by his side should be enough for you. Just seeing his face was more than enough to brighten your day.

And the day was yours to seize.

Straight ahead a bit higher on the path was Albedo, a small smile on his handsome face face as he outstretched his arm towards you, a sign that he was going to help you climb up further onto the mountain. You hid the blush that creeped up on you with the soft scarf that you wore, he really was a true gentleman. Times like this became incredibly precious to you as he would finally show you his softer side and you would end up falling in love all over again with him. He greeted you kindly and linked your hand with his own as he lead you down the Snow Covered Path towards the campsite, a comfortable silence between the two of you. Despite the wind and chilly ice, the sun was high up in the sky and its rays outstretched far into the horizon, the soft orange hues bathed the tall mountains in a ethereal glow that made you feel so warm on the inside. The company you had also made things even better than they already were.

"You look so happy right now, I could almost paint you."

Stopping dead in your tracks you turned to Albedo, his comment had caught you off guard. A bright smile was plastered all over his face, his eyes were glimmering with a mischief that you only saw on a few rare occasions. Still, he never said something like this to you, never.

Archons, was your heart going to explode?

Your stunned silence started to scare him a little so he tried to comfort you by putting his hand on your shoulder, not knowing what kind of impact this entire situation left on you. You swore on your life and everything you ever owned that if a boulder just fell from the sky and crushed you to bits you would die happy.

Making haste, you quickly ran in front of him, telling him to hurry up unless he wants to stay here out in the open until the sun sets, making this place even more dangerous than it already was. He laughed a little and caught up with you, making sure to throw some snow at you while he could. The two of you walked like that for a while, just enjoying the scenery and each others company before it was time to buckle up and get serious. It was so refreshing to see him like this, so happy and carefree. He was oddly chatty with you today though, which wasn't too unusual but it was indeed noticable. Albedo usually stated the facts and the truth, with the occasional joke if he was in the mood for it but he seemed to be quite talkative today, not that you complained. He asked you how your day was and what you did, while also sharing his own activities with you. He didn't have a lot of time to paint today unfortunately but he did finally manage to get some of his notes and experiments in order, allowing him for more free time in the upcoming days. Still chatting away with him you made sure to take the turn you usually took to get to his camp but before you could he stopped you by suddenly grabbing your wrist. Odd, you thought to yourself.

"Your camp is right here, isn't it? We always take the turn here, I know we do."

"It is but... I was having some issues so I had to switch locations, unfortunately. Here, come this way instead."

Gripping your wrist a little too tight than you would have liked, Albedo randomly just shoved you into the opposite direction, leaving you confused, downright dazed. You could have sworn that you saw some fire flickering near the entrance but you couldn't even comment on it with how hard and fast he was going right now. The happy atmosphere shifted into this very tense and awkward one, the sheer quietness was so thick you could almost cut it with a butter knife. Only the sound of your footsteps and of the bustling wind remained. You were tempted to speak up but you ended up opposing the idea as Albedo was in a very troubled mood. Was his camp raided, did someone steal something that wasn't supposed to be seen? Albedo did have quite a lot of strange but powerful things lying around the place, it's possible that someone stole some of his notes or tampered with his projects while he was outside of the hideout. Yes that must be it, you reasoned with yourself. Why else would he be acting like this?

"We're here."

Huh, well that was fast.

The new camp was located on the opposite side of the mountain and it was buried deep inside of a hard to find cave but he was smart enough to leave a few scratch marks on the wall in order for it to be identified. Not so large to be remembered by random travelers but not too small to be forgotten by him either. Quite smart of him, as usual.

Letting go of your hand, he offered to take your coat off your hands while you made yourself warmer by the fire. Letting out a sigh of relief you allow the soft flames to tickle your chilly fingers. The sudden smell of meat being cooked overtook your senses, causing you to let out a cheerful laugh. Turning your head to the side you noticed Albedo tending to his own flame, a nice, large black pot was placed over it, filled with meat and hearty veggies, perfect for a delicious stew. His eyes sparkled with joy as he grabbed a nearby spoon and carefully stirred the stew, the intense smell of it even made his stomach grumble. A comfortable silence overcame the two of you, much to your relief. That earlier interaction made you feel a little tense but it was nice seeing him in high spirits again, even a genius like him gets lonely from time to time, you pondered to yourself. Your train of thought was stopped suddenly once you noticed the unsatisfied scowl on Albedo's pretty face. Frustration was written all over it as he suddenly stood up from his chair and grabbed his jacket and bag.

"I need to go out and get a herb or two, I'll be back before you know it. There should be some nearby, they'll make the stew that much more delicious."

With his back turned to you he started walking towards the exit, but before he left he had one final thing to say to you.

"Feel free to stir that thing every once and a while, maybe even read a book if you get too bored. But don't touch anything on that table in the corner, okay?"

His tone was gentle and the request was simple so you nodded with a smile on your face, saluting him in the process. With a chuckle he turned his back to you once more as he existed the cave, his footsteps were getting farther and farther away from the cave.

Soon enough you were all by your lonesome, your only companions being the few scraps of paper that were littered on the ground, the boiling pot and the crackling fire that sat next to you. You grabbed the wooden spoon and examined it in your hand, while also keeping an eye on the stew. The hearty smell made your tummy grumble which caused you to let out a semi loud groan as you dramatically held your stomach with your free hand, your eyes still zoned in on the food. You sat there for a few minutes, just enjoying the peace and quiet. It didn't take long for your stomach to act out again, begging you to just eat something. Besides, who knew when Albedo was coming back anyway. He was definitely more familiar with the mountain and terrain than you were but that still didn't change the fact that you were starving.

Standing up from the chair you decided to look around for something to munch on before your companion turned up once more. There were a couple of old oak tables in the cave with thousands of books and even more notes scattered across their surfaces, a clear sign that Albedo had been quite busy for a while now. You quickly scanned through everything but nothing caught your eye, to top it off there was no food in sight. He probably used up the rest of his leftover supplies to cook this little feast that was bubbling away in the corner, but you digress.

Your fingers gently traced the edges of the tables as you occasionally stopped to go through the various documents, even tidying up little areas here and there. Albedo really could be sloppy sometimes which why you took this tiny liberty. As you stood there with several books in your hands you couldn't help but to look at the table in corner, the one table Albedo warned you not to go anywhere near. You first turned your head to the side, a little angry at yourself for even letting the curious thought wander into your mind but the more you wandered around, the more fidgety you became. For starters that table was suspiciously tidier than the rest but somehow had even more junk on it compared to the others. An old lamp was on it, the wick inside of it was clearly lit not too long ago. You didn't even notice that the sun had started to set and just how colder and darker your surroundings had become. The only heat source was the fire that cooked your dinner, but even that threatened to go out any moment now. You had some matches in your pocket, surely you could light up this one lantern... right? You cautiously walked towards the forbidden corner, the contents on it remaining a complete mystery to you due to the darkness that continued to expand all around you. You were barely able to make out the small lantern, it's lid already open a little bit. You reached out to your pocket and took out your matches and tried to light them up. The first one went out almost immediately. The second one stayed lit for a few seconds but before you could even get it close to the lantern, it also faded. Grumbling to yourself, you grabbed a third match and prayed to the Archons to just let you light this stupid thing already. With a steady motion, you carefully tried to grab the lantern with your other free hand but you didn't even realize just how shaky you were. The match suddenly slipped right past your fingers and the lit flame fell onto the papers that were beneath you. With a shriek you picked everything up hastily while also trying to repair the damages you stupidity caused. You cursed yourself for your clumsiness, who knew how Albedo was going to react? He even told you not to go near this dumb table, you really should have listened to him... He was definitely going to notice what you did, so, you might as well try fixing them up while you could... That would hopefully make him a little less angry with you.

Stepping closer to the entrance, you held the papers tightly to your chest as the strong wind almost knocked you over, but your determination was unwavering. You were going to fix this mess and that's final. With the few glimmers of light you finally looked at the contents of the papers, but instead of the usual notes that you were used to you were met with something much more... gruesome.

With a shriek, you threw the papers to the ground, but your eyes remained glued to them none the less. Icy chills coarsed through your veins as you looked at the images that were staring back at you, another scream threatening to break out.

On the ground was a drawing of a mutilated Albedo, with another Albedo that was standing above him with a bloody sword in his hand and a devilish sneer on his lips. The image itself was already disturbing, but it were the little details what caused you to freak out so much. The look of absolute fear in his eyes, the organs that were ripped apart from his stomach and were tossed so carelessly to the ground. His intestine decorated the bottom part of the page like grass as the Albedo above him held his weapon, his sneer forever engraved in your mind. You didn't even notice him holding a bloody heart in his other hand, the fist was high up in the air, like it was being shot up into the moon.

With shaky knees you crouched and took the papers in your hands and examined all of them. Some contained notes in a language which you could not decipher, the sharp penmanship made you woozy. Other pieces of parchment contained more drawings, each more disturbing than the last one. Human hearts, the general human anatomy, several scenes across Dragonspine were all drawn with a simple pencil but what stuck out the most were the portraits of Albedo, Sucrose and yourself. All of them were done with pristine detail, there was obvious care put into every little line. You sprinted towards the table, your anxiety skyrocketing beyond the roof, You moved everything around, hoping to find something that would explain the gory and eerie drawings but instead of answers you were met with even more questions - several pictures were hung up on the wall in front of you, all of them had Albedo as the center focus. It was him walking, eating, studying, drawing, sleeping, living...

It was beyond disturbing.

There were hundreds of little notes stuck and hidden in any corner of the table, all of which contained information about Albedo and his life. His height, his clothing, weight, everything was there. Your lungs felt like ice as you hyperventilated, your mind just couldn't comprehend what was going on. Why was he keeping so many methodical notes about himself, what was up with these sick drawings? Sick, there really was no other word to describe them. Repulsive, disgusting, sick, it was too much to handle.

To add more fuel to the fire, you suddenly felt a thin blade being pressed against your neck.

#yandere #yandere imagines #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yanderecore #yandere aesthetic #yancore #genshin impact #yandere genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin x you #albedo #albedo x reader #yandere albedo #yandere albedo x reader #genshin albedo

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pearl-nouveau · 1 year ago

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A Woman's Purpose - Cregan Stark x Reader [chapter one]

summary: Your mother, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, has always prepared you to marry and you have always resisted, terrified that you will only ever be seen as a wife. But your heart is torn when love catches you by surprise.

contains: mentions of self-harm, aged-up characters (Jace is ~19 idk)

a/n: wow i have not posted on this blog in YEARS but i lurk in tumblr reader insert oneshots like it's my part-time job, and i wrote this on AO3 so i decided to post here and hopefully get some love. i really love posting my writing even if it is not perfect, it's just a passion. let me know if i should post the second chapter and my asks are always open! xx - pearl🦪

Beauty is power, my mother used to tell me, stroking my silver hair as if it were made of golden thread. She loved my hair. Use your beauty to set yourself free. I had no idea if she meant for her words to bring some kind of comfort to me - they did not.

Sometimes, I hated her for bringing me into the world altogether. While Jace and Luke envied my resemblance to our mother, I detested sharing her light hair and lilac eyes. It seemed to me a symbol of my imprisonment - it became clear to me, hearing all this talk of my beauty and nothing else, that I was never to be loved or seen for anything else.

In my youth, the abstract concept of my fertility and status made me a formidable form of currency within the royal family. Jacaerys, older by one year, made his way as heir by training in combat and dragonriding and studying the history of Westeros and Old Valeria - I, however, was confined to studying the family trees of the realm's powerful houses, to perform the perfect Velaryon princess and eventually be bred like a cow.

I hated my life.

Many attempts were made to rebel against my predetermined future. At ten and two I sliced all the hair from my head, leaving a shaggy, uneven mess of shimmering half-bald patches that took years to grow back. I had never seen my mother so angry until at ten and four I began slicing patterns into my arms and legs to scar the perfect pale skin everyone complimented me on. Soon she required a chaperone with me at all times, which only made me more furious, and I began picking fights with my cuntish uncles and coming back from dragon rides inexplicably soaking or covered in soot. I waited for my mother to attempt to put together the puzzle I had laid out in front of her; to figure me out and decide that her daughter - the strong-willed, intelligent, adventurous one - matters more than the empty shell of a married woman that I will surely become.

At the very least, my mother allowed me the power to turn away whomever I wished. It seemed she hoped I would find someone who struck my fancy. But as time passed and my antics worsened, her grip on me tightened, and I began to fear the wost: an impending betrothal.

She frequently asked me to rack my brain and think of any previous men she had introduced me to who I may want to explore further. But I was stubborn. I maintained that no one had caught my eye, and I insisted that I would never marry. Whenever I said such things, my mother would frown at me in a way that hurt my heart. She was my greatest antagonist, but I loved her, and I knew that it saddened her to put me through such pain.

Even if there was one man who never left an impression on me, whose memory kept me awake in the darkness of night, I would never tell my mother. It was too humiliating after so many years of fighting marriage to be seduced by love.

Every so often I allowed myself to think about him before I went to sleep, to be swept up in the beautiful dream of someone's arms around me. I could imagine him saying to me, I choose you. That was what I always dreamt of hearing. I choose you, as you are. Just you.

Jacaerys tried to sympathize with me but he would never truly understand. He did allow me to partake in his own pastimes to grant me a change of scenery from the walls of King's Landing.

"It infuriates me that she herself is allowed to break barriers as heir to the Iron Throne and I must remain shackled to tradition," I complained to Jace as we sparred in a remote corner of the keep. "She gets to be immortalized as the first of her name while subjecting me to a loveless marriage."

"She was in an arranged marriage with our father." Jace pointed out, sending a particularly hard offensive move my way. I easily thwarted it.

"Well..." I trailed off. There was nothing to say, not in words, about our parents, or our parentage. It was an unspoken issue, even between Jacaerys and I who were nearly as close as twins. We supposed it would always be shrouded in mystery. We were prepared to always wonder. It seemed unthinkable to ask our mother any questions, nor our father, nor...

Strong boys, they said.

Perhaps Jace and I wouldn't speak of it because our difference in hair color had always been a sore subject. I was broken out of my thoughts by another offensive move, this one catching me by surprise. I stumbled back but recovered, moving around the side of my brother as he laughed at me in the way only an older brother would.

"I'll get you back for that," I snapped at him, but grinned. He smiled back, shrugging cockily. Bring it on, his eyes told me.

We sparred a bit more until our breaths were heavy in our throats and our swings became more jests than challenges. Eventually, he tossed his sword on the ground and fell upon a sack of grain. I sat next to him and for a moment we were not prince nor princess. We were just two siblings. I sighed, knowing it wouldn't last for long.

Jace seemed to decide to bank on the moment as well because he looked to me and spoke. "Was there really never anyone who caught your eye? Not in all those years of meeting suitors?" He thought for a moment. "There were some good ones."

"Some good ones?" I scoffed. "Who, pray tell?"

After a few moments of consideration, he began to chuckle and I rolled my eyes. The chuckle became a cackle and at this joke, I did not laugh along. We both knew that most of the options I had been presented with were vapid, shortsighted, insecure children, as were most men.

I was about to hit him to shut him up when he stopped suddenly and his face brightened with realization.

"I know a good one," Jace said, "Cregan Stark."

A flush crossed my face at the name.

Usually, I only allowed that name to cross my mind in the darkness of night, but Jace had disrupted that routine. "What about him?" I tried to ask innocently. This time my brother was the one to roll his eyes at me.

"Don't play the fool, sister," he teased, "when he came to visit those years ago everyone could see that you both took a liking to each other. Even you couldn't fight him." He nudged me playfully with his elbow. "He fights like a Northerner, and he wanted to fight for you."

"Oh, hush."

"Why did you ever turn him away anyways?"

His question silenced me. It was a painful memory. Cregan had come to treat with my grandsire and pledge his support as Warden of the North, and in those two moons he stayed at King's Landing we came to know each other well. Perhaps the reason why I had opened myself to getting to know him was because he had not come for the intention of courting me. In fact, I found him wonderfully ignorant about the social politics of the royal family, and he did not know of my existence upon his arrival.

The day we met, I was in the Godswood with a book and a porcelain cup of candied almonds. A midnight blue veil covered my thigh-length silver hair. I hated my hair, and I hated that my mother would not let me cut it. I refused to have it braided and let it fall unbrushed and wild down my back.

He had come into the courtyard without noticing me tangled in the roots of the tree. He came closer to examine the trunk thoughtfully, allowing me a glimpse of his face through the branches. I had heard of his arrival and listened from behind closed doors at their meeting, intrigued by his deep voice and foreign accent. I listened intently as he spoke a prayer in a hushed tone. All of a sudden, his gaze shifted to meet mine between the leaves as if he had known I was there the whole time.

"Apologies, my lady," he bowed his head slightly. "I did not know the Godswood was occupied."

"There is room enough for two," I said shyly. I was not accustomed to being pleasant towards men. I was known for being a beautiful devil, a menace with a sour tongue. It made me self-conscious to think that I was changing my behavior for a man. But I was merely matching his politeness; and he had no reason to falsify his kindness, since he had no idea who I was.

Luckily for me, I had no reason to overthink my words because he went silent for a long while, lost in a wordless prayer. After a quarter of an hour had passed, he came closer to me, and gestured to the root beside me.

"Do you mind if I sit?" He had asked.

I shook my head and he moved his thick cloak to drop down beside me.

"Pardon my intrusion, my lady, I find myself feeling lonely when I come to the South. The Godswood calms me."

"I understand, Lord Stark."

His eyebrow quirked. "You know who I am?"

"I'm afraid I do." I smiled. I loved having the upper hand. I decided I wouldn't tell him who I was.

"What is your role here in the castle, my lady?"

"To please lords like you." I jested. Cregan leaned back slightly, taken aback. I quickly realized the suggestive wording of my joke. "Not like that," I quickly corrected, "I was just... I mean-"

"I know who you are, princess." He chuckled at me. I was glad to be rescued from the embarrassment of my failed joke. I gazed at him questioningly. He leaned forward and gently removed the veil from my head. "Unfortunately your appearance does not allow you anonymity."

I blushed. "What have you heard about me?"

"Nothing, I admit, until your grandsire told me about you today. He told me of your age, not many years my junior, and I supposed-"

"- That I might make a fine breeder for you?" I snapped. There went the illusion of politeness. This was where they usually ran, when I became a beast instead of a beauty. A piece of work not worth the effort.

Instead, Cregan merely chuckled. "Actually, I sought a companion. A friend. Being here is lonely for me, and I thought you might show me what life in King's Landing is like. If I am to swear fealty to your family, I seek to know your customs. Your mother has told me that you are the most well-acquainted with the keep of her children."

You smiled. Had your mother truly said that? It was true, since you spent so much time darting around the palace avoiding her orders.

"Would you mind giving me a tour?" He asked. His tone was so gentle, so uncomplicated. It was like no man had ever spoken to me before. With respect, as if he were speaking to a friend. It was refreshing.

For the next few weeks, Cregan and I formed a friendship based on mutual respect. He informed me of Northern politics and asked for my opinions on complicated political matters through a Southern perspective. I introduced him to my dragon, Vermithor. Afternoons were spent in the Godswood picnicking for the purpose of introducing him to local cuisine, and evenings were spent in the library discussing literature. The relationship felt as easy as breathing to me, and I could tell he felt the same. After close to two moons, it had begun to frighten me how much I longed for his presence when we separated at the end of the day.

There had always been a tangible tension between us that toed the line between friendship and romance. Lingering gazes, intentional touches, and meaningful words kept me up at night. He opened up to me about the unique grief of losing his wife in childbirth and having to leave his infant son at home so soon afterward. I showed him the scars littered across my body, and explained to him how I hated my beauty.

He had taken my head in his hands and looked through my soul with those gray eyes.

"Your beauty... It is just a fraction of you. What is truly incredible is your kind heart, your wit, your intelligence, your soul..."

I had been unable in that moment to keep myself from kissing him, so I let my mind empty and I surged forward to connect our lips. He responded with fervor, bringing me close, the pads of his thumbs barely grazing the peach fuzz on my cheek. I could not even bring myself to feel ashamed about grabbing his tunic underneath his cloak, my fingers unknowing but desperate. He had taken my hands and pulled back, only to kiss my nose, then brow, then the corners of each eyes, and then my knuckles.

Suddenly I came too. I saw in front of me the path that had been laid for me - a wife, be it to a good man or a bad one. I was still determined not to let that happen.

As I often did, I had fled. I had avoided him until he went back to Winterfell. Two moons later, a raven came from him. I didn't dare open it, too afraid to face my actions. Even if I felt that I knew what the contents were, Cregan was not like other men I knew - thus I had always wondered what the letter said. I wondered if it was true that he truly cared for me and saw who I was inside. The thought made me realize that even I myself did not know what path may be laid in front of me. My feelings confused me, and I decided to shut the Lord of Winterfell out of my mind forever.

Except on some dark nights.

And except for now, when Jacaerys prods my arm and awaits the answer to his question. I realized I must have been silent for a long time as his voice began to register in my head.

"Lost in thought?"

"Ha-ha," I shoved him back. "Sort of."

Jace's face became serious. "I was only jesting, but perhaps I shouldn't have brought it up. I know you truly did care for him."

"How could you tell?" I asked, genuine curiosity lacing my tone. It was past the point where it was worth feeling awkward about the truth of my feelings. I was only human, after all.

"He was kind to everybody, but especially to you." Jace pursed his lips in thought. "Although at the same time, he does not treat you like you're soft. It was like he loved hearing you speak. Like your word was God."

I smiled.

Jace nudged me. "And... he looked at you like you hung the damn sun in the sky."

My heart skipped a beat hearing that. I knew it was true, but I was used to people looking at me in awe. As if I were a ball of light floating in front of them, ethereal, untouchable. Cregan was not afraid to see through me, to touch me. He made me feel held.

Emotion overcame me in that moment. I quickly scrambled up from the bag of grain Jace and I were lounging on, grasping my sword and tossing my hair over my shoulder.

"Well, it's too late now," I quickly said, "He's in Winterfell and it does not matter if he cares for me or not, I do not want the life of a housewife."

Jace stood. "Who says that getting married means you'll become a housewife? You'll be a lady, you could do whatever you please."

"It isn't just the marriage, it's the principle of it!" I cried, moving away from him towards the main training yard. "As soon as I take those vows, it means my purpose is only to bear children." As we entered the larger courtyard and grew closer to other people, he grasped my arm and spoke to me in a lowered voice.

"I know you think I do not understand, but I am soon to be betrothed as well, likely to someone I will never love."

"Well, at the end of the line, you have a throne." I spit at him, spinning on my heel and leaving him staring helplessly after me.

#hotd #house of the dragon #cregan stark #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark oneshot #cregan stark x you #cregan stark fanfic #hotd imagine #house of the dragon imagine #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #cregan x reader #cregan x you #cregan stark fanfiction

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forzalando · 2 years ago

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Seeing Someone

Lando Norris x friend!reader (female reader)

summary: Lando is finally ready to tell you how he feels when he overhears you say that you've started seeing someone - but overheard conversations aren't always what they seem. wc: 5.5k author's note: a few disclaimers: 1. let's all pretend that everyone has to spend a few weeks at MTC before the start of the season and they commute to/from London. 2. therapy and mental health help are so important - i purposefully left some things vague because people go to therapy for a variety of reasons and it should be normalized! i also didn't want things to get too heavy or potentially upset anyone by choosing to elaborate on something they relate to/hits a little too close to home. 3. this was inspired by a post i saw on my dash that said "when you said you were seeing someone i was hoping you meant a therapist". this originally started out more light-hearted, but the angst came out and i couldn't stop. feeling a little insecure about this one - thoughts and feelings in the comments/reblogs/my inbox would be so cherished and appreciated :) once again, special shoutout to @sof1shticated for being my beta reader. couldn't do this without you, Mel! warnings: mentions of reader going to therapy, mentions of reader drinking, a few curse words (i think), and angst! but there is a happy ending (even if it's a little open-ended)

Lando had searched the entirety of McLaren HQ at this point and started to worry – you were quite literally nowhere to be found. Usually, this wouldn’t phase him, since you were notorious for getting distracted or caught up in conversation with everyone you came across. You especially found ways to delay leaving MTC when you had to be there physically – the commute from HQ back to London each day was objectively the worst part of everyone coming together in the weeks leading up to each new season.

Today, however, the two of you had plans to get dinner at your favorite restaurant in London and you would never miss a chance to devour your favorite scallop risotto, cheese garlic bread, several glasses of wine, and a heaping mound of tiramisu for dessert.

He stopped speed-walking abruptly when he saw a familiar head of brown hair out of the corner of his eye.

“OSCAR,” Lando shouted, his speed-walk turning into a run. “Oscar, have you seen Y/N? She told me to meet at her office at 5:00pm but it’s 5:30pm and she is literally missing. She better have a good excuse, I hate being late.”

“Missing? Are you sure she’s not just caught up in a meeting? I saw her heading to Zak’s office around 4:45pm, did you check there?”

“Zak’s office, of course! The one place I didn’t check. Thanks, Osc, you’re the man.”

Oscar rolled his eyes – “Anytime, Lan. What are you running late for? Hot date?”

Lando didn’t miss the wiggle of Oscar’s eyebrows and slight smirk. It wasn’t a secret to the Australian that Lando had a crush on Y/N – although Lando had never confirmed or denied it, it was pretty obvious to anyone who spent more than 30 seconds around them.

“Ah, something like that,” Lando said nonchalantly, a bashful blush making its way to his cheeks.

“Good luck, mate!” Oscar threw a wave over his shoulder as he heard the retreating sound of Lando’s trainers smacking against the floor.

In truth, although you and Lando were just friends and Lando was terrified he may ruin that, he had plans to tell you about his feelings for you that night at dinner. It had been almost a year since you started working for McLaren, and almost a year of Lando pining after you in secret. He spent most days trying to convince himself he was content just being your friend, but he was determined to make 2024 his year. His first win, hopefully of many, maybe even WDC contender material, and finally plucking up the courage to be honest with you.

As Lando hurriedly approached Zak’s office, he could see that the door was slightly ajar and heard your voice trailing through the opening.

“I really appreciate you taking the time to talk to me, Zak. And a massive thank you for approving the time off on such late notice.”

“Anytime, Y/N, you know you’re like family to me and everyone here. You sure you’re ok?”

“Yes, I’m seeing someone. It’s still new so I’m not set on him yet but I have a really good feeling about it, I’m really starting to wish I had called him sooner. He actually suggested the days off, I’m seeing him on Tuesday and hopefully things continue to go well.”

Lando’s heart dropped to his stomach – all week he had been thinking about tonight. How to tell you, how you might react, how nervous he was, and each day he grew even more anxious. He was panicking – what was he supposed to do? How could he sit across from you all night knowing that he’d missed his chance?

“That’s so good to hear,” Zak said earnestly. “Keep me updated and enjoy your days off.”

Lando could hear chairs scraping and scrambled to leave the scene before you walked out of Zak’s office to find him eavesdropping. He got about 50 feet down the hallway before he heard your voice from behind.

“Lan,” you shouted. “I’m so sorry, I’m totally late but I had to meet with Zak about something and his last meeting went way over.”

You jogged a little to catch up to him – a bright smile on your face that made his heart rate skyrocket and his palms grow sweaty. He couldn’t see you feeling like this. Not tonight, not when he could barely keep himself from telling you that he would be a much better boyfriend than whoever you were dating.

“We still on for dinner? I grabbed everything I needed from my office before I met with Zak so if we leave right this second and ignore the speed limit, they may seat us,” you bumped his shoulder as you joked.

Unable to help himself, only thinking about how hurt he was even though you’d done nothing wrong, Lando blurted out an excuse. “Actually, I was trying to find you to tell you I can’t make it.”

He tried not to react when he saw your face fall a little, but he told himself it was because you were disappointed about the last-minute change in plans and not that he wasn’t going.

“You should still go though,” he offered quickly. “I’m sure you have someone you could take with you!”

Your eyes spotted Oscar across the hallway and you smiled slightly – it had been a while since you had spent time with him and you knew he was having a rough week.

“Yeah, I have someone in mind,” you mused, focusing your eyes back on Lando. “Is everything ok? Are you not feeling well?”

“No, I’m fine, I just forgot I have plans.”

“Well, we had plans. You scheduled over me?”

“It’s a last-minute thing. Date thing. Last-minute date thing.”

“Oh,” you gasped. “Oh, that’s great!” You plastered a fake smile on your face – hoping that he was just as oblivious now as he apparently is to your feelings. “I hope you have a great time, she’s a lucky girl! I’ll see you on Wednesday, I’m taking a couple days off!”

Before he had a chance to say anything else, you sped off in search of Oscar to bribe him to accompany you to dinner. While you set off across the room, Lando smacked himself in the forehead and groaned.

“Why did you tell her it was a date, you idiot,” he mumbled to himself. Now, it was his turn to speed walk through McLaren HQ, but if he had turned around just for a moment, he would have caught you stopped in your tracks staring at him longingly as he walked away.

You shook your head and sighed, continuing your quest to find the younger McLaren driver and rope him into an evening filled with good food and, if you were being honest with yourself, probably a few tears.

A few moments later, you spotted floppy brown hair bouncing as Oscar walked toward the employee parking lot.

“Oscar!” You yelled after him, increasing your pace to catch up to him.

“Hey,” he said, confusion evident on his face, “I thought you were going out with Lando?”

“He’s got a date,” you blurted. “He has a date and he canceled on me and it’s fine. I am fine. But I want my scallop risotto and tiramisu so you’re coming with me.”

“Sure, Y/N, lead the way.”

Oscar was, to put it extremely lightly, confused. Lando was completely enamored by you – anyone with eyes could see it. Oscar was wholly convinced that Lando was going to officially ask you out at dinner tonight, especially after the brief conversation they had while you were late to meet up with him.

Yet, here he was, sat across from you in a dimly lit room as you sipped on your third glass of wine and, with all the subtlety of a neon sign, wiped a tear from your lower lash line.

“It’s not that I’m not happy for him, I’m so happy for him. But canceling last minute is a dick move, right? It’s a dick move. I know I’m just his friend, sometimes I feel like just a colleague, but I’m not being dramatic, right?”

Oscar stared at you blankly – his eyes wide and a look of pure fear on his face. He considered himself good at most things, great at quite a few, but comforting a crying woman was bottom of the list of Oscar Piastri’s skills.

“It’s totally a dick move,” he nodded his head eagerly in agreement. “I just don’t get it – when I saw him earlier he was frantic trying to find you. I think he’d scoured the entirety of MTC, he was out of breath when I found him.”

“Well, at least he had the decency to find me and tell me in person that he planned on ditching me.”

“Yeah, but that’s just it, it didn’t seem like he was trying to find you to tell you that. He complained about being late and when I asked him if he had a hot date, he blushed.”

“He is literally on a hot date.”

“Ok, well, when I asked him I meant did he have a hot date specifically with you.”

You scoffed and set your glass down – as much as you loved Oscar and you knew he’d never judge you, if you had any more wine you’d end up sobbing and not just wiping stray tears away.

“As if! Lando has never once made a move on me even though I flirt, or at least try to flirt, with him any chance I get.”

“You flirt with Lando?”

“I made him a personalized Spotify playlist, had Stroopwafels overnighted to him from The Netherlands after Vegas, bought him a sweater for his birthday with a card that said ‘to match your eyes’, and I compliment him every time I see him.”

“That’s your idea of flirting?”

“Well, yes.”

“Y/N, that’s just being nice to people. You’re nice to everyone. Lando is not going to understand that you’re a little extra nice to him and that means you’re trying to woo him.”

You huffed and slumped in your seat, crossing your arms over your chest. “Ok, well, how would you flirt with Lando?”

“Did you seriously just ask me that question?”

“Yes because apparently you know all about flirting! And by the way, Logan thought I was coming onto him when I was just being nice so some people would consider my actions flirtatious.”

“That doesn’t count, Logan thinks Uber drivers are flirting with him when they say ‘have a nice day’.”

You and Oscar shared a laugh at the mention of your mutual friend – somehow an even more hopeless case than you in the world of romance.

Your laughs turned to giggles and eventually died down completely. A sigh climbed its way out of your throat, the sudden change in your mood evident to Oscar.

“It doesn’t matter anyway – he’s seeing someone so no more trying, and according to you failing, to flirt.”

“You don’t know how serious it is, maybe this was a first date and it’ll go horribly. He definitely doesn’t have a girlfriend if that’s what you’re worried about, he was just saying the other day that Lily and I make him feel painfully single. We can ask him about it on Monday!”

You frowned a bit and tried to recover, but Oscar noticed the way your face fell slightly. “I’m actually taking a few days off, I need some personal time. I won’t be back at MTC until Wednesday.”

“Is everything ok? You don’t have to tell me but if you need anything, you know I’m there for you, right?”

You smiled at Oscar – it was a rare thing to find such great friends in the people you worked with, but you got so incredibly lucky with the McLaren team, especially Lando and Oscar. “I know that, Osc. You’re a gem.”

With a nod of understanding, Oscar changed the subject to something more pleasant, and you enjoyed the rest of your evening with your friend.

When Wednesday morning rolled around, you felt like your stomach might explode from nerves. You had resisted texting Lando over the past few days to ask about his date, you didn’t want to seem too eager and hoped it would come up naturally in conversation during the day. You hadn’t talked to Oscar much, though he’d texted you a few times to check in, but you wondered if he had talked to Lando at all and if he had details on how well Lando’s date went.

You arrived at MTC fairly early, hoping to get a head start on your day. Winter break was nearly over, and you were swamped with finalizing everything for the start of the 2024 season. It wasn’t until lunch that you saw Lando at all and he just so happened to be waiting in your office, sitting comfortably in your chair, while you were walking back from your latest meeting.

“Lando! What are you doing here?”

“I, uh,” he scrambled. “I was just…I don’t know really. I guess I wanted to see you, we haven’t talked in a few days since you’ve been out.”

“Well, we’ve both been busy. You could’ve texted me. How was your date?”

“It was good. Great. How about yours?”

You smiled remembering your evening with Oscar, assuming he had told Lando at some point that he had accompanied you. “Honestly so fun, we had the best time. I hope we get to do it again soon.”

Lando cringed – jealousy rearing its ugly head as he looked down at his feet before answering. “Same, I’ll probably go out with her again this weekend.”

“Good for you,” you gritted. “I’m glad you had fun. I actually have a million things to do so if there’s nothing important…”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Just wanted to see you. I guess we’ll catch up soon? Hope you enjoyed your days off.”

Mustering up a fake smile, you told him definitely, awkwardly standing as he rose from your desk and left your office. As soon as he was far enough away that he couldn’t hear you, you groaned. The tension between you and Lando was unbearable, though you didn’t understand why it seemed to mostly be coming from him. Before you had a chance to think any further, you could hear your phone buzzing from inside your bag and begrudgingly pulled it out to see a text from Oscar.

did you go on a date over the weekend?

no? why are you asking me that?

well then why did lando just sit across from me and say ‘did Y/N tell you anything about her date?’

he was just in my office, I asked him how his date went and he asked about ‘mine’. i assumed he was talking about Friday and that you told him i brought you?

i never told him, i guess he thought you brought a real date?

You paused before responding to Oscar, confusion evident on your face and in your lack of response. Before you could type out a reply, two more texts came in.

ok something is up because i just told him that i went with you on friday and he said “i know, i saw you in her insta story in the reflection of a wine glass, i’m talking about yesterday”

insane that he looked close enough to see me in your wine glass but not the point

i literally haven’t been on a date in two years

let me figure this out

You slid your phone back into your bag and pulled out your laptop – your Lando problems would have to wait until you were at least somewhat caught up after missing two days so close to the start of the season.

Meanwhile, at a conference room table in MTC, Oscar was confused. Which, as of late, was a common occurrence when it came to you and Lando.

“Mate,” Oscar addressed Lando, “if you’re not talking about Friday, what date did you ask Y/N about? She hasn’t been on a date in forever.”

“Well then he must have canceled on her because she was supposed to have plans yesterday, it’s why she took days off.”

“I don’t know the exact reason why she took days off but she told me on Friday that she was and didn’t seem too happy about it. Said it was personal reasons.”

“Going on a date is personal.”

“Not ‘take two days off of work’ personal! Where are you even getting this information?”

Lando looked away sheepishly, afraid to admit to Oscar that he had eavesdropped on a private conversation between you and Zak. With Oscar looking at him expectantly, and a bit like a pissed-off Mum, he blurted it out.

“I heard her talking to Zak! Last week on Friday, when I was looking for her, she was in his office and the door was cracked. She had asked him for a couple days off and talked about how she recently started seeing someone and was seeing him again on Tuesday aka yesterday.”

Now Oscar was really confused. You had cried over Lando publicly on Friday, and he knew you fairly well, which meant there was no way you would be crying over Lando and going out with someone else four days later.

“I think you need to just talk to her because I promise you, she is not seeing someone. Also, what do you care? You ditched her for a date on Friday.”

Oscar had a sinking feeling in his stomach as he watched Lando’s face fall.

“Lando, tell me you didn’t.”

“I might have.”

“Jesus, Lando, you heard 30 seconds of a conversation and decided to lie to her? Because what, your ego took a blow? Some caveman instinct?”

“No, I don’t know, honestly. It just slipped out! I had planned to ask her out for real and when I heard her say ‘I’m seeing someone’, I just didn’t know how to be around her. I couldn’t be around her that night.”

“You need to go talk to her. Apologize. Preferably, immediately.”

Lando jumped up from his seat and sighed. “You’re right. She might kill me, and she has every right to, but I have to talk to her and apologize to her. Wish me luck!”

Before Oscar could do what Lando had asked, Lando raced off towards your office, barely stopping himself from tripping over his own two feet.

Across MTC, you had just settled your mind and gotten into a groove of catching up on emails and making progress on deadlines. As soon as you thought to yourself that the day was going better than expected, your office door flung open and Lando Norris was standing stiff in your doorway.

“Lan, I told you that I’m busy. What is going on?” Annoyance was evident in your voice and Lando cringed knowing that this conversation was probably not going to be very pleasant.

“Why did you take time off?”

Your body straightened in shock, of all the things he could have asked you after bombarding you in your office, you wouldn’t have guessed he would pry into your personal life.

“That’s none of your business, Lando. If you were worried about me, you could have reached out, but I haven’t heard from you since you ditched me on Friday.”

Lando could see the hurt on your face, he could see it evident in your body language. He thought back to how you had looked upset immediately when he told you on Friday that he couldn’t go with you – when he told himself it had nothing to do with you wanting to spend time with him.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I’m sorry for that, it wasn’t – I mean I didn’t, I didn’t want to not go. I just didn’t know what to do.”

“Ok, I’m totally lost. You didn’t know what to do about what, Lando?”

He steeled himself for your reaction – something he had learned by being your friend for the past year was that you held trust and truth in high regard. You didn’t like being lied to, and you didn’t like people trying to dig into your life or get information you weren’t willing to share.

“I heard you in Zak’s office. I wasn’t eavesdropping on purpose, I swear, I was looking for you because you were late meeting me. Oscar told me you might be with Zak so I went there and the door was open. And I heard you. So I lied and told you that I couldn’t go to dinner, I don’t know why I said I had a date. All I could focus on was how hurt I was, I just couldn’t be around you and then I felt so stupid and terrible for lying so that’s why I didn’t text you at all.”

You were completely and utterly perplexed – you couldn’t even react with anger at the thought of Lando listening to a private conversation and outright lying to you. What could he have overheard that he was so upset about?

“Lando, I’m still confused. What did you hear? How did I hurt you?”

“No, no, you didn’t hurt me. You have no idea how I feel about you – I was going to tell you that night.” Lando was word-vomiting at this point, he never wanted you to find out this way but he couldn’t stop rambling. “I have had feelings for you for so long, and I finally decided that I was going to tell you even if I was convinced you don’t feel the same. And now I know you don’t because you’re seeing someone and – ”

You interrupted him sternly, allowing the anger you were feeling to come forth and shoving down your confusion. “I’m not dating anyone? Is that why you asked Oscar about my ‘date’? Where did you get that idea?”

“You told Zak that you’re seeing someone and that it’s new but things are going good. I heard you say you were seeing him again on Tuesday.”

Your eyes doubled in size – if you weren’t so pissed off, you might have found humor in this, but you felt heat rising to your cheeks and your stomach churned at the thought of divulging your personal struggles.

“Lando, I’m seeing a therapist,” you hissed.

He froze for a moment, then scrambled to shut your door which was still ajar from him barging in.

“A therapist? Are you okay? What’s going on, why didn’t you tell me that you’ve been struggling?”

“No, no, you don’t get to do this right now. You don’t get to make me less angry by being kind and caring.”

“I’m not doing it to make you less angry, Y/N, I genuinely – ”

“I don’t care, Lando! You eavesdropped on my private conversation, misunderstood the context of that conversation, and then you lied to me. You hurt me. And now, because you got your feelings hurt and did things you shouldn’t have done, I have to share something I wasn’t comfortable sharing with you just yet.”

Lando was speechless – you could see the remorse on his face, the tears threatening to spill from his eyes, but in that moment you wanted him to feel even worse than you were.

“And you want to know the worst part,” you cried. “I feel the same way about you. I cried to Oscar at dinner because I thought you were with someone else, that you would have rather been at dinner with a different girl.”

“Y/N, I’m so sorry. Can we please just go somewhere and talk? Really talk this out? I know I messed up, but this doesn’t have to change things or how we feel about each other.”

You wanted to, god, did you want to – you knew Lando hadn’t done any of this on purpose. You knew he didn’t have malicious intent and you knew how hurt he probably felt at the idea of you being with someone – it was exactly the way you felt when you thought the same about him.

“I think you should go, Lan”. Despite every part of you wanting to sit and talk, you knew that you needed some time to settle down.

“Ok,” he whispered. “When you’re ready,” he paused, swallowing the lump in his throat, “if you’re ever ready, you know where to find me.”

His posture made you feel sick as he left your office – Lando was always confident, shoulders back and head held high, but as you watched him through the glass walls surrounding you, he was hunched over. Dejected. You’d only ever seen him that way a few times – after he was torn apart by the media or after making a mistake during a race.

It hurt you to see him that way. But, he had also hurt you, and you needed time.

It had been two weeks since “the incident” with Lando – that’s what Oscar started calling it and it stuck. Fight felt too strong, disagreement felt too weak, so it became something nameless. Undefined. Indeterminate. Exactly like what existed now between you and Lando.

Oscar and Lando were set to leave for Sakhir in a week and you wouldn’t see them again until you joined the team for the Australian GP. If you didn’t work things out with Lando before they left for testing, it would be well over a month without a resolution.

The thought made your eyes burn with tears – you were still upset but more than that you missed Lando. You didn’t even have to wonder if he felt the same because you’d seen him around MTC. He looked just as awful as you, if not worse, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to start a conversation.

You began packing up your things to leave the office, grateful beyond belief that it was a Friday and you’d have two days without seeing Lando’s familiar curls everywhere you turned. At least at home, you would only see them behind closed eyes and wouldn’t have to blink back tears.

A knock at your door startled you, but you assumed it was your team lead looking for your latest analytics report. At least there was one thing you could be happy about – the car data was phenomenal and all signs were pointing to an amazing season for McLaren.

You told whoever was knocking to come in, not looking up from your bag as you rifled through your files. “So sorry, Tom, I meant to bring this to you earlier but I – ”

A throat clearing cut you off, and you looked up to see Lando standing in your doorway with a bouquet of your favorite flowers and one of those cheesy “I’m sorry” balloons in his left hand. You almost giggled, but then you looked at his face and your heart dropped. Dark circles under red-rimmed eyes - he looked awful.

“I know you said you’d reach out when you’re ready to talk, and I wanted to respect that and give you all the space you need. But, we’re both miserable. At least I think you’re miserable, I know I am. I miss you terribly. I miss my friend. And if that’s all you’ll ever be to me, I can respect that and I will cherish it because the past week has been the worst week of my life.”

“Lando, I – ”

“Please, please let me get all of this out. Please let me apologize.”

You smiled slightly, nodding your head for him to continue.

“I’m sorry for invading your privacy. It wasn’t on purpose but I should have left as soon as I heard you talking because I know how important trust is to you. I violated yours and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for lying to you. It doesn’t matter if I was hurt, I could’ve just said I wasn’t feeling well or asked you about what I overheard immediately. After apologizing for overhearing, of course. I’m sorry that it took Oscar talking sense into me for me to come to you in the first place. I’m sorry that I hurt you and I’m sorry that I behaved like a child instead of talking to you about my feelings. My actions made you feel forced to tell me something personal that you weren’t ready to share. I’m so sorry, and I hope you know that I’m here for you always.”

He let out a deep breath and you watched his shoulders relax slightly for the first time in two weeks. You knew he was sorry – you’d known how sorry he was immediately when he started explaining and apologizing the first time around, but you just weren’t ready to hear it yet.

“Thank you, Lan,” you whispered as you walked towards him and took his free hand in your own. “I know you’re sorry and I know that this was all a misunderstanding that just got out of hand.”

“I am also sorry for springing my feelings on you. I wanted to tell you properly, ask you out properly, but I couldn’t explain myself without telling you. I ruined everything, it was woefully unromantic.”

“Yeah, that was a bit shit, I didn’t get my big grand gesture or anything.”

Lando’s eyes grew wide, a hopeful gleam in them. “I mean, would you – is that something you would still want? I don’t want to pressure you and I don’t want to assume that you still feel the same.”

“I do,” you said softly. “But, I think we should work on really moving past this before we officially jump into anything more.”

“I completely agree. However, I do have a reservation for two in about forty minutes to make up for ditching you, if you’d like to join me? Otherwise, I’ll have to bring Oscar. He won’t stop talking about the cheese garlic bread.”

“No, Lando, you don’t understand. He ordered three baskets. I went home and typed an apology email to Zak for ruining his diet.”

You both erupted in giggles, leaning into each other for support and out of habit. It felt so good to laugh, the weight and stress of the past two weeks rolling off in waves as Lando’s shoulder bumped yours and you heard the unmistakable laughter that you’d come to love so much.

“Maybe we should bring him anyway,” you pondered. “He’s been an exceptionally good friend to us both the past couple of weeks.”

“He can come next time, I’d like you to myself for the evening. If that’s ok?”

“More than ok, Lan. I’ve really missed you.”

He leaned in quickly, kissing your cheek gently and then nuzzling his nose against your neck, inhaling the scent of the perfume he’d gifted you for your last birthday. “Not as much as I’ve missed you,” he objected, his eyes glimmering slightly. Wet eyelashes fluttered against your neck as he stayed tucked into your side for a few more moments.

“We’re going to be late,” you whispered, with a sincere lack of urgency.

“Can we go back to my hotel room instead? Watch a movie and order in? Jus’ wanna hold you.”

Your heart constricted – as much as you wanted to tease him and say he owed you a night out and your favorite meal, you wanted nothing more than to spend the night in Lando’s arms.

“Of course, Lan. I think I need that too.”

On the way to Lando’s car, you passed Oscar who gave you both a knowing smile and a short wave. If you asked him if he had been waiting for you guys to leave, he would deny it. He would deny being so invested in your reconciliation that he waited close to an hour after he could leave for the day to make sure you were both ok. He would also deny that he tracked both of you and when it dawned on him that you were skipping your dinner, he sped to that little Italian place and stole your reservation for an order (or two) of cheese garlic bread.

He couldn’t resist sending a poorly taken picture to the group chat with the three of you and you burst out laughing when you opened it.

“Lan, Oscar somehow stole our dinner res,” you giggled, turning your phone to show Lando an unmistakable basket of bread and a follow-up text with several heart emojis.

Lando held his phone up to snap a quick selfie of you two cuddled up in bed, him leaning in for the second time that evening to place a gentle kiss on your cheek. Almost immediately after it delivered, your phones lit up with another text from Oscar.

HOT DATE FR THIS TIME?

You and Lando looked at each other and smiled, the mutual understanding of where you stood with your feelings evident.

not quite yet, but soon :)

#lando norris x reader #lando norris angst #lando norris fluff #lando norris fic #lando norris x you #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 x reader

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