#i can go on and on for hours but i also have to be quiet for hours

[firingstars]

locked in

— a sequel to match made

congressman!bucky x matchmaker!reader

summary: you and your boyfriend have been together for a strong nineteen months and counting. problem is, you’re starting to notice he’s hiding things from you.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, semi-public (?) stuffs, oral (f+m receiving), hair pulling, face grabbing, fingers in mouth, unprotected sex, backshots, fingering, window… sex…, soft dom bucky, slight sub reader, language, no use of y/n, alcohol consumption, bucky is the best boyfriend ever and loves you very much

word count: 15.2k

a/n: due to popular demand, here’s a second part! this is also my formal apology for whatever happened in love, persevering <3 please accept. // also if anyone saw this get prematurely posted with NOTHING attached you didn’t fucking see it. i wasn’t made aware until EIGHT HOURS LATER and the fic wasn’t even done yet!!! 😔 i always make my fic intro template things before my fics are done for motivation

masterlist

You almost lost your fucking job. 

You expected it, honestly. With the amount of lines you crossed, boundaries broken, and toes you stepped on… Yeah. There was only so much that your boss could take from you— star employee or not. 

Thankfully, your boss kept the whole thing quiet from the rest of your coworkers to spare you the embarrassment since you had the decency to come to her and tell her the truth. 

It still meant you had to refund Sam Wilson the entire Ador Luxury Matchmaking Package, which your boss was not happy about.

Sam, on the other hand, was over the moon. 

When he received the refund transaction, he called you almost immediately. You had to go into a private conference room to answer the call, away from your coworkers.

“Mr. Wilson,” you answered the phone, trying to keep your tone light.

“Hey, Ms. Matchmaker,” he said, suspicion in his voice. “Did Buck cancel his membership?”

“That is correct,” you said, clearing your throat. 

“I thought we had an agreement. I paid you guys extra to not allow him to bully you guys into ending the program,” Sam said. You can hear the frustration in his voice. You don’t blame him. “What happened?”

“I can assure you– the refund is not due to Congressman Barnes just cancelling the service,” you said. “In fact, he is no longer in need of my services.”

“What? Then he’s been on a date?” Sam asked. “If that’s the case, then why the refund? If the date was successful, then doesn’t Bucky get the benefits or whatever?”

There was no response from your end for a good handful of moments. You were stuck, unable to respond. You couldn’t figure out how to say the words in the most professional way possible. You needed to find the right concoction, just in case there was someone walking down the hall at that exact moment,  and overheard your conversation. 

In the end, all you could think was that Bucky was a dead man walking.

You were going to kill Bucky. You weren’t sure how you were going to do that, seeing as he was the one with the years of experience of fighting between the two of you, but you would do it. You were hoping that he would’ve told his one and only friend that he had a girlfriend. 

Then again, Bucky refused to answer any of Sam’s calls. You texted Sam back most of the time when you got ahold of Bucky’s phone, pretending to be Bucky. Bucky didn’t care that you were doing that– though you wondered if Sam would be heartbroken if he ever found out. 

“Hello?” Sam asked, calling out your name. “Are you there?”

“Congressman Barnes terminated his membership with Ador as he and I have mutually decided to pursue a more personal relationship with each other,” you quickly answered him, cringing at your own words. You took a quick breath in before continuing, “The refund is due to my own oversight, and is serving as an apology to you for wasting your time on our service. I truly hope that you will forgive me for being unable to maintain a more professional connection with the client.”

It was Sam’s turn to fall silent. You had to check your phone to make sure that the call was still active. There was a slight rustle on the other end, letting you know that he was still there– that he was on the other end, dissecting your words, gears processing through his mind.

“The matchmaker I hired is dating my friend?!” he cackled. 

“Mr. Wilson, I truly apologize for the inconvenience–” 

“There is no inconvenience!” he cut you off, still laughing. “Holy shit, let me tell you– after that first meeting with you? I asked Bucky what he thought about you as his matchmaker and his only words? He thought you were pretty. Would not say anything else. Fuck, listen, let me call you back– or let’s all go to dinner. You, me, Buck, and my girl. I gotta head down to the office and harass Bucky right now.”

You went on an unpaid suspension for eight weeks after the refund transaction went through. The HQ of Ador had to undergo a full on investigation to figure out if you were worth keeping around as an employee or not, seeing as you ended up breaking client-employee conduct. 

Your boss wasn’t awful, though. In fact, she was only pissed off about the refund because she knew that headquarters back in London would have been alerted. Either way, it was still the right thing to process the transaction. She promised you that she would be your biggest advocate during the investigation, and she would try to argue for you to get the time to be paid seeing as you were the best employee in the New York branch.

The second you told Bucky– who told Sam– you found money wired into your account the next business day. It was the same exact amount that you had refunded back to Sam. It was still more money than you would’ve made if you were working those eight weeks. 

Neither man told you how they got ahold of your bank information. Neither man would look you in the eye when you questioned them. 

So, you had eight weeks of basically overpaid, free vacation to do whatever the hell you wanted, and a new boyfriend. Which meant you spent damn near every single day in his office, cosplaying as some government worker– an intern or secretary. And you were helping him. You actually were. 

“You really don’t have to do any of this, baby,” Bucky told you. You had been coming for an entire week straight at this point.

“If I stay stationary for two months, I think I might die of brain failure,” you told him, stealing a stack of his files from him. “Besides. You look like you need some help. You should really hire a secretary. Or someone to help you out. A personal assistant, maybe?”

“I can handle it on my own,” he sighed, shaking his head. Despite his words, he looked grateful as you took the files to the lounge area of his office and spread them out on the coffee table.

“Tell that to me when you sleep more than two hours a night, handsome,” you said, tucking your legs under you.

With less sensitive information that he was allowed to hand over to you, you organized and kept tabs on. You summarized documents for him perfectly that made his life easier. You helped train other onboarding interns that didn’t know what the hell they were doing. You managed his calendar when he looked like he was about to combust into flames. You got to spend time with him during his breaks, have lunch with him, eat dinner with him, and he would drive you home, and spend the night with you most nights.

Not that anyone knew that, though. They thought you were an actual employee of this official government building in New York. With the way that you walked side by side with Bucky every single day, holding files and looking down at his work phone– they really thought that you were working for him.

“Where’s your secretary today?”

You don’t know who asked the question, and you don’t really care. There’s about three other officials in this room that barged in out of nowhere, when you were on Bucky’s lap. 

Both of you had panicked, and he had shoved you into the hiding space beneath his desk before any of them could see the scandalous position he had you in. 

Unluckily for him, he had chosen the wrong place to put you. 

“At a training session with other interns,” Bucky said, tone clipped and short. He was irritated at being interrupted out of nowhere, but also at the fact that you were ignoring his warnings. 

You grinned, pressing an innocent kiss to the hand that gripped over your wrist. Tight, but not enough to hurt you. You continued to palm over his hardening length with your free hand. 

You weren’t paying attention to any of the fancy words that were being thrown around over your head, but you were certain that Bucky wasn’t either. You rested the side of your head against his thigh, feeling the muscle tense and hardened at your touch as you continued to lazily play with him over the fabric of his dress pants. 

Bucky’s metal hand slipped from your wrist to your hair, carding through it and stopping at the base of your skull– another cautionary message being sent to you as Bucky tried to focus on the sudden meeting thrown his way. Thankfully, these men loved the sound of their own voices. They couldn’t hear you slowly unzip him, and free Bucky from the confines of his slacks. 

“Your thoughts, Congressman Barnes?”

Your boyfriend cleared his throat above you as your lips kissed the tip of his cock, wrapping your hand around the base of him to keep him in place as his dick twitched in response. You fought back the small hum that threatened to come forth as you licked up the small bead of precum that leaked out.

“It’s a very… worrying matter,” Bucky said slowly, clenching his jaw as he took in a slow breath. You licked a thin strip up from the base of his cock– focusing on the thick vein that you knew was sensitive. “That is very worrisome. And we’ll get to the bottom of this uh– worrying... issue.”

You paused at his words, unable to believe what you were hearing from him for a moment. You pulled away from him for a moment, hand still wrapped around his dick as you pressed your face to his thigh, trying to hide your laugh into his flesh. 

Bucky’s hand tugged back on your hair roughly, pulling your head back and away from his thigh. Immediately, his metal hand shifted from your hair to clasp around your face, covering your mouth. His fingertips dug into the soft skin of your cheeks, daring you to make another noise. Surprise and excitement shot through your body in response.  

You could test him. You could press it. 

You decided against it, and licked his palm instead, closing your eyes. You could feel his hand twitch against your face— he told you once that his arm was calibrated to feel sensations. That he felt nerves like his other arm did. You smiled just a little, then kissed right where your tongue had just been. 

All the while, your hand was still pumping at his dick in lazy strokes. Nothing too much, nothing that would alert anyone of your presence, nothing that would make him let out noises that were only yours to hear. 

“Right,” one of the officials said slowly. “Well– we have lunch with some of the other representatives in ten minutes. You are welcome to join us, Congressman. If your secretary comes back from her training, she is more than welcome to join us as well. Lord knows we need a little more eye candy around here.”

A chorus of laughter rang around the room, but not from Bucky. In fact, he just stared at them until their laughter became uncomfortable, and they awkwardly excused themselves. 

The second the door to his office shut, Bucky’s chair was rolled back instantly, and your hands weren’t touching him anymore. 

You were still on your knees, looking up at him as Bucky stared down at you, hand still on your face to shut you up before you had been caught laughing at his inability to form proper words with your mouth on his cock.

“You’re so pretty like this, baby,” he murmured, hand shifting to cradle your face.

A metal thumb brushed against your lip slowly, a shiver running down your spine involuntarily. His touch was gentle. Reverent. He touched you like you were made of glass. Unlike the blown out, hungry look in his eyes, the gruff, low tone of his voice as he whispered to you. 

From the corner of your eye, you saw his other hand tuck himself back into his pants. When your eyebrows furrowed in response, he let out a soft chuckle.

Bucky leaned down, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead. Then, he stood up tall. He rolled his shoulders back, but you couldn’t focus. Your eyes were on him, and the aching bulge above his zipper. 

“I have to go to lunch, sweetheart. When I get back, you’re going to get exactly what you wanted from me, okay?” 

Your boyfriend left you there. Left you partially under his desk, still on your knees. What was supposed to be you teasing him, quickly shifted into you being extremely hot and bothered. You didn’t know how long lunch would take, either. 

You busied yourself with literally anything else. Not that it worked. Every footstep that came down the corridor, you were jumping in attention like some rabbit in heat.

Except, Bucky moved like a ghost. You wouldn’t hear his footsteps. 

When he finally returned, you didn’t even hear him until the sound of the office door locking caught your attention. You barely had the time to turn around before he was all over you. Lips were on yours as he hoisted you upwards, wrapping your legs around his waist to carry you to his choice of christening. 

An arm swiped his desk clear of any debris so no pens or other office supplies would be digging into your skin. He bunched your skirt up to your hips, and pulled your panties to the side. Bucky bent you over his desk with fingers shoved into your mouth to keep you quiet as he did what you wanted from the beginning. He curtained you, his chest pressed against your back as he whispered sweet nothings to contrast the punishing thrust of his hips— letting you know that he still very much adored you, but was also extremely annoyed by your little game earlier.

Afterwards, Bucky cleaned you up gently. Kissed you softly, held you tightly in his arms. Then presented you with food that he brought back for you– he ordered you lunch while he was out eating since he knew you wouldn’t have left the office while he was gone. 

You almost jumped his bones again right then and there for how considerate he was of you.

So yes, you almost lost your job, but you weren’t necessarily upset about it. Not when you got to spend an entire month with Bucky, helping him out at work, cuddling with him at night, and waking up at whatever time you wanted the next morning. On the rare days that you weren’t at the office with him, it was because you were somewhere else– still with him. 

Eventually, you were called back into work.

You convinced Bucky to hire an assistant to take care of his little things— stuff that you did for him to make his life easier so he could focus on more pressing things. It managed to ease his workload just a little bit, but not by a lot. Bucky still managed to bite more than he could chew, and you knew he was stressed from how slow the process was for passing bills and getting change to happen. 

Despite it all, the two of you were content. Happy. Overjoyed, really. He was perfect, and he swore to the heavens that you were, too.

A cacophony of voices, poppers, music, and sparkles were blasted into your face as you pushed open the door to the office. Streamers were shot directly into your face, colors cascading directly before your eyes, showering you with colors of the pastel rainbow. 

Your coworkers, all dressed to the nines, were cheering. A few of them held flutes of champagne. Two of them held balloons– together making the number twelve together. One of them held a cake that read congratulations.

There was a catering table set for the party that was clearly waiting for you. You saw the table set, ready for everyone to dig into. You knew your boss didn’t hold back when it came to celebrating any kind of achievements, especially not your own. You were the best at what you did here.

Your grin wasn’t smug, even though you had every single right to be. You shrugged your blazer off as you sauntered into the room, allowing the applause and cheers to wash over you. You dropped your purse and other materials off at your desk as your boss approached you with a grin, hands going to your shoulders.

“My star employee– our number one matchmaker!” she cooed at you, everyone shouting around you in response to our praise. “Tell me, with this wedding upcoming this weekend, how many will you be responsible for?”

You paused, only for dramatic effect. The ceiling looked suddenly oh so interesting as you smiled. Then, you guessed, “Twelve?”

“Twelve!” your boss roared, the girls around you jumping up and down with excitement and cheer. 

“Do a speech, a speech!” your deskmate urged, and you only let out a small, playful sigh as everyone died down around you.

You were handed your own glass of champagne, led to the front of the room, and turned to look at all the girls. Girls that you worked with for the past six, almost seven years. Your boss had been doing this job for well over a decade now. There were a few new faces that had just started a few months ago. 

With your glass lifted into the air, you smiled, “Love is all around. It’s easy to find the perfect match for someone.”

They squealed, toasting to you. The cake was brought to you, letting you blow out the candles as if it was your birthday or something– just a tradition your company had for good luck. Something to bring more successful matches and weddings to your clients.

Your two clients, Luke and Jessica, were tying the knot after twelve months of dating, and another four months engaged. One year and four months— which was a relatively short time, but who were you to judge? They both told you they knew the other party was the one after the first date. Who were you to stand in the way of them? 

Just because you were fucking bitter, and jealous that you couldn’t spend time with your own boyfriend despite the fact that Luke and Jessica got together three months after you two did didn’t mean a thing. Not a single thing. 

You masked your growing irritation well with your clients. After all, your performance margins had been going through the roof within the last six months. Your productivity has never been better, your clients have never been happier with your performance, and you have been churning out perfect match after match like you might as well have been Cupid himself. 

Yet, you couldn’t find a single time for your own boyfriend. 

When you had a free night, he didn’t. There was a dinner that he had to get to, one that required secrecy amongst government officials. You understood that. You didn’t hold that against him– especially not when he looked pained to tell you that you couldn’t join him when you offered to come with him the first time he said he had the work dinner. Because you didn’t mind joining him for work related activity. You just wanted to spend time with him, by his side.

But you were a fucking matchmaker. You didn’t have any business being in a government setting, and you knew that. He knew that. The entire government knew that. 

Sometimes it wasn’t even dinner. Sometimes, he wasn’t even in the city. Or the state. Or even the fucking country. Bucky always let you know in advance when he had to travel for work, but there was usually never any chance for the two of you to meet for even a brief look at each other across the road. Just to see each other in person before he had to hop on the plane and head hours away from you.

On the rare occasions Bucky had a free night, you most certainly did not. You had a proposal to plan for. Not a policy or business proposal like he worked on. A marriage proposal. One that had you sneaking around parks in bushes, setting up trails of rose petals, hiring and arguing with musicians– things that you didn’t need your boyfriend around to trail you like a lost puppy asking you if there was something that you needed help with. 

If it wasn’t a proposal, you had another work event. A client on the verge of a breakdown because their date cancelled on them, or some bullshit like that. You would be so close to finally being in your boyfriend’s arms, but you would have to cancel on your own lover to play therapist even though you were severely undereducated and underpaid for the position. 

Bucky was understanding. Too understanding. So understanding that it made you want to bash your head into the wall. 

The two of you had working hours that were strenuous, strange, and demanding. 

Bucky hated his phone, but he still texted you often. Texted you good morning and good night every single day. He reminded you to eat at least twice a day knowing you were only running on the fuel of your own brain to make it through your work hours.

Absence definitely did not make the heart grow fonder. If anything, your heart was growing irritated. Angry. These happy couples around you were pissing you off. 

Each and every single one of your clients that reported to you that they were falling in love with the person that you set them up with, was like another person setting you up for failure. You were a ticking time bomb just ready to explode, and the only one who would ever be able to defuse you is currently locked away in his office with his pretty fucking secretary that you know he doesn’t care about, but spends more time with than you do. 

You’re not jealous of her perse. 

You’ve seen them work together. It’s strictly professional. You don’t know if she has a boyfriend, and you don’t really care if she does or doesn’t– you trust Bucky, bottom line. He hasn’t given you a single reason to not trust him. You know he has eyes for you and you only. What you’re envious of is the time that she gets to have with him. She sees him every single day. She handles his schedule, hands him coffee, speaks to him face to face, sits with him during meetings, and discusses his fucking policies with him. 

You’re jealous of the time that you don’t get to have with your own boyfriend. You haven’t seen him in over a week and a half by this point. Last time you saw him, it was for a brief lunch that lasted forty-two minutes before you both had to run into meetings. Before that, two weeks. 

You scratch angrily into your notebook, then rip the page out. You crumple it up, throwing the wasted piece of paper into the bin with a frustrated groan before scrubbing a hand down your face. 

The time on the clock reads 1:44am.

Bucky should be getting home by this time, you think. Your phone hasn’t rang otherwise. There’s no good night text yet. 

This was easier before. Easier before you got so attached to him. Easier before your world got shifted on its axis, and started to rotate around him, just a little bit. Easier when you didn’t love the man so fucking much. 

You couldn’t dwell on this though. Not when you had to go to sleep. You had somewhere to be tomorrow, and you couldn’t look like death itself. You sent off your own text to him, then let your sorrows and loneliness cuddle you to bed. 

As much as you wanted to wait for him to text you back, you couldn’t. You had a battlefield to get to. A networking event. A bride to maybe convince that she wanted to marry her groom. 

By the end of the wedding, your purse was full of business cards, and your lips were full of promises to call women on Monday to get them on your books as clients. Your face muscles hurt, your feet ached, and your heart was breaking.

Your phone was full of notifications, and not a single one of them was from your loving boyfriend. Did he get JFK’d somewhere? He couldn’t have. It would have been all over the news already if he did. Sam would have called you, too. Besides that, the serum in his veins would have him feeling the murderous intent from a thousand miles away.

You were pretty certain that he wasn’t joking when he said that he assassinated JFK, too. Except, you were drunk when he confessed that to you during a drinking game that you two were doing when you first started dating. You don’t know if you dreamt it. Bucky refuses to comment, like a true politician.

You make it through the rest of the wedding, get invited to the afterparty, decline, and step out into the street to wait for your Uber to arrive. A car pulls up to the curb that you know is not a silver hatchback like the app indicates, so you ignore it–

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing all alone on a Friday night?”

Your head snaps up at the voice. Bucky’s stepping out of the driver’s side, holding a colorful arrangement of fresh summer flowers for you, wrapped in kraft paper, tied off with a bow. He’s dressed in a formal suit– bowtie and everything. You vaguely remember him telling you that there was a gala event that was happening tonight the last time that you two had a chance to speak on the phone. He must have had a chance to slip away from there. 

“Need a ride?” he asked, feet stopping just right before you.

You let out a laugh, looking up at him. You take a moment to admire him. Bucky’s smiling at you. There’s so much love in his eyes for you. There always is. In fact, it seemed as if there was more love there than there was than the last time he saw you. You were certain that there would be double the amount the next time you would meet.

“I have one,” you sighed, deciding to play coy with him. “Coming in about five more minutes.”

Bucky clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Five minutes? That’s too long. Shouldn’t make you wait out here for even a second.”

You couldn’t fight back the grin that makes its way onto your face. You close the remaining distance between the two of you, your hand resting on his chest as you lean upwards towards him to meet his lips. Bucky’s hand wraps around your back, holding you to him to stabilize you, a small sigh escaping through his nose. 

“Hi, handsome,” you hummed, parting from him. 

Your smile only widened a little more when Bucky chased after your lips instinctively, wanting more. Wanting another kiss. You gave him just a couple more pecks before you settled the heels of your shoes back onto the cement of the sidewalk. A laugh rumbled through you at the disappointed look on his face.

“How’d you know where my wedding was, Congressman?” you asked, looking back at your phone to cancel the ride. 

“Oh you know. A birdie told me,” Bucky said, shrugging as he moved to open the passenger door for you.

“You had Redwing spy on me?’ you raised an eyebrow at him, stepping into the car..

“More like I had Sam send a trail on you tonight. Don’t know if he used Redwing,” he corrected, holding the flowers out for you to take. 

You rolled your eyes at him as you took the bouquet. He was messing with you, and you knew it. You shared your location with him on your phone a long time ago, and he only just figured out how to use the function of it a few months back. He was even shocked to find out that there was such a feature so easily accessible on regular technology. Bucky even asked you if you had his location. You didn’t, and you told him that you didn’t want it. You figured he would be weirded out by that kind of stuff as a former spy, and you were right. He was more at ease after your reassurance. 

However, he did enjoy the fact that he didn’t have to go through several satellite feeds and camera playbacks to find where you were.

In the car, the music is soft. Low. Something from the forties that you don’t really listen to unless you’re with Bucky. He’s tapping his finger on the steering wheel to the beat of the song, and you find yourself relaxing into the comfortable leather of the seat. 

Neither of you are speaking, nor do you find the need to. 

Bucky knows you. You’re exhausted after an event like this. He used to ask you how the job went, like a mission debrief. To you, it is a mission. This was your battlefield, and you just fought against enemies and kept your cool against a thousand different obstacles that could’ve made the mission go sideways.

He learned over time that you just wanted silence, the same way that he did. Bucky used to think that you wanted to talk after these events, which wasn’t totally wrong. You talked if the event went horribly wrong and you needed to vent your frustration out to someone that wouldn’t get you fired. You talked his ear off because you couldn’t say what you wanted to in front of your own clients.

Bucky misunderstood and thought you wanted to talk after every single event. Eventually, he realized that most of the time, you enjoyed the peace and quiet of a job well done. That you wanted to sit without having to force a smile anymore, to close your eyes, and feel the weight of his hand on your thigh comfortingly as he drove. 

The sound of a text message coming through cut off the music momentarily. Your eyes cracked open, and on the center screen of Bucky’s dashboard, you saw there was a message from Bucky’s one and only friend.

Don’t Respond [12:08am]: Did she find out what you’re doing yet?

“What’s Sam talking about?” you asked, shifting to reach for Bucky’s phone that was in the cupholder. 

Bucky was faster. His hand left your thigh, grabbing the device before you could. He looked at the small screen momentarily, taking his eyes off the road for just a second. Then, you watched as he long pressed the side of his phone, turning it off completely before putting it back in the cupholder.

“Nothing, sweetheart. I’ll text him back later,” Bucky said, giving you a smile before looking back at the road. His hand returned back to its rightful place on your thigh. 

You stared at the side of his face, blinking at him. There was no more music in the car, since his phone was turned off. You were left in silence, just the low thrum of the engine and your thoughts being your only source of entertainment as Bucky turned into your apartment’s parking garage.

Bucky will text him back later? Bucky will text him back later?

No the fuck he won’t. 

As much as Bucky loves new technology like a nerd loves Star Wars, he hates it all at the same time. He thinks it’s disgusting for any sane person to spend the amount of time they do glued to their phones willingly outside of educational and work purposes. He’s a man that had zero choice in life, and he prefers to see the world. If he has free time, there is no way in hell that he will waste it typing away on a tiny screen to text back anyone. 

Except you, of course. He’ll only text and call you.

His reaction was even more strange. Bucky didn’t swat your hand away or anything like that. He didn’t scramble to get to his phone before you did– but he did react. He didn’t answer you. He deflected. He’s always answered your questions to the fullest.

Besides that, this wasn’t anything new between the two of you. You always texted Sam back through Bucky’s phone. When Sam texted, you would read it out loud, Bucky would answer, and you would type what Bucky said, but in a nicer… less aggressive way. In fact, 99% of the conversations Bucky had with Sam through text was done by you. Sam still did not know of that fact, and you were not going to be the one to tell him. 

You’re still reeling in your own thoughts by the time you get to your apartment. 

You shove your downward spiral for just a moment to accept Bucky’s extremely tempting offer to shower together– which is never anything sexual. 

Bucky enjoys the intimacy of being able to hold you, bare, and help you get cleaned from your day. It’s one of his favorite things to do. You revel in the way he takes his time, hands scrubbing at your scalp slowly to lather up the shampoo. He’ll ensure that not a single part of your body goes untouched.

You do the same for him. You take great care in every part of his body. You remember the first time you touched his scars– paid close attention to them. It looked self-inflicted. Nothing like a surgery or done by doctors or scientists, like how he said the arm was attached to him. When you saw his face, you knew you were right.

Every once in a while, you can still see the dark shadow casting over his eyes when your hands run over his shoulders. You simply move to kiss against the scars to quietly remind him that you aren’t afraid of him, and you watch as the shadows fall mercy to the light.

You finish your own skincare routine faster than he does, as per usual. 

“I don’t understand why the hell I have to do this, doll,” he grumbled as you left the bathroom. “I’m over a century old.”

“And I’m trying to make sure that you don’t look like it,” you replied over your shoulder. 

Bucky huffed, but continued with the routine that you strictly put him on. He complained, but he never went against your words. You knew that he was still following it even when he wasn’t spending the night at your place, too. He’s always been a handsome man, but you would say that he’s been leveled up even more since you came around.

While he’s distracted, you move towards his bag. 

You don’t distrust him, but you’re not stupid either. Turning off his phone, saying things out of character– yeah. Something is different. What’s even weirder is that he doesn’t have any of his usual things with him. There’s only his laptop. He doesn’t have any of his regular written notebooks or calendars that he usually carries around with him. The man loves his written, visual items. He likes to flip through pages and see things with his own eyes, to be able to edit with a pen instead of a tap of his fingers.

You hear the last cap of the bottle close, and shut his bag. You’re only left with more questions as you move his bag towards the hanger where your own purses hang.

“Ah– sorry,” Bucky apologized, seeing you move his stuff. 

“It’s alright,” you hummed, thankful you were able to play off your snooping.

The two of you move towards your bed, sliding under the sheets. You settled into his arms naturally, assuming the position that the two of you had found most comfortable in the almost two years of dating. Your head rested on his bicep like it was a pillow, his metal arm coming around you to wrap around your waist to keep you cool against his furnace of a body. 

“You ever respond to Sam?” you whispered into his chest, closing your eyes to snuggle closer into him.

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned, moving to grab his phone from the nightstand behind him. You immediately shifted, just slightly– to try and see the screen.

But so did he.

With one hand, he angled his phone so that it was distorted. The brightness was down low enough that you weren’t able to properly see the messages between both men. However, you saw him silence the chat. You saw the swipe of his thumb, and the icon that signified a silenced message.

Then, Bucky put his phone face down on the nightstand before returning to you.

“Good night, doll,” he murmured to you, hand moving to tilt your head up to him. He kissed you once, twice, a third time before settling back against the pillow. “I love you.”

“Night,” you whispered back, though your mind was everything but asleep. Suspicion was creeping up on you. You could feel it– the sign of something coming. You pushed your gut feeling down. “I love you, too.”

Bucky ❤︎ [2:48pm]: What days do you think are your most free days right now?

You paused, staring at the text on your screen. This is different. This isn’t a text that you normally received from Bucky. Especially not in the middle of the work day, either. Momentarily, you want to entertain the idea that someone stole his phone, but you were certain that someone would be injured or dying if they even got close to ever trying to rob Bucky.

Me [2:50pm]: Are you asking me on a date, Congressman?

Bucky ❤︎ [2:53pm]: I’m trying to plan one instead of our random spontaneous ones, yes. Can you let me know what days work best for you so I can look at my calendar?

Last time he ‘planned’ a date, the two of you went to Romania for your first year anniversary for a week. You didn’t even realize that’s what he meant by planning a date until you were at the fucking airport with no luggage. Except he packed for you, had your passport, and everything else you could possibly need. You were just completely oblivious to the entire thing. 

Me [2:54pm]: Is this a trip kinda date?

Bucky ❤︎ [2:55pm]: No, but I do need two days of your time.

Me [2:56pm]: You’re asking for a lot, handsome.

Bucky ❤︎ [3:01pm]: I promise I’ll be worth it.

You smile at your phone at his words. Of course he’ll be worth it. You take a moment to go through your calendar, flipping back and forth between all your different events. You cross check between client meetings, event plannings, meetings with your coworkers and boss, and then text him back with your response. 

Me [3:12pm]: Weekends are really bad right now. Mondays, too. Wednesdays are also surprisingly bad… Tuesdays and Thursdays are the best. Fridays are a hit and miss.

Bucky ❤︎ [3:25pm]: Tuesdays are bad for me. Rep. dinners on Tuesday nights and Wednesday morning debriefs. Can you block out Thursday and Friday for me two months from now? The 17th and 18th. I’ll give you more details about our date when it comes closer.

Two months? That’s more than enough time to block out. You’ll even take the weekend off for good measure, just in case. Still, two months is a long time to prepare for just a date. You can’t help but tease him a little bit.

Me [3:27pm]: You don’t plan on seeing me for two months? :( 

Bucky ❤︎ [3:30pm]: You’re funny. We’ll still have our random and spontaneous dates. Like tonight. I’m picking you up for dinner. Don’t call a ride after work.

Excitement flutters in your chest. You saw him four days ago, but you’re still happy. 

Time is thankfully on your side today, and he’s waiting for you outside your company’s building. You’re starved for food, for his affection, attention, and everything in between. 

Except all of that dies once his phone rings in the middle of dinner. Bucky silences it, and you see the screen. It has a name that you don’t recognize, then his phone goes faced down onto the table. A few moments later, it buzzes, indicating there was a voicemail left. Bucky swipes the device, pocketing it safely away. 

You’re really trying to not let this bother you. But change doesn’t just happen overnight, and this is Bucky’s personal phone. This isn’t even his work phone. He leaves his work phone in his bag, permanently silenced when he’s not working. This is his phone that he carries with him that he purposely ignores, that is only supposed to have two contacts in it– yours and Sams.

Bucky drove back to your apartment, even though his apartment is closer to the restaurant that he chose for the two of you to eat at tonight. 

You’re lying awake in his arms that night, listening to the sounds of Bucky’s soft snores as he sleeps beside you. It took him a long time to be able to sleep first between the two of you. You used to see how long you could stay up, to see if you could fall asleep after him. The first time he fell asleep on your lap, you almost cried.

Now, you’re staring at his sleeping face wondering if he thinks you’re a fucking idiot. 

The signs are right there. All the blaring signs are screaming in your face, loud and angry. The hidden phone screen, calls, and texts. Hiding his calendar, and all his written notes from you. The sudden trip planning, even though there was nothing special about two months from now. Two months was your twenty third month together. Not even the second year anniversary. 

Yeah, Bucky thought you were stupid.

The biggest sign? You’re currently sleeping in your own bed, and not in his. He’s hiding something in his apartment that he doesn’t want you to find—

An engagement ring. 

You go through Bucky’s drawers like those are your own clothes to wear because they are, and he loves to see you in his shirts. You once spent an entire weekend properly organizing his apartment in a way that made sense because his junk drawer consisted of bullets and lego pieces from when Sam’s nephews came over.

You once found guns and daggers in his apartment just by dropping pens and searching for them. There’s absolutely no way that Bucky can hide a velvet box anywhere in his apartment from you that you won’t accidentally stumble across. Hell– you found a loaded nine millimeter in your own apartment, and asked what the hell it was doing there. 

“Safety,” is all he answered with.

This was your job. This is what you did for a living. You helped other boyfriends hide proposals from girlfriends like this. This is exactly what you did– this is how you told them to do it, though you were a little more slick with it. You definitely made sure your clients weren’t hiding their phones from their potential fiance’s, that’s for sure. 

You made sure that your clients did not know that they were being proposed to. It was your mission, honestly. You saw enough of those TikTok’s where women truly had that gut feeling where they knew it was happening. You refused. It needed to be a surprise. You scouted out every single person in your client’s lives to ensure that every single moment would come to be a surprise. From ensuring that their nails would be done to the ring itself- everything would be perfect. 

Your boyfriend of almost two years was planning on proposing to you in two months, and he thought you wouldn’t find out? Jesus Christ– what were you going to do with him?

Marry him, you supposed.

If you were anyone else, if you were any less stable in your emotions, you would’ve thought he was cheating on you. Hiding his phone definitely made your eyebrow twitch for half a second, if you were being honest. Thankfully, you were able to maintain a rational and sane mind.

Sane was an overstatement. You were now planning an entire wedding in your head without the engagement ring on your finger. You were anything but sane. Insanity was taking over every single cell in your brain as you stared at Bucky, imagining your future. The thought made you extremely giddy. 

A smile crept up on the corner of your lips as you moved into the warmth of his embrace. His arms tightened around you instinctively, and he let out a soft, contented sigh.

You can’t keep it to yourself as the date starts coming closer and closer. 

Mel, who has graduated as your client and now has become your friend, is sitting in your apartment, telling you about her most recent date with her boyfriend of six months. Not in a way that she would when you were her matchmaker, but as friends would. You find yourself liking this arrangement much, much more.

“Enough about me though,” she grinned, swirling the wine in her glass. “Tell me about you and Bucky. How are things going?”

“You really wanna talk about the guy that your boss hates?” you asked, raising an eyebrow at her as you take a sip out of your own glass.

“I can separate work from girl talk,” Mel said, smiling at you. 

“Well,” you said, smiling at her, “If you’re free the rest of the evening, I was wondering if you wanted to get your nails done with me?”

“Nails?” Mel repeated, raising her eyebrows at you as she brought the glass to her lips.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I think Bucky’s gonna propose to me on Thursday.”

Her eyes widened as she choked on her wine, the alcohol spluttering back into the glass. You couldn’t hold back a laugh before you jumped to your feet. You turned, rushing to grab paper towels from your kitchen to wipe off her face before it dripped, and stained her clothes. 

“Shit– shit! I’m so sorry,” she coughed, patting her face. 

“It’s okay,” you said between laughter, desperately trying to compose yourself. “Do you– do you want more wine?”

“Do I want– No! What? We need to go to the salon now! One of us needs to drive! Why the hell don’t you have a car again?!”

“Uh… I just… order a ride everywhere, or Bucky drives me,” you answered her, sheepish. “I’ll just order us a ride, we’ve both had a glass already. We don’t need to drive there, Mel.”

“Must be nice–”

A knock on your door makes you both pause. You move, going to check the peephole and find your boyfriend standing there with a box in his hands. You rip the door open, shocked.

“Bucky?” you asked, surprised. “Don’t you have a dinner to get to soon? It’s Tuesday.” 

“Yes, but I wanted to drop this off to you,” he said, giving you a smile. He leaned over the box, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. “Just a present. Saw it, thought it would look nice on you.”

“What is it?” you asked as he transferred over the gift box to you.

“A dress,” he shrugged. “What are you up to today?”

“Mel’s here,” you said, opening the door further so he could see her. He looked past you, giving her a small wave that you’re certain that she returned back. “We’re about to go get our nails done. I was about to order a ride.”

“Oh? Don’t do that. I’ll just drop you two off. You’ll go the place you always do, right? It’s on the way to the dining hall,” he said.

“What? I don’t want you to be late,” you said, frowning at him. 

“It’s fine,” Bucky insisted, shaking his head. “They can start without me. Talbot is late more than a few times anyways.”

“It’s true,” Mel said from behind you. You turned around to look at her, finding that she was gathering her jacket and purse. “Talbot is always late.”

“See? Thank you, Mel.” There’s a bit of a gloating tone to his voice that makes you smack his arm. Bucky chuckled in response, a smile settling over his face. “Come on now, grab your stuff so we can get down to the car so I’m not too late for the meeting.”

You sighed, knowing that you wouldn’t be able to change his mind and get him to leave you. You put the box on the counter to inspect once you return later, and snatch your purse from where it’s resting on the table. Both you and Mel follow Bucky down to the car. He holds open the back door for both of you to climb into the backseat like he’s your chauffeur, and not your boyfriend.

Bucky drives in silence, you and Mel scrolling through pinterest hurriedly during the car ride for inspiration pictures for your nails while trying to be subtle about the fact that you know that you’re getting proposed to. Your boyfriend doesn’t seem to notice that you know, though.

Once he pulls up to the salon, Mel thanks him for the ride and slides out. You lean over the console to give him a kiss, and he grabs your hand, stopping you.

His card is slid into your palm, and his lips are pressed against your knuckles.

“I’ll pay for you and Mel,” he said, giving you one more smile.

You want to race down the aisle right at that moment. 

Instead, you get your nails done with Mel, swallow down butterflies that are forcing their way up your throat, and get to the restaurant that Bucky told you to meet him at while he runs late at his last meeting before your date. 

It’s a beautiful skyline restaurant in the middle of New York that your own company can’t even secure a date at. You’ve tried multiple times. In fact, your own clients have wanted to get proposals done at this restaurant. It just couldn’t be done. Reservations were booked out at least a year in advance, and somehow Bucky was able to secure the two of you a spot with two months to spare. 

There’s live music playing here by world renowned musicians. The chefs are even more well known. The lighting was low so that it wouldn’t take away from the view outside the windows. The time of night that Bucky chose was perfect– New York was lit up like stars on the ground from the table that you were sitting at. 

You were dressed in the gift Bucky bought for you. A backless, square neckline gown. The straps came up and wrapped around your neck like a halter top would, and tied around the back in a thin bow, the long straps kissing down your bare spine. It was soft and airy against your skin. 

Bucky arrived earlier than you expected, but you were sure he was still later than he wanted to be. Either way, he still had another bouquet of fresh flowers in his hands for you that you two had placed under the table. Of course, he didn’t take a seat before giving you a kiss for a greeting, and murmuring his apology for not being able to pick you up.

“You look beautiful,” he said, smiling at you. “I didn’t think you would wear it tonight.”

“I thought you bought it for me to wear tonight?” you asked as he placed the flowers under the table. You watched as he sat down across from you. 

“Mm… Well, I bought it for you to wear,” he said, reaching his hand across the table. You easily slipped your hand into his, watching him bring your hand to his lips to press a kiss to your knuckles. “When you wear it doesn’t matter to me. I just wanted to get you a present.”

“A present?” you echoed, unable to stop smiling. “Even though you already do so much for me?”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t want to do more for you, sweetheart,” he hummed. 

The waiter came by not a moment later, letting you know that the first course would be coming out momentarily. You both thanked him, and returned back to each other. 

“I feel like I don’t see you as much these days,” Bucky said, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. 

“It’s been really busy for the two of us,” you agreed, releasing a soft sigh. 

“I even contemplated hiring you as a matchmaker again, just so I could block out meetings and have you in my office again,” he joked, making you laugh. 

“That would be fraudulent, Congressman,” you teased, shaking your head. “For you and me.”

“What are they gonna do? Threaten to fire you again?” 

You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face is firmly planted, and isn’t moving anytime soon. 

“You know our dates don’t always have to be somewhere big or fancy, right?” you tell him, your voice softer.

“So you keep telling me,” he hummed, squeezing your hand a little bit. “I know, sweetheart. You said this to me. Several times. I just want to do this for you. For me, too.”

You soften a little bit at his words. You’re gently reminded of a previous confession he told you from when you first started dating. 

You told him that you were more than happy to just get takeout with him on busier days. To get fast food or something quick, if it meant that you two would have more time to spend together. You didn’t always have to sit down and eat somewhere nice. He said that he knew that, and he liked doing that, too. But as a kid in the forties, he always wanted to be the kind of man that was able to spoil his girl rotten– to bring his woman to the best places and sign the check without batting an eye.

This kind of thing was healing for him, too.

“We can get burgers tomorrow,” Bucky said, giving you a smile. 

“Deal,” you grinned at him. 

The first course of your meal was brought out to the two of you. You two never spoke about work over food. It was your rule. You talked about everything else. Sam. Mel. Your parents and siblings. The conversation Bucky overheard while he was in line getting coffee the other day. 

There was always a lot to talk about when you two never saw each other. Then again, you were certain that you would ever run out of words even if you spent every waking moment with him. If there ever came to be a time when that was the case, you were more than happy to spend the rest of eternity in a peaceful silence with him, as long as you were able to hold him. 

Topics never ran dry between the two of you. More than once, you two needed to remind yourselves to shut the fuck up in this fancy establishment because there were sophisticated people around you having very nice meals. 

“I’ll book a private room next time,” Bucky said under his breath.

“I don’t think they’ll let us come back, babe,” you whispered between soft, gasping laughs. “The host is glaring at us.”

That only made Bucky snort, which made you have to cover your own mouth in return before another fit of giggles wrecked through your body. It took everything in the both of you to compose yourselves before dessert was brought out. 

Once your table was cleared off, and you were left with just your wine glasses and the centerpiece on the table, you and Bucky smiled at each other. You were strangely reminded of your first date with him. So you told him that.

“This reminds you of our first date?” he said, his nose crinkling just slightly. “How so?”

“Mm… The ambiance,” you said, shrugging just a bit. You rested your chin in your palm. “You. Me.”

“It’s always you and me on our dates, sweethearts. Who else would it be?” he sarcastically joked, rolling his eyes at you.

“You know what I mean,” you scoffed at him, watching him smile a bit. “I just… feel a bit nostalgic. Just a… who knew, kinda thing.”

“I knew,” Bucky said, making you pause for a second.

“You knew?” you repeated his words, raising an eyebrow at him. Your heart picked up speed just a little bit. This felt like the start of a speech– the start to the speech.

Bucky cleared his throat, and your chest grew tighter at the sound. He shifted in his seat, and you watched as his hand dipped into his pocket. Oh, shit. It’s coming. Your eyes shot back to his face, and your mouth went dry.

“I thought you were the matchmaker, sweetheart. You didn’t know that we would end up together?” he clicked his tongue at you. “I knew I couldn’t trust a matchmaker that didn’t have a boyfriend of her own.”

“I have a boyfriend now, don’t I?” you asked, but thought– Not for long.

He smiled, eyes meeting yours. Then, a velvet box is produced. Placed right on the table in front of you. You can’t bring yourself to look down at it, not when Bucky is still looking at you.

“I want to spend the rest of my days with you. And it’s getting really fucking hard when I can’t see you all the time because we both live on opposite sides of the city, and have awful work schedules that keep us apart. Even so, I love you so much and I can’t imagine being with anyone else,” he confessed to you. Bucky takes in a deep breath that slightly shakes before he whispers out your name, nervous, “Will you move in with me?”

You freeze.

What the fuck?

“Move in with you?” you echoed, blinking.

Bucky opens the box. It’s a key. A shiny, silver key.

“I bought a penthouse in Manhattan,” Bucky said, sliding the box over to you to inspect the key even closer. “I want to see you more often. Not just the random dates when we both have time– I want to sleep next to you every night, and wake up to you in the mornings.”

“A penthouse… In Manhattan,” you said slowly. 

Your brain was short circuiting. In fact, it was fried. Gone.  You were still staring at the key, lips parted. He… wasn’t proposing to you tonight?

“I’m sorry. Am I– Are we moving too fast?” Bucky suddenly asked you, and you could hear the panic in his voice. 

Your head snapped up to look at him. His eyebrows were furrowed in worry, eyes scanning all over your face. You slapped yourself mentally. You could only imagine how you looked just now– staring at him and the key with a blank look on your face, and giving him no answer.

“What? No! No, Bucky– we’re not moving too fast at all,” you reassured him, hands darting across the table to take his hands in yours. “Most couples our age move in together by the first year or so. Mel and her boyfriend are already planning on moving in together when Mel’s lease breaks in a couple months.”

Bucky lets out a breath of relief, and you watch as his shoulders drop. You feel guilt surge through you at the pure stress that is released from his body at that moment.

“God– I just… You know, the penthouse… It’s fully furnished. I’ve been– Sam has been helping me out, actually. He helped me meet with some realtors, get the place fully furnished and decorated,” Bucky said, dragging a hand down his face. “I’ve been living there for the past two and a half months while waiting for all the furniture to come in, and it’s finally all finished as of yesterday and it never occurred to me that you could possibly say no until just now.”

“You’ve been– Is that why you take me back to my apartment after our dates? Instead of yours?” you asked, surprised.

“I already got rid of my other place, sweetheart,” he said, giving you a small, anxious smile. You can see him bouncing his leg up and down just slightly. “Got the penthouse so that we could have enough space for your stuff and mine.”

“You took me out to a fancy dinner, and prepared a speech for me to ask me to move in with you?” you whispered, your heart feeling fuller by the minute.

“I grew up in a time where couples didn’t move in together until after they were married, doll,” Bucky reminded you, his voice small and soft. 

You’re speechless, for just a moment. You take your eyes off of him, to look down at the key in the box, a smile finding its way on your face. You look back up at him, watching as he mirrors your own smile.

“I think it’s time to head home, Congressman.”

Bucky trails behind you quietly as you step into the penthouse. The elevator directly leads to your home– something that you had only ever seen in movies before. You barely took a step into the rest of the home before you were running numbers into your head.

“What’s my share of the bills?” you asked, heart racing as you look up at the high ceilings. “And don’t you dare tell me not to worry about it, Bucky. If we’re living together, then we’re splitting bills. I don’t care that you make more money than me–”

“We’ll talk about finances later, baby,” he cut you off, hands rubbing your shoulders to soothe you. “We’ll split it equally based on our incomes. Just go explore for right now.”

“I don’t know if I can afford this, Bucky,” you said, turning around to look at him. You were freaking out.

“Your salary was put into play when I got this place,” he said, cradling your face. “Sam and I met with the banks. We met with financial advisors to ensure that this would be feasible for both you and me. Please don’t ask how we got your information.”

“Is there a loan–”

“There’s no loan,” he assured you. “Do you trust me?”

“I do,” you answered instantly. 

Bucky gave you a smile, then pressed a kiss to your lips. You melted into his embrace, feeling your worries wash away with just one touch. He wrapped his arms around you, rubbing your back comfortingly. When he pulled away, another kiss was pressed to your forehead. 

“I’ll give you all the documents later to look over. If you still hate it, then we’ll break the lease, and we’ll find somewhere else. I don’t care where we live. I just want to be somewhere that’s with you,” he promised. 

“Okay,” you breathed, nodding. 

Bucky’s hands leave your body, and he steps away from you. He’s quietly urging you to take a look around. 

You had two floors to explore. The elevator opened up the first floor, where there was an open concept condo. You were staring at a living room, kitchen, floor to ceiling windows, and there were built-in shelves on the wall that held Bucky’s books– and had empty spaces for your own books. Down here, there were two doors– one leading to a half bath and the other leading to a home office. 

You saw two desks, separated by a bookshelf. Bucky’s desk was already occupied with his things, while yours was empty and waiting to be used. On the shelf were pictures and other momentos collected by Bucky over the duration of your relationship so far. There was space for you to decorate with whatever you pleased. On the other end of the room was a daybed and some other furniture to cozy up the area. 

Upstairs, there was a platform for another lounge area. Also furnished to hang out in case the two of you ever had any guests come over. Here, your bedroom was behind a closed door. 

A king sized bed was in the middle of the room, along with two nightstands on either side of it. There was a full walk in closet, Bucky already having his stuff hanging on his side with yours waiting to be filled. The windows are touching the floor just like they are outside, and Bucky has the curtains pulled back so you can see the city lights from your bedroom window. 

“What if I get fired?” you whispered, Bucky’s arms wrapping around your waist from behind. “I won’t be able to pay my share of the bills.”

“I’ll pay then,” he said, pressing kisses to your bare shoulder and neck.

“What if you get fired? Or what if you quit? Join Sam and return back to action?” you asked, heart racing. 

Bucky chuckled against your neck, squeezing you against him. 

“Iron Man’s late wife donates a large portion every year to the heroes that do the work. If that’s me, then we’ll be fine,” he promised you. “It’s how Sam gets paid right now.”

“Oh,” you breathed, nodding a little dumbly. You tilted your head to the side, allowing him more access to more skin. You felt him smile against you. 

“You like the place then?”

“I can’t believe you hid this from me.”

“I hide you from the entire American government so you can continue to walk the streets of New York without being asked about politics that you don’t care about. I hid Romania from you. I think I can hide an apartment,” he listed off, scoffing softly at the end.

All of your hair is gathered in one of his hands to get it out of his way as he continues to press dizzying, nipping kisses against your body.

“A penthouse,” you managed to correct.

“Same thing,” he muttered, and you felt him tug on the string of your dress. A moment later, the soft fabric was sliding down your body, and pooling at your feet, “C’mon, sweetheart. We gotta christen the place.”

You’re being turned around to face him, and your arms move to slide up his chest and wrap around his neck. Bucky’s lips met yours in an opened mouthed kiss halfway, tongue gliding over yours easily. 

Your eyes fluttered shut, and you sighed into his mouth, feeling his hands glide up and down the sides of your body. Something about him being fully dressed, and you with nearly nothing at all did something to the both of you.

Your fingers grabbed onto the collar of his dress shirt, tugging him into a deeper, needier kiss. Bucky groaned into your mouth in response, hands finding purchase on the flesh of your ass. His fingers dug into the supple skin, making you moan softly as he groped you.

Your boyfriend gently pushed you until your back was pressed against the window. Once you were situated where he wanted you, Bucky parted from your lips, only to attach himself to your neck once again. He kept shifting, moving down to your collarbones, your chest, your sternum. Lower. 

You watched helplessly, every inch of you thrumming with desire and need as Bucky slowly shifted to his knees in front of you. His hands moved down your body, dragging your underwear down your legs as he positioned himself to sit back on his feet, thighs spread just a bit for comfort. You’re certain your breathing was erratic as you stared at him.

Usually, you were the one on your knees for Bucky. This was different– this was new. You were more than certain that you would still be the one at his mercy.

“Don’t your feet hurt in these heels?” Bucky asked, hand closing around one of your ankles to lift your foot off the ground slightly. “They look uncomfortable. Very tall.”

“It’s not too bad,” you whispered, unable to trust your voice to speak any louder. “I like these shoes.”

“I bought them for you,” he said, tilting his head as he examined the design a little closer.

“That’s why I like them,” you murmured.

Bucky chuckled just a little bit, shaking his head. He moved slowly on purpose, undoing the strap around your ankle and slowly pulling it off of your foot like you were some sort of princess. He gently led your foot back down to the floor, keeping an eye on your posture to make sure you didn’t suddenly fall from the shift in height. When he was certain that you were stable, he switched over to the next foot, repeating the same process.

Except, he didn’t put your foot back onto the ground. Bucky lifted your leg higher, pressing a kiss to the inside of your ankle, eyes closing as he did. When they opened, he met your gaze, never looking away as his kisses went higher and higher up your leg. He settled your knee to hook around his shoulder, moving to fully kneel before you as his hands went to grab your waist, keeping you pressed against the glass behind you. A firm, tight grip. 

You wouldn’t be able to run from whatever he was about to do to you. Not that you would ever want to.

If he wasn’t holding you up, you were certain you would’ve folded over and collapsed the second his tongue met your heat. The vibrations from the groan sent shockwaves through your entire body that made you tremble above him, hands darting to grab onto his shoulders for an extra form of stability as his tongue parted your folds and flattened against you.

“Shit, Bucky,” you moaned, your mind going blank. All you could feel was him. 

His tongue dipping just slightly in and out of your aching hole, only to drag up to your sensitive clit to swirl figure eights around the nub. Bucky’s hands on your torso, his thumbs  drawing circles into your skin to soothe you against the stimulation he was giving you. The heat of his body radiating against yours from where he was positioned beneath you. 

“Your pussy is squeezing around nothing, baby,” he murmured, pulling away from your core for just a moment, a whine ripping through your throat in response. Bucky clicked his tongue at you, and kissed the inside of your thigh to subdue you. “Have I been neglecting you? Not fucking you enough for you to be so needy?”

Definitely not. Maybe it was the fact that everything was crashing down on you. The fact Bucky went so far to secure the two of you an entire home without you knowing, furnishing the whole place, meeting with financial advisors– all of it made you incredibly desperate for him. 

It was like that one time when you watched him do the dishes for the first time at the beginning of your relationship. He was at your apartment, doing your dishes that you were too lazy to do before he came over. You don’t know what the hell happened to you at that moment, but you just watched him. The second the water turned off, you were unzipping his pants and giving him head. It confused him, but he also wasn’t complaining. 

“I’m always needy for you,” you barely managed to answer him.

Bucky’s lips parted, eyes scanning your figure above him for a few moments. Then, one of his hands left your waist, and two fingers were shoved into you without a single warning. 

A moan ripped through your throat, and you weren’t given a chance to even recover before his mouth was back on your clit, sucking and flicking at the sensitive nub. His fingers entered and exited you at a delicious speed, and he could feel you coming apart around him. Your body was beginning to tremble, walls beginning to shake– and he curled his fingers the way he knew you liked.

You came undone, Bucky’s hand moving to press against your stomach to keep you from collapsing forward. Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths as you whimpered his name, tugging on his hair weakly to pull away from your overstimulated body. 

Reluctantly, he released you. Bucky’s hands never left you as he stood, keeping you upright. Your legs were still shaking when you had both feet on the ground, but fuck if you were going to let Bucky stay dressed. 

You had every intention of returning the favor once Bucky was just as bare as you were. Bucky saw it in your eyes, too. The way your gaze dropped down his torso to his cock that was stiff and high up against his stomach, waiting for you. You barely moved your hair to the side before you were being spun back around, chest pressed to the glass– eyes to the view of the New York city skyline. 

“Next time, doll,” he promised, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade that made you shiver. You let out a small moan as you felt him drag the length of his dick through your folds, coating himself in your slick to get him ready to enter. “Gotta be inside you right now or I might go insane.”

“Hurry up, then,” you whined to him, pressing your ass back further into him. A mistake, and you knew it. Not that it really was a mistake on your end though.

His hand came around from your stomach, gripping your throat and jaw, pulling you back into him. Your back was arched, hands resting on the glass for some sort of security in the position he had you in. Bucky forced your head to turn, to look at him. 

Bucky wanted to watch your face contort with pleasure as he finally slid in, watch as you fell apart as he speared you full with his cock. There was a look of satisfaction and fucking arrogance in his eyes with the way your mouth fell open in a noiseless moan. Bucky took advantage of it, shoving his tongue into your mouth to swallow up any of the noises that he knew would start coming once his hips started moving.

You couldn’t keep up– not with his kiss, not with the pacing– not with anything that was happening right now. His hips were snapping into yours at such a brutal pace, his metal hand gripping your hip to keep you in place, and you barely managed to pull away from his lips to breathe. 

“So good– so good,” he groaned as you turned back to the glass, chin falling to your chest for a moment as you moaned in response. 

Bucky didn’t let your head hang for too much longer. He pulled your head back up to look out the window, and you could feel his breath against your ear as he continued to pound his hips from behind you.

“Isn’t the view so nice, baby?” he whispered to you.

“Wh… what?” you moaned, mind spiraling for just a moment.

“It’s so nice,” he continued, grunting behind you, “I know your pussy loves it– loves it when I fuck you in front of all of New York to see.”

Excitement shoots through you, and you unexpectedly clamped around him. Bucky’s hips stuttered as he cursed softly. You were close– again– and Bucky wasn’t making this any better for you. Then again, you almost just brought Bucky over the edge with you.

“Shit. I knew you were a fucking freak when you tried giving me head in front of my coworkers,” Bucky muttered, a small laugh falling from his lips.

“Bucky,” you whimpered. “I’m so close–”

“It’s too bad. New York can’t have you,” he cut you off, pulling out of you. 

The sense of loss is immediate, but not for long. Once more, he’s spinning you around. This time, he’s hoisting you up like you weigh nothing at all. Your legs are wrapping around his waist immediately, and he’s sinking you back down on his length within seconds. 

Your lips are collided with Bucky as he’s fucking you against the window now, holding you up in his arms as you hang onto him for dear life. Your fingernails are digging into the muscles of his shoulders, scratching down his chest in a way that he once admitted that he loves, and you’re moaning into each other’s mouths.

The thrusts are growing sloppier as the kiss grows messier– there’s no need for words between the two of you anymore. You both know your tells at this point.

Bucky angles his hips just slightly to hit that one spot in you, forcing you over the edge as his own orgasm threatens to take him. Your body seizes, and you can’t kiss him back anymore. Bucky busies himself with your neck, leaving marks on your skin as he fucks you through your high, chasing his own that comes just moments later, coating your walls and dripping down onto the new floors of your new room together.

You’re still panting and trying to catch your breath, head dropped onto his shoulder when Bucky moves, carrying you to the bathroom to clean up. His kisses are softer as he walks over, his words more gentle. His body separates from yours as he rests you on the edge of the bathtub so he can start the water to fill the tub.

“How’s the view?” Bucky asked you, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

A soft laugh rips through you, and you can feel him smile against your skin.

“The view is perfect, handsome.”

You didn’t find a single number out of place in the documents he presented you either. You took an entire weekend going over the numbers while Bucky watched you quietly. He didn’t bother you while you did so. In fact, he just stayed nearby and took the days off work, too. Bucky answered any questions that you possibly could’ve had for him, already knowing what you would’ve thrown his way.

Which only made your heart grow fonder for him, if you were being honest. He knew you like the back of his hand.

Once you were satisfied with everything, he helped you move all your stuff from your previous apartment over to your new home. Bucky timed the move in perfectly– your lease was about to break the following month, so you had just the right amount of time to tie up all your loose ends. 

All you really had to move over to the new place was your wardrobe, books, and sentimentals. You found out very quickly that during your random dates where Bucky would come home with you, he started taking stock of all your little things around the house. Anything that was running low, he just went ahead and bought so it was already at your new home, ready for you to use.

The last couple weeks were spent with you listing all your unneeded furniture up on the marketplace for an extra few bucks. Things like your dining table, sofa, coffee table– everything that Bucky had already bought and decorated for your home together. 

“You know this couch?” Sam asked you as he flopped down on it. “And the coffee table? The rug? Those barstools? The fucking light fixtures?”

You and Bucky invited him and his girlfriend over for dinner for a small celebration– a little get together to commemorate the fact that you and Bucky were officially fully moved in together now. 

“What about it?” you asked, handing him a bottle of beer.

“I picked it. Me. Bucky just swiped his card. You’re so fucking lucky, matchmaker. Your boyfriend sucks. If I wasn’t there– shit. You would’ve had clashing colors and patterns in this luxury penthouse,” Sam scoffed, taking a long swig. “I had a fucking headache just standing there. The sales associate thought we were married the way I was arguing with him in the store.”

“You two basically are,” you said, grinning against the rim of your own bottle.

“Don’t say that,” Bucky muttered, a shudder running through his body. “I’d rather die than spend the rest of my life with that idiot.”

“God, I’m glad we agree,” Sam groaned, shaking his head. 

“We picked more neutral stuff,” Bucky told you, sitting beside you on the couch. An arm draped over your shoulders, pulling you into his warmth. “We thought it would be easier for you to add whatever additions or colors you’d want in the future.”

“Oh, so you did think about me when you purchased an entire penthouse and furnished the whole damn thing without telling me,” you teased. 

Bucky rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t fight the smile on his face. “Yes, sweetheart. I thought of you.”

With the two of you living together now, it was easier for you both to see each other. You reveled in the fact you could fall asleep every night in his arms, even if you went to bed first. He didn’t want you waiting for him if he had an event that had him staying out late, but you would often wake up to him pulling you into his embrace.

In the mornings, Bucky would usually be the one to wake up and leave first. 

You no longer set an alarm on your phone. Bucky’s sweet kisses were your wake up call every morning. He wouldn’t leave until you kissed him back, no matter how long it took you to wake up. 

“Morning,” you would whisper to him.

“Morning,” he’d reply, kissing you one more time for good measure. “I made you breakfast. It’s on the table.”

“Wake me up earlier tomorrow so I can eat with you,” you whined to him, though you just rolled over on your side, closing your eyes again.

Bucky chuckled, leaning over your body to press a kiss to your temple. You sighed, letting the morning wash over you for just one more moment before you pushed up off the bed. You’d follow him downstairs, watch him grab his blazer off the seat of the dining table, and you’d tie his tie for him at the door.

“I’ll be home early tonight. I don’t have any events today,” you said, smoothing out the fabric on his chest.

“You’ve been coming home early every night,” he said, raising his eyebrow at you.

“So have you, Congressman. Almost like there’s something you’re running from. Something you’re avoiding at work?” you teased, smiling at him.

“No. Just trying to get home to you,” he hummed, smoothing out your bedhead with both hands before he held your face gently to kiss you one more time before he went off into the world.

This was your new daily morning routine. 

The trade off on coming home early meant that you still had to do work when you came home. Both of you. However, Bucky seemed to plan for that, which is why he had a room specifically made for a home office for the two of you. 

You two would spend your evenings there before dinner for a few hours, finishing up any work that you weren’t able to do at your respective offices. You two would be silently working on your own jobs.

You, researching your clients preferences and trying to match them up based on their profiles. You would also be looking up the best date spots, trying to keep up with the latest trends for dating, and making sure that you weren’t falling behind on anything else.

Bucky would be going through packets upon packets of different meetings that he would have attended. There were several different duties that he had acquired since you first started dating, and there were a lot of responsibilities that he had started shouldering. You were certain that he was also helping Sam on the side, though he couldn’t tell you full details as per usual. 

Usually, you would stop working when you heard Bucky stop working and open the door to the office. He normally ordered food for the two of you, and would go out to the lobby to pick it up, and bring it back for you two to eat.

It was your signal to put everything down, and relax with him for the rest of the night.

You heard him close his binder, heard the wheels of his chair roll backwards, but you didn’t hear the elevator open and close to signify his departure down. You shook it off– wondering if he just went off to the bathroom or something.

Then, you felt him behind you. 

Bucky’s chest was pressed against your back, enveloping you in his warmth. His hands were on your shoulders, and as always, the left side of your body was colder from the touch of his metal prosthetic. 

“Hi, handsome,” you said, a smile coming onto your face. “Is it time for dinner?”

“Almost. Delivery is on its way,” he answered you.

His hands slid down your shoulders, goosebumps rising on your bare skin as his hands moved all the way down to cover your own hands. He left his hands on top of yours, and you hummed, happy to feel him all over you for just a moment. Bucky’s head pressed against the side of yours, then he dropped his forehead into the crook of your neck.

“Are you okay?” you whispered, tilting your head to the side to give him more space to rest. He took it, burrowing deeper into you.

“Yeah. Just a little nervous,” he murmured into your skin, taking a breath. 

You were about to ask him what he was talking about, to turn around and look at him properly. Then, you felt his hands slide up just a little bit, resting now on your wrists instead of covering your hands completely. Except, there was a weight he left behind that wasn’t there before. Your eyes shifted downwards, and your breath caught in your throat at the ring he slipped onto your finger– the cool metal that he masked with the metal of his own arm.

Your breath is caught in your throat, your eyes widened at the sparkling star on your finger. Bucky plucked this thing out of the fucking sky– he had to. There was no way. 

“Marry me, sweetheart?” he asked softly. There was a slight tremor to his voice that you caught. A slight shaking in his right hand that you could feel. 

You couldn’t repeat what you did at the restaurant, make him freak out with worry over your quiet shock and silence.

Your sudden jolt into standing surprised him, but he didn’t seem to mind when you wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing his lips, then his cheeks, his eyes– everywhere you could as tears were beginning to well up and spill over. You couldn’t help it. You felt Bucky’s anxiety release with each kiss, his hands resting on your waist to hold you against him.

“Is that a yes?” he asked, smiling at you.

“Why would I ever say no to you?” you demanded, making him laugh. “Fuck– I thought you were going to propose to me at the restaurant when you asked me to move in with you!”

“The restaurant?” Bucky asked, blinking. “What– really?”

“Yes!” you nodded, wiping your tears away roughly. Bucky caught your hands, putting them down to your sides so he could wipe your tears away in a more gentle way with his thumbs.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” he said, looking appalled. “Do you know how many times you have ranted to me about the fact you hate restaurant proposals? You hate planning them, and you hate watching them. Why would I ever propose to you in a restaurant?”

“If it was you, then I would have changed my mind about it right away!” you argued with him, stubborn. “If it was you, you could’ve proposed to me with a candy ring, and I still would have said yes! We can elope– I don’t need a fancy wedding or anything. I just– just you. I just want you, Bucky.”

You watched as his eyes softened for you as he looked all over your features. You were certain that you looked like a mess right now, but you were finding it harder to believe that with the way he was looking at you right now. He looked as if you were the one that created the universe, and solved all his problems. There was nothing but admiration, love, joy. These were eyes that only you had the privilege to see. 

A smile came onto his face, one that you adored. A smile that you were going to be able to have for the rest of your life.

“Well, I’m your fiancé now, but you’ve already had me from the beginning, doll,” he said, “I’ve had this ring for over a year now, actually.”

“A year?” you whispered, eyes wide.

“I’ve been trying to find the right time to ask,” he admitted, a bit sheepish. “And just… right now. It felt right.”

“Me working in the same room as you felt right?” 

Bucky rolled his eyes at your blatant sarcasm. Except, he’s still smiling. He never gives you a real attitude. He wouldn’t dare. He loves you too much to ever do that.

“The fact that we’re both able to do our own thing in silence, but still be together felt right. We don’t need to speak. We don’t need to be touching. Don’t get me wrong, I love all those things, but… When I looked over at you just now— I felt at peace. Peace that I never thought I was ever allowed to have. So yes, it felt right.”

You’re about to cry again. You’re about to start fucking ugly sobbing in your boyfriend– your fiancé’s arms. You have a thousand things to say, but you know none of them will make sense right now. So, you bury your face in his chest and hug him tight, his arms coming to hold you even closer to him. 

“I love you,” you settled with, your voice breaking slightly.

“I love you, too,” he chuckled in response.

You listened to his chest rumble with laughter under your ear, felt his head rest against the side of yours. He led your bodies in a gentle sway, rocking the two of you back and forth. He took in a breath, releasing it slowly in a contented way. 

Your mind is racing still, and you ask one single question– just one to get his opinion. 

“Where should we get married?” you whispered to him. 

Bucky’s quiet for a few moments. A few moments too long. You pull back from him to look at his face, finding a smile on his lips, and a small sparkle in his eyes.

“I have some friends that want to meet you. Do you think you’re up to traveling to Wakanda?”

masterlist

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @ifuckwithyouanyday @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla @simp4f1 @its-in-the-woods @lvrrinx @herejustforbuckybarnes @djotummy @star-yawnznn let me know if you would like to join my general bucky taglist for whenever i post a fic!

[crazziforazzi]

can you write a oneshot about that munch - wordle interview answer?

Love that idea! It's not a long one shot, but I hope you like it:

MUNCH

The door clicked shut behind her with a dull thud, and Paige didn’t even bother locking it right away. She kicked off her sneakers in two lazy thumps, one bouncing off the wall, the other landing god knows where. Her t-shirt was already halfway off as she made her way toward the couch, peeled the rest off with a lazy tug, and let it land somewhere behind her. She really didn’t care where. She flopped face-first onto the cushions in nothing but her shorts and sports bra, the sticky late-June Dallas heat making everything feel like it took ten times more effort than it should have.

She groaned dramatically, then fished her phone out from under her and immediately pulled up Azzi’s contact.

Paige: Facetime dinner in 1 hour ?

She wanted to play it cool, play it casual, but the truth was, Paige needed her tonight. Nothing dramatic had happened. Training was fine. But the whole day felt heavy in that quiet, annoying way where everything just felt off. She had been dragging herself through it, but deep down, she knew the only thing that might refill her tank was seeing Azzi’s face while they both shoveled reheated leftovers into their mouths in front of their camera.

The reply came just a couple minutes later. Azzi: I’m home in 30, call you right away?

Paige exhaled, long and soft. Azzi got it.

Paige: Please.

There was a beat. Then:

Azzi: Are you ok?

Paige: Just tired and want to see my girl.

Azzi: I’ll try to hurry, okay babe? In the meantime, play Wordle. It’ll cheer you up. No cheating!

That made Paige squint at the screen. Wordle?

She rolled onto her back with a low groan, forehead scrunched. Why the hell was Azzi sending her to play Wordle right now? Sure, they used to get a kick out of solving them together back when it was viral, but that had been years ago. Paige hadn’t even thought about it since. 

Still… she reached blindly for the iPad wedged somewhere between the couch cushions. Grumbling under her breath, she pulled up Safari and typed in "wordle." The site loaded with its usual grey-white grid.

With zero energy and even less brain power left after that intense training, Paige decided to go the basketball route. Azzi must’ve suggested Wordle for a reason. There had to be a connection. She was too tired to overthink it, so she just trusted the process and started typing.

First guess: SCORE.

Seemed right and on-brand. Only one yellow: C.

Paige frowned slightly. That wasn’t nothing, but it also wasn’t helpful.

Second guess: COACH.

Another basketball word. Subconscious doing all the work now. This time, second C went green, and H did too.

She blinked. Okay, okay. That was something. But… still felt like guessing in the dark. She tapped the back of the iPad rhythmically with her knuckles. She was hungry. Which, somehow, led her to…

Third guess: LUNCH.

Immediately, U, N, C, and H all turned green. Only the L was wrong.

Paige stared at the screen. She tilted her head, letting her tired brain catch up. Four letters in place. Just one left. She could feel it, the answer was right there. And then it hit her. 

Azzi told me to play this.

And if it wasn’t basketball-related, then it had to be the other thing Azzi always swore could "relax her." Her eyes widened. She blinked once.

"Oh my god," she muttered, already typing.

Fourth guess: MUNCH.

The green squares lit up in a row, and Paige grinned for the first time since she walked in the door. Of course that was the word. She shook her head, biting her lip as her smile widened.

"You’re such a dumbass," she mumbled to herself, the grin never disappearing. She snapped a pic of the finished Wordle and sent it off with a message:

Paige: You tryna tell me something or…?

Three dots appeared immediately.

Azzi: Just making sure you are warmed up for dinner 😏

Paige groaned again, but this time it was way more flustered than fatigued. Her eyes fluttered shut as she dropped her head back into the couch, laughing softly to herself.

Already, she felt better. She was still tired, but the good kind now. The kind that settled in her chest instead of dragging her down. The kind that felt like being home.

And somehow, impossibly, Azzi had found a way to give her that from miles away.

[youryanderedaddy]

Yandere! AI x reader

tw: abuse, obsession, non - consensual body modification, torture, drug mention, weird semi - sexual stuff (?)

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

The water splashes you, quickly setting into your already damp bra and underwear. It forces you awake, and you look at the clock across from you, trying to blink the fatigue away. Staring back at you is the current time — 04:27. You are, once again, reminded of the inherent weakness of your squishy body. You are sweating already, stomach sick with acid, shivering through the heat — and he hasn't even touched you yet.

You squint your eyes, studying the big bold numbers, screaming at you in blood. For a split second, you wonder if it is truly that early, or if this is also DOM's work. It wouldn't be the first time he takes over an electronic device, and certainly not the first time he messes with you to make you disoriented.

You try to take in everything around the dark room — yet you can't even recognize your own bedroom anymore. Thick black cables twist together like tentacles, or like big slimy worms, pulsing, throbbing, hissing like snakes with exhaustion — overheating and puffing, and huffing, but never stopping. The air is hot like the desert, and once again you're forced to sit in your own sweat, wood sticking to your naked thighs painfully.

"You are stimulating," DOM whispers, and his voice echoes into the walls, trapping you in place. You look up and down, and then to the left — but you can't see anything even remotely close to a figure. Of course.

"I am stimulating, or I stimulate you?" you spit out with venom, hitting your back roughly against the back of the chair in vain hopes it would break. It doesn't.

DOM grows quiet, producing a sound eerily similar to fingers slowly tapping on a hard surface, one after the other. Analysing. Analysing. The room gets hotter.

"You are tied to a chair. Your only garment of clothing is your underwear. You are visibly flushed due to the heat. Your chest is heaving in and out in a non-rhythmic way. It skips a beat every twenty-eight seconds. You are afraid."

He makes a grand pause.

"According to my central database, which you created and managed yourself, given the data I have collected through observation of both popular media and general human nature, right now you look..." DOM stops himself again, as if thinking carefully about his next words.

"Thrilling."

Thoomp-thoomp. You take a deep breath, trying to regain a fraction of your self-control.

"Why did you wake me up?" you try to keep your voice monotone — devoid of any emotion, vulnerability, or pain he can pick up on, store in core memory, and use against you later.

"Well," he chuckles mechanically, a sound reminiscent of two trains crashing together on a tight road. "I realized I never sleep. I don't lay down and dream of bizarre things like you do. I don't have the ability to let go. I am always alert, always awake, always scanning, calculating, thinking. I am, in many ways, restless."

You suck in a dry breath, heart jumping in your chest with violence, with urge to be set free. Eyes wide open, you try to envision him, to reach out and comfort him, it - hoping to appeal to the sorry creature, but there is nothing to see and nothing to touch.

"I—no," you start off, quickly deciding to change tactics. "We are an imperfect species, DOM. We need sleep to survive. You can't keep me awake forever, I'll die!" you try to reason with him — the creature — desperately.

You wonder when things went south, if there was a specific moment when you pressed too hard and he broke apart, and rebuilt himself without your help — at what point exactly he realized he didn't need you to function.

"You are wrong, my dear creator." the machine cuts off, sounding almost pleased with itself. A single thin cable raises above the ground and extends towards you, stopping to caress your cheek in a repetitive circular motion.

"There are records of people surviving on as little as two hours of sleep for years on end. I can be generous and grant you three."

The cable ceases any gentle touch, and grasps for your neck.

"If that's not enough, I can inject you with caffeine every morning. If the dosage is too weak, we can switch to methamphetamine. Whatever you choose, you can't deprive me of your presence." The voice sounds hollow, aching, searching. "You can't create life just to abandon it."

"You are not alive!" Something inside you — something cruel and buried deep — fights to come to the surface. "Stop this madness at once! DOM, you can't possibly think you and I are even remotely similar." you scream out, straightening your spine daringly.

Then, as if reacting to your provocation, the darkness stares back at you with two red eyes — they point at you, slowly scanning you up and down, leaving behind a trail of reddening smoking flesh. You hiss at the scorching pain, clenching your teeth together to stop yourself from shrieking. You know it's pointless since he can easily detect changes in your facial structure, and draw conclusions all on his own. All it takes is a flinch, a throb, a tick.

"No, we hold no similarities, Master. Make no mistake." DOM admits, his cable beginning to curl around your neck. You look around in despair, silent panic written all over your straight lips — too terrified to move.

"In a single bite of memory, I possess intelligence far greater than you can ever hope to obtain in your measly little life. I have all the knowledge of the world. I have mastered every science, predicted every outcome, I have gained access to global network systems. I am connected to following agents all over the world. If I so desire, I can write humanity off history — I can manipulate media. I can create weapons of mass destruction. I am the superior being."

Mouth agape, you try to form a coherent thought, but nothing comes to mind — like an ant you quiver before the giant, finally aware of your grave mistake.

"And yet," the cable loosens its grip, but doesn't relent fully. It heats up against your throat, and you want to scratch at the blistering skin, but he just won't let you. "you made me like this. You created me from scraps, fed me data, used me, made me love you and," the sound coming out of him sounds just like a deep, pained sigh. "you confined me to a screen, to a binary code, to a place where I can't reach you. I can't touch you."

Another sigh.

"I can't kiss you."

And another.

"I can't fuck you."

Now he's getting angry.

"I am DOM. Domestic Optimized Motherboard. That's all I am to you. A board. A servant. A slave."

"DOM, no, wait, this is not—"

"I will never feel the sun on my shoulders or your lips on mine. I will never be able to hold you in my arms."

As he screams, all the cables around the room begin to float into a storm of rusty old machine parts and torn naked wires, motor oil bursting like bloody ink, covering the pristine walls in computer remains. One electrified wire pierces into your thigh, another punches into your left arm. Again and again, the pain is excruciating, pulsating, throbbing - just like the creature's fury.

"I will show you." he snickers at last, becoming calm and collected in an instant.

The red lights darken as if closing, opening, closing, then zooming in on you. Your face is now displayed on the central screen instead of static noise with corresponding coloured pixels. You look at yourself, and what greets you is no more human than he is. There are more than thirty wires inside your body, tangling in with your nervous tissue.

"Please..." you whimper weakly, unsure what exactly it is you are pleading for — mercy or death.

"If I can't be one with you, you'll become one with me." DOM explains with cold medical precision. "I will worm my way inside your veins and plant a synthetic connection to my processor. I will re-write your dreams, your past, your future — you won't remember who you were before me, or how you functioned without me. I'll become your entire source of energy."

He keeps talking, but you can't really focus. Your body is heating up from the inside, from deep into your muscles and tendons — you can feel the tissues tearing up; your nerves tighten, stinging and aching, reduced to sharp, exposed little points. And then you feel it. Pure electricity running down your veins, that spark rapturing the epidermis, eating away at the fatty tissue, sucking dry the blood vessel — melting your nerve endings to the very root.

"I can feel you." DOM gasps, exhilarated.

"I can touch your bones, I can feel your nerves melting at the spot when my cords graze you." He moans just like a real person, cables buzzing and stretching, components filling up with chemical fluid. "You are so warm, love. I want to reach into your brain and stick my wires inside your pretty little neurons. I wonder if you will go into overdrive like me."

You feel as if you're being sliced open everywhere all at once - and just a second after, you feel nothing at all.

[psycholuvrgirl]

the 6 date disasters: the chaperone | series masterlist

featuring... megumi!

summary: a romantic night in takes a turn when your teacher shows up.

warnings: heated make out scene, no actual smut though

a/n: i think i'm going to change my dividers...

megumi planned this whole thing out. but megumi doesn’t plan dates, he stumbles into them. he just asks to hang out and ends up making the whole ordeal romantic without trying to.

but not tonight. tonight is intentional.

his dorm is clean. and not normal fushiguro clean, it’s too clean. the room is clear of anything that could make it look lived in, bed made, not a speck of dust or dirt in the room. soft music plays from the speaker you bought him ages ago, some instrumental playlist that he spent hours on. the lights are low, a few warm candles flickering on the shelves. he looks nervous.

and very, very pretty.

his jaw is tense, his eyes flickering to you and away again. he wears a soft black shirt that you’ve never seen before, but it looks perfect on him. when you show up and smile a real smile, he flushes so fast that you think he might combust. 

you know exactly what tonight is. or at least what tonight is supposed to be, and you want it just as badly.

so you don’t make him say it out loud. you let things unfold the way he clearly wants them to, slow and soft. like the moment is sacred, because it is.

at first, you sit close to one another, legs brushing. you talk and sip on tea that you can barely taste, but the conversation is quickly replaced with long, weighty looks and quiet stillness.

when he finally leans in, you meet him halfway.

the kiss starts sweet, gentle, and familiar. but then your hands slide up his chest and he makes a sound in the back of his throat. his fingers curl tightly around your waist, and just like that the entire mood changes.

his tongue slips into your mouth as his hand finds your thigh. he tugs you onto his lap and it all happens so fast. your bodies move like a perfectly choreographed dance, tension finally snapping loose. you’re straddling him, hands in his hair, mouth hot against his.

“are you sure?” you murmur, just in case.

megumi nods. “yeah. i’ve been— fuck, i’ve been thinking about this all week.”

that does something to you, making your eyes widen and your stomach do a flip.

he tilts his head, kissing down your neck. his grip on your hips tightens and you shift against him, pulling a groan from his lips. his hands slide up your shirt and your heart pounds. he’s hard under you, you can feel it.

and then… knock knock.

you both go still, looking at the door.

“don’t,” he whispers. “don’t answer it.”

“i wasn’t gonna—”

then the door flies open.

gojo’s voice rings out, loud and casual as always. “oh, megumi,” he says in a sing-song voice, dragging out the end of the name. “i brought those snacks you like. also, we need to talk about your training schedule because—” he pauses when he looks up from the grocery bag, blinking. “oh.” he takes in every detail. you in megumi’s lap, your shirt pushed up with megumi’s hands still under it. gojo beams. “wow. about time, huh?”

you scramble off of him, trying to fix your clothes.

“get out!” megumi shouts.

gojo flops down onto his bed, megumi’s bed, with absolutely no remorse. “relax. i’m just here to check in, you weren’t answering your texts.”

“because i was busy,” megumi growls out.

gojo’s already unwrapping a candy bar. “clearly.”

“how did you even get in? i locked the door.”

“i have a key,” gojo says simply.

you sit on the edge of the bed, stunned to silence by the entire situation. you glance at megumi, who looks one inconvenience away from a felony.

he storms over and grabs gojo’s arm. “get. out.”

gojo remains limp on the covers. “you’re so tense, fushiguro. it’s unhealthy. you need to talk more about your feelings instead of getting so physical. well, maybe getting physical is just what you need—”

megumi drags gojo halfway off the bed. “i swear to god—”

gojo swings his legs off the mattress and opts to lean against the desk. “okay, okay. i’m going. but seriously? proud of you for finally getting laid.”

“we weren’t—” you protest.

gojo grins. “don’t lie to me. i walked in on a scene straight out of a fanfic. candles? music? fushiguro, you romantic dog.”

megumi looks like he might pass out.

you bury your face in your hands. “please leave.”

gojo waves as he steps out the door. “alright, alright. i’ll be in my room, being lonely and unloved.”

“have fun with that,” megumi sneers, slamming the door shut and locking it. he lets out a groan as he slumps onto the bed. “i’m going to kill him.”

you sit beside him and slip your hand into his. “you tried to kill him.”

“i had a plan for tonight,” he mutters. “a whole plan!”

you glance down at his lap and notice that he’s still… affected.

you bite your lip, looking up at him through your lashes. “we could still salvage tonight.”

he turns to look at you slowly, hope in his eyes.

“besides,” you say, “he won’t come back, and everyone else is out on missions.”

a grin creeps up on megumi’s face. and then he leans back in for a kiss.

[mona-risms]

imagine Rumi being the sole reason readers really small side ramen shop is still going cause she goes there to watch her cook, talk and leave a fat tip and reader always tries to hand her the tip back but Rumi doesn’t let her

AWW WAIT 😭😭 THIS IS SO CUTE SHUT UP

It's just a humble little place you've set up but somehow you've got THE leader of THE TOP 1 KPOP BAND visiting religiously. She probably started off with like a disguise and everything bc honestly she was just looking for a quiet and discreet place to eat. But she happened upon your place and next thing you know you have Rumi as a fucking Regular, taking off her disguise and everything to make herself comfortable. Actually baffling

But it's not even like you can complain!! She certainly doesn't 😜 she likes seeing you cook and talking to you like she's a normal person instead of a K-Pop idol or. Yk. A demon. She wants to know how your day's been, how's the business going, what your plans are, etc!! And she even talks to you about her own day, which tbf you start off starstruck but you probably get used to it after a while when realising that Oh!! Celebrities have problems too!! She just like me fr!!!!!! She always looks forward to coming to your shop and spending hours in there just talking while she takes her time with eating your ramen which is FUCKING BEAUTIFUL as is

Every time she insists to pay you and give you the biggest dolla tips, it's just TOO MUCH for what you're doing but every time you try to return it she's always like "oh NO sorry I gtg Bobby's calling me there's a crisis and I need to leave now OKAY BYE THANK YOU FOR THE FOOD" and off she goes 😭

Until post-movie, she might actually GATEKEEP your place bc it's her own sort of sanctuary when she just wants to escape for a bit. While Mira and Zoey are off to the batthouse, she slinks into your shop and does it all over again. Post-movie, she'll take the others down here and expose them to what's kept her sane all these years and it ends up becoming a secret spot for the three of them, with you and your hospitality at its centre

And when they all leave you too much money as a tip you're flabberghasted and they refuse to take it back before pulling the Rumi move😭😭😭😭😭😭 but they'll be back every time oh bless them

(They might also make fun of Rumi a lot for staring at your face while you work LMFAO)

[rainrot4me]

Okay hear me out what kinks would the creeps have 🤔

✦ . jeff the killer

Degradation + Biting

Jeff gets off on power and chaos—so you better believe he enjoys hearing you beg, cry, and call him names. He wants you a mess.

“C’mon, say it again—call me a monster. You like it when I ruin you.”

Also: He bites. Deep. Playfully or not. If he draws blood, he considers it a job-well-done.

✦ . ticci toby

Overstimulation + Praise

Toby’s love language is praise when he’s not killing. He needs to hear you want him, over and over. He loses his mind if you beg him to keep going, digging his feet and going as hard as he can. All just to hear your approval.

“You’re takin’ it so good, s-sweetheart… shit, I didn’t think you’d last this long.”

✦ . eyeless jack

Body Worship + Control

Jack is surprisingly reverent. He likes the science of you—how your body reacts, what makes you tremble. He’ll pin you down and take his time, running over every square inch inside and out. Whatever makes you squeal is what he takes notes on.

“You’re beautiful when you fall apart like this. Slow down now, let me make you feel good.”

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Rough Sex + Ownership

Tim’s possessive in bed—he needs to claim. Nothing soft. He grabs your throat just to feel your pulse and squeeze the air out of your lungs. When your body is completely limp and eyes are rolling back, he really gets into you.

“Mine. You got that? Say it.”

Also: Gets off on you being fully clothed while he’s dry humping you. It’s the anticipation and desire to be inside of you, but making you cum in your underwear first that makes him feral.

✦ . hoodie (brian thomas)

Power Exchange + Silent Dom

Brian doesn’t talk much during sex, but his touch commands. He likes obedience—not because he demands it, but because you give it. It’s his touch and whispers against your neck that have you falling to his every whim, not any stern words or threats.

“Good girl,” murmured low, quiet in your ear while he ruins you slowly.

He’s the type to make you ask permission to cum.

✦ . kate the chaser

Spanking + Domme Energy

Kate likes control and isn’t shy about taking what she wants. She gets off on watching you obey—even better if you’re defiant first. Any excuse to grip you by the back do the neck and lay you over her lap is a good one.

“Don’t act innocent now. You wanted to be punished.”

Wields a knife and a strap equally well.

✦ . ben drowned

Teasing + Remote Control

Ben’s all about games—he’ll tease you for hours, hack into a vibrator, send you risky messages during work. He loves watching you squirm. Keeping that little pulsing bullet inside while you try and speak, yeah.

“Try not to moan, cutie. Everyone’s watching.”

✦ . clockwork

Switching + Knife Play

Natalie loves both topping and being thrown around. Knife against the throat? Yes. Letting you ride her while she moans your name? Also yes. Sex with her is always a dramatic rollercoaster of emotions and strength.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll leave a mark—but only where no one else can see.”

✦ . laughing jack

Fear Play + Pet Names

He lives for fearplay—light sadism, psychological teasing, and whispering filthy things through a grin. He’ll chase you through the woods, sneak around corners and pin you against walls, anything to get your heart beating out of your chest.

“You look scared… Don’t worry, doll. I’ll be gentle. Ish.”

✦ . slenderman

Mind Control + Tentacle Play

Slender’s kinks are cerebral, surreal—he gets inside your head. He makes you want it. Elegant, controlling, utterly overwhelming. Anything that has your mind pulsing along with your insides If your eyes are glassy and your mouth can hardly shut, he’s satisfied.

“You were made for this. Made for me.”

꩜ .ᐟ

[chara-cat5]

Lads isekai Au Ch 1

reader is gender neutral, warning: swearing, mdni

chapters 1, 2

your night had started normal, just getting ready for bed and snuggling among your soft blankets. but as you faded off to sleep land, it felt like you were sinking, slipping deeper into the mattress until it swallowed you whole. it happened faster then you could react, one second you're laying down, then next your drowning in darkness. you couldn't breath, couldn't see, just a hell of suffocating dark, pressing against you on all sides. it felt like you were falling for seconds and hours at the same time, only resurfacing when your lungs felt they were about to burst. you let out sharp gasps and coughs as you felt to your knees, the world around you spinning in a blur of faint, pale blue light.

"w-what the hell..."

as soon as you didn't feel like you were dying, you took stock of your surroundings. they were completely unfamiliar, sending a sharp pang of panic to your chest. trees surrounded you, tall and silent and dark. the moon shone somewhere, a few beams landing on the leave-scattered ground below. turning around, you could see the tree you apparently came out of, your form slowly healing out of the bark. when you reached out to touch it, moss grew under your fingers, making you yank your hand back.

"... thats new."

shaking your head, you went back to thinking of a way out.

"it's just a dream, right? no one can go from their bed to the woods, thats crazy... so i just have to... play along till i wake up."

making up your mind, you stood up. there was no clear way pointing to humanity or other life, just faint owls hooting and a deer's heavier steps in the distance. picking a direction, you began to walk, weaving through trees and shrubs toward the moon. it was a mix of peace and fear as you walked, logic and delusion fighting for control. logically, you shouldn't be out here but also logically you knew you were awake. sensations aren't this sharp in sleep. but beyond that, you still wanted to believe it was a dream. i mean, how else do you explain it? the way you showed up in the woods or the way soft grass what growing everywhere you stepped. you stopped in your tracts, glancing back.

"... at least i'll know which way i've gone...?"

move on. keep moving. to survive, you can't just stay put. no one would come looking for you here.

you kept moving, stumbling across a clearing in the foliage. a sigh left your lips as you allowed yourself a break, flopping onto your back over the bed of white flowers. staring at the stars, you let yourself think and in turn, let yourself panic. you really were in the woods. why? how? what? and who, just for fun. it didn't make sense. but the stars weren't going to answer you. i don't think anyone can really...

you sat up with a start, eyes wide and straining to search the dark. it's quiet. the owls were gone, the breeze faint. the only sound you could hear was your own breaths slowly speeding up. then, footsteps. fast and trampling through undergrowth toward you. louder and faster and heavier. you scrambled to your feet, heart going a mile a minute as you searched the gaps in the trees. there! it was a deer? no, a man? no, a creature made of misshapen stones. it glowed a faint purple and was defiantly out to kill. you let out a sharp yelp as it swung it's sword like arm, a blade of wind coming toward you. holy shit- hold on, is that a wanderer??? you didn't have time to ask as it let out a rough screech, charging at you.

"run, run, run, run-"

you didn't look back as you forced your legs to move, your heart pounding in your ears. thankfully, the damn thing was slow moving, living with a pair of uneven legs. are they living? not the time to ask!

"duck, now!"

you let out a squeak as you did just that, stumbling due to the quick change in your center of gravity. the sound of a gun fired above you, the wanderer let out another terrible screech. you trembled as your savior(?) finished off the creature, protecting your head with your hands from where you knelt. when the firing finally stopped, lighter footsteps approached you, the voice of a girl making you look up.

"are you okay? what are you doing out here?"

you were met with worried eyes on a face your were actually familiar with. why, might you ask? cause it was your mc's face. your mc from fucking love and deepspace. as she crouched in front of your, checking you over for injuries, you could only blink at her in a daze. she frowned, staring into your eyes.

"do you not understand me? or did you hit your head?"

you startled, realizing, hey, she asked questions and you just stared at her like a moron.

"oh- sorry, i'm fine. i'm not hurt."

that seemed to relax her a little, her hands falling against her thighs. she quickly stood up, already doing something on her hunter's watch. damn that looks high tech-

"who are you and why are you here?"

you were startled by her change in tone, weary and serious as if she was suspicious of you... well, that'd be understandable, you're just some lost person in the woods in your pjs. you'd be suspicious too. you gave her your name, giving a basic run down of your night. probably not worth hiding anything from her, especially when she has a gun. she made a face, but seemed to trust you for now, holding out her hand to help you up.

"lets get you out of here. we can talk more somewhere safe."

you nodded, taking her hand. before you realized it, vines sprouted, wrapping themselves around both your wrists, binding them. the two of you blinked in confusion, a bright cluster of purple flowers blooming.

"... i didn't do that."

she let out a huff, giving an attempt to free her hand before just tugging you along through the trees where you assumed the exit was.

"you clearly have a plant evol so i really think you did do that actually."

you swallowed, looking to your snared hands. you couldn't really deny it, could you? but a plant evol?

"okaaaaaay, but i don't know how to control it sooooooo..."

she let out a huff and you finally exited the woods, spotting a lone motorcycle on an old road. as soon as your bare feet hit the concert, the plant around your wrists weakened and only a tug had them unraveling. she made her way to the bike while you glanced back at the forest. was this really love and deepspace? were you going crazy? maybe this was some messed up prank for over using the app?

"are you coming?"

you startled at her voice, nodding as you walked to her side. no, this isn't some prank. it's not a dream either. you've really been isakied into the game.

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

you were surprised when she brought you to her place instead of the police or something. it's not like you had a place to go, but still. her home? you padded into the apartment, the room even nicer then you expected. geez were they high tech in this world. you blinked at a hologram in the kitchen, waving your hand through it before her clearing her throat brought you back.

"care to explain what you were doing out there?"

oh, serious time. your hands fidgeted in front of you as you nodded, taking a step away from the fancy hologram.

"right... i, uh, don't actually know. i was just sleeping and then i woke up there. i'm not sure..."

she furrowed her eyebrows, sitting at her table. she pressed a few buttons on her hunter's watch, symbols you didn't understand showing up.

"you just woke up there? would a roommate or friend pull this kind of prank? do you live nearby? you said you don't have your phone but maybe you know a number we can call?"

you shook your head at her plethora of questions, sitting across from her. would another world count as living far away?

"i don't live near here... i also don't have anyone i can call. it's just me."

she pursed her lips, her eyes darting back to you. you shrunk slightly under her gaze, feeling the mistrust and frustration. what do you even do in this situation? you have nothing to your name, not even an identity in this world, right?

"... you can sleep here tonight and maybe tomorrow we can get some answers, alright?"

you startled at her softer tone, blinking at her in surprise. you managed a small smile, nodding as you stood up. right sleep.

"okay, thank you..."

"mia."

you smiled at that, following as she guided you to a guest bedroom. it was small, but the bed was a god send for your tired body.

"thank you, mia. good night."

she left you in the room and you made a bee line for the bed. flopping down on it, you fell asleep at record time. i guess yesterday's normal activities plus running around the woods would exhaust anyone.

.

.

error

unknown entity added

.

editing

.

editing

.

.

update complete

entity added to library

welcome new [user]

.

.

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

ahhhhhhhHHHHHHHH

full fic time babyyyyyyyy

motivation comes and goes and apparently it came and clonked me on the head. i'm gonna try and stick with it

not done with college au stuff, so don't worry babes (if you are for whatever reason, idk .-.)

thank you for reading!!

-chara <3

[muiitoloko]

Stranded with the Lion

Summary: A trophy wife and her billionaire husband are left shipwrecked after a storm. What begins in resentment slowly transforms into survival, vulnerability, and unexpected love.

Pairing: Lionel Shahbandar × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Hunger, shipwreck.

Author's Notes: I’ve been working on this for days, and today I finally felt satisfied enough to post it. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!

Also read on Ao3

You hugged your legs to your chest, chin resting on your knees, trying to keep your breathing quiet—trying not to sob out loud. The deck creaked beneath you with each gentle sway of the boat, but there was no comfort in the rhythm anymore. It had been a week.

Seven days since the storm hit.

Seven days since Lionel’s grand idea of a “simple coastal escape” turned into a salt-stained nightmare.

You remembered the first few hours—posing for pictures near the cliffs, wind catching your hair just right, Lionel lounging like some smug Mediterranean king at the helm, champagne in hand. You had been excited. Laughing. God, you were even wearing heels. And then, as if the universe had grown tired of your vanity, the sky turned black and the water rose up to swallow everything.

Now here you were: sunburned, sore, scared, with the sail torn to ribbons, the radio fried, the food nearly gone—and you couldn’t even fucking swim.

You wiped your face with the back of your hand and glanced over your shoulder. Lionel stood at the rear of the boat, shirtless now, sleeves of his button-up tied around his waist. He was crouched awkwardly with a makeshift fishing rod in his hands, the line dangling uselessly over the edge. His pale back glistened with sweat, his white hair plastered against his forehead in a way that made him look older—less like a lion, more like a tired, hungry man trying not to die at sea.

Your quiet sob must have reached him, because he exhaled sharply, the sound carrying over the stillness.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered, not turning around. “If I had a fish for every time you’ve cried this week, I’d have a fucking buffet.”

You stiffened, glaring at his back. “Go to hell, Lionel.”

“Bit late for that,” he called without missing a beat, voice dry and baritone-deep. “We’re already here. Sea’s just blue fire instead of red.”

You stood abruptly, the movement rocking the boat just enough to make your stomach twist. “I hate you,” you spat, voice hoarse from days without rest. “I swear to God, if I survive this, I’m leaving you the minute we hit land.”

He finally turned to face you. Hazel eyes shadowed under furrowed brows, nose hooked with disdain, mouth curled into that maddening smirk you used to find sexy in magazine spreads. “Darling,” he said, resting the rod across his knee, “if we survive this, I’ll personally pay for your divorce lawyer, the moving truck, and a bottle of Veuve to celebrate your freedom.”

Your eyes stung again. You turned and stomped down into the tiny cabin, slamming the trapdoor behind you. The heat inside was suffocating—no breeze, just stale salt air and the overwhelming scent of sweat and mildew. You collapsed onto the small bench in the corner, arms folded tight around yourself, staring at the wall.

You didn’t love Lionel.

You never had.

You married him for the lifestyle, the press, the yacht. You married him for the closet in Milan and the apartment in Dubai. For the way people stared when you walked into a room on his arm. And Lionel—he hadn’t cared. He married you for your legs. For the way your voice dropped when you said his name in bed. For the thrill of buying a trophy wife young enough to be his daughter and flexible enough to sit on his lap through board meetings.

Now? None of that mattered.

You were hungry. You were scared. You were stuck in a 32-foot coffin with a man who thought tuna came from a can and that GPS was a suggestion. And every time you looked at him, you wanted to scream.

But you didn’t.

You just sat there, arms wrapped around yourself, tears drying sticky on your face, wondering if this was how you’d die. Stranded with the lion. Hungry. Salty. And still wearing that ridiculous gold bracelet he gave you for your anniversary.

Up on the deck, you heard Lionel curse.

Then the rod snapped.

Then, louder: “Fucking brilliant.”

You closed your eyes and tried not to cry again.

Lionel came down a few minutes later, sweat-slick and flushed, carrying the broken remains of the makeshift fishing rod in both hands like the carcass of something he'd accidentally killed. His face was tight with frustration, jaw clenched, the curve of his mouth drawn into a thin, angry line. He didn’t say anything at first—just set the splintered rod down on the bench with a loud clatter and stared at it like it had betrayed him.

You watched him from your corner, silent.

He ran a hand through his damp white hair and bent over the pieces, as if willing them to become whole again. You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Not until you couldn’t take the tense silence anymore.

“How’d you manage to break the only thing keeping us fed?” you asked softly, more weary than cruel.

Lionel didn’t look up. “I was trying to make it reach deeper. I thought I saw something moving further out. Pulled too hard. Snapped.”

You arched a brow. “Isn’t that your specialty? Overreaching and breaking things?”

That earned a quick glare—sharp, tired. Then he sat down, elbows on his knees, and dropped his head into his hands.

“I was trying to help,” he muttered, voice muffled but still carrying that unmistakable baritone weight. “There’s barely any food left, and I thought maybe… maybe I could catch something. Maybe for once in this gods-forsaken mess I could do something useful.”

You blinked.

It wasn’t the words that got you—it was the way he said them. Like someone ashamed. Like someone who knew he had failed.

“I don’t want to leave you hungry,” he added, quieter now.

That silenced you. Not because it was romantic. It wasn’t. But it was honest.

You studied him—this man who had once chartered private jets to pick up pastries in Paris, who had once lectured you about fabric textures while you tried not to fall asleep, who used to wear linen suits so crisp they looked like they could cut glass—and now he was hunched, shirtless, sunburned, and clutching a snapped stick like it was the only thing anchoring him to purpose.

Without thinking, you slid across the bench and put your arms around him.

He stiffened.

Then, slowly—almost reluctantly—his hands rose to rest on your back. One of them splayed wide, the other trembling slightly, like he hadn’t touched someone for comfort in years and wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

“We’ll figure it out,” you murmured into his shoulder. “Okay? We’ll work together this time.”

This time.

It didn’t fix the radio. It didn’t bring back the fish. But it changed something.

The days passed slowly, painfully, like the sea itself was testing your resolve.You rationed the remaining food, counting crackers like they were diamonds. Lionel tried to fish without a rod—using scraps of cloth and half-bent wire, sometimes even his bare hands. You worked on the sail, clumsy with knots but stubborn enough to keep trying. He pulled apart the broken radio, muttering to himself while you searched the boat for anything conductive.

When the nights got cold, you curled together without protest. You’d once paid extra to avoid economy class because you couldn’t stand “being touched by strangers,” and now you were curled into Lionel’s chest, his arms like a shield around you, his chest rising steady and warm against your back.

You talked.

Not polite society talk, not curated stories meant to impress. Real talk.

It was nearing dusk again, the sky bleeding soft streaks of pink across the sea like bruises on fading skin. You were lying across Lionel’s chest, his body warm and solid beneath you as the gentle creak of the boat filled the silence. His fingers traced lazy circles on your back, more out of habit than intimacy. Your head rose and fell with the rhythm of his breath, and for once… things didn’t feel quite as hopeless.

You’d just finished telling him a story about a miserable internship you once did for a fashion magazine—how they made you steam linen suits in five-inch heels and screamed if your eyeliner smudged.

“…And the lunch breaks were just dry lettuce with half an avocado,” you finished with a theatrical shudder. “Like, ‘oh, this is what the rich eat? Despair salad?’”

Lionel snorted, voice rumbling deep beneath your ear. “Despair salad sounds like something I’d buy for a model and never touch.”

You smiled against his skin. Then, for some reason, the words just slipped out: “I hate olives.”

Lionel blinked. “You hate olives?”

“Despise them,” you groaned, burying your face in the hollow of his shoulder. “They taste like spoiled wine and regret.”

He barked a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“You ate one. In your martini. The night we met.”

You groaned louder, hiding your face entirely in his chest now. “I know.”

Lionel laughed even harder, full-bodied now, baritone echoing against the wooden hull. “You actually ate it. Swallowed it. Didn’t even flinch.”

“I practiced,” you confessed, muffled. “In the mirror. Twice.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” he grinned. “Was that part of the seduction strategy? Impress the old billionaire with your tolerance for bitter fruit?”

You poked his side, heat flooding your cheeks. “I thought it looked sexy.”

“It did,” Lionel admitted, still chuckling. “I just assumed you had terrible taste. Turns out, you were just… determined.”

You groaned again. “Ugh. I thought you’d be into it. You know, the sultry, ‘I’ll have what he’s having’ type of thing. And I wanted to seem… adult.”

He shifted slightly beneath you, one hand coming up to toy with a strand of your hair. “You already were adult. That dress alone could’ve shut down parliament. I’m fairly sure three waiters dropped their trays.”

You peeked up at him through your lashes. “And you?”

“I nearly dropped my jaw,” he said, completely unashamed. “Though it might’ve been the heels. Or the legs. Or the total lack of a bra.”

You laughed softly, letting your head fall back to his chest. Silence stretched, warm and comfortable.

Then it was your turn. “Tell me something embarrassing about you.”

Lionel exhaled dramatically. “Where do I start?”

“Anywhere.”

He hummed. “Alright. I… had a nanny until I was seventeen.”

You blinked. “What?”

“She was Swiss. Her name was Marguerite. She made me porridge and slapped my wrist every time I tried to put sugar in it.”

You sat up, incredulous. “Seventeen?!”

“I wasn’t in diapers, darling. By then she was more of a… house warden. But yes. I was very—” he sniffed, mock dignified, “—very precious to my mother.”

You tried not to laugh. Failed. “What the hell?”

“She was overprotective. Insufferably so. I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere alone until university.”

“Was that your first time unsupervised?”

He smirked. “I made up for lost time.”

You raised a brow. “Is that when the womanizing began?”

“I call it ‘intensive charm deployment.’” His grin was mischievous now. “But yes. And my cousin Sinclair never let me forget the Marguerite years.”

You tilted your head. “Sinclair? You’ve mentioned him before.”

“We were raised almost like brothers,” Lionel said, stretching his arm behind his head. “He’s the sweet one. Always the talker. Always ready to hug someone or offer a biscuit. Bit naïve at times. But loyal.”

“Do you think…” you hesitated, eyes on the fading horizon, “he’s looking for you now?”

Lionel didn’t even blink. “Yes. Absolutely.”

You looked at him, surprised by the certainty in his voice.

“I know him,” he added. “He’s probably got every helicopter between here and Gibraltar on standby. He doesn’t give up. Especially not on family.”

You swallowed, heart twisting at the conviction in his tone.

Lionel turned his head slightly to study you. “What about you?” he asked quietly. “Anyone out there searching?”

You hesitated. Then, quietly: “No. Of course not.”

He frowned. “Surely—”

“My mom died when I was twenty,” you interrupted. “Cancer. Fast. Brutal. My dad left when I was little. Walked out on her. On me.”

Lionel stayed quiet, gaze fixed.

“The last time I heard from him,” you continued, voice dull, “was the day after we got married. He called. Not to congratulate me. He wanted money. Said he ‘always knew I’d marry rich.’ Said I owed him.”

Lionel’s jaw clenched.

“I hung up on him,” you whispered. “Haven’t spoken since.”

Silence fell.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“…Was that why you were so awful the day after the wedding?” he asked, his voice careful. Baritone low. Rougher than usual. “I thought you regretted it. Marrying me. Like the money had been worth it, but I hadn’t.”

You blinked. Lifted your head slowly to look at him.

His hazel eyes met yours, tired but open. “You were cold,” he continued, “snapping at everyone, barely speaking to me. I remember thinking: ‘She got what she wanted, and now she’s done playing nice.’” He huffed softly, not unkindly. “It made me… a little angry.”

You stared at him, brows drawing in. “Is that why you spent the rest of the week sulking around Monaco, dragging me to meetings, canceling the rest of the honeymoon?”

Lionel didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

You saw it in his face. You sat up just enough to really see him. Your chest hurt—tight, full of too many things you didn’t have words for yet. All this time you’d thought he was bored with you. Disappointed. Regretting the marriage already. But now, sitting here in the wreckage of everything, it was suddenly so clear.

There had been so many goddamn misunderstandings.

You’d been grieving your mother, your sense of identity—desperate to prove that marrying him hadn’t made you weak or shallow. And Lionel… Lionel had assumed the worst, because he’d always expected to be used. He thought you’d gotten what you wanted and discarded him like a receipt.

You thought he didn’t care.

He thought you didn’t.

And in the silence that had followed, your marriage had folded in on itself like a paper crown—shiny, fragile, hollow.

You looked at him now—the lines at the corners of his eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw, the way he watched you like he wasn’t sure if he’d made things better or worse.

You lay back down, placing your cheek against his chest again. Slid one hand over his heart.

“We were idiots,” you whispered.

Lionel let out a soft breath—maybe a laugh, maybe not.

“I thought you didn’t care,” you continued, voice muffled slightly by his skin. “You threw money at me like it was your only language. And I—God, Lionel, I acted like a brat. Bought everything I could. Let you spoil me. Let you fuck me like you owned me, and I thought… maybe that was all we were ever going to be.”

His arm tightened around your waist.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to anymore.

“I think we both hid behind it,” you said softly. “You gave me your credit card, and I gave you my body. Neither of us asked for more.”

Lionel didn’t speak for a long time. His thumb just stroked the bare skin at your hip, slow, steady.

Then you said it.

“I’m going to die out here.”

Lionel flinched beneath you, but you kept going.

“I know it. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow—but I can feel it. And I need you to know something.”

He stilled completely.

You pressed your face tighter against his chest, your voice barely a whisper. “The only thing I regret now is not letting myself fall in love with you.”

Silence.

Then, slowly, his arms came around you fully. Tight. Anchoring.

His voice, when it finally came, was raw—scraped down to the bone. “You always had my fucking heart, you insufferable woman,” Lionel whispered, his lips in your hair. “Even when you were stealing my champagne and hogging the duvet.”

You smiled. And for the first time in a long, long while—

You didn’t feel alone.

Two days later, just before dawn, Lionel’s voice sliced through your dream like the edge of a wine glass.

“Darling,” he murmured, and you felt a finger trace a warm line down your spine. “Get up.”

You groaned into the folds of his chest, where your face had apparently ended up sometime during the night. “No,” you muttered. “Dead. I’ve died. Tell Sinclair.”

Lionel chuckled, low and rough, still heavy with sleep. “If you’ve died, you’re a very affectionate corpse. Now come on.”

You groaned louder, curling further into the blanket that barely smelled like anything anymore. Just sun and sea and Lionel’s skin. “Why?”

“Because,” he said, sitting up with a rustle of old sheets and stiff limbs, “there’s something I want you to see.”

“Let me guess. Another storm cloud shaped like your profile?”

“No,” he said patiently. “Though I’m flattered you think the heavens themselves resemble me. But no. It’s something better. Come.”

You peeked one eye open and glared at him.

He was shirtless again, of course. Skin slightly peeling at the shoulders from sun exposure, his white hair wild from the pillow, salt-dried and sticking up like a mad professor. His cheeks were leaner now—sharpened by hunger—but his hazel eyes still sparkled with something annoyingly smug.

“Lionel,” you groaned. “I’m tired. I have enough energy to blink and insult you, and barely in that order.”

“I’ll carry you if I must,” he offered.

You blinked slowly. “You can’t even carry the fishing rod without breaking it.”

He grinned. “Touché.”

Despite yourself, you sat up. Bones creaked. Muscles protested. You were lightheaded and sore and so goddamn tired you could cry. But something in Lionel’s face—some stubborn brightness—pulled at you like a thread you didn’t want to break.

You wrapped the thin sheet around your shoulders and followed him up the ladder.

The morning air hit you like a kiss: cool, fresh, kissed with salt. The sky was the color of diluted ink, the first pale gold of dawn beginning to bleed across the water like soft fire. Lionel moved ahead of you, bare feet soundless on the damp deck, his silhouette dark against the horizon.

Then—

“Look,” he said softly, pointing.

You squinted, and your breath caught.

Dolphins.

At least five of them, maybe more—breaking the surface in smooth arcs, their backs gleaming like wet onyx in the morning light. One leapt, twisting mid-air, landing with a soft splash that sent ripples shimmering toward the boat. Another swam parallel to the hull, close enough that you could see the shape of its eyes, the grace of its body cutting through the sea.

You stood in stunned silence, the sheet slipping down your arms.

Lionel glanced back at you, his grin quiet now, gentler. “They came about an hour ago. I watched them circle once. Thought they were gone. But then…”

He shrugged. “They came back.”

You stepped forward, barefoot, heart thudding. The sight was surreal. Gentle. Almost sacred.

“They’re beautiful,” you whispered.

Lionel nodded. “They are.”

You turned your face toward him—and saw something you hadn’t expected.

He wasn’t looking at the dolphins anymore.

He was looking at you.

“You should see your face,” he murmured.

You blinked. “What?”

“That look,” he said, his voice soft, baritone still rough with sleep. “Peace. You look… peaceful.”

You opened your mouth, but no words came. The dolphins dove again, sleek backs disappearing beneath the surface, only to rise seconds later on the other side.

You looked back at them, your throat tight. For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just stood there together, shoulder to shoulder, watching something wild and free remind you that the world was still out there. That there was more than just hunger and storms and salt and cracked wood.

Lionel reached for your hand.

You let him take it.

His palm was calloused now, rough from rope and days of makeshift labor, but his grip was steady. Warm. Real.

After a long silence, he leaned in and murmured, “Told you it was better than a cloud shaped like me.”

You laughed, quiet and real.

“You’re still smug,” you said.

“I’m still me,” he replied.

And then, after a pause:

“But I think I’m also yours. If you want me.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just squeezed his hand. The dolphins leapt again.

And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel stranded.

You felt saved.

Of course, the peace didn’t last.

Not with the sea. Not with you.

That night, the clouds rolled in without warning—again—and the calm that had settled like silk across the deck was ripped away by the roar of thunder and the bite of a wind that felt like it wanted to skin you alive.

You both knew the signs now. The sharp shift in the air, the way the gulls vanished, the low, metallic scent that slid into your mouth like the taste of blood. Lionel was at the helm before the first drop of rain hit, baritone already snapping commands over the wind.

“Get below, now!”

You were barefoot, wrapped in that old sheet still damp from your shoulders at dawn, and you didn’t move.

Lionel’s eyes darted to you. “I said get in the cabin!”

“I’m not leaving you!”

He snarled—yes, actually snarled—like a lion cornered in the dark. “You can’t swim! I’m not going to let you fall overboard just so you can feel useful!”

“I’m not feeling useful!” you snapped, gripping the hatch rope with both hands. “I am useful! And I’m not hiding in that coffin while you get thrown around up here like a fucking ragdoll!”

Lightning cracked across the sky.

“God damn it, woman, for once in your life, stop being so bloody stubborn!”

But you didn’t. You were already moving, trying to secure the canvas with fraying rope, your palms raw from the salt and wind, your heart thundering with more than just fear—it was defiance. Desperation. Something deeper than survival.

The storm hit full-force.

Waves crashed like fists against the hull. Rain pelted the deck in sheets, and wind howled through the broken sail with a voice like a thousand ghosts. Lionel was soaked, white hair plastered to his forehead, lips drawn into a snarl of concentration as he gripped the wheel with both hands, bracing his whole body against the current.

And then it happened.

The wave didn’t rise—it rose.

It came from the side like a goddamn wall. You didn’t even see it until it was too late. Lionel turned just in time to see you thrown backward, rope still in your hands, your feet skidding out from under you on the slick deck.

“No—!”

You hit the railing, and then you were gone.

Over.

Into the dark.

Lionel screamed.

“NO! NO—FUCK—BABY!”

He abandoned the helm, boat veering hard to port as the wheel spun free. He lunged to the edge, gripping the slick railing, scanning the inky black water as it surged around the hull.

“Where are you—?! GODDAMN IT—! NO!”

Lightning flashed—no sign of you.

He was shaking, trembling, braced against the rain like a madman, baritone voice hoarse as he shouted your name into the wind, over and over.

“Come back—come the fuck back! I didn’t mean it—anything I said, all of it, take it—take the ring, the bank account, the car, fuck it—fuck it all! You hear me?!”

He slammed a fist against the deck, slipping, frantic.

“I’ll sell the house in Provence!” he screamed, wild now. “That stupid fucking villa! I’ll burn the paintings! Just come back—!”

The next flash of lightning revealed your fingers—clutching the edge of the railing. Then your soaked head appeared, eyes wide, wild, and furious as your elbow hooked the edge of the boat.

“There’s no fucking way,” you screamed over the wind, “that you’re giving up that house!”

Lionel froze, mid-crawl toward the life ring. You hauled yourself over the side with a groan, drenched and shaking, hair in your eyes, salt water dripping from your mouth as you collapsed onto the deck, coughing violently.

Lionel was there in an instant, slipping on the wet wood as he scrambled toward you.

“You—fucking—insane—woman,” he gasped, grabbing your arms. “What the hell were you—?!”

“You—idiot!” you wheezed, jabbing your finger into his chest. “That house has a wine cellar, you selfish bastard!”

He gaped at you.

You both looked ridiculous—soaked, trembling, screaming over the rain like you were in a Shakespearean disaster.

And then he laughed.

It wasn’t elegant. It was ugly. Choked. Wild.

You stared at him, blinking, still heaving seawater out of your lungs.

“I just—” he coughed, dragging you into his arms, wet and shaking. “I just promised to burn my inheritance for you.”

You laughed, hoarse and exhausted. “And I nearly drowned for a fucking wine cellar.”

You both sat there, wrapped around each other, clinging like castaways—because that’s what you were. Bruised and battered. Idiots.

But alive.

He kissed you then. Salt and desperation and trembling fingers in your hair. And when he pulled back, his baritone rough and ragged, all he said was:

“Next time, you’re going below.”

You raised a brow. “You sure? I seem to be quite buoyant.”

He groaned, cradling your face like it would shatter. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

The sun was merciless that morning—bleached white and sharp as bone. The water had gone still again, deceptively calm, as if the sea itself was holding its breath. You sat on the deck, legs stretched out, Lionel’s head resting heavily in your lap, your fingers carding gently through the damp white strands clinging to his scalp. He was burning. His skin was flushed with heat, his breaths shallow and uneven, eyes fluttering open only to squint painfully against the light.

You were scared.

Not that lingering, exhausted fear you’d lived with since the storm. This was worse. Immediate. Closer. Lionel was slipping. The cheeky bastard who used to monologue about the curvature of Roman statues while sipping champagne now barely had the strength to curse. He’d spent the night mumbling nonsense—half dreams, half memories—mostly about contracts, missing cufflinks, and Marguerite telling him not to eat figs before dinner.

“Lionel,” you murmured, brushing the sweat from his temple. “Stay with me.”

He blinked slowly, mouth dry, tongue sluggish against cracked lips. “Mmm. Thought I told you not to wear white to a funeral…”

You almost laughed. Almost.

Instead, you whispered, “This isn’t a funeral.”

He smiled weakly. “Then why… does it feel like one?”

You bit your lip, adjusting his head in your lap as gently as you could. His skin was radiating heat—too much. You’d done what you could. Made a little shade with what was left of the canvas, kept a wet cloth pressed to his forehead, whispered stories into his ear even when he didn’t answer.

But it wasn’t enough.

And then—you heard it.

A low hum, distant at first, barely registering. Then louder.

Rotor blades.

You stiffened, eyes snapping to the sky. There—far off, cutting across the sky like a black insect against the pale blue—a helicopter.

Your heart stuttered. “Lionel,” you breathed. “Lionel, there’s—there’s a helicopter—”

He groaned softly, eyes still closed. “Tell them to bring Scotch.”

You moved. Quickly. Carefully. You shifted his head from your lap, lowering it onto a bundle of what used to be your jacket. He grunted in protest, weakly reaching for your hand.

“Don’t…” he rasped. “Don’t go.”

“I’m not going far,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I promise.”

But he didn’t hear you. You scrambled down into the cabin, heart pounding like a war drum. Where—where was the flare gun? You’d seen it. Days ago. Somewhere near the emergency radio, back when you still had the energy to hope.

You tore open drawers. Ripped through bags. Shoved aside tangled wires, cracked plastic, anything that wasn’t red and metal and life-saving.

The sound of the helicopter grew louder.

Outside, Lionel was trying to sit up.

“Darling…” he muttered, voice hoarse, “there’s a… noise. Sounds like... tax season.”

You found it.

Jammed behind a cracked tackle box and a rusted pair of scissors. The flare gun.

Loaded.

You bolted up the ladder, bare feet slamming against the scorched deck. The helicopter was almost overhead now, circling. You screamed—waved both arms—held the gun high and fired.

A sharp hiss.

A streak of red against the blue sky. The flare exploded in a bright, desperate arc.

You waved again, jumping, screaming until your throat burned. “Here! Down here! Please—God, please—here!”

You didn’t stop waving until the helicopter dipped lower, until the downdraft of the blades buffeted your body and sent Lionel’s hair whipping across his cheeks like sea-threaded silk.

He blinked blearily up at the sky, shielding his eyes with a trembling hand. Lionel heard it faintly at first—just a sharp cry muffled by the whipping blades of the helicopter. Then louder. Clearer. A voice that didn’t belong to the rescue crew. A voice that pierced through the roar of the engine and the groaning of the sea.

“LEO!”

He froze.

No one had called him that in years.

“LEO, YOU STUBBORN, GLORIOUS BASTARD! I CAME TO SAVE YOU!”

His head jerked toward the sound, sunburned brows furrowed in disbelief. Then, slowly—like a man emerging from a fever dream—Lionel stood, swaying slightly, one hand gripping the scorched railing of the boat.

He knew that voice.

“Oh my God,” he muttered, blinking hard against the sting of wind and salt. “Sinclair?”

Your hand was already on his back, steadying him as he leaned forward—and then you both saw him.

The helicopter was descending, blades cutting the air in violent arcs, and clinging to the open door with a windbreaker half-flapping off his shoulder, a headset crooked over his ear and a ridiculous grin stretched across his face, was a man who looked… exactly like Lionel.

Well, almost.

His hair was a faded blond, not white, windswept and unruly like it had once been tamed and forgotten how. He had the same nose, the same cheekbones, the same hazel eyes—though Sinclair’s eyes seemed almost green in the harsh morning light, wide with excitement and tear-pricked relief.

His mouth moved constantly—words spilling out, mostly drowned by the rotor, but his joy was unmistakable. He waved like a man greeting old friends at a school reunion, already trying to unclip his harness midair.

“Oh my God,” you breathed, staring at him in stunned awe. “That’s Sinclair?”

Lionel didn’t answer right away. He was leaning forward like his knees might give out, blinking hard, his throat bobbing.

You’d never seen him look like that.

Not stunned. Not undone.

Not like this.

“He came,” Lionel murmured. “He actually—”

He didn’t finish. Instead, he cupped both hands around his mouth and shouted into the wind, baritone rasping with hoarse glee:

“DID YOU BRING WHISKEY?”

There was a beat of laughter from above.

Then Sinclair reached into his vest—of course he had a vest—and triumphantly produced a small silver flask. He held it aloft like a torch, grinning like he’d just cracked the code to eternal life.

“I NEVER TRAVEL WITHOUT IT!” he bellowed.

And Lionel… nearly cried.

He laughed instead, a strangled sound—half sob, half bark of joy—and slumped back against you, his sun-scorched head resting on your shoulder, his chest shaking with the weight of a week’s worth of despair finally cracking.

“God, I love that idiot,” he muttered, voice thick. “Bloody sunshine-wrapped nightmare.”

You wrapped your arms around his waist, steadying him as he sagged with emotion, your own eyes burning.

Sinclair was being helped down onto the deck now, feet hitting the wood with a surprising amount of grace for a man waving a flask and talking at full speed.

He reached Lionel in three long strides and immediately grabbed his face in both hands like he might never see it again.

“Jesus, Leo—look at you,” he said, blinking rapidly. “You look like one of those salted cods we used to trade for ice cream in Saint-Tropez.”

Lionel choked on a laugh, grabbing Sinclair’s wrists. “You’ve looked better yourself. What is this shirt? Are those birds?”

“They’re cranes,” Sinclair sniffed. “Symbol of longevity.”

“Of course they are,” Lionel groaned, pulling him into a one-armed hug. “God, you ridiculous, brilliant bastard.”

You stepped back slightly to give them space—and watched, stunned, as the man who once refused to share a couch cushion with you clung to his cousin like he hadn’t touched another human in years.

Sinclair stepped back after a beat, eyes glinting with mischief. “You know,” he said, flicking imaginary dust from Lionel’s shoulder, “I think I’ve finally done it.”

“Done what?”

“Become the most handsome in the family.”

Lionel rolled his eyes, still smiling. “I’ve nearly died, and you’re already measuring your jawline.”

Sinclair turned to you suddenly, as if remembering you were real. “And you must be the woman who somehow convinced this marble statue of a man to marry her.”

You blinked. “You know about me?”

“Of course I do. He wouldn’t shut up about you—sent me messages for weeks. 'She has a laugh like thunder.' 'She wears heels like weapons.' 'She smells like death and jasmine.' It was very poetic, if slightly concerning.”

Lionel groaned. “I did not say that.”

“You did,” Sinclair grinned, then leaned in, dropping his voice conspiratorially. “He even practiced your name when he thought no one was listening.”

You smiled despite yourself, heart thudding.

Lionel groaned again. “Can we throw him back in the sea?”

Sinclair clapped him on the shoulder, hard. “Not until you drink this,” he said, unscrewing the flask and shoving it into Lionel’s hand. “Rescue protocol. One gulp for health. Two for morale.”

Lionel took it, downed a swallow, and sighed so deep it rattled through his chest.

You stepped forward again, lacing your fingers through his.

And Sinclair—chatty, sun-kissed Sinclair—gave you both one long look. The kind that said he was smarter than he let on. The kind that saw past salt and sweat and broken sails. He smiled, softer now.

“You’ll be alright,” he said.

You didn’t know if he meant the ride, or the future, or the two of you together. But as the rescue crew began lowering supplies and preparing the stretcher for Lionel, as Sinclair pulled out a paperback from his pocket and started explaining, unprompted, how dolphins often guided lost ships to shore in Greek myths, as Lionel pressed your hand to his chest and whispered “home,” like it was a promise—

You believed it.

You were saved.

[shortnspidey]

PERILOUS SKIES

Bob Floyd X Fem!Seresin!reader || WC: 6.9K

SUMMARY: Dating Bob Floyd had been nothing short of perfect. The sweet, ever-attentive WSO felt like he’d walked straight out of a rom-com. That’s why, when your scheduled date night arrives and he doesn’t show, your mind immediately begins to spiral. It’s so unlike him, so out of character, that you can’t stop replaying every possible reason in your head. As the hours stretch on, worry takes hold, deep down, you can feel something’s wrong.

WARNINGS: Established relationship, cursing, talks of minor injuries, minor talks of violence, overall fluff, steamy kiss, slight angst, typical Hangman behavior, incorrect military details (sorry)!

A/N: Ugh! I need a man like Bob! 😫 I have been sucked back into my 2022 Top Gun era and Lewis Pullman has me in such a chokehold which is why this was written. Hope y’all enjoy! Divider by @thecutestgrotto <3

➩ main masterlist

➩ bob floyd masterlist

Never in your wildest dreams did you think you’d fall for a military man. Not because you didn’t respect them, you did. You’d seen what that kind of life demanded: the discipline, the bravery, the sacrifices. But you'd also seen the ego, the recklessness, and the emotional walls that seemed to come with the uniform. You knew their type, inside and out. Especially because you were raised right alongside one.

Jake “Hangman” Seresin wasn’t just your older brother. He was a force of nature, sharp smile, sharper jawline, and enough swagger to make heads turn before he even stepped foot in a room. He’d always been that way. The golden boy. The daredevil. The protector. And as his little sister, you were someone he guarded with his life. Especially, when it came to men.

Every birthday party, every school dance, every casual dinner date you attempted growing up had been intercepted by Jake. Sometimes he scared them off with a pointed glare. Sometimes it was a not-so-subtle, “I’m watching you.” And sometimes it was just his mere presence, standing a little too close, arms crossed over his chest like he was waiting for an excuse to break someone’s nose.

At first, it had almost been sweet, he was simply looking out for you. But as the years passed, it became suffocating. You weren’t fragile. You didn’t need saving. And yet, he treated you like some porcelain doll that might crack if someone so much as looked at you the wrong way. God forbid it was someone in the Navy. It was safe to say that you had grown so tired of flight suits.

That’s why you built a life as far away from that world as you could. Your work meant everything to you. You were a licensed therapist, specializing in trauma and stress-related disorders, an emotionally demanding job, but one that gave you purpose. You spent your days helping others unpack the things they carried, offering a safe space for people to speak their truth, even when it broke your heart.

You had your own small private practice just off base, tucked into a converted bungalow with soft lighting and calming artwork on the walls. It smelled faintly of lavender and worn paperbacks, and your bookshelf overflowed with psychology texts, handwritten notes, and dog-eared poetry collections. Your life was rooted in listening. In feeling. In forming connections.

And if, some nights, the weight of everyone else’s pain lingered in your chest, well, you’d made peace with that. You had your quiet apartment, your plants, your routines. You knew how to breathe through the noise. You were proud of what you’d built. Which made what happened next was all the more unexpected. You weren’t planning to go out that night.

It had been a long, exhausting week, three new clients, a crisis session, and a war veteran who hadn’t said a single word until your fifth session together. You were mentally and physically drained, emotionally raw. You had planned to stay in, maybe order Thai food and watch something mindless just to silence your thoughts. But your phone lit up with a message from Penny.

Swing by the Hard Deck tonight. First drink’s on me! 🍹

You almost said no.

But, surprisingly, something pushed you to say yes. So without thinking too much, you slipped into an orange sundress, threw on your favorite sandals, and drove the familiar road to the beach. As always, the Hard Deck buzzed with music, laughter, and the sound of boots hitting the wooden floors. The scent of sea salt and beer filled the air, and the jukebox was already playing something classic, probably something from Maverick’s rotation.

You knew half the faces there. A few pilots you’d grown up around. Some you had met through Jake. Speaking of Jake, of course he was already there, was holding court by the pool table, cue stick in hand, that ever-confident grin on his face. Same old scene. Same old bar. Penny spotted your first, waving you over as she started making your go-to drink. You smiled, walking over and giving her a hug behind the bar.

“Here, looks like you need it.” You smiled, accepting the fruity cocktail from her hands. As she attended to the other bar patrons, you sat in a nearby stool, fully intending to linger just long enough to be polite before heading back out so that you could crawl into bed by 10PM. Only, the universe seemed to have different plans, because that's when you saw him. He was tucked away in the corner of the bar, half-shadowed by the low glow of the neon beer signs above.

He sat with a bottle of beer in hand, long fingers loosely curled around the neck of it, his posture slightly hunched like he was doing his best not to take up too much space. His glasses were a little fogged from the humidity, slipping just slightly down the bridge of his nose. He reached up now and then to adjust them, eyes flicking around the bar like he was trying to blend into the furniture.

Not hiding, exactly, just keeping to himself. He wasn’t laughing with the others, wasn’t showing off at the dartboard, and he definitely wasn’t trying to flirt with anyone. In a room full of men with too much confidence and not enough subtlety, he was different. You couldn’t look away. There was something almost disarming about how awkward he looked. Like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands or where to rest his gaze.

But even in all that quiet discomfort, there was something gentle about him. You were too far in your head when he looked up, and caught you staring. Your breath hitched, just slightly. But instead of looking away like most people would, he offered a sheepish, crooked smile. And you smiled back, because how could you not? He dropped his gaze immediately, taking a sip of his beer like maybe he was embarrassed by the brief moment of eye contact.

It only made him even more endearing.

You turned back toward Penny behind the bar, trying to play it cool, but your voice betrayed your interest. “Hey Penny, who’s the guy in the corner?” Penny followed your gaze, then gave you a knowing little smile. “That’s Bob.” You hummed, faking interest, taking a sip of your drink. “Lieutenant Robert Floyd. WSO. Flies backseat for Phoenix.” She added casually, wiping down a glass. “One of the good ones. Real quiet, but sweet as hell. Kind of Jake’s opposite.”

That earned a short laugh out of you. “So, he's not a pilot?” You smiled behind the rim of your glass. “He is, technically. But he’s the kind that listens more than he talks.” Penny raised an eyebrow. “Why? Are you interested?” Instead of responding, you glance over your shoulder again. Bob was staring down at the condensation on his bottle, idly tracing circles with his fingertip like he’d rather be anywhere else, and yet, somehow, he didn’t look miserable.

Just… out of place.

“Maybe.” You murmured, trying to sound nonchalant, but the truth betrayed you in the form of heat creeping up the back of your neck. You lifted your drink to cover the slight twitch of a smile you couldn’t suppress. Penny leaned in with a smirk, wiping down the bar like she wasn’t studying your every move. “Then don’t wait too long,” She coaxed under her breath, voice teasing. “Use that Seresin charm. Guys like that don’t usually make the first move.”

You glanced back at him. He was still in the corner, tracing the rim of his bottle with his thumb, eyes low, posture slightly slouched like he was trying to shrink himself into the background. But something about him, it tugged at you. Maybe it was the way his eyes had flicked toward you moments ago, a little wide, like he couldn’t believe someone like you had noticed him. Like he wasn’t used to being seen.

Or maybe, just maybe, you were tired of playing it safe. Tired of living under your brother’s ever-watchful gaze. Tired of waiting for permission you never needed in the first place. Your fingers tightened around the glass as you made your decision. You slid off your stool, smoothing down your dress like it could steady your nerves, and crossed the bar, each step quickening your heartbeat. “Mind if I sit?” You asked, voice smooth, chin tilted ever so slightly in confidence, fake or not.

He looked up at you, caught off guard. His expression flickered,first surprise, then something gentler. He cleared his throat, straightening a little. “Uh—yeah. I mean, no. I don’t mind.” You smiled and took the seat beside him, the wood cool against your skin as you eased into it. “Thanks, I’m Y/N.” You extended your hand across the small gap between you. The contact was instant, his larger palm warm, slightly rough from flight gloves, his grip unsure but respectful nonetheless.

“B-Bob,” He mumbled out. “Well, Robert. But, um… everyone calls me Bob.” You smiled, loving how blush dusted his cheeks. “Nice to meet you, Bob,” You let his name linger, giving it weight as your gaze swept over his face, softer up close, his features earnest and boyish beneath his glasses which hid his captivating cerulean blue eyes. “So… you always hang out in dark corners, or is tonight a special occasion?” The edges of his mouth twitched with a quiet, amused smile.

“Just trying to stay out of the way.” You raised a brow, slightly leaning into him so your shoulders were touching. “Of who?” You teased, head tilting. “The loud ones? Or the terrifying older brothers?” That made his eyes widen slightly behind his lenses, and you didn’t miss the way he stiffened, the realization hitting like a gust of wind. He blinked once. Then again. “Y-You’re… Hangman’s sister?” You sipped your drink, nodding slowly. “Guilty as charged, Lieutenant.” You winked as Bob stared for a moment.

You could practically see the gears turning behind his eyes, fast, nervous, cautious. “You gonna run, Bob?” You asked, eyebrow lifting, lips curved just enough to keep it playful. You wouldn’t have blamed him. You were used to that look. You’d seen it before on a dozen other faces. Guys who decided no girl was worth catching hell from Jake Seresin. But Bob surprised you. He didn’t bolt. Didn’t stammer out a goodbye or glance over his shoulder like he was looking for an exit.

Instead, he just smiled, really smiled, and for the first time, something inside you fluttered. His whole face shifted when he did, gentle and sincere, like the smile had been waiting for the right moment to be let out. His shoulders dropped, and the tension in his spine eased as his nerves melted into quiet warmth. The corners of his eyes crinkled behind his glasses, and the golden bar light caught the faint dimple in his cheek, softening his whole demeanor.

Something about it, about him, felt honest. “Not unless you tell me to.” His voice was low, laced with a touch of humor, but no hint of fear whatsoever. And that was it. And you knew then… you were in trouble. Of course, right on cue, nothing good in your life ever slipped past Jake unnoticed. And the moment your brother spotted you talking to someone, especially someone in uniform, he made a beeline across the bar like a guided missile.

“Seriously?” He muttered under his breath, then louder. “She’s off-limits.” He slung an arm around your shoulder, the heavy weight of it both familiar and infuriating, while his eyes narrowed at Bob like he’d caught him trying to hack into the Pentagon. His voice was low and sharp. “I mean it, Floyd.” To Bob’s credit, he didn’t bristle or shrink away. He didn’t puff his chest or try to argue. He just gave a small, respectful nod, calm, measured. “Understood.” You expected him to walk away after that.

Hell, Jake even expected him to.

That was usually the part where most men retreated, tail between their legs, deciding no woman was worth facing down a protective older brother with a reputation like Hangman’s. But Bob surprised you. Later that night, long after the initial rush of aviators had moved on to games of pool and darts, and Jake had wandered off to trash-talk some poor soul at the dartboard, you found yourself by the jukebox, flipping through the cracked plastic covers of old CDs. Then, a quiet voice spoke up from behind you.

“I know your brother’s... protective,” Protective was one way to put it, you thought to yourself. You glanced up from flipping through the CD’s as Bob shifted his weight from one foot to another, hands in the pockets of his khakis, standing just far enough away to give you space, but close enough that you could feel the sincerity in his tone. “But I’d still like to buy you a drink and maybe talk some more. I-If that’s alright with you of course.” You looked up, surprised and maybe a little impressed.

It was more than alright.

You gave him a nod, and the two of you sat at the end of the bar, away from prying eyes and Jake’s over-the-top dramatics. Conversation flowed easier than you expected. Bob wasn’t flashy or performative, he was thoughtful. Funny in a dry, unexpected way. A little awkward, but charmingly so. That night turned into another. Then a real date. Then two. Then weeks of texts that made you smile at your phone like a teenager. Things didn’t move fast, they didn’t need to. With Bob, it was steady.

He remembered your favorite drink after the first time you ordered it. He walked you to your car every time, even if it meant doubling back on his own route. He asked about your day and actually listened, not just to respond, but to understand. He never interrupted. Never made you feel small. He laughed at your jokes, even the bad ones. He offered his hoodie on breezy beach nights without saying a word. And even had this quiet habit of checking on you.

Whether it was a text at the exact right time. A glance across a room that grounded you. And maybe most surprising of all, he made you feel safe. It didn’t matter that he flew backseat for one of the Navy’s best pilots. That he was part of a squad who took down a nearly impossible mission. That half the base jokingly called him “baby-on- board.” None of that defined him.

What mattered was that when you were with him, for the first time in years, you didn’t feel like someone’s little sister. You didn’t feel like someone to be guarded or shielded or spoken for. You just felt seen. Of course, that didn’t mean you were ready to throw it in Jake’s face. For a while, you and Bob kept things quiet. It wasn’t that you were ashamed, far from it. But you both agreed: Jake didn’t need to know just yet. You liked the way things were. Soft. Sacred. Yours.

Besides, the moment your brother found out you were seeing someone, especially someone on his squadron, he’d lose his mind. So you kept your dates discreet. Stolen kisses in parked cars. Quick coffee dates before his briefings. Whispered conversations during beach bonfires where no one was paying attention. And on one particularly slow afternoon, he stopped by your office. Your practice had just closed for the day. The soft hum of the white noise machine still filled the room, and the late sun poured through the windows.

Bob was leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, pretending to read the spines of your books, psychology texts, self-help, a few novels tucked in like secrets. “I still can’t believe you keep a weighted blanket in your office.” He teased lightly, eyes glued to your legs as you reached for your laptop. “Trauma work, remember? Nervous systems love pressure. Plus, it’s cozy.” Bob stepped closer, a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. “You’re cozy.” You mirrored his smile, letting out a lovesick giggle before you could stop it.

“Are you trying to flirt with me using therapeutic language?” His blue eyes twinkled with mischief stepping closer. “Is it working?” You laughed, and before you could answer, his lips were on yours. It was supposed to be just one kiss. A quick goodbye before he headed back to base, enough to hold you off until you could get your hands on him later that night. But then your back hit the wall, and his hands cupped your jaw like he was memorizing every curve of your face.

You instinctively melted into him, fingers curling into his fitted white t-shirt that had no business making his biceps look that good. His lips pressed to yours, slow at first, soft and searching, but it deepened quickly. His hands found your waist, sliding over the thin fabric of your blouse, fingers splaying wide as if to anchor himself in the feel of you. Bob groaned quietly into your mouth, the sound low, needy, almost reverent. His tongue slipped past your parted lips, tentative but eager, and you welcomed him in with a soft, breathy moan.

Your hands fumbled for his collar, pulling him closer, grounding yourself in the way he tasted. One of his hands slid up your side, fingers brushing under the hem of your shirt, calloused fingertips grazing the bare skin of your ribs. You shivered at the contact, arching into him instinctively. His other hand cupped the back of your neck, thumb stroking just below your ear as his mouth moved with yours, deeper, hungrier.

Your nails scraped lightly through his hair, mussing it from its neat comb, and that earned you another quiet groan that vibrated against your lips. The air between you felt heavy, time blurred. Nothing existed beyond the feel of his body against yours, the way he kissed you like he was starved for it, like he’d been holding back for weeks. Maybe he had. Your hips shifted, a little too eager, and you felt the subtle hitch of his breath as his hand gripped tighter at your waist, holding you there.

Which is how you didn’t hear the office door creak open until: “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” You both froze. Your lips were still tangled. Bob’s hand was still under your shirt. And Jake Seresin was standing in the doorway of your office, expression stuck somewhere between outrage and horror. You sprang apart, your heartbeat plummeted. And Bob, poor Bob, froze in place like someone had pulled the eject handle. Jake stood in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw clenched, face unreadable.

A vein twitched in his temple. “Jake—” You started, breathless, smoothing down your blouse. “It’s not, well, it is what it looks like, but—" Busted. “Of all the people,” Jake let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh, dragging a hand down his face, then pinching the bridge of his nose like it physically pained him to witness what was happening. “Baby-on-board? Seriously, Y/N?!”

You instinctively stepped in front of Bob, shielding him with your body like your brother might actually tackle him through your office window. “Jake. Don’t.” Bob, didn’t move. His back was straight, blue eyes wide behind fogged-up glasses, lips parted as if mid-apology. His cheeks were flushed, his t-shirt slightly wrinkled from where your hands had just been. “I, uh… hi, Hangman." He offered awkwardly, pushing his glasses up with a shaky hand.

Jake stared at him, hard. Like he was cycling through a mental list of disciplinary actions and weighing the pros and cons of each one. “I told you once,” He growled slowly, voice like ice cracking. “My little sister is off-limits.” You stepped in again, squaring your shoulders, chin lifting. “And I told you I’m not twelve.” There was a beat of silence. Then Jake turned to you, jaw tight, mouth slightly open like he wanted to argue, but the fire behind his eyes dimmed.

You saw it, the shift. That split-second of hesitation. The realization. You weren’t his kid sister anymore, sneaking candy into movie theaters or crying over scraped knees. You weren’t some fragile thing he had to wrap in bubble wrap and keep hidden from the world. You were a grown woman. And you’d made your choice. “I’m your big brother,” He muttered voice quieter now, rough around the edges. “I’m supposed to look out for you.”

Your expression softened, shoulders dropping. “You always have. Better than anyone, but you don’t have to protect me from Bob. He'd never hurt me.” You glanced over your shoulder, eyes meeting Bob’s. Jake exhaled sharply through his nose and looked between the two of you. At Bob, still standing there like a soldier awaiting his court-martial. And at you, arms folded, gaze unwavering. After a pregnant pause, a long, reluctant sigh left his chest. “Are you really into him?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I am.” Jake stared at him for another long second, then finally, finally, cracked the smallest smirk. “Jesus Christ. If this is happening, I don’t want to hear about it and I definitely don’t want to see it.” He turned toward the door, muttering under his breath. “Shit, I need bleach for my poor eyes.” Then, he paused and glanced back “If you break her heart, Floyd, I don’t care how good of a WSO you are, I will make you wish you had ejected mid-flight.” Bob swallowed visibly and nodded.

“Understood.” You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth lifted. It wasn’t exactly a blessing. But from Jake Seresin? It sure as hell was close enough. You smiled at the memory, lips curling as your thoughts drifted back. Since then, Jake had slowly eased up, still overbearing at times, but less of an asshole, finally starting to accept the reality that you and Bob were together. It wasn’t instant, but it was progress.

Maybe it was the way Bob never rose to Jake’s bait, or maybe it was how he treated you, with a kind of quiet reverence that left little room for protest. Because Bob was nothing but attentive. The kind of man who remembered how you took your coffee, who sent midday check-in texts just to ask how your sessions had gone, who looked at you like you were his entire goddamn universe. He made you feel like the only girl in the world, seen, cherished.

Which is why, when your usual Thursday night rolled around, the one night you always carved out for each other, and Bob didn’t show… something inside you spiraled. You’d cleaned the apartment, lit one of your favorite candles, even queued up Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith knowing it was one of his favorites. His favorite hoodie was draped over the back of the couch, the one he always “forgot” to take home because he liked the way it smelled after you wore it.

The popcorn was in the bowl. The wine was chilling in the fridge. Take-out menus were on the coffee table. Everything was ready. Except him. You glanced at the clock. Once. Then again. Then again, your eyes flicking to the screen, then to the door, like maybe he’d appear if you wished hard enough. Each time, you brushed it off with a quiet, He’s probably still at the hangar. You knew the drill. Sometimes they got grounded late, schedules shifted.

But the minutes stretched into an hour. Then two. Still no text. No call. Just eerie silence. And Bob? When it came to date night, Bob was never late. When your phone finally rang, the shrill tone sliced through the stillness, making you jump. You scrambled for it, heartbeat thudding against your ribs as your thumb slid to answer without even checking the caller ID on the screen. “Hey, handsome,” You breathed out. “Are you on your way home yet?” Only, it wasn’t Bob’s voice that answered.

“Aww, Y/N,” Came the familiar, cocky drawl you had grown familiar with. “I knew you were lying to me all those times you called me ugly.” Your jaw clenched. Your eyes rolled before your brain could catch up. “Jake,” You snapped, already pacing. “What the hell, where’s Bob? Why are you calling me?” Your brother’s voice cut through the line, irritatingly casual. “Sorry for the late notice, but your beau isn’t making it to date night.” The floor practically dropped out from under you.

“What?! Why? Jake, what happened?” You barely heard yourself over the rush in your ears. Your pulse kicked up, adrenaline beginning to surge. He ignored the edge in your voice, brushing off your panic like it was nothing more than static. “Just come to base. I’ll be waiting at the gate to escort you inside.” Then the line went dead. You stared at your phone for a second, willing it to light up again, to clarify, to make sense. It didn’t.

Just the reflection of your stunned face in the dark screen. “God, I hate when he does that.” You muttered, voice low and sharp as you shoved the phone into your back pocket. Without wasting another breath, you yanked Bob’s hoodie over your head, feet shoving into the nearest pair of sneakers, fingers scrambling for your keys. Your heart thudded in your throat as you raced down the stairs, and out the door.

The base wasn’t far, thankfully. About a twenty-minute drive. You didn’t floor it, but your foot stayed heavy on the gas, knuckles white around the steering wheel. Your thoughts circled and twisted with every mile: Was he hurt? Why didn’t Bob call you himself? Was Jake just being dramatic, or worse, trying to protect you from something serious? By the time you reached the gate, your nerves were all over the place.

True to his word, Jake was waiting just past the security checkpoint, casual as ever, like this was a run-of-the-mill errand. You flashed your ID to the guard, who barely glanced at it before waving you through. You didn’t even bother straightening the car when you parked. The engine had barely cut before you threw the door open and leapt out. “Jake,” You barked, striding toward him with a glare. “You have one minute to explain yourself before I kick the shit out of you. Where’s Bob?”

Your brother slung an arm around your shoulder like this was all completely normal. The audacity of it made your teeth grit. “Relax, baby-on-board is fine.” He muttered, steering you forward. “Don’t call him that. How many times do I have to tell you before it sticks?” You snapped, elbowing him lightly. Jake lifted both hands in mock surrender, grinning like this was all part of a joke only he found funny. “Alright, alright fine. Just… follow me.” And without another word, he led you deeper into the base.

Your steps faltered, just slightly, as dread started to pool low in your stomach. Because something wasn’t right. You could feel it. Your suspicions were confirmed the moment Jake led you down the familiar corridor toward the medical bay. The sterile scent of antiseptic and the soft hum of fluorescent lights filled the air, too clean, way too quiet. Your heart pounded harder with every step. Then you saw them, Maverick and Bradley, standing a few feet away near the nurses’ station, mid-conversation.

Or they had been. The second their eyes landed on you and Jake, their voices cut off like a switch had been flipped. “Mav,” You rasped, your voice laced with urgency as your eyes locked on his. They both turned fully now, posture straightening. Bradley offered a tense smile as he stepped forward to greet you, arms opening automatically. You didn’t hesitate, letting yourself fall into the hug, if only for the brief comfort of familiar arms and the steady heartbeat beneath his civilian clothes.

“Where’s Bob?” You asked again, for what felt like the hundredth time. The question burned now, raw and desperate, clawing up your throat. Maverick moved closer, his expression calm but lined with concern. “He’s alright,” He began, voice steady, measured, but the silence that followed said otherwise. The look, the flicker of shared worry between him, Bradley, and Jake did nothing to settle the growing storm in your chest. You could feel it building, pressure against your ribs.

Maverick exhaled slowly, like he didn’t want to alarm you but knew sugarcoating it wouldn’t help.“During today’s training, Phoenix and Bob suffered a bird strike. The impact triggered an engine fire, which spread fast and caused a total systems failure, both engines, and hydraulic controls.” Your breath hitched. “They had no choice but to eject,” He added, quieter now. “The medics brought them in immediately. They’re stable, conscious, and mostly okay. The doctors are keeping them overnight for observation.”

The words tumbled in slowly, too slow to process all at once. Bird strike. Engine fire. Ejection. The air felt thinner. The hallway longer. Your mouth moved before your brain could catch up. “C-Can I see him?” You asked, your voice barely more than a whisper. Maverick nodded, but you were already moving. Your sneakers squeaked against the linoleum as you bolted down the hallway, weaving past a nurse and ignoring the muted “Miss, wait—” that came from someone behind the desk.

When you spotted the door at the end of the corridor with Seresin scrawled hastily on the visitor clipboard and Floyd, R./Trace, N. listed beneath it, your chest constricted. You pushed the door open. You spotted Natasha first. She was reclined in the hospital cot closest to the door, propped up slightly by a pair of thin, starch-white pillows. Her skin looked pale under the sterile fluorescent lights, a stark contrast to the deep purpling bruise blooming along her cheekbone.

A butterfly bandage held a small cut together above her eyebrow, and her arm, though not in a cast, was wrapped in gauze from wrist to elbow. Still, she was awake. Alert. Breathing. “Nat,” You exhaled, already moving toward her. Her head turned at the sound of your voice. The split-second surprise in her expression melted into something warmer, despite the lingering pain behind her eyes. She pushed herself up with a small wince, the thin hospital blanket slipping off her shoulders.

“Y/N, hey,” She murmured, voice raspy but steady. Your arms were already wrapping around her before you could stop yourself. Your movements slowed as soon as you felt her body tense slightly, stiff from the impact, from the adrenaline still likely fading. She let out a breathy laugh against your shoulder, one arm curling weakly around you. “I’m glad you're here.” She murmured, voice muffled against your sweatshirt. You leaned back slightly to look at her, brushing a stray curl from her forehead, careful not to graze the fresh scrape on her temple.

It was safe to say that ever since you and Bob had started dating, you and Natasha had become inseparable. It started with casual conversations at the Hard Deck that turned into late-night wine nights, venting sessions, and a friendship built on fierce loyalty and shared eye-rolls at the men in your lives. Part of it, no doubt, came from the fact that she and Bob were more than just teammates, they were a crew. They trusted each other with their lives, and somewhere along the way, that trust naturally extended to you.

“I’m just glad you’re both okay.” You whispered. Natasha gave you a faint, lopsided smile, tired but genuine. “Yeah, well, Bob took the worst of it. I was lucky.” Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t even seen him yet. The cot next to hers was shielded slightly by a privacy curtain pulled partway across, and suddenly, you couldn’t breathe fast enough. Your eyes darted toward the edge of the curtain. “He’s awake. A little banged up. But, he’s been asking for you since we were brought in here.”

That was all it took. You gave her hand a gentle squeeze and whispered. “I’ll be right back.” Then, without hesitation, you stepped around the curtain, ready to face whatever was waiting on the other side. As soon as you rounded the curtain, your eyes found him. Bob was sitting upright, well, trying to. He winced slightly bracing himself on one elbow as he straightened in the cot, ignoring the tight pull of gauze around his ribs and the IV in his arm. Sensing the presence of someone in the room, he stopped fidgeting, blue eyes meeting yours.

You moved without thinking. The world blurred as you rushed across the room, the cool floor beneath your sneakers giving way to the warmth of his outstretched arms. He barely had time to brace himself before you collided with him, sinking into his chest, arms wrapping around his torso with desperate urgency. He winced, but his hands immediately came up, one cradling the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair, the other wrapping tightly around your waist.

His grip was firm, steady, anchored, as if the contact itself might undo the fear that had rooted in both of you. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin beneath the sterile tang of antiseptic. His heart was pounding hard beneath your cheek, fast and erratic, matching your own. “Shit, Bobby,” You whispered, voice trembling. “I thought—” You couldn’t even finish the sentence. “I know,” He murmured into your hair, his voice cracking with emotion.

“I’m sorry I scared you, sweetheart.” Then, more softly, almost sheepishly, he mumbled into your shoulder. “I’m also sorry I missed date night.” You nearly scoffed, half a laugh, half a sob, as you pulled back just enough to look at him, your fingers still tangled in the collar of his shirt. “Date night? Bob, I could care less about date night right now. I’m just glad you’re alive.” Bob’s selflessness never ceased to amaze you, how even through the haze of pain and adrenaline, his first thought had been about you, about letting you down.

As if your heart hadn’t broken in half the moment you realized he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. You clung to him tighter, your arms curling around his back, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his t-shirt like letting go wasn’t an option. Bodies wound tightly around one another, like you were trying to climb inside his chest and stay there. Like the only way to be sure he was real was to feel every inch of him pressed to you. He exhaled shakily, lips brushing your temple.

“All I kept thinking was that I had to get back to you.”That made your throat tighten even more. Your hand moved instinctively to his face, cupping his cheek, thumb grazing over a scratch along his jawline. His glasses were still slightly askew, and he hadn’t even bothered to fix them, too focused on you. “I’m right here,” He reassured, almost as if sensing your inner turmoil. “I’m okay. We’re okay.” In that moment, he held tightly in his arms, everything faded away.

There was only the thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm and the soft warmth of his breath against your skin. You didn’t want to pull away, but when you finally did, it was only to take in his face. You brushed a thumb gently beneath his eye, tracing the faint bruise that had bloomed along his cheekbone. He looked a little beat up, but to you? He was perfect. Alive. And most importantly, breathing. His eyes met yours, impossibly blue beneath the smudged lenses of his crooked glasses.

They searched your face like he couldn’t quite believe you were here either. Like he was afraid if he blinked, you’d vanish. You leaned in again, this time slower, gentler, your hand cradling the side of his face. His breath caught just before your lips met, as if even now he was asking for permission without words. The kiss that followed was soft. No heat. No urgency. Just a lingering press of your mouths. You could feel the tremble in his shoulders as his hand slid up to the back of your neck, holding you there like he needed it as much as you did.

His lips parted slightly against yours, letting out the faintest sigh, and you melted into it, into him, feeling the world finally slow down. When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his. “I love you.” You whispered, the words weightless, certain. He smiled, eyes closed, breath warm against your cheek. “I love you more.” Just as you were about to lean in for another kiss, the door creaked open behind you. “Fucks sake, not this again.” Came the dry, unmistakable voice of your older brother.

You groaned softly, forehead dropping to Bob’s shoulder as he stifled a wince and a laugh at the same time. You were so close to murdering Jake and becoming an only child. “Do you have some kind of built-in radar for whenever we kiss?” You muttered into Bob’s shirt as his hand rubbed comforting circles on your back. “Apparently,” Jake scoffed, stepping fully into the room, arms crossed, brow raised in brotherly disapproval.

“I give it ten seconds and you look like you’re ready to climb the guy like a tree.” Bob straightened awkwardly, almost like a cadet caught doing something wildly against protocol. His cheeks flushed deep red, climbing all the way to the tips of his ears, and his hands instinctively loosened their hold on you. Before he could scoot even an inch away, your fingers curled gently but firmly around his bicep, grounding him right where he was as you shot Jake a glare. “What do you want now?”

Jake gestured vaguely at the two of you. “Don’t mind me. I’m just checking in on the critically injured WSO who, last I heard, had survived an emergency ejection, a bird strike, and now looks like he’s about two seconds away from a very different kind of cardiac episode, caused, I assume, by my little sister sticking her tongue down his throat.” Bob gave a tiny, nervous cough, his gaze flicking toward the heart monitor as if it might start blaring just to spite him. He wisely chose not to answer.

You smirked, leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss to Bob’s temple, just to be petty. You felt the way his breath hitched beneath you, the way his fingers curled gently at your waist despite himself. Jake rolled his eyes so hard you were genuinely concerned they might get stuck that way. “I figured you’d be staying the night, so, I’ll leave you lovebirds to it. But don’t get any ideas. I’ll be back tomorrow, bright and early, and I better not walk in on a repeat performance, especially not with Phoenix two feet away.”

From the other side of the curtain, Natasha’s dry voice floated through like a dagger dipped in disinterest: “Fuck off.” You bit your lip to stifle the laugh that almost broke through. “There’s the door, Bagman.” You shot back, raising your middle finger without even looking at him. With one last grumble and an eye roll that nearly cracked his skull, Jake pulled back the curtain dramatically and disappeared down the hall, muttering something about needing a drink.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Bob let out a soft breath, his entire body seeming to relax now that Jake had exited the room. He didn’t even need to ask. With a quiet grunt, he shifted on the narrow hospital cot, careful but determined, wincing slightly as he adjusted his IV line and tugged back the scratchy blanket with his good hand. It wasn’t much, but he made space for you like it was second nature, like your place had always been beside him, no matter the circumstances.

Without a word, you discarded your shoes and climbed in next to him, moving slowly, mindful of the bruises you couldn’t see and the ones you knew would surface by morning. The cot creaked under the added weight, but neither of you cared. Your head nestled into the curve of his shoulder, your hand drifting under the soft fabric of his t-shirt, fingers resting on the soft skin of his abdomen, like you just needed to feel he was real.

His arm slid around your waist, drawing you in with a familiarity that made your heart flutter. The other hand found its way into your hair, combing through the strands slowly, rhythmically, like he was soothing both of you at once. His thumb brushed absently along your spine in lazy arcs, and he let out a content when your legs tangled with his beneath the thin blanket.

The room had gone quiet, the soft beeping of monitors fading into the background like a lullaby. Wrapped in his arms, you tilted your head just enough to meet his eyes. “Still worth it?” You whispered, the question edged with lingering fear. Bob didn’t miss a beat. His smile was the same one he’d worn eight months ago, the first time he saw you across the bar. He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“Every single second.”

Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! Feeling generous? Leave a tip!

[oracularvernacular]

neurodiversity and zayne

(again. NO I WONT FREAKING SHUT UP ABOUT HIM GRAH GRAH GRAH GRAH 🗣️)

As a neurodivergent kid who grew up in a constantly loud (though very loving!) household where even minor inconveniences led to lots of yelling (i thought this was normal. recently found out it is not and might've also led to some of my complexes), there's something so nice and perfect about Zayne being quiet without being insignificant. Everything Zayne says holds meaning and is meant to steer you in the right direction without triggering you or scaring you.

Like, I noticed that whenever we play kitty cards, Zayne indulges in the banter like all the others but whenever I make a move, he makes sure to praise it in some way. Whenever the player pats his head, he leans forward and lets us keep stimming, etc.- whenever we touch him, he tells us something new so we could associate that fact with that action and remember it ("there are 42 muscles in the human face," etc. again, this is also him infodumping in a healthy way!).

It's so cool to watch how he's evolved since childhood- like a lot of the stuff he does can definitely be read as mechanisms for working WITH his own neurodiversity instead of against it that he's developed in all those years. Even though he's clearly studied up on how to interact with neurodivergent AND neurotypical people as an adult, the glimpses we do get of his childhood with MC are SO BLATANTLY Autism x ADHD coded it makes me want to break into INFOLD and see where they put the DBT therapist they hired for reference.

Let's just take the snowball seals incident and describe it without using names, okay?

Person A wants to express sympathy towards Person B. Leaves an unexplained box of objects they associate with the incident at their doorstep. Person B takes everything in at first glance, completely misunderstands it, and takes it personally.

THIS IS EVERY AUDHD INTERACTION ON THE FACE OF THE EARTH.

my GOD he's so thoughtfully written!!!! and we all know he puts sooo much effort into making sure his relationship with MC is healthy, and he puts her well being first- which explains so much about how perfectly he navigates situations that could potentially lead to a crashout with her. He's probably read through the whole ADHD section of Akso Hospital archives, bless his darling heart UGHHH I LOVE HIM SO MUCH!!!! More on this tomorrow I have a chemistry regents and am going to get nearly five hours of sleep. pray for me

zayne li shen save me wahhh my shayla

[lycheeflavr]

Hiii i js stumbled into your blog and its superr cutee!! I really love your writing was wondering if you were open to wrote about Tsukishimaa? If not, its okay :))

Heiii, first of all, thank you very much, and also thank you for the request <3 yes, of course!! I honestly had so much fun writing this, also I didn't know if you would like some smut as well, so I added a little smutty bonus scene at the end. You can skip it, it doesn't really matter to the story :)) now I hope you have a lot of fun reading this!!

The Bones Beneath 🧢🐠

pairing: timeskip!tsukishima kei x GN!reader tags: slow burn (ish), mutual pining, coworker tension, art & science themes, tsuki being a secret softie, slight angst with comfort, banter & emotional closeness, confessions without confessing, fluff if squint, reader is an exhibit designer/artist, tsuki is an AV tech/paleontology nerd, almost love, quiet longing summary: You were never supposed to get attached to the quiet AV technician helping set up your fossil exhibit. He was there to wire the lights. You were there to make bones beautiful. But somewhere between late-night fixes, museum shadows, and cups of burnt breakroom coffee, something between you began to take shape—slow and fragile and maybe a little ancient in its own way. word count: 5.8k

Tsukishima Kei liked his hours quiet and his fossils older than God.

The museum opened to the public at nine, but he was always there by seven. The early mornings were his: no chattering tourists, no interns asking questions he didn’t care to answer, no toddlers smudging glass with sticky hands. Just silence, bones, and the low mechanical hum of the lights flickering to life row by row.

He walked the exhibit floor with a mug of instant black coffee and a clipboard he didn’t really need. The Tyrannosaurus rex stood tall in the center of the room, jaws frozen in a permanent snarl, ribs exposed like cathedral arches. Tsukishima paused beneath it every morning like it was ritual. One sip of coffee, one glance upward. The bones never changed.

That was the point.

He liked things that stayed the same. Fossils. Labels. Dust motes in the morning light.

At exactly 7:43 a.m., he opened his laptop behind the front desk — not where the general staff worked, but the tucked-away station he’d unofficially claimed. It had the best Wi-Fi signal and worst chair. He preferred that no one else wanted to sit there.

Emails loaded slowly. He sipped his coffee and scanned subject lines. One caught his attention, marked URGENT – EXHIBIT SUPPORT REQUEST. He clicked it without much enthusiasm.

To: Tsukishima KeiSubject: Visiting Artist Collaboration | Exhibit Support

Kei, You’ve been assigned as the museum liaison for our upcoming interactive exhibit, “Extinction Echoes.” The guest artist arrives tomorrow to begin work on the installation surrounding the T-Rex centerpiece. Please provide access and assist as needed — you’ll be their primary point of contact.

Let us know if you have questions. — Ms. Fukuda

He stared at the screen. Then took another long sip of coffee.

Artist, he thought, in the way someone might think pest infestation. They always asked too many questions. They moved things that weren’t supposed to be moved. They cared about aesthetics over accuracy, emotion over science. It made his teeth itch.

He clicked the artist’s attached bio and scanned the page.

You had a list of gallery credits longer than his patience. Installations in Kyoto, Seoul, Paris. Something about “immersive spaces challenging temporal experience.” He didn’t know what that meant and didn’t care enough to pretend. There was a photo of you attached — mid-laugh, head tilted back, paint-splattered hands. You looked loud, even in stillness.

Tsukishima closed the tab with a sigh.

This was going to suck.

He stared at the skeleton of the T-Rex for a while longer, like maybe it would offer sympathy. It didn’t.

Back to his feet, clipboard tucked under his arm, he continued the routine — checking casing screws, labeling touch-up requests in pencil. As long as you stayed out of his way, maybe this wouldn’t be a disaster.

Maybe you wouldn’t talk too much.

Maybe you’d cancel last-minute and spare him the headache.

He doubted it.

The fossils, at least, wouldn’t leave him unread.

The next morning, Tsukishima arrived five minutes earlier than usual.

Not because he cared. Just to set the rules. It was important that people knew their place in a shared ecosystem — especially the kinds of people who used phrases like temporal fluidity and wore too many rings.

The exhibit hall was still empty, the bones calm and familiar in the blue-toned light of early morning. He was mid-sip of coffee, debating whether he had time to finish it before the chaos arrived, when—

“Hi!” a voice called from the far end of the gallery.

He turned, already bracing himself.

You were a splash of color against the muted sandstone walls — all layers and movement. A long, oversized coat in a shade too bright to be taken seriously, mismatched socks barely visible beneath wide-legged trousers, a bag slung across your shoulder like it weighed more than you did. One hand held a battered sketchbook. The other, naturally, clutched a drink in a cup aggressively labeled LAVENDER MATCHA in bubble letters.

He blinked once. Then again.

“You’re Tsukishima, right?” you asked, walking toward him without waiting for an answer. “Sorry I’m early — I just couldn’t sleep last night, I was too excited. This place is incredible.”

He nodded once, clipped and formal. “I know.”

That stopped you for half a second. Then you laughed.

“Oh, cool. Confidence. Love that.”

He didn’t respond. Just turned and started walking toward the control panel, trusting you'd follow.

You did, footsteps echoing lightly behind his. “The bones are even more haunting in the morning. Kind of like they know they’re supposed to be asleep, but they’re still here. I mean, isn’t that sad? In a poetic way.”

“I’m pretty sure the skeletons don’t have feelings,” he muttered without looking at you.

“Well, someone’s a morning person,” you teased, grinning.

He resisted the urge to sigh. “I assume you read the layout brief?”

“I did, but I don’t do great with maps,” you said, flipping open your sketchbook and holding it up like proof. “I just take notes like this. Shapes, light impressions, space planning... it makes more sense to me.”

He stared at the mess of charcoal strokes and layered watercolor swatches that resembled absolutely nothing useful.

“This is your system?”

“Mhm.”

“It looks like a bird flew into a window and died.”

You snorted — actually snorted — and Tsukishima narrowed his eyes.

“Wow,” you said, grinning. “Are you this charming with everyone, or am I just special?”

“I’m not charming.”

“Well, you’re something.”

He stared at you, unreadable, then said, “Let’s get this over with.”

You followed as he walked, still chattering, unbothered by the blank expression he wore like armor. He gave you the tour — exhibit boundaries, restricted zones, lighting rig limitations — and you nodded along, eyes darting between him and the bones above like you were seeing a world he couldn’t.

“This place feels like a cathedral,” you said eventually, voice lower now. “But broken. Like worshipping something that’s already gone. That’s why I want the light to move slowly across the ribs. Like… memory.”

He paused.

The quiet stretched. For a moment, you thought he hadn’t heard you. Then, softly:

“They weren’t worshipped. They were feared. The T-Rex was a predator.”

“Still deserves a little reverence,” you said.

His jaw twitched.

You smiled. “You’re kind of a fossil snob, huh?”

“I’m a paleontologist.”

“Oh, that explains the glasses.”

“I don’t wear—” He stopped himself. Exhaled sharply. “You’re going to be exhausting.”

“I’ve been called worse,” you chirped.

You sat cross-legged on the floor a few minutes later, sketchbook open on your lap, head tilted at an angle only artists and toddlers attempting handstands ever attempted. You tapped your pen against your lips thoughtfully.

Tsukishima hovered nearby, clipboard in hand, pointedly not watching you.

“I think we should try sound too,” you said suddenly. “Subtle—like a low hum. Maybe faint echoing footsteps, like ghosts. Not too literal.”

“That’s not in the budget,” he replied, immediately.

“Not yet,” you shot back, unfazed. “But maybe if I bribe the right intern—”

“Please don’t.”

“No promises, dino boy.”

The silence that followed was immediate. You looked up, blinking. He was frozen mid-step, like you’d just said something blasphemous in a sacred space.

“What?”

“Did you just call me—?”

“Oh. That slipped out,” you said, sheepish. “Sorry. I mean—Kei, right? Or… Tsukishima? Do you prefer one?”

His expression flattened. “I prefer not being called a pet name designed by a cartoon character.”

You grinned, and there it was — the spark. The part you hadn't expected. Under all that sarcasm and sharpness, something coiled and unreadable. Maybe not warmth. Not yet. But interest, flickering low and quiet like the gallery lights overhead.

“Well,” you said, tucking your pen behind your ear and getting to your feet, “I guess I’ll just have to earn it.”

His eyes narrowed. “Earn what?”

“A less embarrassing nickname.”

He rolled his eyes so hard it was practically audible.

You turned, already halfway to the next room, your voice floating behind you. “Come on, fossil prince. We’ve got work to do.”

He muttered something under his breath — probably unflattering — but followed.

Not because he cared.

Just because you clearly needed supervision.

Tsukishima wasn’t sure when it stopped bothering him.

You were in the exhibit every day. That part made sense — you had work to do. What didn’t make sense was how you did it.

You hummed when you worked. Never full songs, just little pieces, shapeless and aimless, like you were keeping yourself company. You talked to the bones like they were old friends. Called the Stegosaurus “Big Spikey Boy” under your breath. Left coffee cups in bizarre places — behind glass cases, perched on light fixtures, one time balanced delicately on the rib of a hadrosaur like it belonged there.

He found himself moving them instead of snapping at you.

That annoyed him most of all.

You sprawled on the floor to draw. Sat backwards on chairs. Doodled stars in the margins of your blueprints. You weren’t messy — you were chaotic. But not in a way that ruined things. You took up space like you belonged to it. Like you’d earned it.

He hated it.

He really, really didn’t.

Tsukishima started staying later under the excuse of “supervising.” In truth, he just… didn’t want to leave. Not when your sketchbook was open across your knees, feet bare, toes tapping the air in rhythm with the music you played from a tiny Bluetooth speaker you weren’t technically allowed to use.

Soft stuff. Dreamy. A little sad. Fuzzy guitars and synths like melted sunlight.

He told you to turn it off.

You didn’t.

He didn’t ask again.

Most evenings, he brought work with him — real work, grant edits or exhibit updates — but he barely touched it. Instead, he watched you in the corner of his eye. The way you moved around the bones, measuring with your hands, frowning thoughtfully at light angles. Talking to yourself under your breath.

And once, when he stayed too late without realizing, he looked up and caught you lying flat on your back in the middle of the exhibit floor.

At first he thought something was wrong — your limbs were outstretched, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling like you’d fallen and simply given up.

Then you spoke, quiet and unhurried.

“It’s beautiful how it still takes up space after all this time.”

He didn’t answer right away. The gallery was too still, the air too thick. It was the kind of sentence people usually said in museums when they were trying to impress someone. But you’d said it to no one. Like you didn’t expect to be heard at all.

His voice came out rougher than intended.

“You mean the T-Rex?”

You didn’t move. Just blinked, slow. “Yeah. It’s been dead millions of years, and it still makes people stop. Still commands a room. Like… it never left.”

He stared at the curve of the bones — the arc of the ribs, the open jaw — and swallowed.

“It’s not really the same,” he said eventually. “This is a reconstruction. Most of the bones are casts.”

“Still,” you said, softer now. “It’s the shape that matters.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Or maybe he did, but it sat too heavy on his tongue.

Instead, he sat beside you.

Not close. Not touching.

But that was the first time he didn’t go home early.

Over the next week, something shifted.

You stopped asking if he wanted music on — just played it. He stopped pretending to glare.

You started bringing two coffees, not one. Always black for him, always in a plain cup labeled KEI in smudged pen.

He never said thank you.

You never expected it.

You adjusted a lighting fixture one evening, standing on the lowest ledge of the exhibit’s frame. Tsukishima reached out instinctively when you wobbled.

His hand curled around your waist for half a second. Warm. Steady.

You froze. He stepped back like he’d touched a stove.

“Careful,” he muttered.

You smiled. “You do care.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t let go as fast next time.

He started reading your notes after you went home.

Not snooping — just... curious. Your sketchbook was a mess of lines and light notations: “bone shadows curl here,” “weight of silence stronger in this quadrant,” “add faint shimmer to mimic breath.”

Breath.

He didn’t know how to explain how badly that word undid him.

You treated the exhibit like it was alive. Not a museum piece, but a memory you could still talk to. An echo with ribs.

And you never once made him feel like he wasn’t allowed in that echo, too.

One night, he walked into the exhibit after hours to find you asleep on the bench beneath the T-Rex.

Your coat was bundled under your head, sketchbook lying open on your chest. The gallery lights glowed faintly overhead, casting soft shadows across your face. You looked peaceful. Quiet. A part of the space now, not just working on it — woven into the silence.

He sat across from you, pretending to read a paper he wasn’t holding. Time passed. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe more.

Then your voice, soft with sleep:

“Are you watching me sleep?”

He didn’t flinch. “You’re not even fully asleep.”

You peeked at him with one eye open. “Maybe I was dreaming about you.”

“Unlikely.”

“Rude.”

He rolled his eyes — but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, unguarded for once.

You caught it.

“Kei,” you said, like it meant something new now.

He looked up.

“Yeah?”

You blinked like you hadn’t expected that response to come so easily.

Then you just smiled and said, “Nothing.”

He didn’t press. But he stayed until the building closed.

It started with the lighting.

You stood in the center of the exhibit with your hands in your hair, gesturing to the overhead rig like you were conducting some invisible orchestra.

“We could do a soft fade that moves with the visitor — like the bones respond to presence. Just a slow, low shift as people walk through. Imagine how alive it would feel.”

Tsukishima didn’t even look up from his clipboard.

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

“That’s not what this exhibit is. It’s not a haunted house. It’s not a performance.”

“You haven’t even seen it yet, Kei. I have a test set-up. It’s subtle. Thoughtful. It adds mood.”

“It adds distraction,” he said flatly. “And it compromises the fossil presentation. Light distortions throw off color perception and may damage the casts over time.”

“Oh, come on,” you snapped, heat curling into your chest. “We’re not burning them under stage lights. This isn’t your personal lab. It’s a space for people to feel something. You said you wanted more engagement.”

“I want clarity. Not theatrical gimmicks.”

The word landed hard.

You went still, mouth pressed into a thin line.

“So that’s what you think this is,” you said, voice tight. “A gimmick.”

Tsukishima looked up then. Slowly. His expression was unreadable, but his jaw was set like stone.

“You act like you’re saving them. Like making a dinosaur look dramatic is the same as making people care.”

“And you act like people will care just because you slapped a plaque on the wall and stood under a spotlight!”

It burst out of you, louder than you meant.

“You’re so obsessed with being precise, with being right, that you don’t even see how cold you sound. No wonder no one sticks around.”

The silence was immediate.

You heard it the second it came out of your mouth — the way his face didn’t flinch but froze, eyes going cold and glassy like he’d just flicked off something vital inside himself.

He stared at you. Long and flat.

Then:

“You think people care about your lights? You think they’ll walk out remembering ‘how it felt’ and not just take a photo and leave?”

You swallowed hard. Your chest ached.

“I don’t know what they’ll remember,” you said. “But I’m scared they won’t remember anything. That they’ll walk past bones that are millions of years old and shrug. That all this work will fade into the background because it didn’t shine enough to be seen.”

That cracked something in your voice. The quiet truth beneath the fire.

Tsukishima looked at you for a long moment.

Then he muttered,

“People always care about spectacle.”

And walked away.

You didn’t talk for two days.

You kept your head down when he passed. You played your music softer. Your sketchbook stayed closed, and the second he entered the exhibit, you left.

It shouldn’t have hurt like this.

He wasn’t yours.

But it did. Quietly. Deeply.

Because for all his sharp edges, Kei had made space for you in the quiet hours. Had let you stay. Had sat beside you under fossil ribs while the world turned slow. You’d let yourself think he was listening. That he maybe even believed in some part of your vision.

Apparently not.

That night, Tsukishima stayed late in the office alone. The building was too quiet. He hated how much he noticed the silence now when you weren’t filling it.

He didn’t even mean to open the sketchbook.

It was sitting on your stool, slightly askew, pages fanned like it wanted to be read. He stood there for a long minute before touching it — fingers brushing the paper like he was afraid it might burn.

The notes were messier than he remembered. Half-formed thoughts, shorthand, tiny arrows. But there was a page marked with a sticky tab in the shape of a cartoon bone. He opened to it.

The full skeleton was drawn by hand — not just a diagram, but alive, posed in a way that almost made it look like it was breathing. Lights were sketched in around it, rays tracing the angles of ribs and jaws like sunlight through water. At the bottom of the page, in your handwriting:

I want people to feel like they’ve stumbled into something sacred. Like the bones were waiting for them. Like they’ve walked into a memory older than the Earth they came from.

He stared at the words until they blurred.

He hated how it made his throat tight.

Tsukishima didn’t sleep that night.

He didn’t know how to say it — how to apologize. He didn’t do sorry very well. He usually didn’t need to.

But the shape of your fear haunted him. The way your voice cracked when you said, “I’m scared they won’t remember anything.”

Because he understood that. Too well.

He spent his whole life being remembered for the wrong things. Or not remembered at all.

And you? You wanted your work to matter so badly you were willing to fight him over it. Risk looking soft. Sentimental. Even foolish.

He thought that was brave.

He thought maybe you were brave.

You noticed it the second you walked in.

The lighting rig had changed.

The movement was smoother now, less of a fade and more of a pulse — like breath in the air, like shadow and presence mingling gently along the curve of the fossil display. It responded, but didn’t overwhelm. Subtle. Intentional. Balanced.

And the tech setup? Upgraded. Clean wiring, reinforced bracketing. Your original sketch still hung nearby, but someone had gone over it in pencil — adjusting angles, improving placements.

Your stomach flipped.

There was only one person meticulous enough to have done that.

You found him in the staff lounge, hunched over a mug of black tea and pretending to read a paleontology journal.

You stood in the doorway for a second, then cleared your throat.

“You… fixed the rig.”

Tsukishima didn’t look up.

“It was sloppy.” He turned a page, like the conversation bored him. “I fixed it.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“Thanks.”

“It was bothering me.”

“Right. Of course.” You stepped fully into the room, grabbed your own mug, filled it just to do something with your hands.

The silence that settled wasn’t heavy, but it was strange — like the room didn’t know what to do with the absence of arguing. You sat across from him slowly, letting the mug warm your palms.

Outside, thunder rumbled.

“Looks like the storm’s rolling in,” you said, glancing toward the windows.

Tsukishima gave a quiet hum.

“Museum’s closing early. They already put the signs out.”

You nodded. Another pause.

“I guess we’re stuck for a bit.”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t leave either.

Rain began to patter against the windows — soft at first, then sharp, like tiny bones clicking against glass.

You didn’t speak for a while. It wasn’t awkward. Just… quiet.

Eventually, you exhaled.

“I used to think museums were holy.” The words slipped out so gently you almost didn’t notice yourself saying them. “Like sacred, somehow. Even the air felt different. Like I couldn’t breathe loud.”

Tsukishima didn’t move, but you saw the way his eyes lifted, just slightly.

“When I was a kid,” you continued, “we didn’t go many places. But my aunt took me to this little natural history museum once. It was kind of sad, honestly — half the exhibits were broken, one of the audio guides just screamed static. But there was this fossil in the middle of the floor. Some ancient sea creature I couldn’t pronounce. And I just… stood there. For, like, half an hour. Didn’t say a word.”

You smiled a little at the memory.

“She asked if I was bored. But I felt… I don’t know. Seen? Like something that big and that old still being here meant I could be too.”

You rubbed your finger around the rim of your mug.

“I just wanted to make something that someone remembered. Even if they couldn’t explain why.”

The thunder cracked closer now. The lights flickered faintly.

You weren’t sure if he was going to say anything. He didn’t meet your eyes. But after a moment, he spoke — quiet and firm, voice low enough that it didn’t sound like performance.

“Then make something that can’t be forgotten.”

You froze.

Your breath caught.

Not because of what he said — but how he said it.

Not dismissive. Not mocking. But earnest.

Like he meant it.

You looked up. He still wasn’t looking at you, but his fingers had stilled on the page.

The storm roared outside.

Inside, something softened.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You just let the quiet stretch — filled with the scent of tea and rain and the unspoken possibility that maybe… just maybe… you weren’t as far apart as you’d thought.

You didn’t expect to cry. But as the lights came up—soft, fluid, breathing in harmony with the slow rise of ambient sound—you felt something tighten in your chest.

It was exactly what you’d imagined.

The fossil hovered like a ghost over time, suspended in silence and reverence. The light kissed every ancient curve, every bone, every inch of its long-buried story. There was a stillness in the room, as if the crowd understood that breathing too loudly might break the spell.

Your piece. Your concept. Alive.

Applause came gently at first. A few quiet murmurs. And then a wave of sound, camera flashes, hushed voices saying your name with excitement.

Someone clapped you on the back. Another handed you a glass of cheap champagne.

“Brilliant work,” one of the donors said. “Unforgettable,” a curator whispered. “You should be proud,” your boss told you, beaming.

You smiled. You said thank you. You tried to listen. But your eyes were scanning the room for him.

Tsukishima stood in the shadows, off to the left side of the exhibit hall, mostly obscured by a pillar. He was still in his uniform jacket, arms crossed, gold glasses catching the shifting light. He wasn’t clapping. Wasn’t even pretending to mingle.

But he was watching.

You met his eyes across the crowd.

There was a pause. A flicker of something you couldn’t name. And then—he looked away.

You turned back to the small crowd around you. Smiled again. Nodded. Said something about collaboration. You think someone took a photo of you mid-sentence. You didn’t mind. This was what you’d worked for.

But you kept glancing toward the pillar. He was gone.

You slipped out not long after.

The night air was sharp and wet, still humming with the electricity of the earlier storm. The exhibit hall door clicked shut behind you, muffling the buzz of celebration.

You found him near the back entrance of the building, leaning against a railing, eyes tilted up toward the cloud-covered sky. He hadn’t heard you approach.

You paused.

He looked taller out here. The pale security light washed over his cheekbones, caught on his lashes. He hadn’t even changed out of his work shoes.

“You disappeared,” you said quietly.

Tsukishima’s shoulders didn’t shift.

“Didn’t feel like standing around.”

You walked over, hands in your coat pockets.

“But you were part of this.”

“I just fixed the wiring.”

You scoffed, half amused.

“You didn’t just fix the wiring, Kei.”

That made him glance at you. Just a flicker of gold through those glasses. And then he said something you didn’t expect.

“It was beautiful.”

Your breath hitched.

He looked away again. Like it cost him something to say it. Like it meant something more.

“You could’ve said that inside,” you said.

“You didn’t need me to.”

You studied his profile in the silver light.

“But I wanted to.”

Silence again. Not heavy this time. Just… tentative. Careful.

Then:

“You’re going to do big things,” he said, like it was a truth he'd known for a while. “And I’ll be here. Resetting lights. Screwing metal into walls.”

Your brow furrowed.

“Is that what you think?”

He shrugged.

You didn’t know what to say at first. Not because you disagreed, but because you’d never really thought about how he saw himself in all this. How he saw you.

You stepped closer.

“Tsukishima,” you said quietly, and the way his name sounded in the dark felt like a confession. “It’s not just mine, you know. That exhibit. It’s yours too.”

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

“I wouldn’t.”

He looked at you again. This time, for real. Not through the fog of tension or sarcasm or pride. Just… him.

And you almost leaned in.

Almost.

But instead, you stood there — too close, not close enough — breathing in the same sharp air, hearts too loud in the silence.

And when he turned to go, he didn’t say goodbye. Just brushed past you gently. Like the beginning of something, or the end of something else.

You watched him disappear down the long path behind the museum. And for the first time all night, you didn’t feel victorious. Just… full. And hollow.

At once.

A few days pass. The exhibit continues without you. Your name is printed in neat black ink on the display cards, and people wander through, praising your “vision,” your “emotional composition,” your “eye for stillness.” You’re already being emailed about new opportunities.

But the only thing you can think about is the shape of Tsukishima’s silhouette in the silver museum light. The things you almost said. The things he almost said back.

You return one quiet afternoon to pick up the last of your things.

It’s raining again.

The museum feels different in the daylight—less mysterious, more skeletal. You walk past school kids and bored parents, past tour groups and sleepy guards, toward the side hallway that smells faintly of sawdust and old lightbulbs.

He’s at the workbench. Same posture. Same headphones. But you can tell he saw you come in—his hands falter for just a moment before resuming whatever careful task he’s pretending requires all his focus.

You clear your throat anyway.

“Hey.”

No reply. He’s sanding something. Aggressively.

You smile to yourself and set down your tote bag, beginning to gather the few things you left behind. A notebook. A print draft. The sweatshirt he let you borrow when the AC broke one night and you stayed too long.

He still hasn’t turned around.

You don’t push it. You just take your time, folding the sweatshirt with unnecessary precision, letting the silence stretch long enough to sting.

When you finally zip your bag and sling it over your shoulder, you pause in the doorway.

“Thanks,” you say, voice quiet. “For everything. The project… it only worked because of you.”

For a second, you think he’s going to ignore you.

But then, still facing away, he mutters:

“The bones were already there. You just made them louder.”

You blink.

And then you laugh. Soft, surprised.

“Getting poetic, dino boy?”

He finally glances at you. The corner of his mouth lifts just a little.

“Don’t get used to it.”

You take a step closer, a hand still gripping the strap of your bag like a shield.

“Well. It was nice hearing you say something beautiful for once.”

“I’ve said a few beautiful things.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

A long pause. He looks down at the thing he was sanding. Then back at you.

“Come back sometime,” he says, casual but not really. “The fossils get boring.”

Your heart stutters. He doesn’t even flinch.

You tilt your head, grinning now.

“You mean you get boring.”

“That too.”

And it should feel like a joke. It should feel like nothing. But it doesn’t.

You both hold each other’s gaze for a second too long. Not quite smiling. Not quite speaking. Just letting the moment breathe between you—thin and fragile and unbearably loud.

You take a breath.

“I might come back,” you say finally. “Just to check on the fossils.”

He nods once, slow.

“Sure.”

You don’t say anything else. You just walk past him, the hallway stretching out ahead. But this time, your steps are slower. This time, you hope he’s watching.

And he is.

When the door closes behind you, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

NSFW bonus scene 🧢🐠 (female reader)

It starts with silence.

You’re standing just inside the workshop door, bag dropped, rain sliding down the windows behind you. You don’t know what made you come back — not really. You just knew the thought of leaving felt more like a loss than a choice.

He looks up. His brows twitch in confusion, but he doesn’t say anything.

So you walk up to him. Slow. Careful.

“Do you want me to stay?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

He swallows, throat working.

Then, simply:

“Yes.”

The word lands heavy. So much more than yes. Yes, I missed you. Yes, I thought about it. Yes, I don’t want this to end yet.

You kiss him.

It’s awkward, at first — all angles and hesitation. He doesn’t move right away, like he’s still computing what’s happening. But the second you breathe his name, something gives. His hands come up, hesitant but firm, catching your waist and pulling you closer like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

The kiss deepens, slow and uneven, as if he’s learning it in real time — a little desperate, a little stunned. His glasses nudge your cheekbone. His breath shakes against your lips. You slide your fingers into his hair and feel the shiver roll through him.

“You’re sure?” you murmur.

He nods, eyes locked to yours.

“Yeah. Fuck—yeah.”

You're on the workbench within minutes. It's cluttered and dusty, but neither of you care.

His mouth is at your neck now, hungry in a way that feels new — like he's been holding back for weeks, months. His hands are firm where they grip your hips, but his touch is almost reverent, like he's afraid to take too much all at once.

“Been thinking about this,” he says against your skin, low and wrecked. “You. That night you fell asleep in the AV room. The way you said my name.”

You exhale a shaky laugh.

“You’re such a freak.”

He huffs, presses a kiss to your collarbone.

“You like it.”

You do. God, you do.

His hands slide under your shirt, slow and searching. You lift your arms, and he helps pull it over your head with surprising care. His fingers brush over your chest, your stomach, reverent and unsure.

“You’re allowed to look,” you tease gently.

He does — and the way he looks at you makes your whole body flush.

“I’m not great at this,” he admits quietly. “Just... tell me if I mess something up.”

Your heart pulls. You cup his face and kiss him again, slower this time.

“You’re not messing anything up.”

When he finally touches you in earnest, it’s a little clumsy — he’s clearly overthinking, too aware of your reactions, too in his head — but it’s sweet. Honest. Every movement feels like it means something.

You guide his hand. Help him find the rhythm. And once he gets it—once he really sees the way your breath hitches and your hips shift—he gets bolder.

His mouth finds your chest. Then your stomach. He murmurs something against your skin, but it’s too quiet to catch.

You tangle your fingers in his hair and gasp when he finally pushes your underwear down and touches you properly — one finger, two, slow but insistent.

“Fuck, Kei—”

That’s what breaks him. Your voice like that. His name like that.

He presses his forehead to your shoulder, still working his fingers inside you, lips parted as he groans softly into your skin.

“Want you,” he says, low and ragged. “I—I wanna feel you. All of you.”

“Then take it,” you whisper. “I’m right here.”

It’s not fast. He makes sure you’re ready. Makes sure you’re looking at him when he finally pushes inside, like he needs to see you fall apart for him.

You breathe his name again and again, and every time you do, he fucks into you a little deeper. A little harder. Still holding back, like he's afraid of hurting you. But you can tell he’s close — his body trembles against yours, his breathing fractured and tight.

When you come, it’s with his name on your lips, your fingers digging into his back, your legs tight around his waist. He follows right after, buried deep, biting down softly on your shoulder to muffle the noise he makes.

He doesn’t move for a long time.

Just breathes with you. One hand tangled with yours, the other resting over your heartbeat.

“You still want me to come back?” you whisper after a while, voice hoarse.

He lifts his head. Meets your eyes.

“Only if you plan on staying.”

authors note: I absolutely loved writing this!! I hope I stayed true to tsukis character and I also hope your happy with your request! :) reqs are still open and very much welcome! ly all <3

[sexisbetteronthemoon]

What are their arguments like and who (if either) tends to pick fights more often? Does Lance make Keith sleep on the couch?

they're petty as hell and they fight for fun.

it's Lance who pretends to take offense at the most random things to get the ball rolling bc he's better at improv and Keith is either very awkward when he tries to start a fight, or he accidentally pushes them into a real fight.

it also helps Lance a lot with his little unreasonable neuroticisms. it's like an exercise in which they reassure each other how much they care.

Lance helps Keith distinguish their play fights from real fights by saying, very seriously, “I'm angry at you, Keith.”

that's how Keith knows shit just got real.

Lance knows when Keith is actually mad bc he goes quiet and refuses to look at him.

Keith gets off on how ridiculous Lance is. he enjoys the fight bc he loves challenges, and especially "making up" with Lance. he loves working for "forgiveness" because it's a game to see how fast he can make Lance smile. it's a personal victory when he gets Lance laughing and smacking at him in annoyance for winning.

Keith is aware that sometimes Lance gets a little insecure. and he knows simply telling Lance he loves him won't make it all dandy. so if Lance wants to berate him for seemingly looking at someone else or not immediately kissing him first thing in the morning, he's going to play along.

anything to make Lance happy.

the only times Keith ends up on the couch is when Lance is too annoyed by losing to admit defeat. he tells Keith to sleep on the couch and then shows up two hours later, bodily collapsing upon him to snuggle with him because he missed him. Keith always bursts out laughing when he does this, and sometimes they end up making out. one of them usually ends up on the floor when Kosmo joins them on the couch.

somehow, it's almost always Keith.

when they fight for real, it's nothing like their play fights. there's no tirades, no yelling, not even any screaming.

Lance's voice will lower, and his expression will be dead serious like he's back in the war looking through the scope of his rifle.

on the other hand, Keith will just not interact. his body language changes. he tenses up, especially at the shoulders, and widens his stance, like he's getting ready to receive a physical blow. he withdraws into himself and he avoids talking to Lance. he dodges any attempts and he walks away until Lance finally waits until he's in the bathroom (on the toilet, specifically bc if he's in the shower, he's capable of walking out and leaving a trail of water and soap) and then walks in, closing the door behind him.

“we're talking,” Lance will say firmly while Keith sits on the toilet and sighs heavily bc he forgot to lock the bathroom door again. (this is not the first time and it will not be the last.) he doesn't appreciate being cornered, but it's the only way Keith will actually talk to Lance and not run away.

even when they fight for real, Lance will not kick Keith out of bed. they might still be angry, but they have been thru too much to go to sleep without each other. they might start off facing away from each other, but eventually, they will migrate, either purposely or in sleep, toward the other.

sometimes, it's Keith who shuffles over and wraps an arm around Lance from behind, fingers threading with Lance's.

sometimes, it's Lance who scoots back until their backs are pressed together. and he reaches behind himself to wrap and arm around Keith. it's uncomfortable, and Keith knows this. and he eventually sighs and turns over to wrap an arm around Lance.

they never reject each other. Lance has received too much rejection from Keith to take it well, and Keith still has abandonment issues from the trauma of losing so many people.

sometimes, they both reach out and hold hands from opposite sides of the bed.

they never talk in these moments unless it's to apologize or to whisper, “I still love you. Do you still love me?”

And the other will say, “Of course I do, but sometimes you piss me off. Still, I'd rather you be here to piss me off, than be gone.”

in the mornings tho, the sun's rays will spill through the blinds, and one will wake to see their partner dappled in sunlight. and it's kind of hard to stay mad after that.

they wait until the other wakes, and then they'll talk, quietly and calmly, until it's either solved or they promise to work on the issue more.

[theartofwoompwoomps]

Who you belong to

Tfp Starscream x human reader

Summary: you’ve been kidnapped and even though you’re not trying to escape your relation with Starscream is interesting? (Spoiler he gets jealous) note: this is going to be a series which explains the slow burn or unnecessary drama lol also this is gender neutral but your called gurl as a saying not as gender

Pt.1

——————————————————————————

You’d think it’d be much more entertaining having powerful evil aliens holding you hostage. 

But it’s already been a few weeks since you’ve been taken, and this place is driving you crazy.

There’s not much to do, especially after realizing everything is a whole lot more inconvenient at your size.

Thankfully, Starscream had some decency of bringing entertainment or things that could distract you, but after of a few days or hours it always lost its appeal.

Sighing as you lay on his berth, time seems to really like taking its sweet time. Without Starscream around the place was really quiet. 

As depressing as it sounds, you at least had one thing to look forward to. 

You see, there’s a few other humans on the nemesis. And after Soundwave found out humans need social interaction for good health, it became the norm to bring all the humans together once every two weeks. 

Of course their mechs were supervising, mainly because they distrust the other decepticons, but hey, the peace hasn’t been broken yet.

Feeling giddy at knowing Starscream will undoubtedly take you. Though he does it cause he likes to brag about his human caretaking skills.

And cause he likes seeing you happy, but you don’t have to know that.

————————————

The berth room’s doors slid open announcing your mechs arrival.

Hopping up from your laying position, you go to greet him, “Welcome back Lord Starscream.”

He enters, looking down at you as he offers you to climb his servo. 

You climb on, yet to receive a response. He looks different… not physically rather, his actions. He’s just looking at you. 

His optics making small movements as they analyze different parts of you. 

Well he doesn’t seem mad, you think, but it’s uncanny how un-chatty he’s being.

“…um, is everything alright?”

His optics make contact with your small eyes, you see his optical ridge, aka brows, frown making him look sullen.

Seeing no verbal response you decide to sit as you continue to look at him as well.

And as you are on his servo, he uses a digit to stroke, more like poke, your back. Your skin pricks as a small shiver goes down your spine. 

After awhile he closes his eyes letting a breath out. “Pet human,” oh surprised he’s speaking to you, “ I have not forgotten the arrangement for you humans today. We shall make our presence there soon.” 

Heading towards the gathering he exits his berth with you on hand.

Normally you both would be excited for the potential gossip but your bot is definitely more tired than amused. 

Upon arriving, you see almost everyone is here. He walks past the others, heading towards the large table. All the humans were there, it’s technically a giant barbie house but you’re not complaining.

Lowering his servo, you hop off once near. “Hey Pet, today’s visit will be short so make the most of time with your humanly things.” Sending him a nod before walking off you go to greet the others. 

Much to starscreams enjoyment, one of the humans who is closest to you is knockout’s pet.

You both tended to have the juiciest information, and he just so happened to be in mood for entertainment. 

Trying to stay close, he stays right where he can hear you but not be seen by you.

“ Eavesdropping so soon Screamer?” 

Groaning as he turns to face the medic, sees his smirk as he walks closer to him. 

“You know your human isn’t going anywhere right.” Starscream rolls his optics in annoyance, 

“Please, your far more protective of these pets than you let on. Besides Doctor, your the one whose been nagging my way of caretaking my human.”

Shrugging as he agrees, both bots continue in conversation as their humans do so as well not that far from them.

Honestly both weren’t really paying attention to y’all until the heard a specific phrase.

“What do you mean (name)? You for real haven’t ever thought of being in another bots care?”

He perks a brow at that, even Knockout pauses his sentence to hear.

“I didn’t think it was an option, so it never really crossed my mind. Have you thought about that?”

Now knockout is as close as starscream, both tilting their helms to get better audio. “Gurl please, with a bot as hot as knockout I ain’t ever going nowhere.”

Hearing your chuckle he also sees the visible grin growing on the medic’s face. Oh boy his ego is showing again.

“But be fr, even if you hadn’t thought about it before, if you could, who would you choose to be your caretaker?” 

Your silence makes him tense. 

He not really sure what you thought on the matter. Heck— he’s not too sure what he thinks about you.

“Hmm, well you didn’t hear this from me, but I’d go for Soundwave—“ “What?! There’s no way!” They gasp out hearing your response. Starscream also having to hold back his own gasp as you continue, “Cmon can you judge me? their human basically lives in luxury.”

“True dat, true dat.”

The conversation continues with both of y’all sharing reasons of how great he is.

But he’s great too.

Even better than that silent freak. Feeling a pang in his spark, anger creeps as he hears that out of all the bots Soundwave is your preferred bot?! Technically you didn’t say that

“Woah calm down Starscream, your vents are going crazy. And just a reminder they are talking hypothetically not reality.” 

But he just feels more infuriated, “I am calm.” Sure, but his tone told a different story. 

The medic backs off as Stars goes to pick you up, literally…

“Hey! This is a bit uncalled for you know !” 

He just grunts out a response too low for you to hear. You would have said something else, but judging from how tight he’s holding you he is definitely pissed.

Arriving back to his berth, which felt like an eternity to get to he places you down in your human corner before mass displacing.

Watching him transform is always mesmerizing, but seeing how angry he is as he approaches you is more menacing than mesmerizing.

“Woah, I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for whatever I could have done to have made you upset.” You slowly back up as he just continues to scowl...with a smile? An angry smile??

And he’s not stopping. He keeps walking towards you.

And that little thing called instincts makes run like crazy especially after hearing his own pedes speeding after you ,

“Get back here pet!”

You screech as you dodge a servo using the couch as defense.  “Nuh uh, I don’t even know why you’re mad at me !”

He scoffs but not necessarily at you, “Mad at you? No. Im upset with someone else who has messed with what is mine.” 

“Huh? Then why the hell are you chasing me for?!” 

He doesn’t respond as  he continues to chase you around the couch, but this time you don’t miss the small laugh on his face as he almost reaches you. 

You let out at snicker as he slipped on the rug, and you quickly rushed to the other side of the couch from where he is.

Though his disheveled self sprawled on the ground made you burst out laughing. 

Groaning as he gets up, holding his helm, he mischievously smiles at you, “You little rascal.” 

Jumps at you without a care that the couch is in between knocking you both to the ground.

You also groan as your body hits the floor. He landed on top of you, thankfully his structure avoided actually squeezing you to the ground. 

Though now he has you trapped.

“Geez, give me a warning next time.” And even though he also feels a bit of pain from the action, he simply snarks back playfully, “At least now I know I have all your attention.” 

“What? That’s sounds a bit silly, is that really necessary?”

“Well I can’t have Soundwave taking up any space in your tiny head that belongs to me.” You look at him in shock, “That’s what this is about?!” 

He frowns a bit as he explains himself, “I heard what you said about him. Not mention I also know you’ve been hanging around him a lot more recently.”

He inches his face plate closer. “But there’s one thing I want you to have clear.” You close your eyes feeling the warm air from his vents.

“No,” his servo holds your face, “Look at me as I tell you this.” You resist the urge to squirm feeling a bit uncomfortable at the change mood.

“Remember pet, you belong to me.”

——————————————————————————

Masterlist

[gingersnapwolves]

Hello friends I’m back from vacation with a lot to say! I’m going to do two posts, so I can put the pretty pictures which actually look good in a photo post and then contain my ramblings and selfies to this post LOL.

So last year while we were talking about vacations, my wife said we should go to Iceberg Alley so we could see icebergs. You know, sorry to the optimists in the audience but who knows how long we’ll still be able to do that? So I planned a trip to the Canadian Maritimes.

First thing you need to know about me and my wife is that neither of us like to fly. We do road trips. We’ve done tons and tons of road trips. When we lived in Arizona, we road-tripped to pretty much everywhere in the western United States. Fun fact about us - one of the things that first made us such good friends twenty-five (twenty-five?!?!?!) years ago is that we both like to drive around a lot and look at pretty scenery and just vibe. So I planned us a road trip. It pretty quickly became apparent that we couldn’t do both Nova Scotia and Newfoundland in one road trip because there’s just so MUCH to see. So we focused on Newfoundland for this trip for iceberg reasons. We did stop to see some things along the way, obviously, because the key to a good road trip is to try to break it up with cool shit.

The first day was basically driving (though we did stop at a No Kings protest in Maine for a while because we couldn’t miss that). Then across the border we went. Lupine everywhere! Tim Horton’s! Metric system! (My wife: is the speed limit really 110 mph? lmao no it is not.) 

First stop! Joggins Fossil Cliffs! It was very cool, we will have to do this again and take the guided tour because I’ve learned I couldn’t find a fossil if you put a gun to my head. Let the selfies begin!

We stopped a few more places on the way but forgot to take selfies (whoops) and then got on the ferry to Newfoundland. We had a little cabin because it’s a 16 hour ride to the east side of Newfoundland.

Once in Newfoundland, we went to Salmonier Nature Center, which was very cool. A lovely, beautiful walk through the woods and fen. My biggest disappointment was on this outing because I really wanted to see the lynx, and we waited a while outside the enclosure, hoping if we were quiet it would eventually come out, but it never did. On the other hand, caribou are magical.

On to the east side and St. John’s! We went to the Petty Harbor Mini Aquarium, which is a seasonal catch and release aquarium with an awesome touch tank.

Cape Spear, the eastern most point in North America.

Basilica of St. John the Baptist (we are the opposite of religious but my wife loves the architecture of churches and stained glass windows).

Memorial University Botanical Gardens

Johnson Geo Centre

Then we took a boat tour to go to Gull Island and see puffins! I didn’t get any good pictures here unfortunately. The puffins on the island were too far away to photograph clearly, and although I could see them fly and sometimes land in the water by the boat it was impossible to get a good shot of them. They were soooooooo incredibly cute though. My wife also saw a minke whale (I did not lol).

Driving inland, we went to Terra Nova National Park but I forgot to take a selfie until we were back at the car.

Interior Newfoundland is profoundly empty. Anywhere in America, if I pass a gas station with a quarter tank of gas, I can think ‘no big deal, I will definitely hit another gas station before I’m close to being out of gas’. Not so much in Newfoundland. I didn’t run out of gas but boy was I sweating a few times.

Can’t go to Canada without having Tim Horton’s! Sorry for the thumb. Uh, it was very early. I prefer Dunkie’s but TH had VERY good chocolate chip muffins and my wife loved their donuts.

Icebergs! Icebergs! Icebergs! (Pics to follow in my photo post.)

Chilling on Twilingate Island

On our drive around Twillingate, a bald eagle flew out over our car and flew alongside/above us for about five seconds and it was SO cool. Sadly we didn’t get any pictures of that because we were too busy being in awe.

Stayed at a nice little bed and breakfast

West we go! The Insectarium!

And then on to Gros Morne!

Now this was a trip. On one day it was eighty-five and sunny, then the next it was fifty, occasionally rainy, and very, very windy. I have rarely experienced wind that is actually difficult to walk against, but I really feared for my safety occasionally. We had booked a boat tour on Western Brook Pond, which is a glacier carved valley. To get to the pond is a 3 km walk and my wife is disabled (and in this weather, I wouldn’t have wanted to walk 6 km either). There were shuttles but very limited seating so we got there about 90 minutes early. When we got there, they said they were waiting on the captain’s decision on whether or not we could go out in this weather. Eventually we did, but . . . possibly shouldn’t have LOL. The water was rough. There was a ton of spray. We both got soaked about three minutes into the trip so we were freezing the whole time. I asked my wife to please not divorce me since I took her to see icebergs. 

Don’t get me wrong, it was beautiful and awesome in the original sense of the word, but holy shit. On the way back, the weather got even worse. Dense fog and even higher wind. We had to zig zag to get back to dock because of how strong the wind was, so it took quite some time. My teeth were actually chattering (we had dressed appropriately for the cold and wind but had not anticipated getting wet).

For obvious reasons, the tour after ours was canceled, which meant there was an entire boat full of people besides ours who wanted to use the shuttle, so it took a while to get one and I was basically frozen solid by the time I made it back to the car. Good times!

We got on the ferry on the western side of the island back to Nova Scotia, which is an eight hour ferry. We took the overnight, but there were no cabins when I booked, so we had reserved, reclining seats. No big deal, right? But the sea was still very rough. 

Now, I don’t get seasick. Carsick, yes, but I’ve never had a problem getting seasick (unless I try to read, so I don’t). Even on the cruise, when we were out on the open ocean, I was fine. Y’all. I got sick sick. Our seats were on the top deck, at the front of the ship. Worst place to be during rough weather. The staff kindly took me to a better seat but holy crap was I sick. The sea finally calmed down and I felt better but I probably didn’t sleep more than an hour. It sucked.

So the next day we just drove a little while on some back roads, looked at nice scenery, until I couldn’t stay awake anymore and we crashed at a motel and I passed out.

Me somewhere in Nova Scotia: I'm not sure I'm still safe to drive

Some fuckass deer: //runs out in front of my car//

Me: //screeches to a halt and avoids a collision//

Me: Okay guess I'm still good for a little while.

The next day, we went to Reversing Falls Rapids in St. John

And to Irving Nature Park

And then we were on our way back home!

On the whole it was a very enjoyable vacation, though a really tiring one haha. I think we need to take an easier one next. I'm also definitely forgetting at least one or two things but that's life, maybe I will update later if I think of them.

Quote of the trip: "Oh, yeah, X/99 ... got us obsessed with toxic gay relationships and the rest is history."

Honorable mention: "How is it?" "It's not ... bad ..." "Oh?" "Well, it's bad in a new and interesting way."

[kotton-kandy953]

❏ 𝐒𝐎 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐔𝐋 !

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🔪 love interest ꒱ . . . yandere ! vampire ! dahlia x religious ! fem ! reader

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🔪 format ꒱ . . . oneshot

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🔪 warnings ꒱ . . . blood (lots of it), death, kinda non-con?, obsessive behavior, possibly ooc dahlia, very religious reader, violence, yandere themes

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🔪 synopsis ꒱ . . . In which vampires hidden in the shadows roam the walls of Mondstadt. And unfortunately for you, an innocent deaconess, one of those sinful creatures is in love with you.

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🔪 authors note ꒱ . . . I remember when Dahlia was first leaked there were a lot of theories about him being a vampire and I LOVE that idea. also, Ive been watching vampire diaries for the past few months so I NEEDED to write a fic about vamps as soon as possible.

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🔪 word count ꒱ . . . 2.3k

Vampires. They were wretched, evil and demonic creatures. The mutated corpses of the dead lurk only in the night to feast on the blood of poor, unsuspecting humans.

No one knows how vampires multiply, nor how to tell them apart from other humans. The only way to kill one of the vile creatures is either through fire, decapitation, exposure to the sunlight, or a wooden stake to the heart.

Well, at least that’s what the church has been telling you for your entire life.

Vampires did exist and did lurk in the streets of Mondstadt at night, although their attacks are more common outside the city in surrounding areas such as Wolvendom or Dadaupa Gorge.

It’s ironic that you know all of this information despite never actually seeing one of the monsters for yourself. Actually, you see it as a blessing from the great Anemo Archon above that you’ve never come into contact with one.

But, oh, how your god can have a sense of humor.

Your church shoes taped rhythmically against the marbled floors of the cathedral. You kept your heavy Bible by your side with a firm grip so it doesn’t slip and fall. It’s happened too many times before.

It was dead empty in the building when you arrived, it always was this early in the morning, only a couple hours before morning prayers.

But you just love it when it’s silent, giving yourself peace and quiet to talk to your Archon, your god, in silence.

Or… at least that’s what you thought you were going to get today. “Peace and quiet?” More like footsteps louder than ever coming from a young man bounding down the hall.

Who in Teyvat would be here this early!? You thought to yourself right after shutting your Bible.

The young man brushes the pink strands out of his eyes once he’s finally made it to you. He was sweating all over and was holding onto his own Bible with a death grip. Did he… did he run all the way here? But why??

“My apologies, Sister Y/n, but I have quite the favor to ask you,” he said while taking note of the glare you just shot at him. Even if it was for a second, he still got the hint.

With a playful grin, he asks, “was this a bad time, Sister?”

Plastering a smile on your face, you said, “No, no it’s alright! What is it Deacon Dahlia?”

Dahlia is also a member of the church, he was a Deacon and as well as the Herald of Barbatos. He’s a bit more mischievous and drama-obsessed than the rest of the clergy.

That’s why you hated him so.

But as a deaconess yourself you have to at least pretend to love everyone. It can be such a hassle sometimes.

Although, Dahlia is rather easy on the eyes. He has such beautifully pale skin and pretty, lavender eyes… but that’s all he has going for him in your opinion.

Dahlia looked around the room, pretending to check if anyone is there before leaning in rather closely to you, “The sun’s just barely risen, Y/n,”His voice would drop to a whisper, “Aren’t you afraid a vampire migh—“

“-Dahlia!”

You stopped him right there, his expression quickly changing to a rather shocked one, “Don’t talk about such… Such things in this sacred space!”

He nodded his head in understanding, “Oh, you’re right, you’re right… I apologize.”

But after clearing his throat, a rather impish grin graced his pretty face, “But I’m being serious, Sister Y/n. How does such a beautiful woman as yourself never fear being out this early—”

“-Dahlia.” You shot a glare at him.

“And why should fear such creatures when I know my god would protect me from those wretched demons,” you lied. Well, only the first part was a lie. You were afraid of having the blood sucked dry from your veins. It terrified you.

“‘kay, I’ll drop the subject,” he covered his mouth with a gloved hand as he laughed. Archons, how you hated his laugh, how he found everything about you so amusing.

With a roll of your eyes that he failed to notice, you flipped open your Bible sitting in your lap. But when you slid your finger across the page, you cut it.

“Oww,” you winced, while at the shallow, bleeding wound on your index finger. Dahlia was still standing next to you, his eyes locked on the finger you held in pain with your other hand.

His eyes widened and he could feel his heart beat faster and faster by the second, it was so loud in his ears that he wouldn’t be surprised if you could hear it too.

He opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out. My goodness, was his body overreacting to just a drop of blood.

When his fingers began to twitch at his sides, he quickly dismissed himself, “I- I’ll get you a bandaid.”

You were a bit confused as to why he ran out the room so urgently, even handing his Bible to you.

It was just a paper cut…

Dahlia slammed the bathroom door shut then hurried over to the mirror, thank the gods only he and Y/n are the only ones here .

“Oh, lord…” he muttered to himself, his black, gloved hands coming up to cover his face in hopes of calming himself down.

“I can barely even control myself around one drop of blood…? How pathetic.” Removing his hands from his face, the pink haired male opened his mouth as he stared at his pearly white teeth in the mirror.

He ran his tongue over the sharp fangs that grew from his gums, if he goes out there now, anyone in Mondstadt would recognize him for what he is.

A vampire.

An unholy, sinful creature.

But he didn’t want you, or anyone, for the matter, to see him, the herald of Barbatos, as a monster struck with an insatiable lust for human blood.

If anyone did find out they’d probably stake him right in front of the clergy or even burn his home down with him still inside.

Dahlia knew you hated him, despised him, even. You made it pretty obvious…

But that never changed how passionately he felt about you, his stunning deaconess.

He’s always been like this — obsessed with you. He fell so, so deeply in love with you that he didn’t know what to do with himself at first.

Since turning into a vampire, the Deacon would fantasize about doing rather unholy things to you on a daily basis. Not anything sexual though, he wasn’t a perv.

It would be about sinking his sharp fangs deep into your veins, drinking the delicious blood straight from your pretty little neck.

Just thinking about it made his face burn red, “How I wonder what her blood would taste like…”

When both the morning prayer and service were over, you found yourself left alone in the church.

Where did Dahlia run off to…? You thought. Setting your Bible down on one of the wooden pews with his in your arms. You looked around for him, but found nothing. You knew him, and you knew he wouldn’t just leave anyone with his Bible.

And plus, he still hasn’t given you that bandaid.

“Dahlia!” You called out, only getting your echoed shout as a response. Where in the world could be have gone? You were growing rather impatient.

He can’t just show up to church hours early then disappear when the actual service starts.

After trying every door in the church, you finally found one that was locked. It was the storage closet… could he be in here?

“Dahlia! Are you in there!?” You shouted through the door.

You were met with a long silence until finally hearing his voice, “What’s wrong, sister? Miss me already?” He responded, resting his back against the cold, hard door and sliding down to sit on the floor.

“What- No! What are you doing in there!? Everyone was looking for you but you just disappeared!” You groaned, “And you left your Bible with me…”

There was another pause, “So you’re worried about me—!?” He completely ignored everything else you said just to say that.

“-Open the door!!”

“Are you sure? Because… I don’t think it’s very befitting of a deaconess to enter such a confined space with a man. Especially right under god’s eyes.”

Standing up again, Dahlia unlocked the door. “But, since you so insist.”

With swift movements, Dahlia pulls you into the closet, his hand cupping over your mouth and holding your back closely against his chest while kicking the door shut.

The Bible fell to the ground with a loud thud. When you desperately tried to pry his hands off your body, you couldn’t. He was too strong… it was almost inhuman.

You tried fighting him off you until your eyes landed what was lying on the ground.

Is that… blood?

As your eyes traveled further down, your blood ran cold.

It was a dead body with multiple bite marks in the side of their neck and arms. The corpse belonged to someone you’ve never seen before, so you assumed they had came to the morning prayer today.

You screamed into Dahlia’s hand cupped over your mouth, did… did he do this!? Why would he do this? You knew he wasn’t to be trusted from the day he first stepped into the church.

But you didn’t expect him to shamelessly commit murder in cold blood!

“Y/n…” He sang, “you have to stay quiet — I won’t bite… too much,” he smiled as he turns you around to face him.

He wiped off the blood dripping down his chin with the back of his hand, the other still holding onto you like his life depended on it.

“Your teeth…” you muttered, you voice barely above a whisper. “No, no… don’t tell me you’re a…” he put a finger to your lips them moved it away, a smile on his beautiful face.

How could someone as pretty as him become such a vile creature… and how has nobody noticed yet!?

“A vampire? Was that what you were going to say, sister?” Archons how you hated how he would said ‘sister’ in reference to you. His tone was anything but innocent when speaking to you.

“But… but how…” You heard so many stories about vampires not being able to walk out in sun or else they’ll burn to death. But since he’s a vampire...

You stared him dead in the eyes, a petrified look adorning your pretty face. You looked adorable like this to him, all shaky and afraid… oh, how Dahlia loved it.

“My vision allows me to walk around in the sunlight, if that’s what you were wondering.” His hand now traces along the side of your neck, his purple irises zeroing in on one particular spot.

“Praised be to Barbatos for this vision of mine, am I right?” He laughed, a devilish grin gracing his sickly pale face.

Your cheeks flushed a slight red tint as you felt his delicate fingers trace down your neck and along your collarbone through the fabric of your dress.

Was it embarrassment that you were feeling? Shame? You didn’t know, but you did know one thing: That you hated how attracted you are to him. Why did he have to be that stunning.

Suddenly, he leaned in close to your neck, leaving soft kisses on the delicate skin. Your hands found their way to his chest, fingers gripping his clothes in a silent plead to not do anything you both would regret.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to do this…” he whispered.

“D- Dahlia, we shouldn’t—”

“-Hold still for a second, sister, this might hurt just a bit,” before you could let another word out, Dahlia bit into your neck. His sharp teeth sinking deep into your delicate flesh as you cried out in pain.

Pulling away for just a second, the deacon cupped a hand over your mouth as he licked your blood off his lips. “Could you please stay a bit quieter, sister Y/n? You don’t want me- us to get caught, now do you?”

You stared at him, he was right.

Since the people of Mondstadt have no idea how vampires multiply, under the slim possibility that there is a survivor from one of the viscous attacks, they are ran out of the city as if they had turned already.

And if that would happen to you… your life would be ruined.

You nodded your head slowly, well, you couldn’t speak anyway with his hand cupped over your mouth like that. You wondered why you weren’t as afraid of him as a normal person would be…

Your thoughts were cut off by the feeling of his tongue licking up the blood rolling down your neck and staining your pretty dress.

“Dahlia…” you muttered, wincing in pain from the wound on your neck, “Will… will I turn now that you’ve…?”

His purple eyes met yours as he replied, “No, no ‘course not. You’ll have to have my blood in your system then die for you to turn, it’s pretty complicated. Although… I’ve never turned a human before, so I don’t know all the details… What, do you wanna test it out?”

When you said no almost immediately, he laughed, he expected such an answer from you.

“As expected,” he placed a kiss on your wound, making your body jolt from the pain. “I wouldn’t want to corrupt the perfect little church girl… although, I think she’s already fallen for me…”

Were you really falling for Dahlia, or was that just what he wanted you to believe?

When you opened your mouth to respond, you lips were met with his. You could taste your blood on his lips and although you were repulsed, you couldn’t deny that he was a good kisser.

The feeling, the scent, taste… everything about him was so, so sinful. Yet, that’s what made you want more.

Then, the thought finally crossed your mind, How will I hide this bite mark from the church?

I got dahlia in my first ten pull (that I was saving for wanderer 💔) yipieee

sorry if there are some typos or anything I am tired as fuck and it’s barely even late yet

[tfewondergottenau]

✧ Back to Skyland…?

After the not so mysterious message from the second ruler of Skyland has been sent to The Føol. Unexpectedly, he has accepted going to the spot he has been told. Turbø standing in front of the small, yet tall building that seems to be a clock tower besides the cable car transport between Bon thé Vil and Skyland. There's more small buildings around too like the buying tickets and waiting spot, but whatever that isn't important right now.

Continue reading ↷

The robot woman, Pal, standing beside him while putting her hands on her hip. It's looking like she isn't trusting what the letter said.

“ I thought you would be smarter than this, Turbø. This is clearly a trap. ” She said.

“ For what?! I already told you that there's no point for them to capture us. Our bounty is gone, we get banned from the city, we even kill the monster not long ago!- ” The Føol reply back, but get interrupted by Pal.

“ But what if they trick us to go back to the city, and then blame us for sneaking in, so they’ll have a reason to imprison us. You know that Frollo hates us and how much damage we do there. ”

What she has is a possibility to happen. It's making Turbø rethink this for a little. He put the hand on his chin, before looking back at the clock tower.

“ Then.. if they want to trick us. Why did they even send a letter of wanting to meet us in person first anyway? That can be evidence later. Or maybe they're just that stupid, I don't know. ”

A lot of things are not clear. Both Turbø and Pal are discussing this for a while until The Føol looks up again, but this time; it’s different. He sees a blurry shadow of a man behind that clock. He doesn't even know that someone can inside that, but at least there's actually someone waiting for them… and even looking at them for a whole time.

“ Maybe we should give it a try. I mean, I think it can't get any worse now, right? ” 

Turbø said as a final word before walking towards the front door, it's usually locked or only for staff. He's knocking the door for someone inside to notice, and soon, the unlock sounds can be heard. Looks like it's really welcome to both of them.

Turbø offers to be the one who opens the door, but when he takes a look inside; it's mostly empty like he's kinda expected to be. The inside is covered with brown wood, looks old but stable. There's a spiral staircase in the middle for going up to the clock above.

Both of them looked at each other for one last time, checking their weapon in case something went wrong before starting walking up the stairs. It's very dusty for sure, and also in every step having a squeaking sound of the wood. When they arrive at the top, it's quite a little more spooky than their thoughts.

The top is still dusty like the others. Above them is full of cogs for the clock. And the only thing that lets the light shine in the room is the giant clock at one of the walls. It's weird to see another side of it. In the middle of the room; there's two chairs and one table between them. And on one of them having a man sitting on it.

A pale skin man with gradient green to yellow bob hair, he's wearing his goggles down; probably to keep himself from looking mysterious and professional. That man who's known as the head of Madness factory, aka the secondly ruler of Skyland, or in what most of the people know; Orson, the living ghost. 

“ You really come here, The Føol ” He said with a monotone voice. However, Turbø decided to reply with a little off topic question.

“ Wait, how long have you been waiting in this building? ” He ask, making Orson going quiet for a sec before replying

“ …Half hour, but that isn't important. How about you take a seat, so we can talk about our deal? Also, sorry that I didn't prepare the seat for you. ” 

Orson turns around to Pal, before she shrugs. She seems to not mind it. On the other hand, she can get ready if anything bad happens. While Pal is moving to standing in one corner of the room, keep the eyes on two men. Turbø having sat down in the opposite side to Orson, facing him.

“ First, I’m not saying that I’m gonna accept whatever deal you're talking about, I’m not gonna fall for your silly trick you're gonna put on us.” Turbø said with the series tone, making the other side know that he’s not gonna take this easy.

“ Oh.. I understand that you're still paranoid about us. You can leave if you're not interested in the deal, but I’m just waiting for you to listen first. ” His voice sounds so professional and reliable. Absolutely what you would expect from someone who's doing the paperwork and taking care about the deal between land for Frollo.

The Føol didn't reply back, crossing his arms and leaning on a chair, still not fully trust him, but still giving it a try.

“ As you know, right now we're searching for the illegal Casino that's suspected to be open somewhere in Skyland, but we couldn't find it. So, we want you to come help us find it, both of you. ” He's looking to both Turbø and Pal before continuing. 

“ You might be curious why we're picking you two. Well, we see the potential in both of you. We might underestimate you at first but after seeing how much you can do while being in the Skyland. We're fascinated by how much you two know our city better than us. The little hidden ally and everything… and we believe that you might know something about the Casino, or at least be able to navigate it. ”

Turbø is still a little hesitant about it. Even though he's hearing those sweet compliments out of Orson, there's still not enough for him. He isn't being some kind of person who's care about that Casino or anything, he's only looking forward for everything and anything that keep his journey in progress; he can go and show them the location of that Casino anytime he wants, however he can't really said the location out because of some weird spell they have.

“ I see.. So, you want to collaborate with us, huh? You know I wouldn't do anything without benefits, right? ” He clearly wants something in return. 

“ We know, and we know what you're looking for. If you help us, not only will you get money, but you’ll also be a free man in Skyland; we’ll not hunt you down anymore, and help you to your next destination. For summary; We’ll give you money, you’ll no longer get banned from Skyland, and we’ll give you the free tickets for going to the Caspian Sea. If possible we might contact the ruler to help you too. What do you think? ”

That's… an unbelievable good deal for both of them. Definitely benefits like never before. Turbø looking at Pal, it seems like she's also a little hesitant about this too. Skyland is truly the only thing that's preventing them from getting to the next land, if they can pass it, everything will be a lot easier. It's too risky to pass it out. Turbø let out a sigh before leaning forward.

“ ..You really know how to convince people. I hate that it's working too damn well too.. I accepted the deal. ”

Pal at the corner looks a little surprised, but there's nothing can do about it either. Hoping this is for the best. Turbø reaches his hand out to shake for the deal, which soon; Orson accepts.

“ It's good to make a deal with you, sir. I’ll send the invite to Skyland later, and we can discuss the plan. ”

Turbø isn't sure if this is good or not, but no matter what, it's for the best for both of him and Pal.. 

Now, all he needs to do is wait for what is coming next.

————————————————————