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loveroffemmes · 2 days ago

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Slurring Sweet Nothings | Melissa Hat x Fem! Reader

warning: smut, overstimulation, established relationship, subtop! melissa, intoxicated! clingy! melissa, melissa with a strap-on -- slight cnc warning since melissa is drunk

summary: melissa, your girlfriend, gets drunk at a party and you drive her back to your place. melissa can’t keep her hands off of you.

“Are you ready to go home?”

Melissa flings her arm around my shoulders as she uses her other hand to take a sip from her cup, “Few more minutes.” Melissa’s words are slightly slurred, she’s clearly drunk.

I wrap my arm around her waist, steadying her, “Come on, I’ll give you a ride.” Melissa laughs, preparing to make a joke about the ‘I’ll give you a ride’ part of my sentence. I quickly rush her out the front door before she loudly announces how she wishes I would ride her.

Melissa taps the dashboard of my car with her fingers, drumming along to the music blasting from my radio. When I start driving, she stops and rests one of her hands on my thigh. Melissa always wanted to be touching some part of me, no matter what we were doing, so it was no surprise.

I pulled into my driveway and got out of the car, helping Melissa out of the passenger seat. Melissa was a lightweight — something she would never admit to being; yet, here she was, stumbling to my bedroom after only three drinks.

Once we were in my room, Melissa’s arms wrapped around me, her face digging into my shoulder, “Miss you.” She mumbled against me.

I laugh, “Miss me? I drove you here.”

Melissa lifts her head up, ignoring my reply, “Missed your lips.” Melissa lightly presses her lips against mine, her hands hiking up my shirt so she can rest her hands on my bare waist.

I pull away and peck her lips, “I missed your lips too, baby.”

Melissa slowly leads me to my own bed, her hands never leaving my waist. She sits down on my bed and pulls me into her lap. Melissa wasn’t as dominant as she made herself out to be in her head. She liked the illusion of being dominant, but she was basically a big puppy in reality.

I cupped Melissa’s cheek with my hand and she nuzzled her face into my palm. She kissed me again, her lips were warm and her mouth moved slowly against mine, savoring the moment. I felt her lips part slightly and I pushed my tongue into her mouth. Our tongues moved against one another’s and Melissa whimpered at the contact. She was always so needy whenever she had a drink in her — she was usually needy, this just upped it.

I pull away and Melissa’s head returns to my shoulder, burrowing into the side of my neck, “Mmm,” She hums against the skin, “Couldn’t stop thinking about you, so glad to get out of that party.”

“Are you drunk, baby?” Melissa nods, “Do you want to go to sleep?” Melissa shakes her head and I feel her begin to place soft, wet kisses along my neck. “Melissa, baby,” I coo and I feel her suck on my neck in response.

Her hands grabbed my hips firmly, rocking me back and forth on her lap, “You’re so unfair, (Y/n).” She says against my neck.

I giggle at the feeling, “Unfair?”

Melissa withdrawals from my neck slightly and I can feel the wet kisses still on my skin, “You’re such a tease.” She pouts, “You always dress so hot when we go out and then I can’t even touch you until we get home!”

I laugh, “You act like that’s ever stopped you! You tried to slide your hand up my shirt like an hour ago.”

Melissa shakes her head, “Key word; tried.” I jokingly roll my eyes. Melissa was so cute, always so touchy. Her hands always lingered, mostly on my thigh or waist, but her lingering hands usually end up somewhere inappropriate when she’s inebriated. Melissa didn’t waste the opportunity of being alone with me; her hands traveled to my ass, squeezing it, “You’re so hot. I can’t believe I get to call you my girlfriend — look at you.” I blushed, Melissa loved referring to me as her girlfriend or her girl. Not only did she love the possession of the name, she loved the label. She loved being my girlfriend more than anything in the world, even referring to herself in the third person and saying ‘(Y/n)’s girlfriend.’

Melissa grabbed my shirt, lifting it over my head and discarding it somewhere on the floor of my room. Her lips moved to the edge of my bra, leaving a trail of kisses anywhere she could reach, “My girlfriend’s so fucking hot.” She mumbled against my skin. She unclipped my bra, slipping it off. She trailed kisses down to my nipples, taking one of them into her mouth and sucking on it. Whenever I would moan, Melissa would get rougher, attempting to elicit more noises from me. She swore she felt drunk off of my moans (and not the multiple drinks she had).Every action of Melissa’s felt like she was worshipping my body, worshipping me.

Melissa pulled away from my chest so she could move me, changing positions so I was laying on the bed while she was on top of me. Her kisses trailed down to my stomach and she began to unbutton my jeans and tug them off of me as her kisses followed. Melissa practically tore my jeans and panties off the chance she got.

Once I was fully undressed, Melissa sat back on the bed and stared at me, her eyes raking over her body, “I’m so lucky to be with you. I can’t believe I’m the only person that gets to see you like this. I’m the only person who gets to kiss you, touch you — how did I get so lucky?” Melissa had a goofy grin on her face as she continued to stare at every inch of me. She did this every time we had sex, always insisting that she needed to memorize me, to appreciate me.

Melissa stood up off my lap, opening up my dresser and taking out her strap. She stepped into the harness, tightening it around her hips before climbing back over me.

Melissa pushed her strap through my folds, using my wetness to lube the strap. Her hands fell on my hips and she was breathing heavily, I could tell the anticipation was getting to be too much for her.

“You’re so wet.” Melissa moaned, continuing to grind her strap against me. Her hips pulled back slightly and I could feel herself lining the strap against my entrance. Melissa slowly pushed the tip in; watching intently as her strap slowly went into me, inch by inch.

“So tight.” Melissa whimpered, her hands gripping my hips even tighter. She pushed the rest of her strap in, loudly moaning once it was fully inside me. Without giving me time to adjust, Melissa slowly began to rock her hips, “Mm, you feel too good, (Y/n), need you right now.” Melissa slurs, her hips moving a little faster.

“Melissa, you feel make me feel so good.” Melissa groaned, it was her favorite phrase. She loved the praise, she loved knowing I made her feel good, and she absolutely adored how her name sounded coming from my lips.

“(Y/n), (Y/n), (Y/n)…” Melissa moaned, repeating my name with every thrust. I wrapped my legs around Melissa, pulling her further into me. The action made her thighs tremble and made her fuck into me even harder. I could feel heat coiling in my body, whimpers and moans slipping from my lips.

Melissa used my hips to push me against her with every thrust, an action that made my back arch and my hands grip the sheets as hard as ever.

Melissa could tell I was getting close. Her movements didn’t lighten up, she was too determined to get even a little bit tired by how fast she was going. Her head dipped down to my neck, sucking and kissing the sensitive skin as she thrusted into me.

“M-Melissa, I’m close.” Melissa sucked even harder, desperately wanting to hear me finish. I let go of the sheets; my hands settled on her back, my nails digging into the skin. I moaned her name as I came, an action that made Melissa tremble from just how turned on she was. Her thrusts slowed down as I tightened on her strap. Melissa pulled away from my neck, looking at my face as I came. She loved seeing my eyes shut, my head thrown back, just completely lost in the pleasure she was giving me.

Melissa’s thrusts stopped as I finished, her strap still inside me. She watched as I panted, leaning down to plant a soft kiss to my lips.

“You always look so pretty when you cum. I can’t get enough of how you sound.” Melissa kissed my cheek, “You are so perfect, (Y/n).” Melissa kissed my other cheek and her hips bucked, thrusting her strap slightly and causing me to moan, “I can’t get enough of you, you feel so fucking good.”

“Melissa, too much.” I whimper.

Melissa kisses me again, “It’s okay, I’ll make you feel so good, okay? I promise.” Melissa rolled her hips a little faster, groaning. It felt like too much, the coiling happening way faster now. Everything felt so sensitive, but Melissa was relentless. She never broke her rhythm, getting rougher with every whimper. I was shaking, but Melissa didn’t stop. Her hips were chasing the noises that left my lips.

I could feel the tears forming in my eyes; not from pain, but from how much pleasure I felt. Melissa leaned down and kissed my face (sloppy, but gentle) as she fucked me, trying to comfort me. Too much. Too much. Too much.

“Look at what my strap does to you.” Melissa groaned, watching as my thighs trembled once again and my back began to arch. Melissa was determined, doing anything in her power to draw out another orgasm.

“I can’t—” I breathed, my voice cracking as I spoke. My nails clawed at her back as a broken moan escaped my lips.

“You can, (Y/n).” Melissa said and I did. I let out a noise that was somewhere between a moan and sob. I tightened around Melissa’s strap so hard that she couldn’t keep thrusting. Her hands drifted to my chest, rubbing my nipples to provide some stimulation to help me ride out my climax. Melissa’s movements completely stopped once my breathing became more normal. She pulled out of me and I felt like crying from the emptiness.

Melissa took the harness completely off, discarding it in my drawer. She grabbed a water bottle from my nightstand and lifted my head up for me so I could take a sip. She placed the water bottle back down and laid next to me. Her arms wrapped around me and her head dug into my neck, “You did such a good job.” Melissa said. She paused, her face getting red, “D-Did I do a good job?”

“Yes, Melissa, so good.” I breathlessly replied and watched as the biggest grin ever made it’s way onto Melissa’s face. I knew Melissa wanted to go again — that girl would fuck me until the sun came up because of how much she enjoyed my reactions, but she knew not to push it, not wanting to make me cry.

“Can you say it again?”

“You did a good job, Melissa.” Melissa was practically beaming, unbelievably proud of herself.

totally did not write this bc i got drunk

masterlist (requests = open)

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do-androids-dream-ao3acc · 22 hours ago

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Catastrophe

BuckTommyWhumpWeek, Day 7: Canon Typical Injury (on BOTH Buck and Tommy) | AO3 version

“The one time we don't go to Micelli's, and this happens.”

Buck's smile is crooked and pained as he says this. Tommy’s, however, is worse: there’s a bright, red streak running from his lower lip down to his chin. It’s not a good sign.

“I liked the cannoli,” Tommy says. His chuckle seamlessly turns into a cough, and he clutches his side.

“Shh,” Buck mutters. “Don't make it worse.”

“I'd like to say it can't get any worse, but...”

They exchange glances. It can always get worse, they both know that. But who could have guessed?

───── 2 hours earlier ─────

It was a nice restaurant: a good table in the back, fabulous food, and a great view from the 23rd floor down on the brightly lit city. But most importantly, it wasn't Micelli's. According to Buck, there was some kind of curse on that place because their dates that started there had never ended well. If you asked Tommy, it was either bad luck, coincidence or karma, but hey, as long as he didn't have to accompany his boyfriend to the cemetery again to break a curse... His boyfriend. This felt good, and they had worked hard for it, so this new six-month anniversary definitely needed to be celebrated. There was champagne and chocolate-filled cannoli for dessert. And, somehow, a promise lingered in the air that this time, it would be better. This time, it would work out.

“So,” said Buck, who’d barely touched his cannoli — the man was baking like a pro now, and he was adorably competitive — “this time I have something for you.”

Buck pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his linen jacket. It was a special occasion, so he’d dressed up, and in the candlelight, Tommy couldn't help but look at him and think that this was his guy. However...

“I don't have anything for you,” he replied.

“You're paying for dinner,” Buck grinned.

They looked at each other, both probably thinking about the last dinner where those exact words had been spoken. But tonight was supposed to be different. A special kind of new beginning.

“Well, then maybe you should eat your dessert to make it worth it.”

“Oh, I know just the dessert that's really worth it,” said Buck, nudging Tommy under the table with his foot.

“Evan!”

“What?” Buck replied with a not-so-innocent smirk, holding out the envelope. “Take a look.”

“I hope those aren't Lakers tickets,” said Tommy, causing Buck to roll his eyes.

“Conversation is key,” he returned in a tone suggesting he’d had one of his therapy sessions lately. “To listen, pay attention… I think I know what you like.”

“Ouch, Evan,” said Tommy, but he smiled and took the envelope. “But you really didn't have to...”

“Yeah, yeah,” Buck made an impatient gesture. “Go on, open it.”

Tommy placed the envelope next to his plate. “Okay, but let me eat this chocolate before it melts,” he said, reaching for his spoon.

“Tommy!” This time, Buck's foot searched for Tommy's shin under the table.

“Very mature, Evan. All right...”

The second Tommy reached for the envelope, a scream rang out.

───── .:**:. ─────

“We have to get out of here,” says Buck.

It's more than just a statement; his words resonate with determination. Not despair, you have to give him that. Their situation is tense, to say the least, but Buck knows there's always a way out. That's what life has taught him — and Bobby, of course.

“Obviously.” Tommy slides a little higher up the wall behind him, trying to sit a little straighter. It looks painful and uncomfortable, and he grimaces. Then he says something that makes the knot in Buck's stomach grow a little bigger. “I don't know if we can, though.”

“Hey,” Buck urges, and even though he tries to sound confident, his voice sounds shaky in his own ears. His hands are bloody, which doesn't exactly make him look credible. “Hey. Of course we can We're firefighters, okay?”

Tommy grins, which looks a little creepy with the blood on the corner of his mouth.

“Evan. You realize that's kind of the problem, right?”

Well, yeah. He's right, of course.

───── 1:45 hours earlier ─────

It was a high-pitched scream, and it could have meant anything.

“Did someone lose a tooth?” Buck asked, craning his neck.

“Why a tooth?”

"We had a call once, someone was eating a steak and lost a canine. There was a huge commotion, blood everywhere, someone at the next table fainted. In the end, it turned out to be insurance fraud, but the guy was an idiot and had accidentally torn out his entire upper row of gums.“

”Yuck," said Tommy, looking around, as did a few other people.

A scream in an almost full restaurant could mean anything... not necessarily a broken tooth, thank you very much, but it also didn't sound like the cry of joy of a woman who had just been proposed to. Part of the dining room was behind a pillar, so he couldn't see very far.

“Was probably nothing,” he said.

But fate, karma, chance, or perhaps a curse had something else in mind. Now, there were noises that could now be heard clearly above the clatter of cutlery and the quiet conversations at the tables. Something that disturbed the idyll, a rumbling sound as if something had fallen over. And then, again, something that almost might have been a scream—but one that broke off abruptly.

Two people emerged from behind the pillar, and with that, the evening was finally ruined.

───── .:**:. ─────

“Why,” says Tommy, and it doesn't really sound like a question, “is going out with you so difficult?”

“Hey. That's unfair.”

Buck is still grinning, but there's nothing funny about their situation. But both of them only know two ways to deal with something like this—dark humor and action. Except the latter is pretty difficult right now. And it's really not Buck's fault.

“You have to keep pressing,” Tommy says, pointing to Buck's left shoulder.

He's squeezing one of the restaurant's formerly white cloth napkins against it. Now it's covered in red stains, but not nearly as soaked as the one Tommy is pressing against his side. That's actually worrying. Just like the sweat stains on his forehead and his deliberately shallow breathing, because every breath feels like he's inhaling fire.

“There has to be a way out,” says Buck.

His eyes scan the walls, the ceiling, the floor for the umpteenth time. They are in a storage room: shelves full of cleaning supplies, rags and, luckily, piles of packs of napkins. The kind you use to gracefully dab your mouth in a really good restaurant, but yes, surprisingly well suited for stopping blood. But apart from that, no windows, no ventilation shaft, no secret trapdoor in the floor. In other words, no way out except the door that stands locked in front of them.

The sounds from outside are muffled, which only adds to the surreal feeling. There are voices, shouting, someone’s sobbing. A clatter and a scraping sound, as if something is being dragged across the floor. The hairs on Buck’s arms stand up. Does he have the chills now or is it just his circulation? Finally, his gaze falls on a mop next to the door, and a plan forms in his head. It's a wild and rather half-baked plan, but looking at Tommy, he knows they have to do something. Well, Buck himself is longing for a decent dose of acetaminophen, but that's not the only reason every fiber of his being is screaming for action. There are people out there in danger. There is something in him—and in Tommy—that wants to help, even when they need help themselves. There's no denying that's the case. But if they don't do something, anything, things will end badly, he can feel it. Not just for Tommy.

“I have an idea.”

“That,” Tommy points out, “already got us into trouble today.”

───── 1:30 hours earlier ─────

The two people entering the restaurant’s main dining room made a fascinating couple. A man, no taller than 5'8", but with the look of a street fighter—gold chains, shaved head, and tattoos—and a woman who towered over him by at least a head. She had short, purple-dyed hair and wore a floral dress that would have made her inconspicuous at any of the tables. And it wasn't actually their appearance that seemed remarkable and attracted the attention of many of the guests. Most stared in horror, some with their hands over their mouths, at the guns the two were armed with. He was carrying a short-barelled rifle, she had a small submachine gun. Whoever they were, they were obviously dangerous, and they made no secret of it.

“Listen up,” the man shouted, casually raising his rifle. Meanwhile, the woman playfully aimed at various restaurant guests, who flinched when the barrel of her weapon came close to them. “We’re gonna play a little game, I'm sure you know it. It's called give me all your money. Oh, and don't forget your jewelry and other valuables! Polly, this is my lovely wife here, is gonna collect it. Stay calm and this will be over quickly, and we'll be on our way.”

“She's no Polly, she's not,” Buck muttered.

“Not the problem right now, Evan,” said Tommy.

Buck bent forward conspiratorially. “No, just think about it. Who robs a restaurant with machine guns just to steal jewelry and money?”

Buck watched a lot of crime shows. That and his friendship with Athena didn't necessarily qualify him to know a lot about robberies. But just like Tommy, he knew that people lied, all the time. Most fires were caused by carelessness, but no one wanted to admit to throwing away a cigarette. At almost every accident somebody said, “No, I don't take any medication,” when in truth beta blockers were the least harmful thing they’d taken. Lying, covering up, concealing—all of that was part of a first responder's life. And maybe Buck had a radar for it.

Tommy took a closer look at the two of them. The woman, who was definitely not named Polly, strolled between the rows of tables and motioned to the guests with a wave of her gun to pack their belongings into a duffel bag that had been slung over her shoulder. When she turned around, she pointed her submachine gun toward the entrance, where a restaurant employee nervously clutched the counter.

“Now, now,” she said. “We're keeping our hands off the phones, or they'll be gone in a second. I was the 1999 sport shooting queen in Fremont, Nebraska.”

As if to demonstrate, she aimed her gun at the umbrella stand next to the entrance, where the coat rack was also located. The stand was empty, of course, a mere prop; it hadn't rained in two months. She still aimed at it as if it were a great feat to hit an object the size of a floor vase from a distance of less than 30 feet. And maybe it was.

“Oh, come on, we don't want to waste ammunition. Or draw attention to ourselves,” she then said. “But I won't tell you again, waiter. Toss the phone across the counter.”

The man did as commanded; he frantically pulled the phone out of the charging station and threw it toward the pillar, where it fell to the wooden floor just before it could hit it.

“Hey!” The surprised call came from an older man who appeared seemingly out of nowhere behind the pillar, from a corridor that led to the restrooms. Then, the chaos really began.

Polly fired a shot.

───── .:**:. ─────

“For once, it's not my fault,” says Buck, and for once, that’s actually the truth.

“We both have a hero complex,” Tommy mutters.

“Maybe. But we need to do something. You're losing a lot of blood.”

Tommy can't argue with that. Buck shuffles to the door and listens, “I think they're still negotiating,” he says.

“Batshit crazy, those two. They'll never get out of here alive. All the shooting is bound to have brought the cops down. They'll be here soon.”

“I assume they've popped a few pills,” Buck agrees, “but I also think the original plan was different. I think they planned to make it look like a robbery, but then kidnap the district attorney or something like that. Then things went wrong because of the guy who was in the bathroom for so long. And now...”

“Now,” Tommy adds, “their only chance is to use the district attorney as both hostage and leverage, because the police are bound to be here soon.”

“And that plan is a lot worse for the rest of the guests in the restaurant.”

Tommy nods grimly. His face is pale—even for him, what's going on out there is anything but good. Buck grabs the mop and bangs it frantically against the door.

───── 1 hour earlier ─────

The sound of the gunshot echoed through the restaurant, following the bullet. It ripped open the left shoulder of the poor guy who’d not even noticed the commotion outside, just because he’d been in the bathroom for a bit longer. He screamed as he hit the floor, toppling over the carpet which soon turned red with his blood.

Several more people in the restaurant let out screams. Tables shook and dishes crashed to the floor as some of them reacted in panic. Then, a second shot rang out, and Polly's husband—or whoever the guy was—yelled, “Shut up!”

The next moment, there was dead silence. Plaster crumbled from the ceiling onto him, and he angrily wiped his hair. The shot had gone upward, leaving a hole in the ceiling.

“And you two sit back down,” he yelled, waving the rifle in Tommy and Buck's direction.

The two exchanged a glance. Instinct and responsiveness, two qualities that make good firefighters, were probably why both of them had stood up immediately when the first shot rang out.

“This man is injured,” Buck replied calmly. This wasn't exactly standard training at the LAFD, but the numerous advanced training courses they had to attend these days also included the possibility of being threatened with a weapon. “We're firefighters. We can help him.”

“Firefighters, huh,” said the guy, and Polly called out to him, “Finn, baby, what do we do now?”

“Quiet,” he yelled in her direction. “Let me think. I just need to think!”

Finn—if that was his name—scratched his head with his gun and looked around the room.

“I think the cops will be here soon,” Polly said.

“Let's just check on him,” said Buck, pointing to the injured man lying on the floor, his eyes wide open with shock and pain. The floor beneath him was already covered with an ugly red pool of blood.

Tommy searched Buck's gaze. “We can end this in a flash,” he whispered.

Buck frowned. “What are you thinking?” he muttered under his breath.

“I have an idea,” Tommy hushed. And really, this time, it was his fault. Loudly, in Finn's direction, he said, “Look, so far it's just robbery with assault. You don't want this to turn into murder.”

“What, you a lawyer or something?”

“I knew that was nonsense, firefighters, haha,” Polly sneered. Tommy glanced at her and shook his head.

“Nope, that’s true, we're firefighters.”

He spread his arms, although he suspected that this gesture of harmlessness meant next to nothing to the two of them. Basically, they were predators, unimpressed by their prey. But he wasn't going to make it that easy for them.

“We're trained in first aid,” he added. “If you let us help the man, you'll improve your own chances. You know very well that the shots will bring the police. Some resident, or maybe a passerby, is bound to have heard them.”

“I locked the door, baby,” Polly called out.

“That won't do much good,” Buck said, and he could see from their faces that they knew it.

“I don't care about that guy,” Finn said. “We're not here for him.”

Buck and Tommy exchanged looks that definitely meant I told you so on Buck's part. Meanwhile, Finn strolled between the tables, his gun clutched tightly in his arms as if he were cradling a baby. When he stopped, he aimed the rifle at a dark-blonde woman in her mid-forties wearing an evening gown. She was sitting with a man in a suit who looked considerably more frightened than she did. It suited her that she was unimpressed—she presented herself in the same way in the public hearings that were broadcast on television. The woman was well known.

“Isn't that the district attorney? Valdez?” Tommy asked quietly.

“Told you this wasn't a simple robbery,” Buck muttered.

“Do you want my necklace?” the woman asked calmly. She was indeed wearing a very pretty gold necklace with a small ruby. Finn shook his head.

“This is getting a little out of hand,” he said. “I'll tell you what I want...”

Whatever he wanted was drowned out by a cry of surprise as Tommy suddenly lunged at him.

───── .:**:. ─────

“Hey,” Buck yells, continuing to bang the mop handle against the door. “Hey! Help! Hurry up!”

“What are you doing?”

Buck turns his head briefly. “I'm getting us out of here,” he says grimly.

“I've already ruined the element of surprise,” says Tommy with an embarrassed grin.

“Hey,” Buck repeats with much more emphasis, “it's not your fault, okay?”

“Evan. We're lucky to be alive.”

“We're alive because Polly and Finn” — now he draws quotation marks in the air — “are one card shy of a full deck. They're stressed, so they overreacted. Your plan was good, this isn’t your fault. Tommy, you're bigger and heavier than that guy, and I know you don't take unnecessary risks. It was civil courage. They were threatening twenty or thirty people, and they shot one of them. You could have overpowered Finn. The fact that his gun went off was… a calculated risk, and bad luck. And if I hadn't been so stupid and thrown myself in the way, it might have worked.”

“It wasn't stupid. It was brave, Evan.”

“Oh, come on.” Buck digs his fingers into the handle of the mop, as if it was symbolizing Finn's neck. “I was scared shitless in that moment, Tommy. But I still don't think those two really wanted to kill anyone.”

“Well, except that Polly did shoot.”

The mere memory makes Buck wince. Being shot felt like slipping with a circular saw, well, sort of. Not a pleasant memory either. In any case, Polly hasn't exaggerated; she can shoot, and accurately. It's just a graze, but Buck's arm still burns. He'll survive. But nothing had gone according to plan for Polly and Finn – neither the injured man nor the fact that Finn's gun went off while he was wrestling with Tommy. Even the shot at Buck had been just pure reaction on Polly's part. And all of that was, in a way, luck. Because if the two of them had entered the restaurant with the firm intention of causing a massacre, well...

Buck turns around, hammers the mop against the door again, and starts screaming for help.

“Evan, what are you doing?”

“They're stressed, I told you. We just need to turn up the heat a little.”

Finn and Polly had quickly restored calm after the shooting. That hadn't been particularly difficult, as the remaining guests were completely terrified at that point. However, they had locked Buck and Tommy in the chamber because, in Polly's words, “Feels like out of the frying pan, into the fire with two firefighters, haha.” Of course, they also took their phones—the two of them are stressed, but unfortunately not completely stupid. Buck is still worried about the guy who was shot in the restaurant, although he suspects he's not too badly injured. Polly is truly an extremely good shot, even in a panic. Or she’s just lucky.

“What do you mean? Evan, the police will be here any minute.”

Buck continues to bang on the door with the mop handle. He would pound on it with his fists, but his shoulder would probably object.

“Sure, the police will be here soon,” he says, “but this has escalated from a robbery to a hostage situation. That changes everything. It delays everything; negotiations could take hours. There are tons of people out there in danger, and there's this guy who's been shot, and then you need to get to the hospital, Tommy, and if I can knock one of them over the head with this mop, we can overpower the other one. I know you don't like to hear this, but you've lost a lot of blood, and I'm worried and... Tommy?”

It's just an impulse, instinct maybe. Or maybe Buck expects Tommy to interrupt his staccato babbling, like he always does when his thoughts start spiraling. But when he turns to look at him, Buck drops the mop.

“Tommy!”

───── .:**:. ─────

Eyes shut, Tommy's head is slumped onto his shoulder.

“No, no, no, you won’t!”

Buck drops on the floor and gently pats Tommy's alarmingly pale cheeks. He carefully lifts the napkin, which has long since lost its pristine whiteness. It sticks to Tommy's clothes, and for the first time since they've been in here, Buck realizes that Tommy’s shirt is completely soaked. For a very long couple of seconds, he’s frozen. Then, as if the engine of an old, broken-down car suddenly starts again, a jolt goes through his body.

Two fingers on Tommy's carotid artery: there's a pulse. Maybe a little weak, but definitely there. Buck jumps up, almost knocking over the shelf in his attempt to get a fresh cloth to press it onto the wound. It really doesn't look good: while Buck was only grazed by Polly's shot, Finn's sudden gunfire hit Tommy squarely. Following an impulse, he carefully feels Tommy's back. He should have done that long ago, shouldn't he? Tommy's back is soaked with sweat, but there's no exit wound.

This isn't good, none of this is good, and Buck's thoughts are racing. His own wound is burning; it's a bit like someone is holding a lighter to his skin, every movement making his nerves scream. Tommy, however, must have been in incredible pain, and he hardly let it show. Tommy just sat there, endured it, and still took care of Buck; and all that after trying to protect the restaurant guests. He's a real hero, and Buck feels damn useless. Guilt washes over him like an ice-cold rain shower. They just got back together. Is there really a curse on their relationship? After six months of happiness, is it all over again—this time for good?

What a stupid thought. Who is he, some uninvolved passerby? A defenseless spectator, like the people in the restaurant? The thought suddenly drives Buck forward; the old, broken-down car has fuel again. Bobby would have liked that comparison. But he mustn't think about Bobby now.

“I'll never listen to you again, Tommy,” he groans as he very carefully shifts the man into a lying position. “I mean, of course I'll listen to you, but I have to listen better, right? Haha. Earlier, I gave you a lecture on that, remember?”

Tommy doesn't respond. Buck stuffs a few of the napkins under his boyfriend’s head, then pushes a box under his legs, frantically throwing out the cleaning supplies in it. At last, he checks the bleeding again and mutters, “You're stubborn, though. Would it be so bad to admit weakness once in a while?”

Fortunately, the brief period without firm pressure hasn't caused any further damage – the bleeding seems to have stopped. There's still shouting outside; it sounds like Polly. She seems to be the more dangerous of the two, and if she loses it now... Focus on Tommy, he thinks. Tommy is breathing, his pulse is steady, but he's lost a hell of a lot of blood. Buck crouches beside him, almost automatically pressing the cloth onto the wound, thinking that he was probably a little unfair. Tommy has admitted his weaknesses, he has opened up, and not just because they’d decided that this would be a prerequisite for both of them if they were to try again. It was a journey with heavy baggage on each part, and something neither of them had ever done before. Buck had always been abandoned, and Tommy had always left before things got serious. And they’d both always acted like this for the same reason: injuries, that weren't visible on the outside, but yet so deep that they still hurt years later, like scars when the weather changed.

“But still,” Buck says, as if Tommy can read his mind, even though the man isn't even conscious, “still, we make mistakes. We fall back into old patterns. I didn't pay enough attention to you, and you weren't honest. But you know what? I get it. And we can work on that, the two of us. Don't you think? I—”

A key turns in the lock, and then the door to the small chamber is thrown open with a jerk.

───── .:**:. ─────

“Get out,” Finn demands, pointing his gun at Buck.

“What?”

“Come on, get out of there, both of you!”

Now that the door is open, the sounds which had been muffled just a moment ago rain down on Buck. Someone is sobbing. The injured man near the entrance is moaning. Polly seems nervous, wiping her hand over a few tables, deliberately knocking plates and glasses to the floor. Maybe she just wants to scare the guests, though Buck thinks they’re already completely panicked. And there’s yet another sound, still a little distant but getting louder. The reason for Polly's nervousness: sirens.

“W-we can't.” Buck gestures to Tommy, still lying motionless on the floor.

“Shit,” says Polly, who suddenly appears behind Finn, glancing over his shoulder. She waves her gun at Buck. “You alone then.”

“What for?”

“Shut up,” Finn scolds, waving his rifle. But Polly puts a hand on his shoulder, clicking her tongue.

“Look, fireman. Even with just one of you, our chances of getting out of here are increasing exponentially. The cops aren't going to endanger one of their own.”

Buck pinches his lips together. The two of them obviously want to use him as a human shield. And part of him wants to agree, just to protect the rest of the guests in the restaurant. To give all of them a chance to get out of this alive, especially Tommy. But...

“No,” Buck shakes his head. “I'm not leaving him alone.”

“Excuse me?” Polly pushes past Finn. Her voice has a surprisingly gentle undertone that sends a shiver down Buck's spine.

He straightens his back and stands up. Buck knows the effect his size and muscles have. It's not for nothing that he often walks hunched over, making himself small; but that's over now. Polly, however, doesn't look particularly impressed. Maybe she just has completely lost her mind.

Buck points to Tommy. “Maybe it would work, we'd go out, the cops would let you through. But then you'd have a man on your conscience. A firefighter. I need him in a hospital right now, or he'll die.”

He's exaggerating, at least he hopes so, but it's not hard to add a hint of desperation to his voice. That one spark of fear. Because it's there, deep inside Buck, turning his stomach. And it seems to be working. There's something in Finn's eyes, an uncertainty. He actually takes a step back, glancing nervously at the crowd of guests.

“Polly,” he says, his tone warning. But Polly shakes her head.

“This is bullshit.”

She drops the bag with the loot on the floor, raises her gun and points it at Buck, who raises his hands defensively. Then she pushes past him with a grin, stops next to Tommy and nudges his left leg with her foot.

“We've got a few injuries, sure, that's a bit unfortunate,” Polly says calmly. “But firefighters... Phew, I'm telling you, they’re tough.”

Her grin is smarmy now. Then, suddenly, she pulls her foot back and kicks Tommy in his injured side. Buck sees red.

───── .:**:. ─────

The anger that rises within him rarely surfaces, but it’s still familiar to him. Buck never really allows this searing, gnawing feeling to take hold; these destructive thoughts, this tingling sensation in his fingers that automatically clench into fists. It’s a feeling that erases thoughts, an instinct that drives him to act.

Danger is just a state, a situation to be analyzed, assessed, and overcome. Bobby's words. Buck has worked very, very hard to be the person he is today. Someone Bobby could be proud of, and he was. Even when he screwed up. Even when he acted impulsively. And if that's not impulsive...

Buck's fist shoots forward. He’s never really done this, at least not to a woman, and normally, he wouldn’t. Polly, however, is dangerous, and Buck knows better than anyone that gender has nothing to do with it. His hand hits Polly in the stomach. She doubles over and groans, part out of pain, part out of astonishment. Buck grabs her, drags her by the arm, twists it around. Polly drops the gun, but then she wriggles in Buck's grip like a toddler covered in sunscreen. She screams and yells, Finn yells too, and for a terrible and surprisingly long moment, Buck thinks Finn is going to shoot. Or that he won't be able to hold Polly.

But Buck hasn't forgotten what he learned when he was eight, at summer sports camp with the wrestling class. Buck forgets very little, just like his muscles, and when he flexes them and wraps his arms around Polly, she can struggle all she wants.

“Now,” he gasps, “here's my advice: if you don't want to shoot your lovely wife—and boy, you know she can shoot better than you—then you give up. The police are almost at the door.”

Finn's face is red like a tomato; it wouldn't be surprising if he had a stroke right there and then. But it's anger, Buck knows that, and anger makes people do irrational things. Finn bites his lip until it bleeds.

“Shit. Shit, shit!” he repeats over and over again.

“There's a back exit.”

Frantically waving his gun, Finn turns around. Behind him stands one of the restaurant’s employees, a waiter perhaps, or the manager, and he flinches.

“What?”

“A back exit,” stammers the man, pointing to a window at the rear of the restaurant. “It's... it's actually an emergency exit.”

Finn stares at him, then back at Buck. No, actually, he's looking at Polly, who is standing stiff as a board in Buck’s iron grip.

“Baby,” Polly whispers. Finn blinks. “No. No, no, no, you're not doing that.”

“I'm sorry,” Finn says without much regret. He picks up the bag, slings the strap over his shoulders, and adds, “It's not worth dying for. Not for anyone here.”

Without looking back, he runs off. Polly starts screaming, now wiggling again, but Buck holds her tight, even though the muscles in his arms feel like they’re about to tear.

“You stupid asshole, I'll find you,” Polly yells, but that doesn't stop Finn from opening the window and climbing out, just in time: the sirens are wailing right outside the restaurant.

From there, everything happens very quickly.

───── .:**:. ─────

It is, of course, Athena who’s among the first to secure the scene.

Buck loves the red string theory, much to Tommy's discomfort, but not just when it comes to his own relationship. Sure, Buck truly believes that everything in life has a meaning and that two people who belong together will find each other in the end. It's strange that Tommy, with his penchant for rom coms, doesn't share his belief, but Buck is sure he'll convince him eventually. In any case, Buck believes that he is connected to everyone in his life by an invisible red string, not just Tommy. Certainly Athena, who secretly adopted him, just as Bobby had done. And that's why it's no coincidence that it’s Athena who finds them both when the police storm the restaurant.

“Buck,” she says with not much surprise as she suddenly appears in the doorway, and he exhales a breath he thinks he must been holding for a very long time.

He barely notices how she reaches for Polly with raised brows, handcuffs the woman and hands her over to one of her officers to lead her away. Buck just breathes, “Tommy,” and then he's back on the floor next to him, holding his hand, stroking it, and murmuring something that is meant more to calm himself than Tommy, who’s unaware of anything anyway.

Athena glances at him, turns around and shouts, “EMT!” Hesitantly, she bends down and places two fingers on Tommy's carotid artery. Visibly calmer, she then asks, "What was going on here, Buck? No, wait. I don't really want to know, and you’re gonna make a statement anyway. Of course you're in the middle of this mess, what else would one expect... By the way, you belong in the hospital, too.”

Buck shrugs, ignoring his aching muscles, not to mention the ridiculous wound.

“I’ve to take care of the mess out there,” Athena says. “Are you gonna be okay?”

Fortunately, Buck has never before seen the paramedics who are now rushing into the small room. He has made progress with Tommy, oh yes, but there are conversations Buck has still avoided. Conversations he has still shied away from, and they’re gonna be with his friends and family. Well, that can't be put off any longer now, can it.

“Yes,” he says, and in that moment, it's true.

Athena lets out a sigh. “You're every inch Bobby’s boy,” she gently tells him, and the sparkle in her eyes could mean anything as she turns and walks away.

Tommy's fingers twitch under Buck’s. He hasn't let go, and there isn't enough room in the small room anyway; the paramedics are calling for a stretcher.

“Tommy,” he murmurs, gently stroking his cheek.

“Hmm,” Tommy whispers, blinking. “'s wrong?”

Buck grins, feeling a lot lighter. “Oh, nothing much,” he replies. “Just a bit of chaos, nothing special.”

“I just want one date with you without anything happening,” Tommy mutters, the corners of his mouth turned up despite his obvious pain.

The stretcher arrives, and Buck flinches sympathetically as Tommy is lifted onto it. He runs alongside, assuring him that everything will be all right, and in this moment he knows it's true. It's not the familiar surroundings of the ambulance soon after that make him realize this, but they certainly contribute to it. Of course, Buck going with him is against protocol, but who cares? Maybe this crew has heard of the 118’s motto, because they don’t object.

They drive off, and Tommy asks, “What was in it, anyway?”

“Hm, in what?” asks Buck, and he thinks one of the paramedics is mumbling that the dose would actually knock out an elephant, and he knows that Tommy is only keeping his eyes open with sheer willpower. But he doesn't tell him to relax or any of the other nonsense people usually say to hide their own restlessness. Because this is Tommy, and he deserves his attention.

“In the envelope.”

“The envelope, oh dear.” Buck knits his brows together. “I-I think it's still on the table. Maybe Polly took it because she thought there was money in it. Or a gift card. Do you think we'll get it back soon? It's evidence now...”

“So it's neither money nor a gift card,” Tommy mutters as one of the paramedics draws up a syringe. “Then what is it?”

“Oh. Tickets for your favorite band.”

“Tickets? Plural? You don't even like that band... I hope you weren't suggesting I go with Eddie.”

Buck can't help but burst out laughing. “Nah. Sure, they’re not really my thing, but you like them,” he finally says, “and that's why...”

“I like you,” Tommy interrupts him, slurring his words now. “I even love you.”

“Sweet,” says one of the paramedics, and then another dose goes into the IV, and Tommy closes his eyes. There’s the blissful smile of being high on his lips.

Buck feels like he's just been hit by a truck. Except it doesn't hurt, no, on the contrary. Something has hit him with full force, but it feels good. Damn good.

“It's just the painkillers,” he says, stroking Tommy's hand.

“No, honey, that was definitely real,” the paramedic interjects, smiling.

Buck looks at her, he looks at Tommy; Oh, he thinks. Oh.

#my fics #writing #BuckTommyWhumpWeek #BuckTommy #evan buckley #tommy kinard #day 7 #canon typical injury #whump #whump fic #whump community

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shadyfestivalperfection · 2 days ago

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I loved your “Dating Loki” could you do one where him and the “reader” reunite during the Avengers? Nick Fury and the others won’t think he’ll talk until Thor brings the “reader” in. Loki thinks it’s Black Widow before he turns around, maybe he tries to keep his composure.

To Choose You Again~Oneshot

Summery: He let her go once in the name of power. Years later, broken and imprisoned, Loki sees her again—and this time, he’s the one who won’t walk away.

Characters: Loki x ex-girlfriend!reader

Note: Don’t worry, it has a happy ending 😉

||Main Masterlist|| ||Oneshot Masterlist||

Loki of Asgard sat on the floor with his knees drawn up, long fingers dangling loosely between them. His hair, longer now, curled slightly at the edges of his jaw, and the green in his eyes was dulled with something deeper than rage—fatigue. He stared at the far wall, unmoving. For hours, maybe longer.

He hadn’t spoken. Not to Fury. Not to Stark. Not even to Thor.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents watched him from behind mirrored glass, voices low and skeptical. Romanoff leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, her gaze cold.

“He’s not going to talk,” she said for the third time that day. “He’s waiting for something.”

“Or someone,” Banner murmured.

“Maybe a stage,” Stark quipped. “Guy always did love a dramatic entrance.”

Thor, standing slightly apart from them all, frowned in silence. His arms were crossed, and his brow furrowed with more worry than anyone present had seen since New York burned under the alien sky.

“He is… lost,” Thor said finally. “But not beyond reach.”

“Then who can reach him?” Steve asked, his tone calm but pressed. “Because we’re running out of time.”

Thor hesitated. “There was someone.”

Fury glanced over. “Someone?”

“She was once close to him. Before all of this. Before… everything fell apart.”

“Oh, here we go,” Tony muttered. “The ex-girlfriend bomb.”

“Her name is Y/N,” Thor said over the sarcasm. “An Asgardian by birth. Immortal. She left the realm generations ago. She chose Midgard—Earth. Lives in quiet. She is a researcher. A scholar. And she knew my brother better than any of us.”

Steve tilted his head. “Why haven’t we heard of her before?”

“She wanted peace,” Thor said simply. “And he let her go.”

“Wait,” Natasha cut in. “You’re saying Loki had someone he actually cared about? Enough to let her walk away?”

Thor’s eyes darkened. “Yes. And it nearly broke him.”

Silence followed. Only the faint sound of Loki’s breath through the speakers filled the stillness.

Fury crossed his arms. “You really think this woman—this Y/N—can get through to him?”

“I believe,” Thor said softly, “that if anyone can remind him he was once capable of love… it is her.”

—

The quinjet landed gently in a clearing surrounded by silver trees. Beyond them, nestled on the edge of a sheer cliff, was a small cottage with a moss-covered roof and a garden that bloomed wild and unbothered by human hands. It overlooked a stretch of sea so vast and calm it seemed the sky itself had poured into it.

Thor stood at the head of the team: Steve and Natasha behind him. No guards. No weapons drawn.

The moment they stepped through the trees, the front door opened.

Y/N stood in the threshold, still as the wind. Her long hair, loosely braided, hung over one shoulder, silver strands catching the fading light. She wore a simple sweater and linen pants—earthy, unassuming—but her eyes held a sharpness that hadn’t dulled since Asgard.

They were the eyes of a woman who’d seen empires fall and loved a man who helped break one.

“Thor,” she said evenly, voice like smooth stones in a stream.

He smiled, almost boyishly. “Y/N. You look well.”

“You didn’t come all this way just to flatter me,” she replied. Her gaze shifted to the two behind him. “Captain Rogers. Agent Romanoff.”

Natasha raised a brow. “Didn’t expect the welcome committee.”

“I’ve seen many things,” Y/N said. “But nothing surprises me anymore. Not even a god on my doorstep.”

She stepped aside. “Come in.”

��

Her home was filled with books. Stacks of them on tables, nestled beside vials of glowing plants and scrolls too old for even Steve to date. The air smelled of lavender and salt. It was peaceful. Still.

She poured tea without asking. The silence was comfortable… until it wasn’t.

“You’re here about Loki,” she said.

Thor lowered his cup. “Yes.”

“I figured.” She didn’t look at any of them directly. “Is he dead?”

“No,” Thor said quietly. “But perhaps worse.”

She didn’t speak.

“He’s in custody. After what he did in New York.”

“I heard.” Her voice tightened.

“He will not speak to any of us,” Thor continued. “Not even me.”

Y/N finally looked up. Her eyes had that familiar sheen to them—reflective, unreadable, and impossibly old. “And you think I can reach him?”

Steve answered this time, his tone careful. “He’s completely closed off. If there’s any chance someone from his past could draw him out—help us understand what he’s planning—it’s worth trying.”

“He’s always planning something,” she said softly. “That hasn’t changed.”

“But once,” Thor said, “he wasn’t only this. You saw that. You knew him before the fall.”

Y/N didn’t respond.

“I saw what you were to each other,” Thor added. “He loved you.”

She rose, walked to the window. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And still, he let me go.”

“Why?” Natasha asked quietly.

Y/N smiled faintly. “You’d have to ask him.”

Steve stepped forward. “We’re not asking you to forgive him. Just… speak with him. If you get through, we might be able to stop whatever’s coming.”

Y/N was silent for a long time.

Then: “When?”

Thor stood. “Tonight.”

—

The quinjet hummed softly as it rose into the clouds. Y/N sat across from Thor, her eyes on the horizon. The closer they flew to the helicarrier, the quieter she became.

Thor watched her with a heavy heart.

“You haven’t asked if he remembers you,” he said gently.

“I know he does.”

Thor nodded.

“And I know,” she added, voice barely audible, “that I never stopped remembering him.”

—

The S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarrier was cold and sterile, a place of harsh lights and harder edges. Y/N stepped out of the elevator, Thor just behind her, and immediately the chill of the place seeped into her bones. The smell of metal and ozone mixed with distant echoes of voices and footsteps.

They walked down the narrow corridors until they reached the observation deck, the glass cell standing silent and imposing.

Inside, Loki sat alone, his posture rigid, shoulders squared as if bracing against invisible storms. His back was to them, the dark hair falling messily over his shoulders.

“Are you sure he doesn’t know you’re here?” Y/N asked quietly.

Thor nodded. “He believes this is another attempt to interrogate him. He doesn’t expect you.”

They stepped closer, their footsteps muffled against the floor.

Y/N’s heart pounded, an old ache rising up—equal parts dread and longing.

“He’s not going to like this,” she murmured.

“I’m not here for his approval,” he said softly.

Loki shifted. “Another visitor,” he muttered, voice dry but edged with a trace of amusement.

Y/N cleared her throat. “Loki.”

He turned slowly. The moment their eyes met, the air shifted—charged with years of unspoken words.

His face was pale, a mask of cold composure. But his eyes betrayed him: wide, searching, almost disbelieving.

“…Y/N?”

She nodded, a faint, bittersweet smile curling her lips.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, stepping closer to the glass, his hand rising to meet hers.

The world between them felt fragile—time stretched thin.

“I came because there’s still a part of you I remember. The part I want to believe is still there.”

Loki’s gaze faltered. “I buried that part deep.”

“Maybe it’s time to dig it up.”

Silence hung heavy, then he whispered, “Tell me… why did you leave?”

Her mind flickered back to a night long ago—stars above, tears streaming.

“Because you wouldn’t let me stay.”

He closed his eyes, the weight of regret settling on his shoulders.

“Let me try,” he whispered.

For the first time since his capture, Loki spoke—not with malice or riddles, but with the rawness of a soul seeking redemption.

Loki’s breath hitched as he stepped back from the glass, pacing the small confines of his cell. The shadows seemed to cling tighter to him, but in his eyes, a flicker of something warmer, something more fragile, lingered.

Y/N’s heart clenched watching him—this god, so fierce and broken all at once.

“Why didn’t you come to me sooner?” she asked softly, leaning closer to the glass.

He stopped and stared at her, jaw clenched.

“I was afraid,” he confessed, voice cracking like thin ice. “Afraid that what I’d become was beyond repair. That the man you loved was gone forever.”

She swallowed hard, remembering the bitter nights she spent wondering if he even thought of her.

“I never stopped hoping you’d come back,” she said. “Even when it felt like you were slipping away.”

Loki’s fingers pressed against the glass, fingertips tracing where hers rested.

“I should have fought harder. For you. For us.”

“You did what you thought was right. But sometimes, doing right means letting go.”

His eyes darkened. “Letting go of you was the hardest thing I ever did.”

They stood, separated by the thin barrier, but their hearts stretched across the distance like a fragile thread.

“Maybe this is our second chance,” Y/N whispered.

Loki’s lips curled into a tentative smile.

“If you’ll have me,” he said.

Her eyes shone with unshed tears. “Always.”

The hours slipped by unnoticed, swallowed by the quiet hum of the helicarrier and the steady rhythm of their voices.

Y/N found herself sharing memories she thought she’d buried—moments of laughter under Asgard’s twin moons, stolen glances during palace festivities, whispered promises beneath endless starlit skies.

Loki listened, his expression unreadable at first, but gradually softening like ice thawing under spring’s gentle sun.

“You always had that stubborn streak,” she teased, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“And you always knew how to challenge me,” he countered, eyes glinting with a rare warmth.

They spoke of things left unsaid—the fears, the regrets, the reasons that tore them apart.

“I thought I was protecting you,” Loki said, voice thick with pain. “But all I did was push you away.”

Y/N reached out, fingers brushing the glass between them. “You didn’t push me away. I walked because I had to survive. And because I believed there was still good in you.”

He closed his eyes, a single breath escaping him. “There is good. I buried it too deep, but it’s still there.”

She smiled through the tears threatening to spill. “Then let’s find it again. Together.”

Loki’s gaze locked onto hers, fierce and vulnerable. “I want to believe that. I want to try.”

Their hands pressed harder against the glass, desperate to erase the space between them.

“Soon,” Y/N promised. “Soon.”

As the conversation lingered, Loki’s guarded demeanor began to peel away, revealing glimpses of the man she once knew—and the one she hoped might still be there.

“I’ve been alone,” he admitted quietly. “Not just in this cell, but inside myself. It’s a cold place.”

Y/N’s heart ached for him, the weight of his solitude almost unbearable.

“You don’t have to be alone anymore,” she said, voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. “Not while I’m here.”

He looked at her then, truly looked—as if seeing her for the first time in years.

“You never left my thoughts,” he whispered. “Even when I told myself you had.”

She reached out again, pressing her palm to the glass. “Neither did you leave mine.”

For a moment, time seemed to pause. The sterile hum of the helicarrier faded into the background, replaced by the quiet resonance of two souls tentatively reaching out.

“I don’t know what comes next,” Loki confessed, “but I want to find out—with you.”

Y/N smiled, hope blooming like dawn breaking through endless night.

Walking away from the cell, Y/N’s steps felt lighter than they had in years. The walls around her seemed less suffocating, the weight on her chest easing with each breath.

Thor met her at the hallway’s bend, a knowing smile on his face.

“She is the light in his darkness,” Thor said quietly. “You gave him something I could not.”

Y/N nodded, wiping a stray tear. “He’s still lost in parts. But he wants to be found.”

Natasha approached, folding her arms. “He talked?”

Y/N chuckled softly. “More than that. He remembered.”

Steve smiled warmly. “Then we have hope.”

The team gathered around her as they prepared to move forward, their mission now carrying a new purpose—not just to contain a god, but to heal him.

Later, as Y/N stood by her window, looking out over the night sky, a single moonflower bloomed on her windowsill—a reminder that even in the darkest places, hope could still take root.

And somewhere, far away but no longer unreachable, Loki was thinking the same.

“We’ll find the path. Together.”

Loki was taken back to Asgard in chains. Y/N watched from the shadows.

He didn’t look back.

Not then.

But a month later, a letter arrived — in ancient Asgardian script, with his seal.

I meant what I said. I remember everything.If I ever find a way back to the light… I hope you’ll be standing there.

—

Three months passed. Then four. Then five.

Y/N accepted a quiet research post in Norway, studying Earth’s auroras — a nod to the skies she once knew. Her days were quiet. Her nights lonelier.

Until one stormy evening… the wind shifted.

She turned from her telescope, heart pounding.

He was there.

Not armored. Not kingly. Just… Loki.

Hair longer. Eyes tired. But real.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she breathed.

“I wasn’t sure you’d want me.”

She crossed the room and stopped inches from him. “Are you here to stay?”

“I don’t know what I am anymore,” he whispered. “But I know who I miss.”

He touched her cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For all of it. I broke the only beautiful thing I ever had.”

“You didn’t break me,” she whispered. “Just my heart. But I kept the pieces. I was hoping you’d come back and help me put them together.”

He leaned in, slow, unsure.

She met him halfway.

Their kiss was not the burning heat of youth — it was slower. Wiser. Real.

They watched the auroras from the cliff, his hand wrapped around hers.

“Do you think they’ll ever let me live in peace here?” he asked.

Y/N smiled. “That depends. Do you plan to conquer anything else?”

“Only your attention.”

“That, you’ve already won.”

He looked at her, the glow of northern lights reflecting in his eyes.

And for the first time in years — he felt whole.

-the end

#marvel #shadyfestivalperfection #female reader #fanfiction #romance #avengers #mcu #Loki #Loki x Reader #loki x you #mcu loki #loki fanfic #loki x f!reader

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brinasheqrt · 2 days ago

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hi hope ur doing great!! i have a request, if u dont mind. i was thinking like reader is sabrinas gf and shes watching behind the scenes of the recording of sabrinas new single manchild, and at the end of the day sabrina is super tired and its basically reader comforting her and giving her princess treatment (preferably masc!reader)

My Princess

pairings - sabrina carpenter x masc!reader

warnings - none at all

wc - 2k

You leaned against the sound booth’s glass, arms crossed casually over your chest as you watched Sabrina through the thick pane. She was in her zone—headphones snug over her ears, one hand lifted as she worked through the chorus of her new single ‘Manchild’, voice clear and precise even after hours of takes.

The studio around you buzzed with low murmurs and clacking keyboards. The producers on the other side of the board exchanged quiet nods, impressed. You smirked to yourself, proud but not surprised. She’d been working on this song for months—her take-no-shit anthem wrapped in the kind of pop hook that would have everyone singing it for the next year.

But you could also see the exhaustion beginning to creep into her shoulders.

She pulled off the headphones after another take and dropped onto the couch in the booth, scrubbing her hands over her face. She looked like she was holding it together—just barely.

You straightened up.

“Sabrina,” her producer’s voice crackled through the intercom, “that was great. I think we’ve got the chorus locked in. You want to try that bridge again?”

There was a pause. You could tell she was biting her tongue before she responded. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. One more time.”

You hated that tone. The one where she didn’t want to say no because she didn’t want to let anyone down, even when her voice had started to crack a little on the last take.

But she was Sabrina Carpenter—professional, powerhouse, perfectionist. And if she didn’t stop herself, she’d run herself right into the ground trying to make every note flawless.

Still, you waited. She adjusted her headphones again and went in for the bridge. You watched, not just as her girlfriend, but as someone who knew her better than most. The slight tremble in her hand when she reached for the mic again wasn’t lost on you. She powered through, but it was clear—she was nearly done.

The take ended, and her voice sounded more strained now. She blinked hard a few times, like she was trying to stay focused.

You tapped gently on the glass. She looked up and met your eyes through the booth, and you gave her a small smile, tilting your head with a subtle gesture that only meant one thing:

Enough, baby.

She sighed and turned back to the intercom. “I think that’s all I’ve got in me today,” she said, voice polite but final. “Can we pick up here tomorrow?”

The team agreed quickly—respectfully. No one wanted to push her too far. She thanked them all sweetly, even though you could hear the tired edge behind her voice.

When she stepped out of the booth, you were already waiting with a cold water bottle in one hand and your hoodie in the other. She looked small as she walked toward you—makeup smudged from the long hours, golden hair tied in a loose, messy bun, a hint of glitter still on her cheek from earlier content shooting. A popstar in the spotlight, sure—but right now, she was just your girl. And she looked exhausted.

You held the water out first. She took it gratefully, unscrewing the cap and downing half of it in one go.

“Jesus,” she exhaled after, “that bridge is going to kill me.”

“I’ll beat it up for you,” you said, slipping the hoodie over her shoulders. “Where is it? I’ll fight it. Genuinely. I don’t care that it’s just a melody. I have hands.”

That made her laugh, a tired but real sound. She leaned into you and rested her head on your chest as you wrapped your arms around her.

“I like when you threaten inanimate objects for me,” she mumbled into your shirt.

“I’m a romantic,” you replied.

She laughed again, but this time it broke a little, and she went quiet against you. You felt her weight shift as she sagged more into your chest. She was spent.

“Come on,” you said gently. “Let’s get you home.”

⸻

The car ride back was quiet. She leaned against the passenger door with her legs curled toward you, eyes fluttering shut every few seconds. You reached across at a red light and rested a hand on her knee. She placed her hand over yours instinctively, fingers squeezing lightly.

Once home, you carried her bag while she trailed behind you, slowly toeing off her boots at the door. She let out a long, aching sigh, then tilted her head to look at you with those soft, baby blue eyes.

“You’re giving me that look,” she said.

You raised an eyebrow. “What look?”

“The one that says, ‘You’re not allowed to do anything else tonight. You’re officially on pampering duty.’”

You grinned. “Correct.”

She smirked but didn’t argue, just lifted her arms dramatically. “Then carry me, peasant.”

You laughed and bent down to scoop her up bridal-style, making her squeal and wrap her arms around your neck.

“You better not drop me.”

“I’d never drop my princess,” you said, kissing the top of her head.

She hummed in approval and tucked her face into your shoulder.

⸻

You set her down on the couch and immediately went to work. First: fuzzy socks on her tired feet. Then: blanket wrapped tightly around her like a burrito and taking her makeup off. You handed her a warm lavender-scented neck pillow that you microwaved for a minute, which she sighed into like it was the greatest thing she’d ever touched.

“You want tea or cocoa?” you asked, already halfway to the kitchen.

“Cocoa,” she called back. “With oat milk. And those mini marshmallows you hide on the top shelf.”

You chuckled. “You mean the ones I hide from you because you snack on them at 2am?”

“Those are the ones.”

When you came back with a perfectly-prepared mug, she looked like a child in heaven—wrapped up, toasty, curled in the corner of the couch, cheeks flushed with warmth.

“You know,” she said as she took the mug from you, “you really didn’t have to do all this.”

“I know,” you said, kneeling beside her and brushing hair from her face. “But I wanted to.”

She leaned into your hand.

“I just…” She hesitated. “I hate how tired I get. I always feel like I should be stronger. More productive. Better.”

You frowned softly and leaned forward to press a kiss to her temple. “You were incredible today. Like, jaw-dropping. Everyone in that studio knew it.”

“But it doesn’t feel like enough,” she whispered, tears starting to rim her lashes. “I write these songs because I feel things, but when I’m drained like this, it makes me wonder if it’s worth it.”

You took the mug from her hands and set it on the table, then climbed onto the couch beside her and pulled her into your lap.

“It’s absolutely worth it, Brina,” you murmured, wrapping your arms tightly around her. “You’re making something beautiful out of your feelings. That’s art. That’s what people connect to. That’s why your music matters.”

She sniffled into your hoodie. “I just wanted ‘Manchild’ to be fun, you know? Like, powerful and cheeky and all those things. But I overthink it. I keep wondering if it’s too mean, or not mean enough, or if I sound annoying…”

“You sound like someone who knows her worth,” you said, stroking her back. “And if a man feels called out by it—maybe he should.”

That got a little giggle out of her. “You’re the best.”

“I know,” you teased, then softened. “But seriously? You can be tired. You are strong. Resting doesn’t take away from that.”

You kissed the corner of her mouth. “Let me take care of you tonight, okay?”

She nodded slowly, her lashes fluttering as she snuggled into you.

“Okay,” she whispered. “You win.”

You leaned back with her in your lap, one hand stroking her thigh through the soft cotton of her sweatpants while the other ran gentle circles over her back.

Eventually, she mumbled, “Can you play with my hair?”

You smiled and obliged, twisting a lock gently around your fingers and combing through it with your nails. Her whole body melted.

“You know what I’m calling this?” you said after a moment.

“What?”

“Princess Treatment Thursday.”

She cracked a sleepy grin. “It’s Saturday.”

“Doesn’t matter. You get princess treatment every day now.”

Her eyes fluttered shut. “I’m holding you to that.”

“I hope you do.”

⸻

A while later, you carried her to bed, changed her into her favorite oversized T-shirt, tucked her in, and climbed in beside her. She curled into your chest immediately, all soft breath and gratitude.

As you held her, she whispered, “Thank you… for seeing me even when I’m too tired to be ‘on.’”

You kissed her forehead, your voice low and sure.

“I always see you, baby. And I’ll always take care of you.”

And that night, as the stress and pressure melted off her body and the warmth of your love wrapped around her like a safety net, Sabrina Carpenter—pop icon, perfectionist, tired girl—finally fell asleep feeling like she didn’t have to be anything except exactly who she was.

Your princess.

#sabrina carpenter #sabrina carpenter x reader #sabrina carpenter x you #sabrina carpenter fluff #fluff

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dearsubong · 2 days ago

Text

su bong vs his younger self ☆ choi su bong

warnings ✧ fluff, comedy ig, crack, swearing, woa unexpected implied smut @ da end

summary ✧ you wake up to the sight of your boyfriend arguing with a younger boy who looks exactly like him.

authors note ✧ i just had to use a younger top photo 😭 sorry for being inactive—just a short oneshot i was working on previously.

yawning softly as your eyes fluttered open from the bright sun peeking through the curtains. you’re surprised that su bong woke up before you, those thoughts disappeared as your nose caught the smell of burnt toast. you sat up before your feet led you to the kitchen, meeting a rather… unusual sight.

there was, of course, your boyfriend but there was also a younger man that looked exactly like him. but there was no purple hair and his facial features looked smooth and soft, unlike su bong. the man— or boy— looked 19 or 20, just stepping into adult hood. your boyfriend was arguing with him.

“fuck off, i know what i’m doing.” su bong mutters, nudging his shoulder against his lookalike’s chest, pushing him away. “no you don’t.” the younger man comments, his voice was just a little higher than your boyfriends. after standing there for a couple seconds, you before speaking up with a cough. “babe?” su bongs head snaps to you, looking back and forth between you and the unknown man that looks like his identical twin. “good morning, babe…” he mumbled. “who is that?” “well… he’s my younger self. i have no idea how he got here, he said he went into the future or some stupid shit.” your mouth turns into an ‘o’ shape before you nod. “i noticed how similar he looks to you.”

his younger self gasped as he took in the sight of you. “y/n? i got with y/n?!” su bong groans and looks to the side, side eyeing him. “she’s even more beautiful than in my time… do you even know how obsessed i am with her? but she keeps pushing me away. i knew I’d get to her. nice, older me.“ the boy flashed your boyfriends distinct smirk. “piss off, i got her, not you.“ su bong’s expression switched to annoyance and possessiveness.

“seriously? you’re me, i’m you. we got her.“

“oh, fuck off.“

“calm it broski.“

su bong side eyed himself, his upper lip looking like it got pulled up by a string on the side. “damn, my vocabulary was cringe back then.“ you laughed softly as he admitted that. “babe, trust me, it still is. all that ’senorita’ shit has been staying with you since day one.“ your purple headed boyfriend pouted. “nah, thats your favourite nickname, senorita. you know it.“ his charming words always got the best of you. “its only because of the way you say it. don’t get too ahead of yourself.“ su bong then raises his a brow. “is that right?” he plants a firm hand on your hip before kissing you sensually, the grip tightening.

“holy fuck, get a room! im not watching my future self kiss my crush.”

“well, guess what?”

“what?”

“she’s my girlfriend, fuckwit.”

“she’s gonna be my girlfriend, assfuck.”

“she’s gonna be my wife, shitface!”

“now you two are just spitting cuss words out of your mouths.” you interrupt. “and i’m gonna be your wife, baby? is this you proposing? i say yes.” they both side eye you like they want to continue. “no.” you replied like you had a language you can understand just by how they look at you. the two of them both groan in synchronisation and you laugh at how it sounded so harmonised. “don’t groan at me. but the way you two did the exact same groan is hysterical.”

“you think im funny, babe?” younger su bong raises his brows up and down flirtatiously.

“she’s my babe.”

“she’s both our babes.”

“mine.” he put his hand around your waist, gripping tight in dominance.

“ours.” younger su bong puts his own hand on the other side of your waist.

“you son of a bitch—mine.”

“well guess what? im you, so you called your own mom a bitch.”

“nah, talking about dad. he’s a bitch. you’re a son of THAT bitch.”

“you’re not wrong, to be honest.”

“okay, okay! just STOP.”

—

scrap those boring paragraphs and boring plot. guess what happened next?

a freaky deaky, sloppy toppy, steamy, wet threesome. ^_^

#squid game #squid game 2 #thanos #thanos x reader #thanos squid game #choi su bong #Choi su bong x reader #Choi su bong squid game

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fandom-random-help · 9 hours ago

Text

Am I Okay?

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Simon wasn't one for bragging. He was humble in that sense. You, on the other hand, loved to brag. Especially when it came to your man. One day, you were hanging out with friends at a small cafe and they could tell something was up.

"Hey Y/N, you been acting different the last handful of times we've hung out. What's that about? Got a man?" One of your friends asked.

"Do I have a man? Damn right I do! He's the best one there is." You replied.

The whole table of friends began to laugh and then curiousity struck. The qusstions came rolling in like wildfire, and you were happy to answer every one.

"What's he like?" Another friend asked.

"Where do I start? Well, I'll get this out of the way. He's a six foot four dream, I can tell you that." You started your ramble.

The whole table began to pretend swoon.

"6'4! Where did you find this man? I might need to go there for research purposes." The whole table began laughing again at how wild your friend's response was.

"Well, we met at a bar. When he walked in I was in complete awe. But, oh my gosh is he dreamy on the inside too. He says what he means and actually means it. He's funny...ish, smart, not to mention good-looking. I could go on and on." Your ramble was coming to an end until your wildly endearing friend asked another question.

"That's really cute and all, but is he? You know? Keeping you satisfied in the bedroom?"

The whole table was a harmony of "oo's" looking in your direction.

"We're not going to talk about that here." You blushed as you went to take a drink from your water.

The whole table howled in laughter at your response or the one you didn't say in this case.

After the laughter had died down, one friend spoke, "Uh Y/N? There's guy that's been looking over at our table for the past twenty minutes. Do you think we're being too loud?"

You turned around to see the man she was referring to. He had light blonde hair trimmed to a buzzcut, a black surgical mask covering his face, and deep bown eye-oh my gosh it's Simon. You blushed even harder then. You thought Simon was still deployed. Not anymore apparently!

"Well this is awkward." You say.

"What do you mean? You know him?" One friend asked.

"That's the guy I've been talking about for the past twenty minutes." You whispered which soon turned to laughing.

The whole was in shock. Some were doing double-takes at you and your boyfriend. Others were laughing with you. It was a whole mess. After everything was regulated, you bid your friends goodbye so you could talk to Simon. You walk over to his table a smile.

"All done talking to your friends about me?" He asked.

"I guess you could say that. Want to go home?" You retorted.

Simon got up out of his seat and looked down at you. "Been waiting for you ever since I got back."

You smiled as you both walked to his truck. The drive home was full of carpool kareoke (mainly from you) with some questions sprinkled throughout. Once home, you had a game plan. A nice warm shower for the both of you, Chinese takeout, some comfy clothes and sleep. The shower was relaxing, the food was delicious, the clothes were comfortable, and the bed was nice and warm. As you drifted off to sleep Simon lay awake thinking about what you said about him. He couldn't believe he was all of those things to you. He never thought he would be described as a dream. He never thought anyone would speak that highly of him in a romantic sense. Hell, he didn't think he would ever get romantically involved with someone as much as he has with you. He checked his pulse to see if he still alive because it all felt like a dream. He took a deep breath and let it go. It reminded him that he was still human. He looked over at your sleeping form and smiled. He planted a kiss on top of your head and went to sleep himself. Simon was okay with being in love with you as much as you are with him.

#spotify #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod #cod modern warfare #simon ghost riley #ghost #ghost cod #simon riley x reader #call of duty #simon ghost x reader #simon riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost x you #simon ghost fluff

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bisexualiteaa · 1 day ago

Text

Undercover

Character list: Soap, Price, König, Gaz, and Ghost

CW: reader has hair, no use of y/n, military inaccuracies, slightly suggestive material, cursing, reader is AFAB, brief mention of weapons, canon typical violence, possible spelling or grammar errors, lightly proofread.

Hope you all enjoy!

John “Soap” MacTavish:

- He has so much fun with this that he almost forgets you’re here on the job.

- He goes out of his way to mention that you’re his “girlfriend” any chance he gets, actively making sure to take on “babe” or “baby” at the end of nearly every sentence.

- Strolling up to the hotel’s pool-side bar with his hand in yours, two towels under his other arm as you both walked out in swim wear.

- Has a hard time keeping his eyes off you when you’re in a bikini.

- Has an even harder time doing so when he’s a few drinks deep.

- He can’t help it, you just look damn good, and you look damn good when you’re doing your job too.

- Watching you sit back in one of those pool-side lounge chairs with a drink in hand, sunglasses on as you watched for your target really did something for him.

- Certainly didn’t help that you both had to share one bed in the hotel room.

You two didn’t have to stay the last night that the room was booked for, the mission was over, but it had run into the weekend. Something that Johnny held a strong grievance towards. So through some convincing you hadn’t known about, Johnny managed to con Price into allowing you both to stay the extra day to make up for the portion of the weekend you had both lost out on. “And how’d you sweet talk your way into that one?” You asked with a grin as he enlightened you with the news, making him give a playful scoff in fake offense as he sat in the lounge chair next to the bed. “Ye sayin’ I cannae sweet talk, bonnie?” He asked, making you laugh at the way he took everything like a challenge. “Mm, more surprised that they actually agreed to it more than anything, really” you replied bluntly, making him chuckle. “Why let I’ go ta waste? Another night of drinkin’ on Shepherd’s tab? Got ta be out yer mind if ya think I’d let tha’ opportunity go by” he reasoned, making you give a hum in response. “And here I thought it was ‘cause you liked being cuddle buddies so much that you’d die without going another night being the little spoon. Shame” you teased with a devilish grin, making him chuckle at your quip. “Aye, so what? Cannae fault a man for his comforts” he replied, making you shake your head and giggle at him. “‘sides, whose ta say it’s not ‘cause I sorta enjoy bein’ yer boyfriend? Maybe I’m tryin’ ta drag it out as long as I can” He added with a Cheshire grin, watching as you looked up at him at that admission, an eyebrow raised in surprise and question. “Really, now? That so?” You asked, making him chuckle. “Depends, how much ya like bein’ my hen?” He asked, making you bring a finger to your mouth, tapping against your lips as you pondered what to say. “Hmm…I’d give it like a five out of ten” you said nonchalantly, making him laugh as he gave you a slightly offended look. “A five? Damn. We go’ a whole day left bonnie, what can I do ta bring tha’ up t’ a ten?” He asked, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees as he looked at you, his eyes dark with desire. You could only grin as you thought of your next words. “Well, you’d make it sky rocket to a solid eight by making me your girlfriend for real. From there…well, that depends on how well *you* perform” you answered, your eyes flickering up and down his body then back up to his face as you grinned at him.

- He made sure come morning that the only five you’d be leaving that hotel with was a five star review of the MacTavish experience.

“Captain” John Price:

- Now he’s no stranger to an odd mission or two, certainly not a stranger to undercover missions either.

- What he is a stranger to is working an undercover mission with someone he’s privy to.

- Working one with the boys was one thing, but with you? He feared it may be the only time he’d get a little too distracted from the task at hand.

- You two have been dancing around each other for years now, which is why everyone recommended the two of you for it because you would both seem the most natural when it came to compatibility and dynamic for a mission of this nature.

- He gave a kind smile to the front desk person as he enlightened them on the reason for your stay. “Business or leisure?” They asked kindly.

- “Leisure. Promised a nice honeymoon for the missus ‘ere, planned to stick by tha’ promise best I could. This seemed like a right little spot for it. Only the best for her” he’d say as he’d wrap a protective arm around you, looking at you with nothing but love in his eyes as an even bigger smile would stretch to his lips when he’d watch you excitedly show off the beautiful ring sat on your finger to the front desk people.

- How he dreamed of this being real, of one day having this very experience with you elsewhere once he could finally retire from the force.

- Not a day passed through this mission that you two don’t exchange playful flirtation, especially when it came to the dinner you two had to attend to see who your target was meeting with.

- When you walked out of the bathroom that was connected to your honeymoon suite’s lavish bedroom his eyes went wide for a moment, forgetting all about the tie he was currently tightening in the mirror across from the bed before letting out a chuckle. “Well aren’t you a right stunner?” He complimented, making you blush and smile.

- “Do a spin for me, yeah?” He said, grabbing your hand and looking you over as you spun in front of him with a beautiful smile and bubbly giggle.

- He certainly made you feel the part of his wife, it was effortless and riveting.

- And damn if you didn’t look good when you were focused. The gun sliding from your garter that sat strapped at your thigh beneath your dress now aimed at the target as you disarmed him and brought him down to be handcuffed and taken away. He couldn’t have been more proud and more attracted to you than in that very moment.

You were packing your things as you got ready to leave the lavish suite the both of you had been staying in the past few days. “Well, it was nice while it lasted” you commented, making him chuckle. “Liked this one?” He asked with a small smirk, making you laugh. “Duh! Only thing I was disappointed about was not getting to enjoy that really nice restaurant we went to. Got all dressed up for a hostage situation instead of a dinner date” you joked, making him laugh at your response. It was fair, he’d actually rather looked forward to the dinner that night too. He looked forward to enjoying a few glasses of champagne with you over some exquisite food and dessert as you’d gush to the waiter about how you’d just recently married and were on your honeymoon to celebrate. He loved listening to you refer to him as your husband, filling his hardened heart with so much joy and pride when you would. “Got any plans tomorrow night?” He asked, making you look up at him with much curiosity in your gaze. “Maybe, why?” You asked with a small grin hinting at the corner of your lips as you awaited his response. “Clear your schedule, let me take you to dinner and make up for it” he said boldly yet sternly, as if he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He most definitely would, but deep down you both knew that wasn’t going to be your response. “Not sure they’ll be open for customers after a hostage situation happened just two days prior” you joked, making him chuckle. “I know some place better” he insisted, making you curious but truth be told, you were already bursting at the seams that he’d finally made a move after all these years spent flirting with each other off and on. How could you say no to such an offer? “Oh, and be sure to wear that outfit again, yeah? Gun and all” he added with a smirk as he started to head out the door, making you grin as you trailed behind him.

- Needless to say, you certainly got your fantastic dinner date and an even better night afterwards when you went back to his place.

König:

- König wasn’t used to undercover missions, normally he’s never the first pick for them purely based off of his height alone.

- He’s so tall that it was almost hard to not recognize him, but he’s a sniper on top of that, one could argue his whole job was undercover considering he’s usually laying low from afar as he picked the enemy forces off one by one.

- So when the two of you were assigned an undercover mission together, it was definitely a bit of a struggle at first to figure out a cover for the both of you.

- That was, until they came to the conclusion that it would work if you pretended to be his mistress, meeting him on a “business trip” out of the country.

- Everything was going great, the room they had booked for him was amazing. It was spacious, had a kitchenette, massive bathroom, the only detriment was the bed being a little too small but he could make it work.

- You showed up in that skimpy little black dress you had on and suddenly his whole world flipped upside down. The fabric laying tight around your curves as it ended at just above your mid thigh, a pair of heels adorning your feet but only seemed to make your legs and ass pop even more than it already did. Your cleavage was visible from the low cut of the top of it, a deep red lipstick painting your lips and your hair free of its usual ties.

- You looked so stunning and he wasn’t prepared for it.

- He sat waiting on one of the lavish couches they had by the entrance to the hotel, donned in the business attire that he was briefed about.

- His once widely spread legs were now being brought inward a tad, his hand slipping into his pocket in the attempts to conceal the issue beginning to grow within his business slacks as you made your way over to him.

- “Oh look at you, gosh you are just handsome as ever” you complimented as he stood up, turning the charm up to eleven immediately and watching as he towered over you effortlessly, even in heels.

- He couldn’t help the slight flush that rose to his cheeks at the sight of you in anything different from your usual uniform, but he did his hardest to remain cool and collected.

- “A good thing the missus isn’t here, I get to have you all to myself” you added in a sultry tone, your much smaller hand smoothing down the lapel of his suit before resting against his broad chest as you looked up at him with the most beautiful set of bedroom eyes he’s ever seen.

- “I couldn’t come into town without seeing you, Schatz” he replied, making you smile up at him in a way he’s only ever dreamed you would. “Then how ‘bout you show me to your room, hmm? Maybe then you can show me just how…excited you are to see me” you responded, dragging your finger down the tie he was wearing with a wink and a bitten lip.

- He certainly didn’t need to be asked twice before ushering you to the elevator and down the hall to his room.

As you made it to his room, he quickly ushered you inside, closing the door behind you but not before you could place the do not disturb sign on the door knob with a giggle. You smiled up at him as you made it inside, his hands resting on your waist as he looked down at you. “Die schön” he complimented breathlessly as he looked at you, making you hum happily at his words. “Danke sehr” you replied, unaware of just how enthralled this man was by you in this very moment. “Bitte schön” he answered, making you giggle once more as a slight blush rose to your cheeks before focusing back in on the mission. “C’mon, I can hear them talking from the bedroom, they must be closest to the wall where the bed is at” you said, grabbing his much larger hand in yours as you led him to the bed. “If they’re as close as I think they are, we’ll have to be pretty convincing that we can’t hear them” you said, making him shake his head. “Here, climb on top of me. Maybe we can sell it by shaking the bed” he said, making you blush at the implications of his words, but you knew he hadn’t meant it like that. Though you weren’t opposed to the idea either. As he climbed onto the bed, you quickly understood why he recommended you be on top of him, the bed was far too small for the both of you to sit on normally, his hulking frame even managing to take up a queen sized bed with minimal effort. So you straddled his hips, the creak of the boxspring beneath the mattress already sounding beneath the weight of you both as your knees sat on either sides of his hips while you pressed a listening device to the wall to get a clearer sound of the conversation happening in the adjacent room.

You couldn’t help the soft gasp that left you as his hands rested on your waist, attempting to keep the hiking skirt of your dress to a concealing length out of respect for you. You looked down at him as he did so with a heat rising to your cheeks as you realized just how close your faces were from one another. Then you felt it, the tell-tale throb from between his legs that told you just how he was feeling in this situation. Seeing you straddling his hips, your tits not that far from his face as the scent of your shampoo and perfume came together, filling all of his senses with you. How else was he supposed to react? Especially after that flirty interaction in the entryway, how could he not be affected by you? Thankfully you’d collected enough intel to send back to base before their chatter subsided for the night it seemed. “I-I’m sorry I didn’t mean for that to happen I just…you look so beautiful I-“ he started to say, babbling apologies to you as you set your equipment to the side, his hands moving from your waist in an attempt to amend his error but you were quick to place them back on you as you shut him up with a kiss. Much to his pleasant surprise, you moved his hands to the hem of your dress, urging him to take it off. “Thank fuck I’m not the only one. You look too damn good in this suit” you admitted into the heated kiss, only spurring him on even further.

- By the time morning rolled around, the both of you definitely managed to make it convincing. Convincing enough to even earn a noise complaint from the enemy that shared a wall with you both, a story you’d both tell for years to come.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick:

- Kyle couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on an undercover mission

- He’d grown used to the stealth missions he’d been on with Captain price, what with the gillie suits and diving suits, but this? This was something he wasn’t entirely used to.

- If there was anyone he’d rather be on an undercover job with however, it’s definitely you.

- You two had been friends for a long time, separated only by entering the military, but as the fates would have it, you found yourselves reunited again.

- Maybe that’s what made it so easy to play off as long distant partners meeting back up again for this mission.

- He couldn’t help but light up with joy as he saw you exit your car in the parking lot, getting a good look at the target’s vehicle and who he was with before your attention came to Kyle.

- Seeing that beautiful smile spread to your face made him weak in the knees before he heard you gasp and run up to him.

- He was ready for the hug you practically tackled him with, but what he wasn’t ready for was you kissing him, leaving him pleasantly surprised as you did so.

- Naturally, he kissed you back of course.

- His hand rested softly at your hip as you did, using the proximity to pull away and tell him what you saw, using the kiss as a chance to whisper to him all the information you’d collected while trailing them on the way here.

- That and you were technically a couple at the moment, it only seemed right.

- “The kiss an’ tell type, are ya?” He joked, making you chuckle as he helped you with your bags. “Only if the tea’s hot enough to, and I assure you, this was steaming” you retaliated, making him chuckle as he shook his head at your bad pun. “Five years apart and your jokes still suck” he commented as you both made your way inside.

“Has it really been five years?” You asked as he threw a clean shirt on, getting ready for the day. “Give or take. Been a while for sure” he answered, never quite realizing just how long it had been since last he’d seen you. The both of you had been through so much in that span of time that it had hardly even felt like five years passed by that fast. “You started seeing anyone since last we talked?” You asked, curious of what he’s been up to and what big life changes have happened while you were apart. “Nah, been too busy” he answered as he got his things together. “You? Surely you must’ve settled down and found the right one by now?” He asked with a slight grin, making you laugh. “I haven’t actually. Been busy too” you answered, and somewhere deep down a wave of relief washed over him to hear those words leave you. To know you hadn’t found someone in his absence, just as he hadn’t in yours. “Kinda funny how we always find our way back to each other, eh?” He added with a grin, making you giggle. “You don’t say. It’s like we’re connected or some shit” you teased. “It’s okay, you can say you’re obsessed with me. It’s an acceptable reason to always be around” he joked with a devilish grin, making you laugh. “Yeah okay, you wish! If I’m obsessed with you, then you’ve got be down BAD for me” you answered, making him chuckle. “Maybe a little. A man can dream, can’t he?” He asked, making you hum with a sweet smile, pleasantly surprised by that answer. “Would you maybe want to grab a bite sometime? Or catch a movie?” He asked, making you giggle. “Only if it’s a date” you answered, and he chuckled softly. “I think that can be arranged. But under one condition” he stated, making you look at him with anticipation in your gaze, waiting to see what he had to say next. He came over to you, his hands resting gently on your hips as he looked down at you with a soft, loving look. “What’s that?” You asked, looking up at him with a very similar look in your eyes. “You kiss me like you did in the lot earlier” he requested, making you hum as you looped your arms around his neck, your lips mere inches from each other. “I think that can be arranged” you responded, a soft smile stretching to both of your lips before you kissed him.

- Perhaps you were right about fate playing a hand in this, because suddenly he understood exactly what they meant when people say that distance makes the heart grow fonder.

Simon “Ghost” Riley:

- Taking on an undercover mission with Simon was the last thing you’d ever wanted to do.

- You two couldn’t stand each other, with you being new to the fleet and him being a stubborn lieutenant that’s been with the Task Force for years now, you two tended to butt heads. *Often.*

- You could hardly even stand being in the same room together.

- So when the words left Price’s mouth, you couldn’t help but groan in aggravation, dreading it in its entirety.

- “I can assure you the sentiment’s shared sweetheart” he said, making you glare daggers in his direction with a look of disgust written all over your face. “Don’t fucking call me that” you spat bitterly, rolling your eyes at him as you crossed your arms over your chest.

- The whole crew joked that you should be undercover as two people who divorced each other with how you two bicker and fight. Maybe they weren’t entirely far off on that statement.

You scoffed as you met Simon by the pool, seeing him there shirtless, wearing a pair of swim shorts but still keeping the mask on, even going as far as to wear sunglasses with it. You rolled your eyes before shooting him a look bordering on disgust. “You wear that stupid fucking mask everywhere?” You snapped, making him turn to you. “You bring that bratty fuckin’ attitude with you everywhere?” He clapped back, making you roll your eyes with a groan of disapproval. Yet your eyes couldn’t steer away from his shirtless figure, watching as the water rolled down his tattooed arms and trailed along his broad, built chest. As much as you resented the man, you had to admit, he looked good. Mentally at least, you wouldn’t dare tell him that to his face. “Whatever. You even remember what we’re here for, or have you been too busy catching the eyes of all the thirsty women here?” You asked, dipping your legs into the pool as you sat on the side of it with a drink in hand, watching as a few of the women across the way gawked at him. He gave a breathy chuckle. “Jealous, are ya? ‘mind you ‘f old times?” He asked, making your face burn hot at the implications and audacity of his words. “Jealous? Yeah fuckin’ right. Those days are long gone” you replied, rolling your eyes as you looked away from him, taking a sip of your drink as you did. “Three o’clock, blue shirt. Terrible taste in drinks, when I was up at the bar I watched him order a drink with malört in it” you added. “Not important” he chastised, making you give him a glare. “As I was saying, he’s supposed to meet with the target here in ten minutes. Has a girl hostage in his room as negotiation but he’s armed if that doesn’t work” you said. “Good eye” he said, taking you by surprise at the fact that he complimented you. It was weirdly thrilling, the surge of pride that came over you with his words. Maybe Simon was quick to judge you, quick to assume that your youth meant incompetence but it wasn’t the case. He hated to admit it but you’d done a lot through out this mission to really take him by surprise, spotting things he hadn’t even spotted, formulating well thought out plans that he considered to be above your abilities. Perhaps he was too quick in passing his judgements upon you. As you sat here before him in a very nice swimsuit, hair flowing in the wind, drink in hand with a determined look upon your face, he couldn’t help but admire you a little. “Enjoying the view?” You asked with a cocky grin, making him grumble as he looked away wondering how you knew. “Just keeping an eye on our chum over there” he said, making you chuckle. “Sure, whatever you say” you added before a few screams filled the otherwise peaceful air, making you turn to see he’d pulled out his weapon. You were quick to hop to your feet. “The fuck d’ you think you’re goin’? He’s armed” he barked at you as you rummaged through your beach bag. “Yeah, so am I” you answered, leaving him equally stunned and impressed before following close behind you.

It was when the both of you had returned to your room that night that he finally worked up the courage. “Did good back there. Maybe I was a little quick to assume you were incompetent but you did good work today” he admitted, stopping you in your tracks almost as you tried to register what he’d just said. “Did you just compliment me?” You asked with a snarky grin, making him turn from you. “Don’t get used to it” he said, making you chuckle as you thought of your next words. “You’re not so bad either, Simon. Made a good team, even if you’re stubborn as all hell” you added, making him scoff a laugh. “You just compliment me?” He asked, using your same words against you as he cocked his head over his shoulder to look at you when he did, making you playfully roll your eyes with a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. “Don’t get used to it” you said, mocking his tone and his accent as he turned around, his arms crossed over his chest in an attempt to intimidate you. “You mockin’ me?” He asked, a sort of playfulness hinting in his usually gruff tone. “And if I am?” You asked brazenly, a wicked grin still stretched to your lips. “Spitfire” he responded, knowing there was never anything he could do to make you eat your words or change your attitude, he liked it too much anyway, but he’d never tell you that. His lack of a response made you laugh.

- The both of you seemed to grow a little closer after that night, the dynamic between you shifting to something a little more friendly from there on out. It took some time on his part, but eventually he’d come around to you enough to go on missions with you more often before finally working up the nerve to ask you out for a night of drinks.

- You two have been inseparable ever since.

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eunandonly · 14 hours ago

Text

ADMIT IT, YOU LIKE ME ⭑ ( 𝗁𝗍𝗌 )

parallel lines are not supposed to meet ─── but yet here we are, stolen glances and whispered flirtings we mask as tauntings

'𝐸 . han dongmin + fem. reader 925 · academic rivals to lovers fluff headcanons ୨୧ unestablished relationship, extreme passive aggressive behaviour archive

은혜 : a little fic before i disappear for a week bc of my school trip!! i've been wanting to develop the academic rival!taesan idea from this fic i wrote before for agessss and red hair taesan has done smth to me he is so fine like annyeong fine shyt ok i also want to write a cute fic for leehan maybe i'll work on that on the plane mmhmm

REBLOGS AND FEEDBACKS ARE APPRECIATED

academic rival taesan who you’ve shared the top two ranks with since freshman year, though neither of you are willing to admit that the competition has become personal. he always finishes one point ahead or one place below, never enough to settle the rivalry once and for all.

academic rival taesan who scoffs under his breath and starts flipping the pages of his chemistry textbook more aggressively when you shoot him a victorious smirk after answering a question faster than him. he hates you. you’re just so damn annoying.

“it’s just a calculus question,” he says, rolling his eyes when he sees the grin on your face. “calm down, it’s not that deep.” “you’re just mad you didn’t get it faster than me.” you reply with a shrug and a mocking smile that makes taesan’s blood boil.

academic rival taesan who claps sarcastically from the back of the room when you finish your presentation and makes sure to tell you that “your introduction was weak”

academic rival taesan who spends weeks preparing for a debate because he found out you’re on the opposing team. the trophy is one thing, but the way your eye twitches is another when he calls your argument “surface level at best” in front of everyone in the room.

“you sound like you spent hours preparing just for the opening line of your argument.” you say as you organise your colour coded flashcards during an interval. “i didn’t,” he lies. “yeah well,” you sigh, looking up to give him a mocking smile. “maybe you should’ve–a bit weak on your counter arguments, don't you think?”

academic rival taesan who constantly competes against you, even outside of academics because he just can’t seem to let the rivalry go. you call him petty. he calls himself determined.

“were you purposefully only aiming at me during that round of dodgeball or am i hallucinating?” you ask during a water break in pe, out of breath after dodging twenty different throws from taesan. “i think you’re hallucinating as per usual.” “i think you should shut up.”

academic rival taesan who makes sure to pull you back by your backpack in the corridors when you shove past him, murmuring about how rude you are in a quiet voice so only you can hear before letting you go.

you and academic rival taesan who are always causing arguments during student council meetings but than end up teaming up when other members say something that pisses both of you off.

“that’s the most terrible idea i’ve ever heard. it'll go over budget, i've done all my calculations,” taesan grumbles, staring at your document with a scowl on his face. “well i don’t see you with any better ideas.” you retort, crossing your arms and shutting your laptop passive aggressively. taesan just shakes his head. “we might as well just put your pretty face to use and make you stand in the hallway to promote.” the student council treasurer cuts in, nudging the other members. “or you could just admit you’re both into each other and move on.” you and taesan both tell him to shut up in unintended unison.

academic rival taesan who doesn't know when his hatred for you starts slipping into something else that he can't describe. a strange, warm feeling in his chest whenever he talks to you. and he’s trying very, very hard to ignore it, but he can’t help but feel like he hates the fact that he might not actually hate you as much as he thinks he hates you.

academic rival taesan who stopped sitting next to you in class after your knee brushed his under the table and he forgot his six times tables for three seconds. but he’ll still lean over during class to whisper insults in your ear, his breath way too warm and way too close.

you and academic rival taesan who makes the school’s student body whisper about the strange tension between you two that both of you seem to be pointedly ignoring. someone in your class whispers about how they’re never sure whether you want to tear each other apart or make out during arguments.

“you lack the depth to understand nietzsche” “you read nietzsche for aesthetics” “says you. you’re just about as deep as a kiddy pool.”

academic rival taesan who’s the one that actually comforts you when he finds you crying in an empty classroom after school because your grades fell, rubbing your back and telling you in a gentle voice that “one stupid physics paper isn’t going to ruin your whole life” and that “there’s no reason for you to worry about unemployment in the future.”

academic rival taesan who’s possessive in a petty way. he mocks you 24/7, but he’s the only one who gets to call you a pretentious know-it-all.

some guy snorts after you answer a question in class. “she acts like she’s the only one who knows anything.” taesan swivels in his seat. “you want to repeat that louder?” “relax, it’s just a joke.” “i don’t see anyone laughing.”

academic rival taesan who starts doodling snarky comments in the margins of your notebook or leaving you little notes on your desk with a snack he knows you like from the store. he swears it isn’t him, but you could recognise his handwriting anywhere–sharp, slanted, narrow.

academic rival taesan who’s cocky enough to lean towards you during study period to whisper in your ear, “admit it, you like me.” you smile and write on his notebook in red: “you wish.”

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marvelmaven · 3 days ago

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Broken But Brave Pt. 9

This is my first attempt at a fic, so encouragement and kind advice are welcome. Let me know what you think!

Bucky Barnes/Original Fem! Character

Set in an AU where Tony DOESN'T die after End Game and Steve is actually with Bucky till the end of the line.

Summary: Bucky is going through therapy, consulting with the Avengers, but not interested in living under Stark's roof, for reasons he thought should be obvious to everyone. On his way home to his Brooklyn apartment, he bumps into his new neighbor, a petite, self-proclaimed cat lady. But he notices something about her that will have him keeping his eye out.

Trigger warning: References to Domestic Abuse (Not Bucky)

This chapter is a bit heavier, but fluff and romance is on its way

Part 9/?

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Bucky fell instantly into threat assessment, there was no way that he would allow her into that apartment, nevermind alone. It had been compromised, and he wanted to know just how the hell this creep had been able to get in twice.

A chirping noise down the hall made Lori turn her head, Marvin was trotting up from the opposite stairwell, tail sticking straight up in the air and doing what she had once referred to as his “fat boy hustle”, not quite a run, but not his usual lazy pace either.

“Thank god,” Lori crumpled onto the ground, scooping the cat into her arms. Bucky bent down, picking up both of them easily, earning a small cry of surprise from her, but moving quickly down the hallway, unlocking his front door with one hand, and depositing her inside, deadbolting the door behind them. He moved quickly through his own apartment, scanning for anything out of place, but everything looked as it had when he had returned from his therapy session earlier that day. He grabbed his gun from where it sat in its safe in his bedroom, tucking it into the back of his jeans so he wouldn’t scare Lori even further. When he got back into the living room, Bucky found her sitting next to the front door, head in her hands, Marvin booping her with one paw for attention.

“Lori,” he crouched down next to her, pulling his phone out of his pocket, “you’re okay, sweetheart, I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”

He flipped his phone open dialing Steve, one hand reassuringly on her knee.

“Hey, Buck.” Steve answered, “what’s–”

“Hey, I need you here. Now.” Bucky had his eyes fixed on the brunette, whose whole body was shivering, “creep broke into Lori’s apartment.”

“Shit. I’m on my way.” He could hear Steve call for Sam and Nat. “Don’t do anything stupid, Buck…”

Bucky was silent for a beat too long before responding, unable to respond with their usual line, “Fine, just get here as fast as you can.”

Lori looked up, tears streaming silently down her face, scooting her knees forward so Marvin could crawl onto her lap. The cat headbutted her cheek which only made the tears fall faster, now mixing with cat fur. He leaned forward, brushing away the fur and tears with one thumb, but not moving his hand away from her cheek. “Steve’s on his way. There’s no way you’re staying here tonight, not with that asshole breaking in twice. We can all go to the tower, no one is getting in there without biometric scans approved by Stark. Sound good?” She nodded mutely, “Once he’s here, Sam can stay with you while we pack up some of your things okay?” Bucky continued wiping her tears again with one thumb. She put a hand up and placed it over his, leaning her face into his palm, so tenderly it made his heart squeeze tightly in his chest.

After what felt like an eternity of silence, silence that scared Bucky more than anything so far tonight, Lori finally spoke. “I’m so sorry.” Her voice was choked and hoarse from holding back tears.

“You don’t have to be sorry for a damned thing, doll,” Bucky replied in a low, gentle voice. It was killing him that he couldn’t do anything, that this asshole, Daniel, had taken away the small bit of peace she had built up for herself, and destroyed it. He bent down, carefully picking her up, Marvin jumping off her lap, and placed her down on his couch, like she was the most priceless and valuable thing in the world. He crouched in front of her, and she reached a hand out grabbing his own, squeezing it gently. They stayed like that for a long time, his thumb rubbing backward and forward, wracking his brain for something to say, something to do.

Suddenly, there was a banging on his door that had Bucky straightening up, pulling the gun from the back of his jeans.

“Buck?!” Steve’s voice sounded from the hallway.

“Goddamnit, Steve.” He moved, quickly and unbolting the door. “What’re you bangin’ on the door like that for?”

“Sorry, I got worried, the lights are off and–” Steve was standing in his regular clothes, but had his shield in his hand, “Lori here?”

“Course,” He stood back, letting Sam and Steve in, mildly surprised when Nat sashayed in behind the other two, “Nat.”

“Hey there Sargeant,” Nat’s eyes landed on Lori who was staring straight ahead blankly. Marvin screamed in welcome to the newcomers, trotting over from Bucky’s bedroom where the cat had supposedly bolted when Steve had “knocked” on the door. Sam turned the lights on his gaze on Lori who looked pale as a ghost, clearly in shock.

“Uh, Nat, this is Lori,” Bucky felt awkward, “Lori this is Natasha.”

Lori tried to give her a smile, but it looked more like a grimace, tears still flowing down her cheeks.

“Hey,” Nat’s voice was softer and devoid of any of its usual sass, “do you mind if Sam and I stay here with you, while these two” she nodded her head at Bucky and Steve, “go grab a few of your things?”

Lori nodded, her face flush with embarrassment.

“I’ll be right back, doll.” Bucky told her, before motioning to Steve. They both slipped down the hallway, Bucky undoing the safety on his gun. Steve moved in first, shield raised, Bucky following him like they were raiding a Hydra base, not going into Lori’s apartment. He swore under his breath when he saw the inside of her apartment. The couch had been slashed, it’s stuffing slipping from cushions thrown haphazardly around the room; the tv they’d watched movies on had been kicked, screen cracked and glass on the ground; spray paint coated her irreplaceable family photos, some of the frames broken and others on the floor. Her dishes lay shattered on the floor of the kitchen, Marvin’s fountain kicked on its side, leaking a puddle of water on the ground, and a cabinet door ripped off its hinges. In the bathroom, Marvin’s litter box lay upside down and Lori’s toiletries were dumped out or sat in the toilet, more slurs spray painted on the mirror. Her bedroom was freezing, spray paint all over her sheets, her dresser drawers pulled out and clothes strewn across the floor. Bucky’s first thought after assessing that the guy had bolted through the window leading to the fire escape was that this was not how he’d wanted to first see her room.

“Buck, we gotta call the police.” Steve said after looking around for a moment in the bedroom, “he’s escalating.”

“I know,” Bucky bent and picked up a smashed picture frame of Lori and her brother, grinning at her graduation, arms around each other’s shoulders.

He picked up Lori’s gym bag from where it lay, thankfully untouched by spray paint, and began carefully folding and piling clothes into it for her. There was no use in trying to pack up her toiletries, they were all destroyed anyways, but on their way back to his place he grabbed the bag that held her latest knitting project and the book she’d been working on, slipping the photo of Lori and her brother inside of it where she’d dogeared her current page.

Steve went to meet the police out front and Bucky walked back to his apartment, opening the door to find Sam and Nat talking softly together while Lori sat staring at her phone. Her eyes were wild when he entered, more tears spilling from them. He sat beside her and took the phone from her hand, gently, frowning down at the screen.

Subject: BiTHC

The body was just a photo of the two of them from dinner, Lori laughing while he had his face screwed up from a bite of too much wasabi.

“It’s my fault.” Her voice was still hoarse, and from how fast Nat and Sam turned to look, probably the first time she’d spoken since they’d arrived.

“No, sweetheart, it’s not.” Bucky put the phone face down on his coffee table and pulled her into his chest while her petite body shook with sobs, “This is him, all him.” He noticed Natasha pick up the phone frowning while Sam looked over her shoulder. Nat’s gaze met Bucky’s and understanding passed between them, spy to spy. Lori was being followed, and the next incident would be worse, if they weren’t able to intervene.

The noise of approaching sirens meant that the police would be here soon, though Bucky doubted they would be able to offer any assurances or help.

He glanced at Lori, nestled against his chest, and knew that he'd do anything to protect her, despite any rules laid out by this therapist. How had the girl next door become the most precious person to him in so short a time?

#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #marvel fanfiction #the winter soldier #james bucky buchanan barnes #marvel #mcu fanfiction #james bucky barnes #marvel au #winter solider fanfiction

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uyinq · 6 hours ago

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the weight of wanting ☆ owen taylor

part 1 — pray it away

[owen taylor x AFAB! reader] [somewhat slow burn] [religious trauma if you squint] [guilt] [shame] [yearning] [misty doesn't exist] [canon divergence]

❱❱ WORD COUNT﹕3,152

❱❱ SUMMARY﹕

You’re the new girl at Holy Grace; you're quiet, strange, and eerie in ways that no one can quite explain. You don't wear provocative clothing. You're not a flirt. However, the questions you pose about damnation, free will, and what it means to desire something so strongly that God doesn't seem to matter are the kind that stick in Owen's head long after they are said.

He believes you need guidance. Yet every time he tries to lead you back to righteousness, he walks away more uncertain of his own.

❱❱ WARNINGS﹕profanity, heavy religious themes, religious trauma, guilt, shame, eventual smut

❱❱ NOTES﹕ Small disclaimer!!!

This is a work of fiction based on The Starling Girl. I fully recognize that Owen Taylor is a groomer and an abusive figure in the film. I am not aiming to romanticize or excuse his actions. This fanfiction exists in an alternate context, reimagining Owen as a different character outside the film’s canon.

Grooming in religious communities often goes unpunished. And if someone is punished, it’s usually the victim. If someone ever exploits your beliefs for their benefit, you have every right to leave and to call them out on it.

Please keep that in mind, and feel free to scroll past if Owen Taylor as a character disturbs or discomforts you.

(divider from uzmacchiato)

★ parts ﹒﹒ masterlist

You arrived on a rainy Sunday morning in the middle of spring, dressed in gray and silence.

No jewelry, no makeup. Not even a Bible.

You just plopped down in the last row of pews, legs crossed, with your hands patiently clasped. You watched the altar, like you were expecting it to crack open and reveal the gates of hell. Maybe even Satan himself.

Owen was curious. No one willingly switched churches around here. But you weren’t from around here. He knew that without speaking to you.

He watched you from the corner of his eye, catching glimpses when no one else was looking.

During the hymn, your lips moved.

But no sound came out.

When it was time to pray, you bowed your head. Closed your eyes.

But you didn’t say the Lord’s Prayer.

When the sermon ended and the congregation rose to mingle, you were already gone.

No handshake. No smile. Just an empty space in the last pew like you’d never been there at all.

It filled him with something like breath before a confession — shallow, aching, already too late.

He told himself it was just curiosity. That’s what good men feel.

The next time you show up at the church, it isn’t for Sunday service.

It’s for an outdoor charity event– the kind the elders love to fuss over. A bake sale, raffles, and fold-out tables weighed down with pies and prayer cards. The air smells like vanilla and old hymnals.

It’s not formal. It never is. But you come in a white sundress dotted with blue flowers.

Owen makes the connection this time when he sees you sitting at a table with an elderly woman, baked goods spread out across an old handmade quilt.

“Mrs. Smith,” Owen strides up like he normally would, hands in his pockets, as he greets your grandmother with a polite nod.

Your grandma lights up like a Christmas tree, smiling from ear to ear as she beams up at him.

“Owen, honey. You remember my granddaughter, don’t you?”

He does.

“No, I don’t think we’ve met.” He rasps back, and you look at him then. Really look.

His hair is a little messy, a little long– like he wasn’t quite sure what suited him. A clean stubble, but the kind of clean that wouldn’t last. His button-down is rolled at the sleeves, hugging biceps he usually keeps hidden away.

He looks like someone who used to be a boy, not that long ago. And he still hasn’t figured out who he’s supposed to be.

“We haven’t,” you finally reply. But there’s something in your voice. Something close to a dare.

Your grandmother laughs, oblivious. “Well, now you have.”

Owen gives you a short nod, like he’s being introduced to a visiting missionary or a storm warning. Something temporary. Something strange.

“Nice to meet you,” you say softly.

And even though you’re sitting, and he’s standing, Owen feels like he’s the one looking up.

“Where were you before this?” Owen asks, too casually.

“Nowhere interesting,” you say. “Not for long.”

“And you came here?”

You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “You say that like you don’t like it here.”

He raises his brows, not expecting the sass quite so soon. Then he shrugs. “I like it just fine here,” He pauses, and the sound of children laughing cuts through the silence. “It’s just small.”

You tilt your head, considering him like he’s a math problem you already know the answer to.

“Small isn’t always a bad thing.”

“Small means everyone knows everything about you,” he replies, hands still in his pockets.

You reach for a lemon bar from the tray in front of you and tear off a corner with your fingers. Neatly. Deliberately.

“I think people only know what you let them.”

That lands heavier than it should. Maybe it’s the way you say it.

Owen glances away, jaw tightening just slightly. A breeze picks up across the yard. He watches your hair move with it. Watches you lick a crumb off your thumb.

“I should get back to setting up chairs,” he mutters, half-turning.

“I’m sure you should,” you say, but it’s unclear if it’s a tease or an echo. You don’t stop him. You just smile faintly, like you knew he wouldn’t stay long.

And he walks away with a strange tightness in his chest– like he’s the one who just got studied, not the other way around.

That night, Owen tries to pray. His eyes skim across the words in his Bible, doing nothing but turning into gibberish in his mind. It doesn’t stick.

What does is your voice– soft and even. People only know what you let them.

He wonders what you’re not letting them know.

What you’re not letting him know.

He closes the Bible.

Rubs a hand over his face.

The room is dark except for the lamp by his bed, casting long shadows on the wall. He doesn’t usually struggle like this. Not with scripture. Not with focus. But now his thoughts are spiraling backward, sideways, to you.

People only know what you let them.

He lies back. Stares at the ceiling. Wonders if temptation always comes looking like sin. Or if sometimes, it just looks like a girl asking the wrong questions in the right voice.

The next day, he prays harder than he ever has in his life.

Its the middle of the damn week. Yet, here he is, kneeling at the altar like a man who’s sinned his whole life and plans to keep doing it.

You made him feel guilty.

Owen Taylor doesn’t want for much. Maybe a pack of Marlboros and a ribeye now and then, but those are physical. Worldly. Things you could name and forget.

This is different. This is want with no object. Hunger with no name.

The kind that coils behind his ribs and makes him wonder if God can hear it– even when he doesn’t say it out loud.

He bows his head deeper.

Owen doesn’t like to pray out loud when he’s alone. But he is right now, words and confessions spilling from his tongue like someone’s slipped truth serum into his bloodstream.

Not neat prayers. Not Psalms or parables. Just want tangled up with regret, spat out in fragments.

“I’m sorry,” He whispers to no one in particular, pressing his clasped hands against his forehead as he lets out a frustrated sound. “I don't–I don’t want to feel this way.”

He pauses.

Swallows hard.

The sanctuary is quiet except for the creak of the old wood beneath his knees.

“She’s just a woman.”

His voice breaks on that last word.

He squeezes his eyes shut like he could block the thought out with pressure alone.

But it doesn’t help. You’re there, in his mind, under his skin.

But you’re there, too. He just doesn’t know it.

You slipped in through the back door, not wanting to linger, mostly because churches feel different when they’re empty. Too still. Too full of things unspoken. Or too full of things confessed. The silence feels less like peace and more like pressure, like someone watching you from behind the pulpit.

You didn’t expect anyone to be there. You just came to grab your grandmother’s shawl, the one she left draped over a pew the day before. You meant to walk in, retrieve it, and leave before the quiet settled too deep in your bones.

But then you heard a voice.

Soft. Strained. Familiar.

And before you know it, you’re standing there watching him confess his sins to God. It feels wrong, because it is wrong. You’ve caught a man in his most vulnerable, raw state.

He’s alone, bathed in the faint yellow light of a single overhead fixture. His head was bowed, his hands clasped so tightly you thought his knuckles might split.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the empty church, pressing the heels of his hands against his forehead as if trying to block something out. “I don’t–I don’t want to feel this way.”

The words weren’t rehearsed. They weren’t even coherent. They sounded torn straight from the center of his chest.

He fell silent then, the quiet stretching until you could hear the old wood groaning beneath his knees.

“She’s just a woman,” he said next. But the way he said it– low and wrecked– made it sound like he was trying to convince himself.

You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe. You just watched.

And for a moment, you thought he felt you. His shoulders stiffened. His head turned slightly, like he’d heard a door creak or sensed something shift in the air. But he didn’t look back. Didn’t call out.

Instead, he stayed kneeling for another beat longer, then finally rose to his feet. Slowly. Like the act of standing took more strength than it should have.

You stepped back before he could see you, slipping into the hallway like a ghost; quick, silent, ashamed for reasons you didn’t want to examine too closely.

You found your grandmother’s shawl folded neatly on the back of a chair and walked out the side entrance without a sound.

You don’t think he saw you.

But you sure as hell saw him.

A few Sundays later, Owen finds you sitting alone beneath the dogwood tree outside the church. You're flipping through a small notebook, not writing, just turning the pages like you’re looking for something that you keep brushing past on accident.

He almost walks past you. Almost.

But then you look up. That same hard stare. Still unreadable.

He clears his throat. “You always hang around after?”

You shrug. “Occasionally.”

He nods once, shifting his weight awkwardly as he glances away. His jacket is tucked underneath one of his arms, his free hand fiddling with the edge of his pocket– unsure of whether it wants to go in or not.

“What’re you reading?” You hold the small notebook up, the cover adorned in stickers you’ve collected over the years.

“Not a book. Just questions.” He tilts his head at that, taking a step closer out of curiosity.

“Questions?” He frowns, that perplexed kind of frown people wear when they’re trying not to judge you. “About the sermon?”

“Yeah.” You reply, moving to your feet as you dust the dirt off your dress. Per usual, you didn’t wear anything revealing, loud, or flashy. It was another simple dress with long sleeves that stopped right at your knees. Enough fabric to keep you decent, but enough shown for people to appreciate. Enough for him to appreciate.

Owen shifts, watching you stand, still holding the notebook loosely at your side.

“You keep a list of questions from the sermons?” He asks again, like he’s confirming the information. He didn’t believe it the first time.

You look up at him. “Not just from the sermons.”

There’s a beat of silence. The kind that feels like a long hallway with only one door.

He hesitates, then asks, “What kind of questions?”

You open the notebook, not because it’s what he wants, but because it's easier than making something up on the spot. You flip to a page without really looking, and read aloud:

“‘If God gives us free will, does He still get to punish us for what we choose?’”

Your eyes flick up to meet his. “That was from last week.”

Owen exhales slowly through his nose. His voice is low. “That wasn’t part of the sermon.”

“No,” you say, smiling faintly. “It’s what I thought about while he was preaching.”

You flip to another page.

“Is wanting something bad only sinful if you act on it?

He tenses at that. Your tone isn’t accusatory, but it’s not innocent either. It hits a little too close to home, and it makes his skin crawl with shame. It’s like you’ve flipped a book of his most recent thoughts open and you’re reading them aloud to him.

‘Can you worship something you don’t quite believe in, just because it makes other people feel better?’”

That one knocks the breath out of him a little.

You’re not a believer. Or maybe you are, and you’re bitter about it. Owen doesn’t know what’s worse.

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out at first. Then: “You think too much.”

You close the notebook, tucking it into your bag. “I think just enough.”

He’s not thinking when he reaches out and touches you before you can walk away, fingers dancing on your arm carefully. It’s not quite a grab, but it keeps you in place.

There’s something in his eyes that gives you pause. There’s a flicker of something that wasn’t there before. It’s not want, or desire.

It’s fear.

He’s the one grabbing you, and he’s afraid?

That strikes you harder than any sermon you’ve half-listened to in this town. His touch is featherlight, barely enough to stop you– but the look in his eyes pins you in place more than anything else.

You don’t pull away. Not yet.

He furrows his brows, like he’s thinking. Then he speaks.

“Have lunch with me.”

The words hang there, suspended between you like a dropped hymn note no one quite knows how to finish. They don’t match the fear in his eyes. They don’t even match his voice, which wavers, like it’s still unsure of the sentence even after it’s left his mouth.

“Is that an invitation or a demand?” Owen pauses at your question, blinking once. He slowly removes his fingers from your skin. It burns, as if he’s branded you.

“Just lunch,” he says. “That’s all.”

You’re not sure if he’s reassuring you or himself.

“Where?” You ask, and he purses his lips.

“Wherever you want.”

It sounds generous. Harmless. But it’s not.

It’s surrender.

Owen doesn’t realize he’s just given you the reins, but you take them up like he’s offered you control on a silver platter.

You chew on the inside of your lip for a moment, weighing your options out. Then you step closer.

“That old diner off Route 9.” Owen nods once, glancing off as he takes a half-step back toward the parking lot.

“Meet you there?”

The way he says it makes it sound simple. Easy.

But nothing about this is.

You nod slowly, your expression giving nothing away.

“See you in a minute.” And then he smiles. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it's the first time you’ve seen him show teeth. It’s unsure. Off-balance. Like he’s not used to handing his want to someone else and watching them hold it.

You don’t smile back. Not really. Just give him one of those looks that sits somewhere between curiosity and cruelty. The kind of look that makes a man wonder what, exactly, he’s agreed to.

Owen lingers like he might say something else, then thinks better of it. He turns and walks away, shoulders a little too tense, like he knows he’s already in over his head.

You watch him go until he disappears behind the church building.

Your coffee cup clinks awkwardly against the sticky table as you set it down, only because you’re too interested in the way Owen has his hands clasped and his elbows on the table, glancing off to the side like you’re not even there.

You catch him biting his lip, eyes shutting for a moment before he looks at you again.

Like he’s trying to compose himself. Like being here, across from you in a place with linoleum floors and too-sweet syrup in glass dispensers, feels more dangerous than kneeling at an altar ever did.

“So,” you say, dragging your finger along the condensation on your glass, “is this the part where you ask if I’m saved?”

He laughs, the sound reserved and barely there.

“Well, are you?” He asks, his voice lost somewhere in the mug that he lifts to his lips. He takes a good sip of the bitter coffee, enjoying the way it burns his tongue.

You give him a look. That’s the only answer he needs.

He sets the mug down slowly, eyes lingering on yours like they’re trying to translate a language he’s only half learned. You’re not saved. You’re not pretending to be. And that unsettles him more than if you’d just lied.

“Why even come to church, then?” Those were the last words that should’ve come out of his mouth as a youth pastor, but he said them anyway.

“People leave you alone if they think you’re doing the right thing.” Owen raises his brows at that, a bit surprised at your lack of shame. He wishes he could feel like that sometimes.

You go on, voice low but steady. “It’s not like I don’t listen. I listen. I take notes. I ask questions. That’s more than a lot of people in there can say.”

He doesn’t argue. Can’t. You’re right, and he knows it.

Still, he says, “But do you believe any of it?”

You don’t answer right away. Just trace the rim of your glass with your fingertip, as if the answer might form from condensation.

“I believe in the questions,” you say finally. “I believe in the good parts. Like taking care of other people and leaving the judgment part up to something bigger than all of us.”

You glance up at him, catching the way he stares at your fingers. You stop tracing the rim of your cup, eyes narrowing in a silent challenge.

A beat of silence stretches between you again. The clink of silverware and the low hum of conversation from other tables barely cuts through it.

Then Owen shifts in his seat, pushing his coffee aside like it’s suddenly too bitter to stomach. “You talk like someone who’s been hurt by it. The church.”

“I talk like someone who’s watched people twist something sacred into a weapon,” you reply, the edge of your voice sharp but calm. “Doesn’t mean I don’t see the good in it, too. It just means I’m not naive.”

He sees you then. For the first time, he sees you. There’s something vulnerable there. You hadn’t denied the accusation, only confirmed it. And that has a tiny smirk spreading across his lips.

“You don’t scare easy, do you?” he asks, that smirk deepening just a touch. Not mocking. Curious.

You tilt your head slightly, considering the question.

“I’m not afraid of God,” you say. “Just the people who speak for Him.”

Owen leans back, exhales through his nose like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cross himself.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

You smile then, slow and knowing. “I haven’t done anything.”

He nods once, more to himself than to you. “That’s the problem.”

And for the second time in one week, Owen Taylor walks away from a conversation feeling like he’s just confessed something without ever opening his mouth.

Not to God, But to you.

#owen taylor #owen taylor x reader #owen taylor x you #starling girl #lewis pullman #x reader #afab reader

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theladysherlock · 19 hours ago

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Goliath Liveblog Wrap-Up

Holy shit you guys we did it

I'm gonna get a little sentimental under the cut, but TL;DR: Thank you all so much for having fun with me during the liveblog, I had a fantastic time.

I'm a little surprised it only took me six-ish months, considering how much I have to say about everything. If you'd asked me, I would have assumed it would take eight-ish months, due to my well-established pattern of yapping about everything.

My dad tells a story about how when he was a kid and he finished reading The Return of the King by J. R. R. Tolkien, he was so excited and amped up by the end that he had to start jumping on his bed to get some of the energy out. My version of this story is that when I finished reading Goliath at the age of 13, I was so full of adrenaline that I had to walk laps around my empty house and yell for a bit. Goliath was the very first book to do that to me, and I have been chasing that high ever since. (It's MY turn to have my brain chemistry altered by a book inspired by the horrors of WWI)

Goliath is maybe my favorite book ever (definitely the book that has the biggest impact on me) and I loved getting to pick it apart and see the stuff that makes it work. I love the character work, I love the themes, I love the New York City era so much that it makes me look stupid.

I cannot fully express how much fun I had doing this. Getting to revisit these books with a fine tooth comb and dig into all my favorite stuff, looking at themes and symbolism and characterization, was such a blast. And I loved making stupid jokes along the way too. I love a stupid joke.

Another thing that's genuinely meant a lot to me is everyone's interactions with the posts. I got at least one friend to read the series by talking about it so much, and a bunch more people reread the books because I was talking about them so much. (Y'all were MUCH faster than me, though, I was on a slow drip listening while I got ready for work most mornings.) Every time I got a reply in the comments or someone reblogged something and put their own ideas in the tags, it made me so happy. It's like we have a little book club here and I'm just leading discussion. I tried to get to most of the comments and have a conversation but I'm sure I missed a few.

Not to sound like I'm fishing for notes, because I'm not, but I wanna hear what everyone's favorite topic of discussion was. If you are so inclined, go ahead and drop that in the replies of this post so we can talk about it some more! Or make your own discussion post-- despite the fact that I've fucking flooded the tags at this point, I don't have a monopoly on Leviathan analysis.

And for everyone who follows me who doesn't read these books (especially those of you I know IRL who I will see face-to-face): Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii. Thank you for coming along on this incredibly close look into my psyche. I genuinely think a lot of things about the way that I am as a person will fall into place if you know these books and what they mean to me.

This is a little personal, but the response to the liveblog has genuinely helped me with the fact that I am worried all the time that I'm annoying the people I'm spending time with and they all secretly want me to go away and shut the fuck up forever. With very few exceptions (people who have known me for decades, friends who have assured me over and over and over and over again), this happens with every single person I talk to, despite any and all evidence to the contrary. This feeling is significantly more prevalent whenever I talk about stuff I like, but can and will show up at any time. I often have to remind myself that my friends do actually want to spend time with me and they want to listen to what I have to say.

So the fact that I talked a lot about the thing that I like the most, and the response was overwhelmingly positive? Even from people who haven't read the books? That really helped me combat the feeling that nobody actually wants me around, knowing that people want to hear more of what I have to say. I cannot thank you enough for this gift.

I'm probably going to do another liveblog series on a different book series in the future, because I had so much fun with this one, but I'm not going to start that for a while. The anime comes out in a month, after all, and I'm sure I'm going to have a LOT to say about it, so we'll wait until that hype has died down before I jump into something new.

Again, thank you all for coming along for the ride while I went off on a posting adventure. This has been an absolute blast and I have thoroughly enjoyed the experience.

#lily liveblogs leviathan 2024 #I'm not putting the wrapup in the main fandom tags #but. seriously thank you all so much

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kyehwas · 2 days ago

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eenie meenie miny mo ft. kim hongjoong

-> or, hongjoong decides he wants someone and chooses you to be totally real s/o.

|| wc + warnings || 0.87k / gn!reader, fake dating, old man joong is real y/n keeps getting interrupted sorry queen

“Are you dating anyone yet?” Kim Hongjoong dreaded that question. He had no one, unlike all his friends. He didn't want that anymore.

“No, I actually found someone quite recently!” He shouldn't have lied. But at the same time, maybe it took him to the best road at the end.

“Oh, that's great! Could I meet them next month? That's when my wedding will be, as you know, and I'd love to see your plus one!” Shit.

“Yeah.. of course.” Hongjoong forced a smile, and that's when he knew he was screwed. He needed to find someone to cover for him, and fast.

Like any other person, to Facebook he went. It would seem odd, he knew, but he had no better idea. He found people near his area, and moved his finger around until it was held on some random person's profile.

“Y/n L/n,” He began to read the description, and once he finished, he knew exactly who his partner would truly be.

♡ — — — — ♡ — — — — ♡

“Did your phone just buzz?” Your friend asked.

“Yeah, think it did,” You replied, checking the notification. “Y/n L/n is now in a relationship with Kim Hongjoong… I am?”

“You are?” You had no idea who Hongjoong is, nor why he set his status as dating you.

“Yeah Hwa, I just hope it works, y'know? I'll dm them later and see,” A man said to his friend, who nodded. Just a moment earlier, in the restaurant parking lot, Hongjoong forced his best friend Seonghwa to hype him up so he could actually set his status.

“Hey, isn't that them?” The friend said, gesturing towards you.

Both yours and Hongjoong's eyes widen. In a moment of courage, Hongjoong stole a seat right next to you, and his friend sats down after.

“So, y/n,” He took your hand, and you don't remove it. You have really nice hands, he notices, but doesnt dare to utter out loud. “I have a wedding I need to go to next month, you wanna be my plus one?”

“He was too pussy to tell his cousin that he had no plus one so he chose someone random off of Facebook,” Seonghwa translated, and you had to stifle a laugh.

“That makes so much more sense,” You and your friend grinned at each other, “So, Hongjoong, tell me a little more about yourself?”

And so he did. You and him talked for the entire time, and you were starting to think that this entire fake dating thing wouldn't be all too bad.

♡ — — — — ♡ — — — — ♡

“So, who are they?” One of Hongjoong's cousins points to the person whose waist he's holding. Aka, yours.

“This is y/n,” He says, pressing a kiss against your cheek. He had warned you earlier that he would be physically affectionate with you to convince his relatives, but it still took you off-guard.

“Yeah, nice to meet you! Hongjoong is a great guy, I'm happy to finally meet his family!” You smile at them, and they all smile back at you.

“Can we talk for a second, y/n?” Hongjoong drags you to a secluded area of the venue. “Are you… really okay with this?”

Though you didn't want to admit it, you maybe, just maybe had a crush on the man. “Yeah, I am! Hongjoong, I-”

“Joong, dude, come here! The food here's great!” His brother calls, and interrupts your little confession.

“Fuck, I'll tell you later,” You mutter, semi-disappointed.

Throughout the ceremony, Hongjoong can't rid his mind of what happened. What were you going to tell him? God, he was such a loser.

“Y/n.” Hongjoong grabs your hand firmly, trying his best to keep his voice from trembling.“Hm..?”

“What were you going to say? Y'know, earlier?” He feels his hands starting to sweat.

“Well,” You dart your eyes away from him, “So, I don't think this is fa-”

“We're doing the bouquet catch, you should come, y/n!”

You sigh loudly again. One time wasn't that bad, but a second one? “Sorry, I'll tell you later, dear.”

Hongjoong's heart skips a beat at the pet name. He’s down bad. Him and his heart watch as you catch the bouquet, and he feels it stop as you run straight to him, bouquet at all.

“I did it! I did i-!” Hongjoong grabs your face and slams his lips against yours. It's clumsy and unorganized, but you could tell he meant every feeling that went into it.

“I need you,” His words are swallowed by your lips, but he doesn't mind. Not when it's you.

“Need you too,” You exhale, discarding the bouquet to hug him, “That's what I've been trying to tell you. That I love you. I don't want this relationship to be fake.”

“Then let's make it real. Can I be your boyfriend?” His gaze is soft as he awaits your response.

“Yes,” You finally answer, kissing him once more, “But Hongjoong? Why did you use Facebook in the first place? I have it to talk to my grandparents, but what about you?”

“Heh,” Hongjoong shrugged, “I just have it downloaded.”

“Old man.”

“I'm your old man though.” He laughs, squeezing you in an embrace. Who knew the best matchmaker site was actually some random old person website?

#hoshii writes #ateez x reader #ateez #kim hongjoong x reader #kim hongjoong #I got the idea from a pinterest post during iomt era dude I can't believe im just biw writing and posting

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loumauve · 9 months ago

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I snapped today at work, and by snapped I mean I politely commented on a help desk ticket by summing up an mess of an (type of) issue that's come up for at least the fourth time in the 2+ months I've been managing user accounts, and asked the person responsible to fix it (himself for once) because last time I fixed his mess-up it took me two whole days to work out the details with at least four other colleagues from different departments and I really don't want to do it again. there's other shit that needs doing, I've been working 10+ hour days for most of this week already, so I need to cut down not add on more.

(good thing tho - at least we managed to fix the issue where the dataset of a newer employee got mixed up with another one of the same name and therefore wasn't able to apply for any of the access/accounts she needed. technically not entirely my area but it does impact us not being allowed to create an account for her so I figured I might as well track that issue down. took three days and at least three other people, but hey - it should all work out now. yay for that)

#been feeling anxious af ever since bc it's the first time I've been this firm in a reply and idk how they'll take it #there's underlying issues in inter-departmental communication that need fixing that cause these issues to happen again and again #but my boss is on parental leave and his substitute is sick not that she cares or is up for doing her job where communication is concerned #so there's no real sense in addressing that rn esp by me who's only been there since June. but it does frustrate me a lot #anyway. I'm sure I'll get over this too. but yeah.. ppl not thinking things through for the two mins it takes to create an account #or the twenty seconds it takes to check if one already exists before creating a new one #or the minute it takes to check if folks still have an active contract past their time working in your department before deleting an accoun #just jfc. put in a smidge of effort and five mins total and save the rest of us from spending half a day to fix your mistake #oh well. if I get a pissy response I'll just blame it on being new as an intern and being too motivated and idealistic I guess #god forbid I expect people to do their jobs thoroughly or with at least a singular thought..#anyway. I feel like I'm allowed to be grumpy abt this since we are the folks who end up having to fix this shit #and by we I mean pretty much mostly me at this point bc one colleague is sick atm. my boss barely has time for this and is on leave #and my other colleague only works half time so I'm the one who's been handling most of these over the past month or so #which.. is still insane considering how I'm a goddamn intern who shouldn't even have admin rights tbh #but without them I couldn't do anything at all lol so here I am. nice that they trust and believe in me I suppose #that's why I try to do my best. (who am I kidding that's always the case anyway)#but yeah. definitely a 50% staff support job and only 50% of the other important things that need doing rn it's more like 90/10 #and it's funny how I still dread my two hours of hotline. but every time the line is too busy I still jump in #we are also only 6 people atm out of 10 and three of us are still in training. and one of the trained folks had to come back in mid time of #next week we'll likely be 4 #depending on if our substitute boss lady is back.. not that I'd look forward to it. she's a mess and she's been horrible to deal with latel #sure. she's stressed. but she's either snapping at me when I ask abt shit I can't know yet or she's ignoring me. great basis for team work.#so honestly I'd rather she not return on Monday. esp not if she's gonna spread her germs everywhere #but now sleep. sorry for the rant. it's certainly been quite the month since I returned from my own wisdom tooth rated sick leave..#gotta be up again in 6.5 hrs so I can be at work at 6 to let the electrician in. I'm gonna sleep so hard over the weekend I stg #a day in the life of..

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knifearo · 1 year ago

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I've been enjoying all your posts lately, especially all the community engagement. It makes me think about posting more personal aroace content instead of just reblogging.

I'm full of feelings but not sure what I really have to contribute to the conversation. Aro-identified people skew young and I feel like nobody's going to care what a middle aged aroace has to say but now I'm like hang on, maybe all aro content is good content, I don't know, I'm thinking about it.

i am absolutely of the opinion that all aro content is good content! especially because a lot of us skew young, i think it's so important to have (first of all just aro content in General. there's always a lack of that. but especially) aro content from people who don't usually have their perspectives talked about. if you've got nothing to contribute to the conversation that's fine :) more than half the time i do not either, i just make a silly happy little lah di dah i love aromanticism post and chit chat with all the little aromantic people who live on my laptop. if you're aromantic and you're engaging with the community then everybody should be more than happy to have you there :) just like you said. all aro content is good content. your opinion is valuable and your presence is treasured <2

#if people can post about their jakey 24/7 (vom) then we can absolutely talk about being aro without anything Special To Contribute haha #you're right though we skew super young...#has to be a lot of people your age who are here and just not talking though. has to be.#i am still very young at 20 obvi but i was online in aro/ace spaces at the end of my middle school career #and if there were people there seven years ago who were doing the stuff that i'm doing now and Any of them were like. grownups already lmao #seven years later there must be people out there who are not super young. rally in the replies. send in asks :)#it's hard cause our community got so fucked up around 2016... i wonder if a lot of the people who aren't like. Teenagers.#were online at that time and just never found their way back into the better community spaces that we're working on building nowadays #anyway. extremely silly cause like i said i'm 20. and when i post ab aro stuff it Is with like! life experience!#but my aro credentials are just from having come out suuuuuuper super early. a significant number of years of aromanticism under my belt.#but that's cause i was in a space that allowed me to be confident about a choice that i made at thirteen about who i knew i was #and not everybody has that. or the language available to them. or any number of things in a support system.#anyway my point here was going to be that i have valuable stuff to add in terms of having spent a lot of time thinking about being aro #and going through my formative years very consciously Being Aro and building worldviews that way #but i think it's super important to hear from people who have more actual life experience to share. more time spent on earth.#cause i can talk all i want about theory and about the life i plan to live and about all this stuff haha #but if you've got stuff to share about your experience being aro in your adulthood. i think that's plenty relevant.#anyway. um. hope this helped. would love to hear more from you. make those posts. stop by the ask box any time :)#aro community foreverrrrrrrrr <2 #LONG ass tags jesus christ bracken 😭#talking #ask

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paramoira · 8 months ago

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@godofcourage gets a random starter

it's one of those bitterly chilly nights where the moon is high in the sky and a soon approaching rainfall clings in the air. nightlife seems prevalent, at least if the street she's walked down was anything to judge from. one of the bars' had one of those folding doors which allowed them to form an open patio, live music drifting out and people of various levels of intoxication braving the chill. another, the one on the corner, had a line of the typical college looking sort waiting to get in with a few scattered older adults. she ignores them, dodging a larger group of friends in the line and stepping into the street to get around them. maybe ariadne shouldn't have parked her car so far away yet she hadn't exactly wanted it seen or anyone taking down her license plate when she held no business getting involved in what she was doing in the first place. ariadne held enough issues with certain detectives even if most had seemed to form a kind of acceptance that her dedication to her work proved family members held no baring on her commitment to solving the deaths which crossed her table at the morgue.

except, all of those detectives had seemed ready to accept the current case (or lack thereof) as presently in review as 'accidents'.

it was true the evidence hadn't been as strong as other cases, however, ariadne steadfastly disagreed with the pathologist in a jurisdiction over, the two cases she believed were linked having transpired in different areas yet not over state lines. there hadn't been any outright preternatural elements though a few things had made her question; even so, finding evidence the victims had once been to a blood den did not equate to proof anything paranormal had caused their deaths. as such there had not been enough to require the bprd's involvement and certainly nothing to have warranted fbi involvement even had she attempted a favor.

perhaps this was all one enormous hunch of a bad feeling ariadne shouldn't be following. certainly, one would think that as intelligent a woman as doctor kalkan clamed to be, she would have learned her lesson by now in respect to getting too involved with her cases. if nothing else what had happened in london should have taught her that. and yet, here she was, walking down a dimly lit street and jogging up the six steps of the apartment building once she finds the address she'd been looking for. how she'd got that, perhaps, wasn't completely in-line with the fact she was supposed to be on the side of law enforcement (sometimes it helped that one's familial ties were tied up in much less legally acceptable things and held no issues in utilizing those means if she asked). it was a very blurred line at times, though ariadne was willing to justify it as a fairly minor deviation and for a greater good. when someone comes out in hurry, she grabs the door before it closes, looking back a moment as the person moves down the street and rain begins prompting her to move inside, distracted.

somewhere in the back of her mind, she'd gotten a strange sense off the hooded man, something dark and the scent of smoke... however, ariadne chalked it up to her own minor paranoia about her covert actions and her anxieties about things in the past. closing the door, ariadne wonders if this was how private detectives operated, waiting for doors to be opened or did they just pick locks? she supposes they weren't held to the same rules as the police and as long as they weren't caught. on that same thought train, she wouldn't have put it passed the one girl's only living relative, a brother, to have hired one to look into things after the police findings. regardless, she has to speak with the girl that lives here and so ariadne makes her way up the steps. there's a weight to the moment, a sudden increasing worry. she has theories, even if ariadne's not sold on them yet but she'd seen the same item on this girl's person as had been found at two previous scenes, a match box from a location she knew was a blood den. again, it didn't mean the girls were even connected to the place, for all she knew it could be the killer-- if there really was one. finally, she reaches the top where the girl's apartment was, seeking to knock only to find the door slightly ajar.

there, a few steps inside, she finds a female down-- the girl, a friend of one of the victims who she'd spoken to briefly when on scene with one of the detectives, laying on the floor among a smashed glass table. she moves to take a pulse, render aid if possible, however the girl was deceased, having begun to bleed out and another set of matches on the floor. was it a coincidence? or was someone trying to draw attention? the easy answer would be to think it was a vampire killer or more likely a ripper if one went down that route yet there was too much blood left at the scenes and no bite wounds. was it a human who knew about vampires? and it always looked like an accident-- a fall or a something of the sort. ariadne wondered if this girl also had a strange puncture mark as that had been present at the other scenes too except there wasn't an easy method to check and the glass made things precarious as it was. she needed to call this in though how she was going to explain her presence or that she'd taken it upon herself to want to ask the girl questions she held no idea how to explain. she's pulling out her phone when she senses someone else at the door.

"i'm with the m.e.'s office.. i just found her like this. i'm about to call it i--" ariadne pauses in confusion when she looks over as she stands upright. "o--" no, no. it wasn't, she's not entirely sure how she knows, perhaps it's the difference in his aura if that was what that strange sense she was only starting to become aware she had was and perhaps it's a trick of the low-light, but he looks so similar to... well, she supposed everyone had a doppelganger of sorts. "oh shit--" she realizes it too late. "--that guy with the hood downstairs! i think he's the one that did this." she's not really talking to the strange man though she should be much more concerned about his presence than she is. granted, this man wasn't dressed like the other guy that'd smelled like smoke, nor did he have the same... he didn't seem the same and she was surrounded by glass pieces if she had to defend herself. "who are you?"

*(see the novel i wrote in tags)

#so apparently ari is out here meeting all the gods now and i love that for her esp because she basically believes in most of them #as all being around in some form and i really liked how you came up with the pocket dimensions #it seems like that's a thing a bit at times in hell.boy too -- at least in respect to multiple dimensions and deities #also i thought it'd be really amusing to play into the fact your fc is the same as someone in her 'canon' and her just thinking they look #really alike and being thrown by it but i can drop that in the next reply if you want lol #so i saw he's a private eye so i was thinking maybe there's this killer who killed some people already and he's totally human #but he knows about vampires and maybe goes to blood dens and is addicted to being a donor or something and has some weird thing about vamps #so like he's killing and trying to frame a vampire or is trying to expose them because maybe he was rejected toward becoming one #and it set him onto his killing path andthe cases look just enough like a accident and what not that the cops kind of are closing the cases #or making them cold but maybe one of the dead girl's brothers hire him so he's on the case case as ari is sorta trying to sort out too?#and maybe they can end up helping each other once they sort out who they are?#because the cops are gonna get mad she's there (if she calls it in or rather if she does under her name and if she stays there for when the #get there ) but we could see how it plays out? i'm also okay with altering anything if need be just let me know #also perhaps if we do like the idea of him having been hired he could already know who she is just from working the case and since she's #the pathologist that was pushing to have it investigated where the other one wasn't? he might also know she's not supposed to be there? lol #sorry the starter got so long #godofcourage #v; main -- default #thread; match box killer

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