#*instant follow and mention*

[sansfangirl24]

I know I'm late again with the birthday but at least its not 5 days late (deku's birthday..) anyways-

Happy Birthday Smokeebee! your awesome and I hope you see this @smokeebeee

everyone go subscribe to smokee now! she's awesome and cool and hilarious :)

here's the link to her channel and the link to her adorable Youtooz plush

SmokeeBee - YouTube Smokeebee Plush (9in) – Youtooz Collectibles

[hopeinthebox]

tagged by my beloved no.1 chappell roan stan @cordiallyfuturedwight thanks my darling <33 i can only apologise for the lack of ms roan here... i swear good luck babe has been on repeat i don't know what happened

tagging the usual suspects, apologies if i've already missed yours: @aprylynn @jiminsproof @thvinyl @cosmicdreamgrl @visionsofgideontheninth @hoseeok @kimchokejin @jihopesjoint @monismochi <333 and you dear reader

oh and see here for more of my self-proclaimed songs of the summer if you're interested in that kind of thing

[lambilegs]

best friend's older sister!sevika headcanons

contains: modern!au, mentions of smoking weed and cigarettes, nsfw content (so minors dni), not proofread, mentions of porn, clitplay and fingering, cunnilingus, degradation (word "slut" is used), sevika being a jackass and teasing the reader about their clothes + possible inexperience, reader's body is referred to with the following terms: "pussy," "clit," "cunt" and "tits," kinda imagined a younger version of sevika here, maybe late twenties

pt. 2

best friend's older sister!sevika who is always cooped up in her bedroom, whirring noises entering the halls from the mechanics she's working with. if you walk past her room, your body immediately gets blanketed with goosebumps from the cold air streaming in from her window, which is always cracked open so that she can blow the smoke from her weed and cigarettes out of there.

sometimes you run into her in the hall outside of her bedroom, cigarette hanging out of her lips, loud music blasting from the speakers she has in there. if you guys are both heading to the bathroom, she'll quietly nod, leaning back into the doorframe to let you go first.

there have been a few occasions where through the open door, you can see a girl laid out on her bed or sneaking out of her window. all you can do is ignore it and try to resist having wandering thoughts about exactly how good she must be in bed to have different girls over all the time.

best friend's older sister!sevika who doesn't really talk to any of you guys, just ruffling your best friend's hair or teasing her before heading back to her room, leaving the rest of you without a word from her. whenever she walks into the kitchen while your friend group is eating or making late night instant ramen, you feel your face heat up at the sight of her in a tight tank top, leaving nothing to the imagination, from her sculpted arms and the grooves of her stomach's abs. she's so tall, so effortlessly handsome, and you can't help but sneak in glances at her back when she bends to the fridge to get some gatorade.

best friend's older sister!sevika who talks to you for the first time when your best friend leaves you alone in the living room to go shower, and sevika enters through the front door, short, black hair tied back. just the sight of her neck is enough to get you tensing up, suddenly acutely aware of the patterned pajamas you have on and how childish they must look to her.

when she spots you, she raises her hand, mumbling an apology, but you insist that the two of you of two can sit together, you were only about to put something on. the truth is, you really don't want to miss the opportunity to get to know her more.

she hesitates, but gives in, sitting on the opposite end of the couch with you, twisting off the cap of her beer bottle and taking a swing from it, grey eyes focused on the television as you scroll through the options.

when you linger on gilmore girls, she scoffs. and not subtly. oh, no, she scoffs loudly, and you turn to find her lips twisted up into a smirk.

embarrassment and defensiveness make for an ugly combination, immediately arousing an irritated, "yes?" from you.

"are we seriously going to watch this crap?"

your mouth drops open. it's the first time she's properly spoken to you one-and-one, except for the brief interactions during your run-ins in the hall, and this is what she says? for a second, you're just stunned at her blunt rudeness, and you need a second to formulate a response before saying, "crap?"

"yes, crap." she tosses her hand at the television. "just a bunch of privileged little shits."

"the show literally deals with money issues!"

she snickers, and you try to ignore the bulge of her arms as they fold over her chest. "which sure aren't that stressful when you have two blue-blooded parents always there to save your ass."

"yes, but on conditions, though!"

she squints at you, lips turned down into a disbelieving frown. "friday night dinner? you're either just as spoiled as them or really naive, because trust me, weekly dinners don't mean shit."

your eyes sharpen into a hard glare, bitterness spilling through at her assumption. "you don't know anything about me!" with an indignant toss of your head, you mutter, "not that you've ever even tried to."

she suddenly bellows with a loud laugh, the edges of it rough and irritatingly pleasing to your ear. "awe, is someone sad over that?"

you roll your eyes. yes, but you weren't about to tell her that, of all people. "no, don't flatter yourself."

"you're not that good of a liar, you know that, right?"

with a twitching eye, you turn on the show, drowning out the noise of her chuckle with an immediate escalation of the volume.

best friend's older sister!sevika who doesn't stop teasing you after that night. now, when you're in the kitchen and she saunters in, she flashes you a smile that's nothing short of complete and utter self-satisfaction. when your best friend leaves you alone in her room, sevika knocks and steps inside, leaning on the wall and asking you how you are, how's work or school, sometimes teasingly tossing in, "you haven't been here in a while -- I didn't make you nervous, did I?"

you always fight back. partially because your attraction to her makes you feel so exposed and flustered that you want to try to hide it through challenging her back rather than being reduced to a blushing, spluttering mess. you know arguing back might be counterproductive, though, since it seems to only amuse even more. but, that leads you to the second reason you keep doing it. because, as on-the-spot and vulnerable it makes you feel, her prodding comments and mischievous attention makes you giddy. sevika, the allusive older sister of your best friend, is actually bantering with you, maybe even flirting with you. and seeing how easily she bounces off your words, how sharp her wit is, makes you only more excited. unnerving as it is, this little thing you guys have going spikes your excitement everytime you come over.

best friend's older sister!sevika who gets bolder and bolder. when she comes into the bathroom as you're brushing your teeth, looking for a hair tie to get her hair out of her face, you catch her in the mirror's reflection glancing at you, eyes quickly flicking up and down. the double take nearly makes you tighten your thighs together, mind whirling with thoughts, speculating over what she might be thinking.

you get your answer when she suddenly snaps the band of your tank top, which causes you to leap on the spot. when your eyebrows furrow into what you hope is a stare strict enough to hide just how turned on you are, she laughs, the noise low and velvety. "cute," she muses, eyes raking over you shamelessly before she reaches to the hairtie on your wrist, snapping it off and tying her hair back with it.

best friend's older sister!sevika who starts working out very intentionally in front of you. doing pull-ups in the kitchen when your friend group is there, lips curling up as her eyes seek you out. usually, by the time she looks in your direction, you've already been staring at her unabashedly for minutes as her arms flex and roll under her ministrations.

you want to crawl into a hole when your best friend smacks your arm, her face squeezed into a sour cringe. "dude, gross."

of course, sevika totally hears the reprimand, and she wiggles a scolding finger in your direction from her corner in the room.

best friend's older sister!sevika who can't stop laughing at the way you gasp and cover your mouth when you catch sight of the lesbian porn opened up on her laptop, which rests amongst her bunched up purple blanket. it only leaves you wondering about what she was doing moments before, if that happy trail you sometimes spot in her loose, muscle-shaped crop tops leads to a curl of hair between her thighs.

"oh, c'mon, have you never seen porn before?"

despite the fact that you can barely keep a straight face in light of this revelation, you manage to bristle. "of course I have."

"oh, yeah?" she leans on her doorframe, tilting her head down to watch you carefully. "got any recs?"

"if I did, I wouldn't share them with you."

"why not?"

"you would just--" you manage to squeeze out before trailing off into silence. the truth is, the idea of you and her watching the same porn, fucking yourselves to the same video, has your clit aching with desire. but, you don't wanna give in that easily, and just do as she requests. something tells you she's too used to getting her way. "you would just corrupt it!"

she raises an eyebrow. "corrupt the porn? by watching it?"

god, you're an idiot. "yes."

"that's quite a feat to manage."

"... yes."

"this wouldn't at all be because you're lying, right? and you really haven't watched porn?"

you grit your teeth, narrowing your eyes at her. god, she's so fucking irritating, talking to you like you're completely sexually oblivious.

at your silence, she ducks her head lower, and you suck in a sharp breath at the feeling of one of her dark locks tickling your cheek. "maybe you're more inexperienced than you let on. maybe you're looking to get corrupted."

fuck, she has no idea. at this point, the rest of your thoughts are practically zapped into silence from the mental image of sevika laying you on her bed, your back to her chest, with her big hands shoved down your panties and massaging your pussy, using your slick to circle your clit into a swollen little bud. her soft lips planting wet, sloppy kisses on your neck and cheek as she coaxes you to watch the filthy video, laughing darkly when you gush at the two women in it eating each other out. biting your ear, whispering how she wants to do this thing or that thing to you, how she'd fuck you better than anyone in these videos could. her thick fingers plunging into your hole, other hand covering your mouth as she makes you come over and over again in her cramped up bedroom.

jesus, this is going too far. you force your body to stiffen, lest her attentive gaze catches any telltale signs of your arousal. "well, maybe you're delusional."

she's unfazed, eyes darting to your lips before meeting your gaze again. "I'm sure I am."

best friend's older sister!sevika who tells your best friend she'll pick you up when she finds out you need a ride home from your part-time job. she insists this is because she doesn't trust your best friend with her car, so she should be the only one to drive it.

when you climb into the passenger seat, you can't help but feel self-conscious, sweaty and exhausted after the long shift. matters are only worsened by being in such a cramped space with her, the very act of being picked up way too date-like for comfort. you can smell her coconut shampoo from here, mixed in with the cologne she wears. her hands on the wheel captivate you, fingers long and thick, veins begging for your tongue to trace them. her hair, which is still bound by your hairtie, is damp and soft.

she takes you out for food, insisting you "get something in you after a long day" (you're certain she's aware of the innuendo, shit-eating grin present when she speaks). when she takes her car into a drive through, she hands you her phone, muttering that you can turn on whatever music you want.

she proceeds to make fun of every song you play.

ignoring your protests, and using her strong arms to shove you aside when you try to lurch over her, she pays. when you thank her profusely, her nose twitches and she nods quietly. you can't help but smile at her modesty.

instead of driving you guys back to hers and your best friend's home, she parks outside the store. you guys continue to listen to music, sharing the meal and talking. her usual snark is present, yes, but she actually listens to you, earnestly so, as you ramble about your shift. she asks you questions, and listens patiently. her answers, on the other hand, are short and to-the-point, but after some nudges to her shoulder and whining, she relents with a sigh and shares some more details.

as the sky darkens, the conversation becomes a bit more personal, and you see a side to her you've never bore witness to before. eyes soft, gaze downcast, voice low, she shows a side to you that's vulnerable. a side that has the layers of responsibility shed.

best friend's older sister!sevika who you can't help but smirk at when her jaw drops upon seeing you in the lacey, skimpy pajamas you recently bought. it costed enough, that's for sure, but you feel immensely successful. after all, you only bought them after seeing them in the porn video she had been watching weeks ago.

"what-- what is that?" her voice is low, hushed.

you touch the back of your neck, suddenly plagued with acute self-awareness over how you look. "just-- it's just pajamas."

that breaks her out of her trance, face breaking into a bout of laughter. "pajamas? you're kidding me, right? you look like you're about to seduce me."

you swallow hard. well, not exactly. all you had wanted was a reaction out of her. actual sex felt like too far-fetched a daydream to get excited over. you try to brush her off, self-doubt gripping you too tightly to allow yourself to be direct. "please, you wish."

"oh? someone's gotten bold." her eyes wander over your body languidly, as though you already belong to her and it's just a matter of time before you admit it. she leans back in the seat at her desk, mouth curving into a playful grin. "besides, who knows if you even have it in you?"

"have it in me to what?"

she snorts. "seduce me, bonehead."

"well, yeah, wouldn't wanna risk disappointing you after all the girls that have been in here."

you wince as soon as the words leave your mouth. god, how pathetic are you? you already sound like a jealous girlfriend, and you haven't even confessed to her.

luckily, sevika chooses not to tease. instead, her mouth presses into a firm line and she says, "you don't need to worry about that."

you gulp at the earnest words. what the hell is that supposed to mean? does she know just how serious your words are? because it sure does sound like that. the thrill of her maybe knowing, maybe even returning, your feelings has your stomach flipping. "why?"

she fiddles with some diagrams on her desk, flicking a thumb on the corner, before her shoulders heave with a sigh. "for the same reason I haven't had any girl over for months."

you nearly flinch at the words, the sheer vulnerability in them yanking you into an intense fixation on her words. is she implying she hasn't had any girl over for months because of you? because, well, what reason could explain both that and why you needn't be afraid of dissatisfying her?

you can only think of one.

best friend's older sister!sevika who pulls away from her desk, spreading her thick thighs over the seat, and nods you over. "come here."

when your trembling body reaches her, she hesitates before spreading her hand along your thighs. you immediately clutch onto her shoulders, shivering at the feeling of her rough, warm palm scraping along your skin.

the gap between her teeth flashes as she laughs. "liked that?"

your nails dig into her shoulders. you don't wanna give up the game just yet. "no."

"no?" she mumbles, leaning in and grazing her teeth right where the lace trimming of your silk shorts meets your skin. "that's too bad. because if you had confirmed my suspicions, I would've rewarded you." her head leans back, eyes shining under the lamp of her bedroom. "you're lucky I'm nice and will give you one last chance."

fuck. you can't resist, not when you're this tantalizingly close to getting what you want. "fine. I--I liked it, okay?"

she presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh. "finally."

twenty minutes later, she's on her back in her bed, arms hooked around your thighs while you practically hump her face. your fingers ache with how hard they're grasping onto her headboard, forehead pressed to it as she helps you move your hips on her face. your pussy is making all kinds of squelching noises as she tongues at it, the slippery muscle making a mess of spit and juices as she licks you up so messily, no direction, no rhythm, just raw instinct. her hands have your top shoved up, large hands groping your tits and tweaking your nipples. and god, she just slurps you up, drinking down the thick, sticky arousal coating your folds, wrapping her lips around them to run the tip of her tongue along their shape.

"yeah, fuck my face," she grunts into your pussy. "such a little slut, wandering into my bedroom dressed like that."

a choked out moan leaves you, and she digs her nails hard into your ass as a warning. it makes you jerk harder on her face, her nose bumping against your clit just right and making you cover your mouth in panic. of course sevika takes notice of this reaction, and just a moment later, she's rubbing the point of her nose into your stiff clit, shaking her head side to side so that you get flicked with it.

you think nothing can get better than this -- a notion immediately disproved when sevika's lips round your clit and start sucking it in, her tongue darting out to stroke roughly at it.

and that's how you come, legs shaking as you sag against her headboard and fully sit on her face, unable to stay upright. not that sevika minds, groans of pleasure lost into wetness of your cunt.

best friend's older sister!sevika who actually got her sister's blessing weeks ago and was now just waiting on you.

[jaesblogstuff]

He doesn't listen I fear.

You know those instances where you’re a kid at school and your parents have to pick you up from school because you’re sick. That reminds me of Simon only time he’s much more stubborn and doesn’t take no for an answer most times.

⸻

You told him not to go in.

That morning, watching him drag his shirt over trembling fingers, you knew something was off. His shoulders slumped just a little too far, his voice caught in his throat when he said, “Just tired, that’s all.” And the heat rolling off of him when you touched his forehead—hellfire, even then.

“You should sit this one out, Simon,” you said quietly. “You’re running a fever.”

He grunted. Kissed your temple. “I’ve had worse.”

You didn’t argue. Not really. You just watched him lace up his boots and walk out the door like the stubborn bastard he is.

⸻

It doesn’t take long.

He holds out through briefing. Through training updates. Through a round of morning paperwork where he stares at the same page for twenty straight minutes. Nobody says anything, yet, but Price is watching him closely. Always is.

Then it happens.

Mid-conversation, Simon loses his balance. He rights himself fast—too fast, but not before his hand slaps against the edge of the table for support. He’s pale beneath the mask, which makes the red flush on his neck stand out even more.

“Riley.” Price’s voice cuts through the air. Calm. Measured. “Med bay. Now.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re burning up, son.”

Simon opens his mouth to argue again—but sways instead.

Price sighs. “That’s it. You’re done. You’re no good to anyone like this. Go. And we’re calling your emergency contact.” you

“No—no, I’m good,” he rasps.

“Not asking, mate.”

⸻

The number they dial is the only one listed.

Just “Mrs. Riley – Home.”

When you answer the call, your voice is calm but laced with expectation. You excused yourself from the meeting you were in. “Let me guess. He didn’t make it through the morning.”

There’s a pause on the other end. Then, “That’d be correct, ma’am. Captain Price here. I’m sorry to call out of the blue. He’s in the med bay now—won’t let anyone near him. We’d like you to come collect him.”

You’re already getting your keys. “I told him this morning to —. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

And you are.

⸻

The base is quiet when you arrive—at least the part they bring you through. You’re escorted by a corporal who keeps glancing at you like he doesn’t know what to make of you. Neat coat. Composed expression. Eyes like polished glass. You move like someone used to command, but not in the military sense—something quieter. Older.

They don’t know who you are, not really. They’ve heard of “the missus.” Simon’s muttered references. A few quiet mentions of home, of normalcy. But none of them have seen you before.

Until now.

You step into the med bay and everything shifts.

There’s Simon—half-sitting on the cot, mask still on but sweat plastering his shirt to his back. He looks miserable. Barely holding himself upright. The medic stands a few feet away, clearly not trying to get too close.

You don’t speak loudly. You don’t need to.

“Simon.”

His head lifts.

The change is instant.

His shoulders relax. His breathing slows. He looks at you like salvation has just walked in wearing your coat.

“Love,” he croaks. “Didn’t want them to call you.”

You walk straight to him, planting yourself at his side.

“You should’ve stayed home.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re delirious.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Lets you rest your hand against his forehead. His skin is scorching. You look at him for a long second, then reach to gently peel the mask up and off.

The medics blink. Soap, lingering in the hall, actually stares.

You’re the only one he lets touch him like that.

“Let’s go,” you murmur. “Now.”

And he follows.

Like a shadow. Like a man undone.

Nobody says a word as you lead him out—his massive form leaning on you like he’s hollowed out, his head bowed slightly, his steps heavy but obedient. He doesn’t resist. Doesn’t argue.

The sergeant at the desk stares openly. One of the privates murmurs under their breath, “That’s Mrs. Riley?”

Price just nods once to himself, looking quietly satisfied. “Told you she was the only one who could get through to him.”

⸻

He’s out before you hit the highway.

One arm folded against the window, cheek pressed to his sleeve, breath slow and raspy. His body sinks into the passenger seat like it’s the first safe place he’s had all day.

You glance over at him, your fingers tight on the wheel. A small sigh escapes your chest.

“You never listen,” you whisper. “But I’ll always come get you.”

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤHIS WORLDㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Mark Grayson x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

Mark falls for you hard.

It’s not gradual. It’s not slow. It’s instant.

One second, he’s just a normal guy.

And the next? You’re all he can think about.

At first, it’s sweet.

He’s nervous around you, fumbling over his words.

He texts too much, calls just to hear your voice.

When he’s with you, he’s so happy—happier than he’s ever been.

But when he’s not with you?

It’s unbearable.

His mind races, his chest tightens.

He starts needing to know where you are, what you’re doing, who you’re with.

And that’s when the obsession starts to grow.

Mark has lost too much.

His father betrayed him. His world turned against him. Everything he thought was stable, everything he thought he could trust—was ripped away.

But you?

You’re different.

You’re not like his father, not like the world that constantly demands more from him.

You’re safe.

And after everything he’s been through, he refuses to lose you.

No matter what it takes.

Mark is desperate for something good in his life.

Being Invincible means constantly fighting, constantly bleeding—constantly losing.

But when he’s with you? It all stops.

With you, he’s just Mark. Just a normal guy who can laugh, who can breathe.

At first, it’s normal.

He loves you deeply, intensely, but that’s just who he is.

He’s a good boyfriend. Protective, affectionate—always putting you first.

He never lets you feel alone. Never lets you feel unloved.

But then the fear sets in.

What if you leave?

What if something takes you away from him—like everything else has?

What if one day, you realize that you don’t need him?

That thought? It breaks him.

And once it takes root?

It never goes away.

Mark’s possessiveness is almost sweet at first.

He always wants to be around you.

He texts you constantly, asking where you are, what you’re doing.

He flies you to school, to work—anywhere you need to go.

And at first? It’s flattering.

Who wouldn’t want a boyfriend who’s always there for them?

Who wouldn’t love someone who drops everything to make them happy?

But then it escalates.

You mention a male coworker? Mark’s jaw clenches. His fists tighten.

You go out without telling him? He finds you.

You start pulling away? He notices.

And suddenly, his protectiveness doesn’t feel so sweet anymore.

It feels suffocating.

Because Mark doesn’t just want you.

He needs you.

Mark has superpowers.

He doesn’t need cameras to track you.

He doesn’t need to ask where you are.

He just knows.

His super-hearing picks up your voice from miles away.

He listens to your conversations—even the ones you don’t think he can hear.

He memorizes your schedule, your habits, the way your heartbeat changes when you lie.

And when you go somewhere unexpected?

He follows.

He stays out of sight, high above the city, watching.

And if he sees something—or someone—that he doesn’t like?

It’s handled.

Quietly.

Permanently.

Mark doesn’t mean to be controlling.

He just wants what’s best for you.

And sometimes? You don’t know what’s best for yourself.

It starts small.

A concerned look when you talk to another guy.

A casual “Maybe you should stay home today” when he hears about trouble in the city.

A soft, worried “I don’t like how they treat you” when you mention a friend.

And then it gets worse.

The people in your life start drifting away.

Your friends don’t call as much.

Your job starts feeling unstable.

And through it all, Mark is always there.

Holding you.

Comforting you.

Telling you that he’s all you need.

And you believe him.

Because when he looks at you?

When he holds you like you’re the most precious thing in the world—

How could you not believe him?

Maybe you start to notice.

Maybe you start questioning him.

And Mark?

He doesn’t snap. He doesn’t yell.

He begs.

“Please don’t do this,” his voice shakes, his eyes desperate.

“I can’t lose you. Not you too.”

But if begging doesn’t work?

His expression hardens.

His arms wrap around you, strong, unyielding.

“I don’t want to do this,” he murmurs. “But I will.”

And before you can react—

You’re in the air.

The ground disappears beneath you, the wind rushing past.

Mark holds you tight, flying higher, higher—until the city is nothing but a blur below.

And then he looks at you.

Soft. Loving. Unshakable.

“You don’t have a choice.”

When you wake up, everything is different.

The doors are reinforced. The windows don’t open.

And Mark is there.

Waiting.

“I know you’re upset,” he says gently, brushing your hair back.

“But this is for the best.”

His fingers tighten around your wrist, just enough to remind you.

“You’re safe now.”

“And you’ll always be mine.”

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[ronearoundblindly]

Big Pharma

Steve Rogers x doctor!Reader

Written for @stargazingfangirl18's Birthday Bonenanza--HAPPY BDAY, SIRI!--using the scenario prompt ~quick, frantic, secret sex in an almost public place + babe's hand over your mouth to keep you quiet~ and the dialogue prompt "goddamnit, will you just f***ing let me do this for you?" with free use kink for good measure. Why not?

Summary: The extreme drug cocktail you devise to save Steve Rogers has one major side effect.

Warnings for smut 🥴, sorta dub-con because it's like sex pollen, F E E L S, Steve being the most chivalrous gentleman while railing you (do it for your country, babes 🫡), completely unintentional dirty talk from Steve but 😮‍💨 we'll allow it, Tony being Tony, and--as always-- terrible puns. (There are no mentions of any medical instruments, except an IV, which is not used.) MINORS DNI. This is a mature gift work; see my Light Masterlist for all-age fanfic that is fine for minors. WC 2k

The constant photoflash burns into your retinas obnoxiously, and you’re not even the subject of the paparazzi.

Captain America is alive—all thanks to you—though he could easily have been six-feet under by now. The mysterious infection was so bad and spread so far, the drug regimen you administered constitutes one of the Avengers’ biggest Hail Marys to date, but it’s working. That’s all that matters…to the world. Behind the scenes is a different story.

As Captain Rogers turns to the next hand he must shake, his sharp blue eyes find you, twinged with a familiar fear.

This stupid event scheduled by Stark to boost morale, to show Cap is just fine and back in fighting form, has gone on too long. It’s happening again.

You worried Rogers might not make it when suddenly Stark showed up hours earlier than the initial, planned press conference—because, of course, there’s meet-and-greets, quick interviews, and these damn handshakes. He’s only gone so long between treatments for the last week.

You nod at Cap and make your way in the small crowd back to Stark. You tell him you’ll need a room, somewhere private to put in the IV, and at least thirty minutes to administer the huge dose. Rogers’s super-metabolism makes it necessary to use approximately forty times the prescription average for antibiotics and steroids. In theory, the side effects are well worth his speedy recovery.

Well, the only side effect.

Stark looks horrendously annoyed. “Can’t you just shoot him up with it and be done?” He doesn’t need your lecture repeated though. “Fine, there’s a greenroom thing over there, but you’ve got fifteen minutes at most, you hear me?”

“Twenty-five, Mr. Stark. He’s not a water balloon.”

“Twenty or he can wheel the damn thing around with him.”

You gulp in nervousness, but the problem isn’t Stark’s attitude. Rogers isn’t going to like rushing this. He feels shame enough already.

“I’ll make it work,” you assure the stubborn playboy. If he only knew…

“Good. A team player. We value that here.”

You have no fucking idea how ironic that is, you scream internally, but you follow him to a door off a back hallway, a room that shares a wall with the space all those people are gathered, and thank Stark.

“Oh good, he’s heard the dog-whistle of treat time,” Tony quips, and you swivel to see Cap trailing behind you.

He’s already made his excuses to step away, too. It must be bad.

You’re sure to pull out your props of a saline drip and tubing from your bag while Tony can still see, but you drop the act the instant the door clicks shut.

Cap take one step forward to flip the lock, immediately unzipping the fly of his iconic leather suit.

See, the only side effect of the drugs is Rogers gets hard, often, and can’t find relief from his efforts alone. Through trial-and-error, the clear solution has been help—discretely—from the only medical professional allowed around him until his condition improved.

Of course, he fought it. Of course, you wanted to preserve his dignity. Of course, you tried to keep it as perfunctory, methodical, and uninspired as possible, but the thing is, that didn’t last.

The more distant and cold the experience, the faster he became desperate and wanting again, and now you have just twenty minutes to make sure Captain America can hold out for hours.

Steve, you remind yourself. He prefers you not use respectful address when engaging is what he deems entirely disrespectful behavior. 

You need to get him off in essentially no time at all, so you’ve decided: go big or go home.

Bag tossed to the floor, you unbutton your pants and shimmy out of everything from shoes to panties, letting the longer tail of your dress shirt barely cover your modesty.

Steve looks dumbfounded. It’s bad enough he has to run to you for a handy every few hours, but this?

“Doc, no,” he breaths.

“I understand the procedure,” you say calmly, echoing his harrowing consent from that first night he needed you.

Steve’s brow furrows in strain. “We shouldn’t…”

‘We’ are way past ‘shouldn’t,’ buddy.

“Can’t ask you to…“ but he also knows time’s a wasting.

He’s already fisting himself, struggling to be the gentleman he never stopped being, which at the moment is a huge problem because both of you need to get through the day—you without losing your job and him without popping a boner on national television.

It’s your job to break him and break him right now.

“Goddamnit, will you just fucking let me do this for you?”

There’s a flat smack on the door.

“Do whatever the lady wants and then get back out here,” Tony yells from the other side. “Put us all out of our misery,” he ends with a grumble.

That is by far the most helpful thing Stark has said in the last week, so you mouth “see” and begin undoing your blouse from the bottom, giving Steve his first peek of you. His hand speeds along his length, adam’s apple bobbing in concentration.

“Here, I’ll make it easy for you,” you whisper. You walk to the far corner of the room, put your hands up, shirt rising over your bare ass, and face the wall. Your voice is soothing, pleading even. “Just take what you need.”

In some ways, you feel responsible for his predicament. You are the prescribing doctor, he isn’t in a relationship where a partner could assist, and he insists no one else know. He doesn’t deserve to be poked and prodded more than necessary, and you can’t give him any other meds in combination. None of it is his fault same as none of it is yours. You only intended to heal him.

Truthfully though, none of this is just about his release anymore, much as you’d like to dismiss your feelings.

You can’t deny, however, that each time the air gets a little thicker with tension, the body language a little more intimate. Steve has kept his eyes open, clutched your free hand to his chest, rolled his hips open, and thrust up into your fist. The greater the satisfaction of his climax, the longer he retains control.

“When this is over…I swear,” he grits out, getting closer word by word until his deep voice is right by your ear.

He tugs your shirt up to dip his fingers between your legs. “Been smelling you for two days. Can’t do anything until—” Steve growls, feeling how slick you’ve become in anticipation “—you’re ready for me.” 

His concern washes away when two fingers easily breech you to the knuckle and are immediately replaced by the blunt head of his cock dragging between your folds.

You didn’t expect him to give in so fast. You didn’t expect him to have known this aroused you. The idea he might want to continue, to go further, races down your spine, following the opposite path of Steve leaning into you. His forehead presses your occipital as yours presses the wall. The heat of him makes you arch in luxurious proximity.

Steve fucking forward to enter you in one smooth motion makes you forget to be quiet, but before the whole shout of ecstasy escapes, his hand covers your mouth.

“Shhh, Doc,” he breathes at the base of your neck. “Be good for me.”

That only gets you moaning into the seam of his gloves.

His hips start a staccato rhythm, a second of loud friction for each second of silent, fulfilling pressure.

Steve slips his still wet fingers under your shirt and beneath the cup of your bra to swirl a smooth pattern over your nipple. Instead of voicing your approval, you shove yourself back into him faster.

You notice the muffled chatting of Tony and someone else outside while your eyes roll. The slap of your skin against the Cap suit becomes the loudest thing in the room, but that’s not what Steve minds.

He pulls out and spins you around, pausing to see the cream you’ve created at the base of him drip to the carpet below.

Deep sea eyes meet yours through golden lashes.

“If I can’t hear you…” Steve hoists you up to his waist, threading one arm through the bend in your knee, spreading you wide and diving in swiftly.

Your body curls forward automatically to grasp at him and smother yourself in the leather of his shoulder pad. This pace is much faster, purposeful, utterly unravelling you. The position delivers more range of motion, all of the buildup and less of the noise, with the added benefit of his tool belt nudging your clit repeatedly.

Tony pounds on the door. “‘Bout done in there, guys? Let’s go.” How apt, the unknowing jester.

Steve pants, open-mouthed, against your temple.

You smile but can’t stop your own ruin.

A groan gets buried in your disheveled hair. “Are you…close?” His hips snap brutally. “Are you—“ he sounds wrecked “—you gonna…come on my—uungh.”

You tip over the edge, clutching him tight and fluttering for him in every way. The detonation of your orgasm burns red behind your eyelids like camera flashes, a dirty snapshot for you alone.

“Mercy,” Steve begs, gripping your ass to rut into you, desperate to join. His neck tenses as he spills inside you, pulse throbbing in time with his cock. 

He leans against you and the wall, his steady weight stilling your shaky legs. Slowly, your feet are guided to the floor and Steve steps away to wipe away any evidence of his ‘therapeutic treatment.’ His breathing settles much faster than yours, and by the time he’s tucked back in with his suit righted, you’re simply sliding down the wall to catch up.

He hurries over to the small vanity and mini fridge—usually ‘guests’ for speaking (or interrogating) wait here—to bring you supplies.

A box of tissues is set by your side.

“So…” he hands you a bottle of water “…maybe…dinner tonight?” 

You set the water down in favor of cleaning yourself, glancing up to offer a reassuring dismissal. “This morning was your last dose,” you remind him. “It should be over soon.”

Steve may not need this anymore, may never need you again, but he doesn’t miss a single beat.

“I’d like—I want to take you some place nice, but…” He chugs his whole water then quickly unclasps the glove on his left hand, rolling up his sleeve, veins jumping over a thick forearm.

“I don’t know what food you enjoy.”

Arguably, he knows a few other things that you enjoy.

There’s another impatient bang at the door.

“I—“ Your heart soars with the soft sincerity of his face, no trace of fear left behind, no hesitation. “I’m gonna need a minute.”

Steve stands, smoothing a hand over his hair. “I’ll lock it behind me…and, um, thank you, Doc.”

It’s the first time he hasn’t apologized this whole week.

“You’re welcome, sir.”

Steve flashes you a dopey smile and shakes his head. “See you out there,” he chuckles.

You can’t be seen when the door opens just enough for Steve to step out, but he makes a show of rolling the suit’s sleeve back down like he really did have an IV infusion, selling the lie like a pro. He keeps Tony talking while shutting you back into your debauched bubble.

Through the wall, you still hear “could you have gone any slower?” followed by a curt, “yes,” and have to stifle a laugh.

“What’d you do, blow a vein?”

You’re picturing an incredibly ironic look on Captain Rogers’ face.

“Just be grateful she puts up with us, Tony…” and their voices disappear down the hall.

His treatment may be finished, but Steve wants you to stick around. He wants you.

Would having dinner with that man really be so terrible? No. Not at all. Even the ‘worst’ of this situation has been a great fucking experience. You don’t want to give that up yet.

It seems you’re both addicted now.

[Main Masterlist; Steve Rogers One-Shots; Ko-Fi]

[ghostedgwen]

hear me howling | r.lupin

note : i got inspired and it turned into a 9.6k words fic, this is gonna be looooong, also my measly attempt at making some marauders-timeline eme eme as if the dates made sense lol THANK YOU FOR 800 FOLLOWERS ILY ALL enjoy pls

warnings : second-year to seventh-year timeline, remus is a brooding werewolf, mentions of injuries and lots of angst on remus being a werewolf, lots and lots of pining, verrrryyyy slow-burn with one-sided pining, background marauders still get their cameo and progress, reader is a dork about magical creatures and proud, remus is just all emo until he wasn't

Obsessed with magical creatures and late-night snacks, you accidentally discover Remus Lupin's furry problem, so you begin leaving him gifts and treats to ease your guilt. Only, he knows it's you and it's a seemingly endless waltz around the truth for your entirety at Hogwarts.

Don't let me in with no intention to keep me, jesus christ don't be kind to me. Honey, don't feed me, I will come back.

Second-year : February 16th, 1973.

You didn’t mean to find out that Remus Lupin is a werewolf.

It started with a craving. Not for drama or secrets or forbidden knowledge - just treacle tart. Maybe a slice of toast, golden and buttered to the edges. A mug of cocoa warm enough to coax the sleep back into your bones and make the cold of the stone floor worth it.

Hogwarts after dark was a world all its own - quieter, softer, suspended in a kind of dream-state where everything felt a little more secret and a little more sacred. The castle changed when the sun set, became something gentler. The stones, warm from the day’s footsteps, seemed to exhale as night fell, sighing with the weight of centuries.

The torchlight along the corridors flickered sleepily, casting long, slow shadows that moved like drifting thoughts - definitely scary but it never got to you, a true Gryffindor at heart.

The halls you’d memorised by second year became half-lit, all curves and corners that felt more familiar than your own dormitory. At night, Hogwarts wasn’t just home - it was yours. Your secret, your sanctuary.

You moved quietly, the balls of your feet brushing over cool stone. Not because you were guilty - you weren’t breaking any rules that mattered (sneaking out doesn't count, you're only guilty if you get caught) - but because there was something sacred about the stillness.

You’d just slipped behind the tapestry shortcut near the Grand Staircase, feet bare for speed and stealth, when you heard them.

Footsteps.

Not the confused shuffle of someone lost. Not the reckless pounding of a student running from a Prefect they saw down the corridor fast approaching. These steps were measured. Purposeful. Two sets, moving together, rhythmically, like they’d done this before.

You froze, every muscle held tight in an instant, and pressed yourself against the wall. Fingers curled into the folds of the tapestry, you leaned slightly forward and peered through the gap in the fabric, breath shallow.

There, illuminated by the soft blue glow of a hovering lantern charm, walked Remus Lupin and Madam Pomfrey.

You blink at the sight - once, then again - trying to make sense of what you’re seeing. Because it isn’t strange to see a student with a teacher. But this? This didn’t feel disciplinary. It didn’t feel like a student caught out of bed, dragged back to their dorm with a lecture trailing behind them. It felt. . . familiar. Practiced.

Pomfrey’s hand was firm on Lupin's arm. Not yanking or pulling, but steadying. Guiding. Protective in a way that spoke of history, of routine. She wasn’t scolding him - she was supporting him.

And Lupin -

Lupin looked ill.

You couldn't tell much as they are a good distance away and the castle is much too dark, but even you could tell that much from where you were hiding,

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look up. Just kept walking beside her in silence.

You didn’t follow. Even though your curiosity had woken up with a start, sitting upright and alert in your chest. Even though your mind immediately began stitching theories together like some frenzied seamstress. You weren’t nosey.

And it wasn’t your business.

So you let the moment pass.

Once their footsteps faded and the shadows settled back into stillness, you stepped out. Carefully. One foot, then the other, like the floor might still hold their presence.

You glanced down the corridor, half-expecting to see them again, but it was empty now - only the torches and the faint warmth of their passing remained.

You didn’t think about it again until you were in the kitchens, the portrait swinging closed behind you with a soft huff of displaced air.

The elves greeted you like they always did - not with surprise, but with familiarity. Like you were just another part of their nightly routine. One of them pressed a plate into your hands without asking, another handed you a steaming mug, and a third patted your arm before bustling away to stack dishes.

You sat on one of the benches, cross-legged and quiet, the warmth of the tart melting through your fingers, the cocoa steaming in slow curls. The room hummed with gentle magic, old and kind, like a lullaby with no words. You sipped, and chewed, and listened to the stillness.

And even though you weren’t thinking about it - not consciously, not really - a part of you kept replaying the image. The two of them walking together in that dim corridor, her hand on his arm. His silence. His eyes.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That maybe he had the flu. That maybe she was just being kind.

You told yourself not to wonder.

But you did.

The next morning, Remus came to breakfast late.

Not just a few minutes behind everyone else. No - late enough that the owls were already gone, the porridge was cold, and most of the chatter had dwindled to tired murmurs.

He looked worse than he did last night, didn't Madam Pomfrey assist him?

There was a hollowness to his face, like something essential had been scooped out in the night and hadn’t come back yet. The dark circles under his eyes weren’t just shadows - they were bruises, dark and deep, like sleep had tried to find him and failed.

You watched as he reached for the pumpkin juice, his movements slow, careful. He winced when his fingers closed around the pitcher. Both of his hands were wrapped in fresh white bandages - not the kind Madam Pomfrey handed out for blisters or scrapes, but the thick kind, the serious kind. The kind you wore when something had torn open and they didn’t want anyone to see.

His posture was wrong, too. He sat stiffly, spine too straight, like his whole body was a single long ache.

Sirius Black was being loud.

He was telling a story about something ridiculous - Peeves, maybe, or James turning a Slytherin’s robes inside out mid-duel - but he was telling it too fast. Too loud. Like he was trying to fill the space so no one would look too closely.

James, beside him, eagerly clinging to Sirius' words.

And Peter - Peter kept glancing at Remus like he was watching a sandcastle about to collapse. Small, subtle flicks of his eyes, the kind you might miss if you weren’t paying attention.

You watched them from your end of the table, your spoon suspended halfway to your mouth, cereal going soggy while you took them all in.

Weird.

That’s what your brain settled on, in the absence of any better explanation. Just. . .weird.

You decided then, at the age of 13 that boys were weird.

You didn’t ask. Didn’t say anything to anyone. You just swallowed it down, along with your lukewarm breakfast, and filed it away into that mental cabinet you only opened on quiet nights.

And then it happened again.

The next month.

And the next.

And the one after that.

Always the same rhythm. Always on the full moon. Always late to breakfast, with new bandages and new silences and new shadows under his eyes -

Always with Madam Pomfrey.

And the injuries - they never matched the stories.

He’d claim he fell down the stairs, or tripped over a bookcase, or had a nasty encounter with a particularly aggressive Puffapod. But they didn’t match. Not really. The scratches were too deep. The bruises too well-placed. The pain too real for something so mundane.

So you did something instinctive.

You started keeping track of the moon.

Just to see. Just to make sure.

And when the pattern held - when the full moon rolled around again and Remus limped into the Great Hall with a split lip and a bandage on his collarbone - something inside you shifted. Quietly, but permanently. Like a book falling off a shelf and opening to a page you hadn’t meant to read.

You had to know.

You waited for the next full moon like it was a secret coded into the stars. Like the answer to everything was tucked between the spaces of its rising.

Second-year : June 8th, 1973

You snuck out long after curfew, later than even your usual kitchen adventures. The castle was silent in the way that made your ears ring. You moved like a shadow, slipping through corridors with your breath tucked tight in your chest.

You followed them - just far enough behind not to be seen, but close enough to feel the pull of where they were going.

Through hidden doors you hadn’t known about. Behind suits of armor with eyes that flickered in the dark.

They left the castle.

You didn’t follow further - not then. You stood at the edge, just past the last torchlight, and watched them walk into the trees. Madam Pomfrey still had her hand on his arm. Remus still didn’t say a word.

But you remembered the direction.

The next morning, just before the sun crested the hills, you crept out again.

The castle was still sleeping, tucked in its dreams. The grass outside was wet with dew, the sky pale pink and lavender, a canvas not yet painted. The air was thin with morning -

The Shrieking Shack is where you ended up in when you followed their path through the whomping willow. It looked empty, broken, all boarded windows and peeling paint.

You’d grown up with stories about it - how it was cursed, how ghosts screamed through its halls on stormy nights, how even the bravest dared not enter.

You climbed anyway, your breath shallow and your palms sweating. Each step up the hill felt heavier than the last.

The wooden porch creaked beneath your weight. You didn’t go inside fully - didn’t have to. There was a break in the slats, a crack just wide enough to see.

And through it, you saw him.

Remus Lupin.

Lying on the floor, curled in on himself like a question. His body was all angles and shadows, chest rising in small, uneven breaths. Sweat beaded his skin, and there was blood - not dried, not old. Fresh. Soaking through the rips in his shirt, streaking down his back.

The wood beneath him was scarred, clawed deep, as if something monstrous had raged and thrashed and left the wreckage of itself behind.

You didn’t scream.

You didn’t run.

You didn’t cry.

You just stood there, hands clenched at your sides, staring through the slats while your heart beat like thunder in your throat.

Not afraid. Not really.

Just. . . changed.

You knew now.

And you wouldn’t tell a soul.

The first time, you left a biscuit.

It was stupid, maybe. Too sentimental - yes.

You left a ginger biscuit on the windowsill of the Shrieking Shack. Wrapped in a napkin. No note.

He never mentioned it. You didn't check.

The second time, it was tea.

Strong, spicy black tea in a little tin you nicked from the kitchens. A scribbled note under the lid: For the mornings after.

You tucked it behind a warped slat in the wooden fence and walked away before sunrise. Your heart thudded the whole time.

After that, it became a pattern.

A chocolate frog.

A worn paperback copy of Magical Creatures That Might Not Kill You, pages annotated in your tiny, looping scrawl.

A knit scarf in Gryffindor red - faded, a little too short, the wool pilled but warm. It smelled like chocolates and apple pie.

A tiny pot of bruise balm, brewed in secret and labeled only with a hand-drawn moon.

You never stayed to watch him find them. Never left a name. But you started sleeping easier on full moons, knowing you havedone something - even if it was just a biscuit or a scarf.

It was a ritual now. A kindness you couldn’t explain. A secret kept not out of fear, but something deeper. Quieter. Something like care.

Remus Lupin was not thinking about breakfast.

He was thinking about how his ribs still ached when he twisted. How his left shoulder clicked when he lifted his fork. How he hadn’t told anyone about the things that kept showing up at the Shack - soft, sweet, thoughtful things that made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t know how to name.

He kept the scarf in his trunk. Wore it when the wind bit too sharp. It still smelled like something warm and alive.

That scent was on his hands now - faint - when he lifted his mug of pumpkin juice.

And then it hit him again. Strong.

Not in memory. Not in theory.

In the air.

He went still.

And then she walked past.

Not toward him. Not looking. Just brushing by the Gryffindor table with her bookbag slung across her chest and her hair still damp from her morning shower.

Her.

That was her scent.

He blinked too slowly, jaw slack, brain fuzzy with the sudden rush of realization.

James nudged him in the ribs. “You planning to breathe again anytime soon, or. . .?”

“What?” Remus mumbled, eyes still half-tracking her down the table.

“Oh my God,” Sirius muttered, leaning across the table with a shit-eating grin. “He’s gawking. Our Remus Lupin has joined the land of the living. Quick, someone write this down.”

“Who is she?” James asked, glancing over.

Peter - helpful, as always - perked up. “That’s ____ ____. Mum knows her family - they’re old Gryffindor and Ravenclaw stock. Her older brother was Head Boy last year. Works at the Ministry now.”

“Seen her in the library with Evans at times,” Sirius said, squinting. “Didn’t she get detention for arguing with Professor Binns about why unicorns aren’t boring?”

“She loves magical creatures,” Peter added. “Like, properly loves them. Obsessed with that Scamander bloke.”

Remus blinked slowly. “Newt Scamander?”

“Yeah, him. Think she’s got, like, a poster in her dorm or something - heard McKinnon tease her about it.”

James whistled low. “Wow. So, Remus - that your type then? Bookish - much like you, and oddly into carnivorous beasts?”

Sirius grinned. “Makes sense. Remmy here is a bit of a carnivorous beast himself.”

Remus flushed scarlet to the tips of his ears - nevermind how Sirius is yet again teasing him about his furry problem, he's been doing it since they found out last week.

He didn’t say a word. Not about the scarf. Not about the tea. Not about the quiet, careful gifts that smelled like her.

But he looked down the table at her one last time - and this time, she looked back.

Just for a second.

And he thought: She knows.

And worse: She’s kind.

And worst of all: He might come back anyway.

Second-year : June 11th, 1973

The lightin the boys’ dormitory had dimmed low, casting flickering shadows against the stone walls and warming the edges of the red and gold tapestries. Outside, the wind howled against the castle, rattling the windowpanes and whispering through the gaps like it wanted in. Inside, the mood was loose-limbed and half-lazy - that specific kind of comfort that came after dinner but before sleep, when everything felt suspended in amber.

Remus was stretched across his bed, back propped against the headboard, legs tangled in the duvet. A book sat forgotten on his lap, pages soft with wear. He hadn’t turned it in twenty minutes.

Sirius lay upside down on James’s bed, his head hanging off the edge, one hand tossing a Snitch into the air and catching it again with practiced ease. He was bored - which was dangerous. Sirius bored meant Sirius thinking, and Sirius thinking meant trouble.

James, ever restless, was perched on the edge of his desk, swinging his legs and poking aimlessly at the seams of a half-peeled Chocolate Frog wrapper. His hair looked like it had just lost a fight with gravity - worse than usual, which was saying something.

Peter was on the floor, cross-legged, unwrapping a packet of Every Flavour Beans like he was defusing a bomb - since when was this boy without treats?

It was peaceful in the way boys’ dorms are when the world feels far away - low laughter, familiar smells, the constant undercurrent of magic humming in the stone.

And then, Sirius opened his mouth.

“Gonna tell your little moonlight admirer how you feel,” he drawled from the foot of James’ bed, “or just keep inhaling her scarf like it’s your lifeline?”

James cackled immediately, delighted. “Bet she knits you socks next. Or a mitten. Should’ve seen the way you practically wagged your tail when she would pass.”

Peter, never one to be left out, piped up with wide eyes and even wider enthusiasm. “She’s got a whole book on werewolf habitats, y’know. I saw her reading it yesterday in the library. Highlighting bits, just wanted to say hi then she started feeding me facts about it. Not exactly my idea for a snack.”

Remus tried to laugh. He really did. His mouth twitched, the sound caught somewhere behind his teeth - but when it finally escaped, it wasn’t laughter. Not really. Too quiet. Too strained. It hit the floor between them like something delicate that had cracked on landing.

He rubbed a hand down his face, slow and bone-tired, then let it fall into his lap. His voice came out quiet, nearly swallowed by the room. “What if I’m just another creature to her?”

The effect was immediate. The teasing halted.

James stopped swinging his legs. Sirius sat up properly. Peter froze, a half-eaten bean forgotten between his fingers - probably for the better, the flavour was cobwebs.

Remus didn’t look up. Couldn’t. His gaze stayed fixed on the blanket, where his fingers twisted the fabric into nervous knots.

“Like. . . like a case study,” he said, the words slow, deliberate. “Another fascinating, tragic monster to write about. One she can observe from a distance and feel good about.”

The silence after that was different - thick and uncomfortable. It wasn’t the usual easy quiet that fell when they all drifted into their own thoughts. This one had edges.

Sirius shifted. The creak of the bed springs echoed louder than it should have in the hush.

“She idolizes Newt Scamander,” Remus continued, voice thin but steady. “Reads about magical creatures like they’re novels. What if I’m just one of those fantastic beasts? A good story for someone like her.”

His voice cracked - not loud, but raw. Frayed at the edges. “I don’t want to be a thing she pities.”

James was the first to speak. But this time, his voice had dropped from its usual larkish rhythm - softer now, almost hesitant. “That’s not exactly bad, is it?”

Remus blinked. Just once. Like the thought had knocked something loose.

“She knew,” James said, gently now. “And she didn’t flinch. Didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t run. She sees you - all of it - and she still brings you tea.”

Sirius, uncharacteristically subdued, let the silence stretch for a second before adding, “If I fancied a creature,” he said, “I’d give it a leash. Not a bloody knitted scarf.”

That earned him a look from James, but the meaning lingered underneath the sarcasm - unpolished but true.

Remus finally looked up, eyes flicking toward Sirius.

Sirius shrugged one shoulder. “That was a gift, mate. Not a 'Care for Magical Creatures' project.”

The words settled in the space between them like warmth. Heavy, but not burdensome.

Remus didn’t say anything. Just nodded once. Slow. Then, like it was second nature, he reached beneath his pillow and pulled out the scarf. His fingers curled around it - not in desperation, but something steadier. Quieter.

He held it close.

Like maybe, just maybe, it could keep the moon away.

Third-year : November 17, 1973

“You’re watching her again,” James whispered one day during Charms, his voice pitched low enough to avoid detection, but not low enough to hide the teasing fondness in it.

Remus didn’t even bother pretending to look away. He was watching you from across the room, where you sat cross-legged in your chair, completely absorbed in whatever you were sketching in the margins of your notes. Your tongue poked out in concentration, a tiny, unconscious thing, and he wondered if you even knew you did that.

“I’m not watching her,” Remus mumbled, even as his eyes remained fixed on you.

Sirius leaned in, smirking. “Mate, if you stared any harder, you’d see through her robe.”

“She’s just - she’s interesting,” Remus said, voice barely above a whisper. He was trying not to turn red, trying not to feel the way his pulse picked up when you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “She reads Beasts & Beings for fun.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “Still funny when she told Kettleburn that his dragon theory was outdated. She quoted Newt Scamander at him. In detail.”

“She did,” Remus admitted before he could stop himself. The corner of his mouth twitched. His eyes softened as he watched you scribble something else on the edge of your parchment.

That night, he found a tiny pouch smuggled into his bookbag - he definitely did not put that there. Inside was a single lemon drop, his favorite. There was no note. Just a ribbon tying the pouch shut. Green, not his House color.

He stared at it for a long moment, heart twisting, then quietly tucked it into the back of his drawer, not intending at all to eat it.

Third-year : January 14, 1974

You and Remus got paired in Potions.

It hadn’t been planned. Slughorn, flustered after Wilkes nearly caused a cauldron explosion, had shuffled everyone around. You’d ended up beside Remus, settling into his table like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Hi,” you said, bright and easy. “We make a good team, yeah?”

Remus could only nod mutely, trying to focus on the flobberworms he was supposed to be slicing. His hands weren’t steady. He nearly took off a fingertip.

“You alright?” you asked, leaning in a little closer to check his work.

He could smell your hair. It was warm and comforting, like chocolate and apple pie, like something from a dream he hadn’t let himself have.

“Fine,” he croaked, forcing himself to look at the cutting board instead of you. His ears were burning.

After class, he sat on his bed for half an hour trying to write a thank-you note for the lemon drop - just something simple, something kind. But nothing felt right. Every line sounded stupid or too much or not enough.

In the end, he burned it.

Fourth-year : September 31, 1974

By then, everyone knew you were odd.

Not in a cruel way - at least, not most of the time. You didn’t go on many Hogsmeade trips, claiming you were “busy” with things no one else seemed to understand. You doodled magical creatures in your textbooks, filled the corners of your parchment with sketches of things no one else cared to imagine. Once, someone caught you reading a book about Chimaera taming and called you weird to your face.

You just laughed.

Remus loved that laugh. It was soft and sheepish, like you knew you were strange and had already made peace with it - like you have decided that's who you were and, what's so bad about it?

Sirius came storming back into their dorm one night, arms crossed and indignant.

“Marlene just said she’s lame for skipping Hogsmeade again,” he declared. “Knitting. Can you believe it?”

Remus blinked. “She’s what?”

“Knitting. Like a bloody gramma. Didn’t even say no - just mumbled something about wool gauge and disappeared.”

Remus neglected to comment on it - although he is interested, anything about you was a sure way to get his attention. Just the mention of you makes him perk up.

The next morning, after a particularly rough full moon, Remus found a scarf folded neatly right near the passage in the Shrieking Shack. Green and gold. Loosely stitched with little stars embroidered at the ends. It was soft - softer than anything he owned.

He clutched it to his chest for ten whole minutes, eyes closed, breathing in your scent, before hiding it under his jumper just in time for Madam Pomfrey to pick him up.

Fifth-year : March , 1975

The Animagus transformations worked.

It was an absolutely insane idea - one only the Marauders of all people could think of - and it worked! They ran with him now. Laughed and barked and butted heads beneath the moonlight. It wasn’t just suffering anymore. He wasn’t alone.

But you didn’t know.

You still left things for him - little kindnesses you never claimed. A pair of self-warming socks. A clipping from The Daily Prophet with an article about centaur diplomacy, your notes scribbled in the margins. A new tea after every full moon.

You thought he was still alone every time. Still cold and trembling in the Shrieking Shack.

He couldn't confront you about it and open the exploding can of worms, so he also couldn't let you know that he had friends - brothers - to be with him every full moon.

His very own, mismatched pack -

Fifth-year : February 16, 1976

Sirius dropped onto Remus’s bed one night, his ribs still sore from the transformation -

“Alright,” he said with a sigh, flopping backward. “I get it.”

Remus looked up, eyes tired. “Get what?”

“The scent thing,” Sirius said. “You said she smells good. You’re right. She smells like - something sweet and like, pastries. Like she’d be soft to the touch.”

Something flickered behind Remus’s eyes. Sharp. Territorial.

“Don’t talk about her like that,” he said, voice low.

Sirius blinked. “Whoa. Relax -”

“I mean it.”

James poked his head through the curtain, eyebrows raised. Peter followed.

Sirius sat up slowly, then grinned. “Ohhh. We’ve reached the territorial stage.”

Peter snorted. “Our Moony’s in love.”

“Shut up,” Remus muttered, but his face was already turning red.

“You could tell her,” James offered. Not teasing. Just kind.

Remus stared at the scar across his palm. The latest one. Pale and healing.

“I don’t want her to see the monster.”

James sat beside him, patting his knee. “She already has, Mate,” he said softly, “and she still leaves you biscuits.

Sixth-year : December 16, 1976

It’s nearly Christmas break. The snow is falling heavy, blanketing the castle in white. The moon is coming. He can feel it in his bones.

You passed him in the corridor today, cheeks pink with cold, scarf askew.

“Remus!” you called, smiling wide. You held up a parcel wrapped in paper. “I made extra peppermint bark. Want some?”

He nodded, throat too tight to speak. You pressed it into his hand like it was nothing - like you didn’t even realize what it meant to him.

Later, in the quiet of the dorm, he pulls out the scarf - the green and gold one - from under his pillow. It still smells like you - after all this time, he had managed to preserve it - he's always been the best at charms among Marauders. Still feels soft from your hands.

He presses his face into it as snow begins to fall outside, the world hushed and gentle for once, and wonders - not for the first time - if maybe, just maybe, this ache inside him might quiet someday.

Remus gets up abruptly - “I'm off to go patrol.”

You don’t look up from your knitting. The yarn pulls tight between your fingers, snagging slightly as though it’s resisting your movements - like it’s aware your mind isn’t really here, not in this warm, humming common room, but somewhere else entirely. Somewhere a few feet away.

Somewhere just across the rug where a certain someone used to lounge with a book half-hidden behind the arm of a chair, scarf always knotted around his throat no matter if it was snowing or sunlit outside.

“It’s not a crush,” you mutter, voice low and stubborn.

Marlene laughs, not cruelly but with that familiar ease of someone who’s seen all your tells. “It’s a tragedy,” she says, brushing a bit of fluff from her sleeve. “The boy looks at you like he’s starving and won’t let himself eat.”

Your fingers slip - just for a second - but it’s enough to drop a stitch. You suck in a breath through your teeth.

Marlene doesn’t push. Just reaches over and tugs gently at the yarn, not enough to undo anything but enough to make a point. “Come on. Go steal something sweet. Butterbeer tart’s still on the menu if you’re lucky.”

You don’t reply. Don’t even nod. But ten minutes later, your knitting tucked away and scarf bundled into your bag, you’re gone.

The corridors are quiet, hushed in that late-night way where even your footsteps seem cautious, like they’re afraid to be caught out of bed. You’ve walked this route more times than you can count - past the tapestry with the unicorns and the secret shortcut, past the suits of armor that hum little tunes when they think no one’s paying attention.

You’re one portrait away from the kitchens.

But you never make it.

Not this time.

Because the second you turn the corner, just as the warm smell of baked bread begins to tease your senses, a voice cuts through the soft torchlight.

“Caught you.”

You nearly jump out of your skin. Heart stutters, breath catches—and of course it’s him. Of course it’s Remus bloody Lupin, arms crossed in that quietly superior way of his, prefect badge gleaming like some smug little moon pinned to his chest.

You blink at him, trying to figure out just what he meant by those words, then blink again as if you can reset the moment.

“I’m sleepwalking,” you say, trying to summon a convincing tone but failing miserably.

One eyebrow rises, unimpressed.

“This is a dream,” you try again, lifting your chin like that’ll help sell it,“you’re a dream.”

Still no smirk - but now there’s a grin, and it’s worse, somehow. Wide and real and golden with amusement, warm in a way that knocks the breath out of you. “Right. And the hallway is a marshmallow field?”

“No,” you say primly, adjusting your bag. “It’s a treacle tart field. Get your dream logic straight.”

That makes him laugh. Really laugh - not the usual quiet chuckle he gives when he’s grading papers or half-listening to Sirius’ antics, but something bigger. Breathless and surprised. It bubbles out of him and wraps around you like sunlight.

“Come on,” he says, tilting his head toward the kitchens. “Let’s go see if the dream pantry’s still stocked.”

Inside, the house-elves beam the moment you enter. They flit around like you’re a favorite relative come home for a visit, pressing warm pastries and mugs of cocoa into your hands, asking after your classes like they haven’t seen you in months.

You accept a tart with a smile you don’t quite realize is on your face, drop into your usual seat near the hearth, and glance up - only to find Remus still watching you. Not in a way that feels heavy or intrusive, but like he’s seeing something he hadn’t noticed before.

“Do you come here often?” he asks, accepting a steaming mug from a house-elf with a polite nod.

You take a sip, let the heat settle in your chest, and shrug. “Only when the moon’s not full.”

His expression shifts, just slightly. His eyes flicker, and for a heartbeat you wonder if you’ve pushed too far, said too much.

But then he smiles again - softer this time. Quieter. A little sad.

“Right.”

And you both leave it at that, he misses his chance and you don't give him another one.

It earns a huff of laughter, soft and full of something you can’t quite name. You don’t say anything else after that - not for a long time. You just pass bites back and forth between you, let the cocoa warm your fingers, and sink into the kind of silence that feels full instead of empty.

He walks you back when the clock nears curfew.

The halls are darker now, hushed with sleep, shadows curled in every corner. Everything feels like it’s been dipped in ink—quiet and secret and slow.

“I should write you up,” he says, casual as anything, hands in his pockets.

“You should try to catch me awake next time,” you toss back, bumping your shoulder lightly into his.

He laughs again - richer this time. Like he’s not pretending to be anything. And it’s the kind of sound that lodges itself in your chest, something you’ll hold onto in the days ahead.

When you reach the portrait hole, you pause. Neither of you says goodnight - not yet.

You just look at him.

And he looks back - like he’s memorizing your face in this exact light, like he’s afraid it might be different tomorrow.

“Thank you,” he says after a moment.

“For what?”

He hesitates, like the answer might tip something between you. Then: “For. . .” he trails off, letting the words simmer in his mouth, for not running, he let it die down. “tonight, it was fun. I'm glad I didn't turn you in - for now.”

Later that night, he doesn’t reach for the scarf.

Doesn’t wrap it around his throat like armor.

Doesn’t need to.

Because your scent clings to the jumper he wore - honeyed and soft, threaded through with cinnamon and something warmer he can’t name. Something alive.

He buries his face in the fabric, lets the night fold around him.

And for the first time in a long while, he sleeps like he wasn't being crushed under the weight of the moon.

Sixth-year : January 6, 1977

You don’t mean to listen in on the Marauders.

You were just on your way back from the kitchens - late again, as always - and your steps slowed outside the hospital wing out of something you didn’t want to name. It’s the morning after a full moon. And even if no one else says it out loud, your body seems to know. The air feels different. Heavier. Like it’s holding its breath.

You hear the tail-end of voices.

Remus, angry. Fraying at the edges in that quiet, splintered way he always tries to hide.

“I told you to leave me.”

James, patient - always the one trying to stitch everything back together. “We just wanted - ”

“You don’t get it,” Remus snaps, bitter like blood in the mouth. “You can’t.”

“We do, mate,” Sirius cuts in, uncharacteristically soft - careful, like he knows the cracks. “That’s why we’re here.”

Remus exhales, and it sounds like it hurts him to do so. “Then stop pretending you can fix it, I almost killed Wormtail last night!”

A pause. The kind that stretches and settles in the hollow of your throat.

Then footsteps.

You start to back away, heart hammering, limbs sluggish with indecision - but James steps into the corridor and spots you before you can vanish, caught like a secret you didn’t mean to keep.

He doesn’t startle. Just stops. Looks at you like he expected this. Like he knew exactly where you’d be.

“He’s not himself right now,” James says, voice even but not unkind. “But you calm him down. More than any of us.”

You blink at him, trying to figure out just what he meant by those words, then blink again - because your hands suddenly feel too empty. Too full. Like they’re holding something invisible and precious and terrifying all at once. You nod.

“Go,” James says, softer now, “he needs you.”

The hospital wing smells like potion fumes and something burnt. Something scorched at the edges, like a fire only just put out.

You step in quietly.

He’s curled on his side, back to you. Bandages at his ribs, neck, arms - he looks like someone who’s lost a war he never volunteered for. Someone still bleeding from it.

You pause at the foot of the bed, uncertain.

“Remus?” you say softly, like saying his name too loud might break something.

No response.

You glance around. Madam Pomfrey’s not here. The salves are still out on the side table, lids half-off, like someone left in a rush. Like they couldn’t stand to stay.

“I can help,” you offer, voice gentle, fingers already reaching. And when he still says nothing - no yes, no go away - you take that as a maybe.

This is it, the silent confirmation that you knew what you knew - not much else to say about it. But this one move was the last hit to break the dam.

You kneel beside the bed, the stone floor cold against your knees. Your fingers find the jar of ointment. Your hands don’t shake - but only because they’ve done this before. Only never like this. Never with so much quiet wrapped around you both.

You dab the salve to the edge of a wound along his ribs. He flinches. A breath hitches.

“Don’t,” he says, voice wrecked and raw around the edges.

You hesitate, jar in one hand, salve catching the light. “You need it.”

“Don’t feed it,” he whispers, like a prayer, a plea disguised as a warning, “you keep poking the wolf. Without meaning to.”

You go still.

He doesn’t look at you. Just stares at the ceiling like it’s safer than your face.

“Most days I feel more like it than me,” he says. “The wolf wakes up earlier. Stays longer. It’s harder to pull away.”

A pause, jagged.

“And then there’s you.”

You don’t move. You’re afraid if you do, he’ll stop.

“You,” he says again, like it costs him something. “With your scarves. And your tea. And your smile. You keep being kind. And I can’t take kindness. I latch onto it. I have latched onto it.”

Another pause. One that sinks into the space between your ribs.

“Don’t feed it. It’ll come back.”

Like a starving stray that has known kindness for the first time ever.

You set down the jar. Slowly, deliberately.

Then you reach for his hand - the one resting awkwardly near his side, too still to be comfortable. You take it gently, hold it like it’s already breaking.

He stiffens.

You don’t let go. You squeeze. Just enough to be felt.

And then, finally, you force him to meet your eyes. “That’s not so bad, is it?”

And he looks at you like you’ve set something in him on fire - or maybe put it out. You’re not sure which would be worse.

You squeeze his hand again.

“I’m still here.”

He doesn’t say anything.

But when he finally falls asleep, it’s without the scarf.

And your scent lingers. Treacle and something warm. Something alive. Something his wolf doesn’t want to chase away.

Sixth-year : January 10, 1977

The Great Hall is alive with golden light and louder voices, laughter ricocheting off enchanted ceilings and floating candles. Someone at the Hufflepuff table is singing a ridiculous version of the school song - loud, off-key, and entirely too enthusiastic for this early in the morning.

You’re sitting between Marlene and Mary, halfway through your toast and entirely caught in the middle of an argument about Quidditch that’s escalating in volume and absurdity.

“You couldn’t even smack a Bludger if it has been yelling at you to be hit,” Marlene snipes across the table at Sirius, who grins - all teeth and mischief - and leans over to smear jam onto the sleeve of her robe like it’s a personal victory.

“Oh please, I don't even need to look to hit,” Sirius says, smug. “I'd hit that.”

“You smack like a toddler with noodle arms.”

Peter snorts into his pumpkin juice, nearly spilling it. Mary leans into his shoulder, her hand curled around her cup, and whispers something that makes Peter turn a particularly impressive shade of red.

You glance across the table to where Remus is sitting, posture relaxed but eyes too still. He’s reading. Or pretending to read. His eyes flick up the second you laugh - then dart back to the page like he hadn’t been watching you for the past fifteen minutes. Like he didn’t already know the shape of your voice when it’s soft with amusement.

James doesn’t notice a thing. He’s too focused on Lily Evans, who is seated two tables away, expertly ignoring him with the kind of grace that only makes James Potter want her more.

You nudge Marlene’s knee under the table. “Do you think Potter has ever blinked around her?”

“No,” she replies, taking a casual sip of tea. “I think he’s saving them all up for a dramatic flurry when she finally says yes.”

You nearly spit your drink laughing.

Later that week - same messy group, same noisy chaos, but the setting’s shifted. The common room is a sprawl of limbs and parchment and unfinished essays. Firelight flickers gold across tired faces.

James is doodling something on his supposed Transfiguration essay (you assume it’s Lily-related - possibly tragic, definitely dramatic), Sirius is lounging upside-down on the couch and attempting to convince Marlene to let him smack a Bludger to her to test how long a bruise would last. . . for science.

“The people must know, there is a thirst for knowledge” he insists, waving an imaginary wand like it’s a microphone.

“All you have in you is thirst, you wanker,” Marlene says without looking up.

You’re sitting on the floor, legs crossed beside Remus.

He’s reading about werewolf legislation reforms - you recognize the spine immediately. You gave him that book last Christmas, carefully wrapped with no tag, as if anonymity might soften the meaning behind the gift.

You’re flipping through Fantastic Beasts for what has to be the hundredth time, hunting for a creature you haven’t already committed to memory. The pages are worn and curling at the corners. You like it better that way.

“You ever consider writing Scamander a letter?” Remus murmurs, his voice quiet, his eyes still on the page. “I think he’d actually love to hear from someone who’s read his book so many times the corners are falling apart.”

You shrug, but there’s a smile in it. “What if I sound like a fan? Or worse - like I want to marry his Niffler or something?”

Remus glances at you then, mouth twitching. “You’d probably take better care of it than most people.”

And for a second, just a second, there’s something in his eyes. Something soft. Something oddly mournful, like he’s mourning something that never had the chance to begin.

You look away first.

Sixth-year : February 19, 1977

Saturday morning: the boys’ dormitory, loud and warm and cluttered with socks and open books.

You’re not there, of course.

But your name echoes anyway.

“Did you hear?” Marlene’s voice bounces into the boys’ dorm via the open stairwell. “She had been invited to a date at Hogsmeade today!”

Peter blinks, mid-yawn. “Wait. Who said yes to what?”

“____,” Marlene announces, practically beaming. “Said yes to a Hogsmeade date with that cute Puff. You know the one who messed up the Bubble-Head Charm and nearly drowned himself.”

Sirius lets out a low whistle. “Bet Moony is thrilled.”

James nudges Remus with his foot. “You gonna let her slip away like that, mate?”

“She’s not mine to begin with,” Remus says. He doesn’t look up from his book.

But the boys notice. They notice the way his hand tightens on the spine, how his thumb presses hard against the edge. How he hasn’t turned a page in ten minutes.

Then a second date. Then a third.

Each time, you return laughing. Bright-eyed, breathless, the sleeves of your jumper dusted with cold air and crumbs from Honeydukes. You say he’s funny. You say he always forgets the way to Madam Puddifoot’s and insists on turning right at least three times. You say he tripped on his own shoelaces and tried to pretend it was a dance move.

You never say romantic. Never say interested.

You keep saying friend.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because every time you tell the story, Remus hears it in the space between your words.

He hears it because he’s always listening for you. Even when he wishes he wouldn’t.

The fourth date happens on a crisp Sunday morning in late-April. The kind of morning where the sun pretends it’s warm but the wind says otherwise.

You meet him outside the gates, scarf tucked around your neck, mittens on your hands. You’re unaware that Marlene is watching from the entrance like a hawk.

By dinner, she’s had enough.

“Four dates is basically a proposal,” she declares at the table, voice cutting through conversation like a blade.

Sirius chokes on his pumpkin juice.

The boys freeze.

James lowers his fork slowly. “Is that. . . is that a real rule?”

“It is now,” Marlene says, matter-of-fact.

Peter side-eyes Remus. “Well. Better start planning the wedding.”

Remus says nothing.

Just folds the scarf you gave him - the one he never wears in public, but always carries anyway - and tucks it back into his pocket. The same way he always does when his hands are shaking.

Seventh-year : September 24, 1977

Sixth year ended in a blur of exams and the golden haze of summer seeping into every hallway. Marlene starts a game where she dramatically announces “End of an Era” every time someone does anything - eating a last toastie, turning in their final essay, waving goodbye to a professor.

She nearly burst into tears when you all board the train home. She insists she isn’t crying, just “suffering from seasonal sentimentality,” but even Sirius hugs her twice - some appeasement -

But seventh year comes faster than you expect.

James gets Head Boy. Lily Evans, Head Girl.

And you? You find your name stitched in gold thread into a seventh-year Prefect badge - and beside it, written as if it was always meant to be, is Remus J. Lupin as your male counterpart.

James beams when he sees the list. “Match made in Prefect heaven,” he says, far too pleased with himself.

Remus narrows his eyes. “You did this.”

“Me?” James clutches his chest, mock-offended. “I would never meddle in school administrative affairs. Except when I do.”

Remus sighs, but there's a flush blooming at his collar, subtle but unmistakable.

That Friday, you’re on your first patrol of the year - the corridors are torch-lit and unusually quiet, with that soft, heavy hush that only Hogwarts seems to have at night. Every step echoes like a secret, every laugh feels louder than it should.

You’re making dumb jokes about Peeves trying to charm the Ravenclaw bronze eagle knocker into falling in love with him when Remus suddenly asks it.

“So,” he says, voice casual but noticeably strained, “how’s your boyfriend?”

You blink at him, trying to figure out just what he meant by those words, then blink again, slower this time, processing the implication.

“My what?”

He glances over at you, brows furrowed in confusion. “That boy - the one from last year. Weren’t you seeing him? You went on 4 dates - ”

You laugh, quick and surprised, shaking your head. “You mean Truman from Charms? That wasn’t - oh, no. I didn’t even realize those were dates ‘til Marlene started threatening to sketch out my wedding dress.”

He doesn’t say anything after that. Just keeps walking - like he was starting to rewrite everything in his head.

You glance sideways and grin. “I’m single, Remus. Wildly, tragically single. You could even ask me out, if you wanted.”

Remus nearly trips over his own feet. You were too bold, but then again - you wore red robes.

“What?” he says, voice pitched higher than usual, startled and almost horrified. “You - you’d want - ?”

“Remus,” you say, barely holding back a laugh as you nudge your shoulder into his, “how about it? Next Hogsmead weekend? Or do I need to formally petition the Department of Magical Creatures to approve a date with you?”

He’s still pink in the ears. It spreads slowly, like the blush is rising against his will.

“You’re very high maintenance,” you tease, turning down a corridor as your footsteps fall in sync. “I’ve been flirting for years and you just kept blinking at me like I was a particularly confusing Runes puzzle - you had to make me ask you.”

“I thought you were just. . .kind.”

“I am,” you say, soft but sure. “But not that kind.”

He grins then, wide and stunned, like he’s been holding his breath for a year. “Alright then. It’s a date.”

It appears he's still a Gryffindor after all.

Later that night ; the boys’ dormitory -

Remus walks in dazed, dreamy-eyed, still looking like he hasn’t fully returned to earth.

James glances up from his exploding snap game, eyes narrowing. “You look like you’ve just seen Merlin himself.”

Sirius sniffs the air dramatically. “Do I smell. . .triumph? Or fear?”

Peter leans across his bedpost. “He’s smiling. He never smiles like that unless it's something involving ____.”

Remus blinks once, still dazed. “She asked me out.”

The room erupts.

James throws his deck into the air, cards scattering like confetti. “Finally!”

Sirius howls like an actual wolf. “The wolf has RISEN!”

Peter nearly falls off his bed laughing. “Do you need help picking out an outfit? I can lend you my cologne. It’s French.”

Remus groans, flopping back onto his bed with the dramatic flair of someone halfway between overwhelmed and elated. “I hate all of you.”

Sirius pelts him with a sock. “You love us, you fucking sap.”

You should be glad you didn't get to watch the chaos, or you'll recall your 13 year old self and confirm that yes, boys still are very weird.

Seventh-year : October 15, 1977

You tug your scarf tighter around your neck, the ends whipping in the wind, cheeks already pink from the chill. But the warmth curling in your stomach has nothing to do with the weather. It builds quietly, steadily, like something planted long ago finally beginning to bloom.

Remus is already waiting outside the Three Broomsticks, hair wind-tousled and eyes soft. He’s smiling at you like he still can’t quite believe you’re real, like this moment is something borrowed from a dream he’s too afraid to wake up from -

Perhaps this has played out in his dreams.

“You came,” he says, voice soft with disbelief.

You blink at him, then you snort. “I asked you.”

“I know,” he replies, glancing away like he’s embarrassed by his own hopefulness. “Still feels like a dream.”

Honeydukes -

He offers you his arm like a gentleman out of time, and you loop yours through it without hesitation. It fits - effortlessly, like this has always been waiting in some quiet corner of the universe.

Inside Honeydukes, the air is thick with sugar and nostalgia. You ramble about the magical properties of Fizzing Whizzbees, the way their carbonation interacts with wizarding blood to produce temporary levitation. Then you’re onto exploding bonbons, and how they mimic Puffapod seed reactions when dropped at the right angle.

Remus listens like your words are music. His smile is quiet but wide, the kind that settles deep into the bones. He doesn’t interrupt, just watches you like your joy is something sacred. When you finally pause, mid-sentence and mid-laugh, he holds out your favorite sweet without saying a word.

“For the creature expert,” he says, and it sounds like something more than just a joke.

Through Town -

You walk slowly, deliberately, letting the afternoon stretch itself out. The sky is a soft watercolor of clouds, and your footsteps leave gentle prints in a thin veil of snow.

You pause at the post office and point at the rows of owls. “Great Greys mate for life,” you say, all faux-seriousness and scientific pride.

Remus makes a quiet noise in his throat. “Lofty standards,” he mutters. “Terrible pressure, really.”

You laugh, loud and sudden, and he turns to look at you like he’s trying to memorize the sound - like he could bottle it and keep it in his pocket for later.

Madam Puddifoot’s -

“I swear I didn’t know it would be this. . . pink,” you whisper as you both slide into the lace-covered booth, eyes wide at the heart-shaped sugar bowls and twinkling fairy lights.

“I did,” Remus says, and there’s something suspiciously smug in the way he hides a grin behind his teacup.

You shoot him a betrayed look. “You listened to James bloody Potter?”

“To be fair,” Remus replies, sipping from the floral rim, “he is in a long-term campaign for Evans’ heart. Something must’ve worked.”

You both giggle, quietly conspiratorial. The table feels impossibly small, the air around you steeped in rose-scented steam and unspoken things. He reaches for the sugar at the same time you do, and your fingers brush.

Neither of you move for a second too long.

Shrieking Shack Hill -

As the sun begins to dip below the trees, the two of you find yourselves at the top of the hill, under the old tree that’s watched over this strange little shack for decades.

“I used to think that place was haunted,” you murmur, voice quiet with memory.

Remus hums beside you, low and thoughtful. “It is.”

You glance at him, surprised by the certainty in his tone. But he’s watching the horizon, face unreadable, wind threading through his hair.

Then he turns. His eyes meet yours, and they soften, all the armour gone.

“Thank you,” he says, the words carrying more weight than you expect. “For all the scarves. And the tea. And the creature facts. And. . .for not running.”

Your heart stutters. You blink, then breathe in slowly, steadying yourself against the gravity of the moment. “I wasn’t planning to. Not then. Not now.” Not ever.

Silence settles over you both, thick with promise. Not awkward - just full. Like the world is holding its breath.

Then you smile. “Did you know bowtruckles won’t let anyone near their trees unless they like them?”

Remus chuckles, warm and real. “Are you comparing yourself to a bowtruckle?”

You shake your head, nudging his shoulder with yours. “No, I’m comparing you to one. Grumpy. Guarded. Weirdly charming - green and cute.”

He throws his head back and laughs, loud and unguarded. For a moment, you think you’ve never seen him look quite so alive.

Seventh-year : October 15, 1977 - in the evening

The Gryffindor common room was golden with firelight, every velvet surface draped with seventh-years in varying states of homework neglect. Someone had spelled the windows open just enough to let in the crisp night air, and it smelled like leaves, candle smoke, and the faintest hint of caramel. The kind of night that made even essays about goblin rebellions feel a little romantic.

You were curled into the corner of the couch, knees pulled up as Remus sat beside you, quiet and warm, his fingers occasionally brushing yours on the cushion between you. You weren’t holding hands, not exactly -

“Alright, someone spill it,” Marlene declared, sitting on the armrest of the sofa with her legs dangling over the side, Mary sat properly on it next to her. “Potter has been suspiciously quiet for the past two hours and Evans is pink in the cheeks.”

Lily groaned. “Oh, Merlin’s sake - ”

“She said yes!” James blurted before she could protest. He was practically vibrating where he sat, one leg over the other armrest of his chair, looking like someone had hit him with a cheering charm. “We’re going to the next Hogsmeade weekend. Together. As a couple - I'll propose then.”

The room exploded. Sirius let out a fake sob and clutched his chest. Peter whooped. Mary clapped like it was the Quidditch Cup final.

You could only stifle your laughter behind your hand.

“About bloody time,” you muttered, nudging Remus with your elbow. He smirked.

Lily rolled her eyes but didn’t stop smiling. “Propose on the second date and we are breaking up before a monthsarry.”

“Third date then,” James said, positively beaming.

Mary twirled a strand of Lily’s hair around her finger lazily. “Love is in the air,” she declared. “Must be something in the tap water this year.”

Peter looked up from where he was cross-legged on the rug. “Or the food. Might be time to test the pumpkin juice.”

“Please do,” said Marlene. “Because if I had to watch another moment of unspoken yearning between you idiots, I was going to take matters into my own hands.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I had the love potions ready,” she deadpanned. “Evans and Potter over there, obvious as sin. And you two - ” she pointed between you and Remus, “were worse.”

Your cheeks flushed. Remus let out a soft laugh, dropping his head to you, face hidden into your hair - you blush harder.

“Unlike bloody Evans who was stubborn as fuck,” said Mary. “You two were just bloody idiots plain and simple.”

“Harsh,” Peter quipped, half-heartedly.

“Oh shut up,” Remus mumbled, but there was no real bite in it. His hand brushed yours again, firmer this time. You let it happen.

Then, because Peter had never known when to stop: “So Marlene, you and Sirius have been getting close, huh? All that Quidditch banter. . . odds on a third Gryffindor couple forming?”

There was a beat. Everyone turned.

Marlene blinked once. “Peter, I’m gay.”

Sirius made an offended sound - obviously holding back his laughter while a glint is seen in his eyes - like he always knew. “What? And here I thought we had something special!”

“You have brain damage,” she replied cheerfully, folding her arm to rest it on Mary's head.

The room dissolved into laughter again. Even Lily cracked a grin as she leaned into James. Mary chatises Marlene for messing with her hair.

And amidst the chaos - the comfort of old jokes, the glow of firelight, the echo of seven years of shared history - Remus leaned just slightly into you. His hand found yours, finally, properly this time. No accidental brushes. No scarf between you.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

The common room hummed with joy, and for once, no one was pretending not to notice.

end. masterlist

[neeeooon]

Good afternoon, Elle. I'm here with my seventh? request. May I request: Divorcee!Blue Lock men finding out about their kid had with the ex-wife (Reader) after x. number of years. Characters: Chigiri, Yukimiya, any other characters you want

i gotchu ml <3 thank you for the req!

when they find out they have a kid

ex-husband!bllk x fem!reader. angst, cursing, mentions of sex (no smut), chigiri and yuki’s kids have names

chigiri hyoma

-> “no way,” your legs shake as you take in your ex-husband’s appearance for the first time in nearly six years

-> when chigiri sees the child behind you, he’s almost offended that you moved on so quickly, based on the child’s older age. but then he sees the bright red fridge peeking out from beneath the boy’s beanie, and his heart stops

-> you hurriedly grab your son’s hand. “come on, hikari. we’re going to miss the bus, and i don’t want you out too long in this weather.” he mumbles a response and follows, but chigiri wraps a trembling hand around your arm, holding you in place

-> “y/n, what—“ “hey! let go of my mom!” hikari yells when he sees, immediately kicking chigiri in the shins in an attempt to “rescue” you

-> you would have laughed if you weren’t on the verge of a mental breakdown. telling your son to stop, you quickly step between the two and kneel down to match hikari’s height. “stop. thank you for protecting me, honey, but i… i know him. it’s okay.”

-> he’s not convinced, but your son knows better than to argue back with you. he shoots the man, his father, a single glare when you stand to catch chigiri’s shaky stare

-> “wh—y/n, what the fuck?” you decide against scolding him for cursing in front of a child considering the situation. “how old is he? how long… what the fuck! i have a son?”

-> you swallow hard. “yes.” behind you, hikari tenses. “he’s my dad? but he’s pretty!” you swat playfully at your son and try desperately not to laugh

-> the surprise meeting made you miss the bus, and chigiri offers to drive you home for a long overdue discussion

yukimiya kenyu

-> yukimiya never wanted his marriage to end. he loved you with everything within him, before and after everything happened, but your hectic work schedule always clashed with his, and you felt that you’d grown apart beyond repair

-> after one last night together, you left. you tried contacting your ex-husband when you cried over the positive pregnancy tests a month later, but his number had already been changed

-> you could have tried harder to reach out to him. you knew that. but how could you justify quitting your job to raise your daughter alone when you refused to leave to settle down with him?

-> you’re in the airport, returning home after visiting your parents. your daughter complained about being cold, so you stepped out of the way to grab her jacket from her suitcase. when you turned back to give it to her, she was gone

-> panic immediately clawed at your chest. no, no, no. she was right there! where could she have gone? frantic, you shove through the crowd, desperately calling your daughter’s name in hopes of her replying to you

-> with her pretty brown curls, your daughter is the spitting image of her father. tears of relief stream down your face when you spot your daughter jumping around a man, her arms raised to he held by him

-> you recognize him the instant you got a good look at his features, but you don’t even care. “nari!” you sobbed, dropping to your knees and scooping the little girl to your chest. “don’t ever leave without telling me, do you understand?”

-> “but, i found dada!” she giggled, completely oblivious to the hell she put you through. yukimiya stares down at you, jaw set. when nari pulls on his legs, he crouches down to match your heights

-> “y/n.” “kenyu.” “still working?” “…” you can’t reply. nari stumbles over to your ex-husband and squishes his cheeks between her hands. “isn’t dada handsome! i love him so much!” yukimiya gently removes himself from her grip to turn away so she doesn’t see him tearing up. there’s no denying that she is a yukimiya, so you force yourself to ask for kenyu’s new number. “we can talk about this later.”

nagi seishiro

-> “please don’t tell him,” you begged reo as he stared down at the grey-eyed toddler huddling by your legs

-> you were never close to reo despite being married to his best friend. you couldn’t deal with their work schedule, and nagi wasn’t willing to put the effort in to save your marriage, so you changed your number and left while he was playing an away game

-> reo tracked you down on social media two years later, wanting to check up on you when he stumbled across you and your son

-> “how could you keep this from him?” reo interrogated you, furious on his best friend’s behalf. his reaction set you off. “not tell him? as if he would even care! i’m doing what’s best for my son, and it’s keeping him to myself and loving him enough for the both of us.”

-> you didn’t know what reo already texted nagi before knocking on your door. the elevator dings, and your stomach drops when you spot your ex-husband with a bored expression on his face. the slight widening of his eyes is the only indication that he recognizes you

-> “wassup?” he says to your toddler, making you scoff. despite you, your son breaks out into the loudest, most gleeful laugh you’d ever heard him make. “sup!” he yells, trying to mimic nagi

-> you rub your forehead, extremely stressed, as nagi’s lip twitches at your son. “hm. mine?” “yep.” “his name?” you tell him, and when nagi calls to your son, he screams with laughter

-> you stand in the doorway with reo, watching nagi and your son playing together. “i don’t like this,” you admit, and reo nods. “it’s a distraction, for sure.” “wow. sorry my child, the one i wanted to keep from him, is a distraction. it’s almost as if i didn’t tell him for a reason.”

-> “you should have told me.” nagi’s voice startles you, as you didn’t even know he was listening. glancing up, his hooded eyes meet yours, and you can barely make out the tiny glint of hurt in them. “he’s cool. i’d had wanted to meet him.”

michael kaiser

-> kaiser was devastated when his marriage to you failed. he didn’t admit it at the time, too prideful and blinded by his rage for the game, and it was one of the reasons you got divorced in the first place

-> that devastation pales in comparison to what he feels when he sees you five years later. you and the little girl in your arms. the little girl with eyes just like his

-> “y/n,” your name is a choked whisper, but even if the crowded grocery store, you’d recognize it anywhere. guilt swells in your chest as you turn and lock eyes with your ex-husband. eyes like your daughters

-> she gives your hand a tug when she feels you freeze. “come on, mommy. we need to get the choco bears before they run out!” but you can’t move beneath kaiser’s unblinking gaze

-> as you watch kaiser staring down at his daughter, pain prevent on his face, you realize what a horrible mistake you’ve made

-> “kaiser, i…” but what could you possibly say? you always blamed his pride for destroying your marriage, when you were the one too prideful to ask for help. to tell him you had his daughter

-> your daughter gives your hand another tug. “mommy, the bears…” but she trails off when she sees how hard this random blond guy is staring at her. uncomfortable, your daughter shuffles behind your legs and out of his view

-> rubbing his eyes, kaiser roughly clears his throat and schools his features. “care to explain?”

oliver aiku

-> you and aiku got married on a whim. you’d been sleeping together for a few weeks, got wasted after he won at nationals, and got married that night

-> you were divorced a few days later and mutually decided to block each other, worried you might make another mistake if you met up again. little did you know, a big “mistake” was already planted !

-> four years later, you’re the single mom to a little girl with heterochromia. and her dad has no idea

-> you honestly believed you’d never see oliver ever again, and the thought didn’t bother you. you didn’t know him, not really. he was more of a one-night stand than an accidental husband, and knowing how much power he had as a professional soccer player, you weren’t going to risk him taking your daughter away from you

-> working at a bar by a soccer stadium, you’re usually up to date on which teams play when and always find cover on the days oliver is in town. however, your daughter has been sick, and after staying home with her, you’re out of money and can’t afford to miss work

-> of course, that’s the day oliver and his teammates stop by after the match for drinks. you prayed he didn’t recognize you, but the second he walked through the doors and saw you, the smirk on his face gave him away

-> you grinned back, internally panicking, but tried to play it cool. he didn’t know you had a daughter, his daughter, and you planned to keep it that way

-> “if it isn’t my ex-wife,” he chuckled, ditching his team and taking a seat at the bar. “it’s been a while. you’ve gotten even more ethereal.” you scoffed. “you always had a way with words, my dear ex-husband.”

-> you talk for a little while, and when you think he’s about to leave, oliver reaches over the bar and snatches your phone from your pocket. “hey, wait!” but it’s too late. when he sees your wallpaper, a picture of you and your daughter, his playful demeanor is gone

-> “not many kids out there with eyes like mine,” he tries to joke, but you can hear the strain in his voice. “oliver—“ “i understand. you wanted to protect her. keep her from me and my lifestyle. i get it. but fuck, you couldn’t have let me know she exists?”

-> “i didn’t want you to take her away from me,” you confessed, eyes welling with tears despite how angry you felt. hurt crossed his features. “i’d never do that.” “yeah, we’ll, how was i supposed to know that? we’re practically strangers.”

-> his fingers tighten on your phone. “i want to meet her.” “no.” “please.” “i don’t feel comfortable with that. maybe one day, but not today. not today.” he’s quite for a long time. then, he types his number into your phone and drops several hundred dollars onto the table before leaving

pt 2 // pt 3

[chuluoyi]

the secret wife

- nanami kento x reader

follow the first years’ misadventures as they find out that apparently, the infamous 7:3 sorcerer is also a dutiful and loving husband in private!

genre/warnings: crack, fluff, the first years are simply chaotic, an attempt at humor, gojo cameo (he’s so insufferable), mentions of pregnancy, nanami being the best husband there is

note: based on an anon's suggestion, this is a spin-off to love entries' wife (so gojo is married to love entries reader naturally!) this is full chaos and crack omg so sorry and isn't proofread bc i’m kinda tired so pls forgive any mistakes and my dry humor :')

general masterlist

On one fine, sunny day, which was supposed to be a calm and relaxing afternoon...

“Hello? Yuji—”

Megumi could've sworn, they weren't usually this nosy.

“Gojo-sensei! It's urgent!”

Call it indulgence, because Nobara's curiosity just got the better of her.

“Oh? What's—”

“Does Nanamin have a wife!?”

And Yuji... well, he just needed answers, because the three of them were now in the ‘Mom and Baby’ section of department store, having just witnessed a monumental sight of their esteemed mentor, Nanami Kento—

—with a remarkably stunning woman hanging onto his arm.

“Huh?” Gojo's confusion was evident from the other line. Oh, yeah. Yuji had decided to cut to the chase and call him too, hoping for a swift clarification.

Okay, so why were the trio—plus Gojo on the speakerphone—hiding behind a pillar just to spy on Nanami and his very possible wife? Let us rewind 30 minutes before...

Yuji considers himself to have an exceptional eye and taste for women.

And 30 minutes ago, when he fell on his butt on the rough, hard asphalt in the jammed Shibuya crossing after accidentally getting shoved by the crowd, and encountered a kind, vivacious older woman—you, who extended a hand to help him up, he was even more convinced of that.

“Are you alright, Itadori-kun?” your soft voice entered his ears, catching him off-guard, and Yuji was certain of two things then.

One, that you were just like a literal angel descended from skies above, all dolled up and pretty with your flowy sundress.

“Ah, uh—” he stammered, eyes darting everywhere and anywhere at once as his palm started sweating after clasping your hand. “I-I am…”

And two, for the life of him, he had no idea who you were.

But it registered late in his mind to ask as he was busy controlling his ragged breathing and instant crush, and before Yuji knew it, you graced him with another kind smile and went on your way.

And did he feel so miserable afterwards.

. . .

“She’s sooo hella pretty, Fushiguro! And she knows me! Me!”

Megumi sighed, eyeing his friend in disgust. Truthfully, all he wanted was to return to the dorms and collapse onto his bed, and not listen to his friend’s incoherent ramblings.

"You sure you weren't imagining things?" Nobara questioned with slight irritation. "After you embarrassed us in front of Gojo-sensei's wife a while back, please think more before you act."

"I'm not, I swear! She said my name!"

"Itadori, can you please just not?" Megumi grumbled, having enough of this ruckus. "I want to walk back in peace."

And so tucking away his pout, Yuji walked in silence just as his best friend asked, and he was really going to leave it at that when suddenly he caught the sight of a familiar pristine coat and the sundress from earlier. “Oh?”

"Isn't that Nanami-san?" Nobara also spotted him, her eyes widening when she saw you, who was happily beaming as well as Nanami's light chuckle. "And wait, who is—?"

"That's her!" Yuji burst out, pointing decisively in your direction. "That's who I was talking about!"

Oh, no. Megumi dreaded it already. He could already see the utter catastrophe—

"I'm going after them!"

"Wait, Itadori! Me too!"

Too late. Before he could stop them, Nobara and Yuji had followed the pair. Reluctantly, Megumi trailed behind them too, albeit wearing a vexed scowl. Yet despite his misgivings, he couldn't deny that the things he saw over the next 30 minutes were genuinely unexpected.

Nanami consistently led you to a quieter spot away from the bustling crowd, his hand holding yours firmly. He would occasionally throw you a smile, or when you didn’t hold hands, then he’d wrap an arm around your waist. And to the trio's bewilderment, they also saw him tenderly brushing his lips against your head while on the escalator.

Soft and gentle. It was a side of Nanami Kento they had never witnessed—either with anyone else or even himself.

The two of you ventured through home appliances, visited food stalls, and eventually... the ‘Mom and Baby’ section.

"Do you want to rest for a bit?" Nanami's voice held a touch of concern as his hand settled on the small of your back, and seeing that, Nobara positively swooned.

"Oh, no, I'm fine," you responded with a reassuring smile. "Let's head over there. I'd like to see that next!"

Watching you and Nanami meticulously going through strollers and cribs like a pair of would-be parents was apparently too mind-blowing for Yuji and Nobara, leading to the decision to call Gojo right then and there. And, as they say, the rest was history.

"Last I heard, Nanami wasn't married," Gojo answered resolutely. "If he is, then it's the ultimate betrayal because he never told me!"

"But we see him with a woman! At mother and baby care section!"

Gojo hummed in thoughtful manner. "Okay, students. Now I'm tasking you to see this to the very end! Keep me on the line!"

With that, Operation: Uncover Nanami's Wife was officially underway, and frankly, the way the three of them were clumsily tailing the 7:3 sorcerer made Megumi want to facepalm. How was it that Nanami hadn't noticed their rather conspicuous attempts at all?

Now you were fawning over baby clothes, cutely trying not to squeal as you picked a little blue and yellow overalls. "Kento! Kento! Look, how cute!"

And all of them were floored once again when the expression on his face softened, as a warm smile adorned his lips. "Yeah, they are."

"Is she pregnant? She doesn't look it..." Nobara remarked, squinting and frowning, still watching the two of you like a hawk.

"Or maybe they're shopping for someone else?" Megumi suggested, earning teasing grins from Yuji and Nobara, to which he quickly rolled his eyes, as they chorused, "Looks like you're curious too!"

After a while, you moved from the clothes to sections stocked with mother's necessities. Yuji leaned against one of the racks, pressing his ear against it, with Nobara and Megumi crowding behind him, attempting to catch a snippet of your conversation with Nanami.

"I think we should get some heat packs and these pillows—"

"Oh, Kento! You're such a worrywart, I still won't need them for a few more months—"

"Wait, what?" Yuji whipped his head around in surprise, causing Nobara, who was leaning on him, to stumble and inadvertently collide with the racks.

"Eh? Huh!?"

Unfortunately, the racks weren't sturdy enough, and the force caused them to sway dangerously. Nobara, sensing her imminent fall, instinctively grabbed Yuji's arm to steady herself. However, he got tugged instead and their combined weight exacerbated the situation, leading to the racks quickly toppling over and a deafening commotion ensued—

Crash!

"Careful!" Nanami immediately pulled you behind him, a protective arm around your shoulder, sensing your shock from the sudden crash. He was on high alert, expecting some sort of attack of cursed spirits, but instead, he was met with the most astounding sight of the bickering culprits amidst the fallen racks.

"Kugisaki! What are you doing!"

"You dumbass! Why didn't you stop me from falling?!"

"Itadori-kun...?" Nanami called out in utter disbelief, his mind couldn't fathom as to why the first years were here. However, his attention quickly shifted to Megumi, who was seething and sending his friends a glare so hard it could drill a hole into them.

Then, the boy swiftly fixed himself into a low bow in front of him, ashamed, disregarding Yuji and Nobara's groans altogether. "Nanami-san, I'm very, very sorry on their behalf."

"What are the three of you doing here?" he inquired, and poor Megumi seemed at a loss, huffing as he nervously rubbed the back of his neck, unsure of where to even start.

Meanwhile you were full of worry for the fallen kids. "Oh my gosh, are you alright?"

For the second time today, you tried to help Yuji to stand on his feet, and this time, he really had a good look over you.

It wasn't exactly noticeable due to how loose your dress was, but now he could see that under it, your belly was slightly rounded—an unmistakable baby bump.

Amidst his shock and pain, Yuji couldn't bring himself to take your hand as he inadvertently let this slip, "N-Nanamin! You knocked her up!"

Nanami blinked. You gaped. Megumi and Nobara went pale in sheer horror, ready to murder their friend on the spot for his extreme height of rudeness.

“Itadori-kun,” Nanami cleared his throat then, and if he was offended, then he chose not to show it. “First of all, I’m sorry for not introducing you sooner. This is Y/N, my wife, and yes,” his tone hardened slightly, “She’s carrying our first child.”

“S-so you are married!”

“Yes, that was what I—”

“What the hell?! NANAMIIII!”

Oh, the freaking phone. After his fall, Yuji’s phone ended up on the floor, and of course, Gojo did hear all of the entire madness, evident from how his voice blared from the phone.

Nanami frowned, unwittingly reaching out towards the phone. “Who—?”

“NA-NA-MI!" Gojo screeched in righteous exasperation, and the former immediately pulled away from the phone with a cringe. “How could you?! I invited you to my wedding! Are you a hermit or something—how could not tell anyone!? Didn’t you say I can officiate—”

“I said no such thing. Please refrain from saying outrageous things, it’s both annoying and misleading,” Nanami stressed, growing more irritated by the mere sound of Gojo's whining voice and feeling his patience waning rapidly.

"Aren't we friends?! How—!"

"Should I find you instigate one more of this... shenanigans with the kids, I won't hesitate to report you to Yaga and your wife," he interjected then with clear irritation, and right that second, Gojo shut himself up.

Yuji, Nobara and Megumi couldn't help drawing that one conclusion in wonder: So, that's what Gojo-sensei is afraid of.

Nanami swiftly ended the call with a flick of his finger, returning the phone to the still mystified Yuji. Turning back to the trio, Nanami's irritation simmered as he glanced at the mess of broken goods on the floor, as well as noticing the approaching clerks.

"You three..." Nanami started, his voice rising slightly, unfaltering even as the three of them flinched. "Do you realize what you've done? Are you so idle that you can ditch your assignments?"

"Kento, don't be too harsh," you rebuked, placing a hand on his arm with a frown on your face. Nanami sighed, looking over the situation once again. It was a whole rack of baby necessities destroyed; plates, glasses, and whatnot scattered across the floor.

Nobara bit her lip in anxiety. “Oh my god, who's going to pay for all this damage?” She could already imagine the staggering amount this mess would cost. This is worth millions, anyone can go bankrupt.

There was only one person who can and will. Immediately, both Nanami and Megumi turned to her with a shared resolve.

"Gojo," Megumi blurted.

"He will be charged for everything," Nanami added with spite.

Epilogue

"You just love those kids, don't you, Kento?"

That night, when both of you were ready for sleep, Nanami had one hand caressing your still growing belly, and you teased him with a chuckle.

"Huh?" your husband looked at you in mild confusion as he stopped stroking you. "What do you mean?"

You giggled again. "You said to put it on Gojo's name, but in the end, you were the one who covered the damages first."

Nanami huffed lightly. "That's because I can't get the kids in trouble. But mark my words, I'll make sure Gojo pays up later, by force if I need to." He made a face when he remembered just what a massive bill it was. "That's too much money to be spent carelessly. We have our child and our future to consider."

"You're always like that," you sighed fondly, taking his hand and placing it back to the swell of your belly. "Always on the first line of defense for the students." Your smile widened. "It makes me think... just how lucky our kid will be with you as their father."

"On the contrary, I'm counting my blessings that they'll have someone as soft as you for their mother," your husband retorted with a smile, kissing your temple. And your heart melted into a puddle by his affectionate gesture.

"That's too sweet... ah, yeah," suddenly, you were reminded of a critical thing. “Kento, have you ever considered telling everyone else that we're married? At least to people at school?”

Nanami always wanted privacy for safety reasons most of the time, and you understood that, but seeing that Gojo and the first years knew already, you thought it might be the best time to let everyone know.

"I honestly don’t see the need to, why?"

"People like Gojo are confused—"

Your husband rolled his eyes then. "Don’t worry, dear. People like Gojo exist to spread the word so we don't have to."

[chiscaralight]

don't fuck your enemy!

synopsis: you just so happened to end up drunk with your enemy in the club bathroom. what would be more fuck than punching him in the face? fucking him!

includes: nsfw! scara x reader public sex ish. slight degradation. unprotected bathroom sex, p in v sex, mentions of oral sex, reader is under the influence but its all consensual. slight car sex, little bit of regret. this feels new to me, but I absolutely loved writing it! based off a request that I will link here

“scaraaa…”

“quit whining.”

you’re wiggling your hips to him, as he struggles to get his belt off.

“you’re obnoxious. is this how you treat everyone you say you hate? slut.”

“and you’re the one feeding into it. just shut up and-“

the moan you let out is drowned in the music. it’s not loud enough to draw attention, but if anyone else is in the bathroom, they’d definitely hear it. it’s not your fault you’re in this position, after a couple of rounds of shots, this stupid, sexy man wouldn’t stop staring at you in what he says is ‘disgust’. hard to believe when he wasted no time in following through with your advances, pressing you against the stall wall and crashing his lips onto yours.

but yes, you’re a slut for letting him push his cock past your lips, keeping your eyes trained on him as he groaned about how good that felt when you weren’t spewing bullshit, or you nuzzling your head into his hand as he tangles his fingers in your well-done hair.

but no, he’s not a fucking whore for dragging you off the ground and for bunching your short dress up at your hips. nor is he one for pressing his lips against your skin, marking up and down your neck as his fingers glide over your clothed hole before pulling your panties into the side.

you won’t let it get to you now though, because the mixture of the alcohol making your mind spin, with the way the heat from his fingers is dancing around your body, tracing obscure shapes into the fat of your hips before sliding up to cup your breasts is enough to keep any other words out of your mouth, save for his name.

it’s almost insane how good he is because he’s rocking just enough to hit you with enough force, but not enough to shake the plastic frame of the makeshift wall. your hands are finding his wrists, trying to ground yourself to something, anything while he fucks your senses away in the bathroom of some upscale nightclub, trying to ground himself from how good you feel. this has to be wrong on so many levels, fucking you, after everything you’ve said, he’s said, you’ve done, he’s done?

that seems to be the least of your worries now because he can see your eyes rolling back, tongue lolling out of your mouth as he slides a finger into the heat of your mouth. your reactions to his touch are quick, the way you jerk into his hand, or close your lips around his fingers like it was nothing. like it’s what you were made to do. his wet digits now slide back down towards your swollen clit, applying a certain pressure that has you crying out his name with that grating, gorgeous voice of yours. he doesn’t even have it in him to silence you, he’s twitching at the way it rolls off your tongue. fuck, if he knew you’d be this perfect, he would have cut the bullshit and bent you over long ago! but maybe it was more rewarding like this, fleeting memories of all the times he’s pumped his cock to the thought of your face moving through his mind, as your lewd expression brings him back to you.

he’s craning his head the slightest bit to catch your eye. when he does, you smile. and he could cum right then and there from the way your eyes crinkle at the corners through the flush of your cheeks. you mouth out a silent ‘kiss’, and he’s on you in an instant, tongue sliding against yours as the bitter taste of the alcohol finds its way toward him. but he doesn’t care about that. he’s more concerned about the way you’re starting to writhe and shake against him, becoming more and more unsettled with the lack of your own movement. so you do your best to stop him, pushing him off of you as you finally get to breathe. your words come out with a sweet giggle, finger pressing against his chest as your drunken state blurs your vision the slightest amount.

“wanna ride you, pretty boy.”

if anyone who didn’t know the two of you were to for some reason swing this door open now, they’d think the two of you were insatiable lovers who just couldn’t wait to make it home. to anyone that doesn’t know you, they’d probably have to wipe their eyes twice to pretend they weren’t seeing you bounce on scaramouche’s cock like this. he’s seated on the closed toilet lid, absolutely dazed as you ride him to bits. your nails are digging into his shoulders hard, giving you strong balance as you move with a determination even he can’t fathom. but you’ve been dreaming of this, finally getting him to shut up with that pussy or yours, it’s a shame you didn’t get to shove his face in it; but maybe it’s for the best. even in this mindset you know tomorrow is going to be full of headaches and a lot of unanswered questions, so why not enjoy the now? keep anything from getting too far. what exactly is too far you ask? you’re not sure either, because licking into each other's mouths while he fucks up into you would be seen as pretty far for some people.

and he breaks away first, lazy eyes searching yours as he mumbles about his coming orgasm. you’re smiling that stupid smile that makes his dick twitch again, and giving him a polite nod. his eyebrows furrow.

“inside? you sure?”

you’re rolling your eyes at the obscurity of it all. he can ‘discretely’ slide your expensive lace panties into his pocket, press you up against this gross wall, and even fuck you presumably drunk. but cumming inside you is weird.

“yes-yes! i’m sure. just-just hurry up,”

and he’s smacking his teeth at the tone of your voice, hand coming down strong on the swell of your ass while he starts to chase his orgasm. your breaths are shallow, deep with intent as you grind against him, brushing up close to him so you can release in tandem with him.

it works a little too well, because you’re spasming against him in a way that he’s never seen before. your orgasm, plus the feeling of his cum starting to paint your inside white hot with thick spurts is peeling away any reservations you had about this whole situation before, moans loud and cracking as you ride it out for the two of you. his head is hung back, adam’s apple bobbing only a slight bit as he comes to, the soft bite you give it making him snap his head back down before he pinches your thigh. you pout, but begin to get up nonetheless, because you’ve probably spent way too long in here already.

you're much more sober now, trying to ignore the daggers that scaramouche is glaring into your back as you adjust your outfit in the mirror.

"was the sex really that bad?"

the statement is supposed to sound snarky, but it comes out more desperate than anything. you clear your throat, focusing your attention on the paint on the floor instead, dreadfully anticipating how he will bite back this time. but he doesn't. instead, you're greeted with the plush of his lips against yours, hands finding a home on your hips omce again as you grip at his collar. you're moaning into his mouth once more, attempting to slide your tongue against his.

but he pulls away before you can, beelining for the exit door instead. your lips are in a hard pout. as you hear him mumble something about needing to go home. you also happen to catch the part where he more clearly states the exact parking space his car is in right now before letting the door swing shut.

you're alone with your thoughts now. your mind is much clearer, and you're visibly torn between doing the right thing, that is, going back to your friends and enjoying the party like you should've been, or going down and potentially making the same albeit lovely, very rewarding mistake twice. the way the 'fuck it' rolls off your tongue now is a secure answer to what you decide to do, quickly making your way towards where you hope your friends are before announcing that you'll be on your way.

it's been minutes, seven exactly, scaramouche is counting. he shouldn't be here, he should've left immediately he stuck the key in the ignition. but he's waiting rather impatiently, in hopes that you'd find your way down. he knows you're not stupid, he knows you would regret it, hell, he should be regretting it too. but that annoying little feeling in his heart won't let him pull out of the space just yet. and thank archons for that, because he can see the pattern of your dress outside his tinted window as you tap on the glass.

the silence once you get in is stupidly uncomfortable. the air is thick with tension, both of you avoiding each other's gazes as the impact of your previous actions weighs in the air. scaramouche takes the initiative to speak first.

"we should-"

"your windows are tinted. can you eat me out?"

he pinches the bridge of his nose.

"you're absolutely insufferable."

"l-less talking, please."

he'll roll his eyes, but dip his head back down between your legs all the same. you're sprawled out in his back seat, fingers tangled in his hair as his tongue assaults your folds. maybe the first kiss was a mistake, maybe him fucking you against the wall was a big mistake. but his fingers sliding into you now? curling just exactly where they should be? there's no mistake here.

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - TWELVE

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mentions of severe anemia; pregnancy; abortion

💌MASTERLIST

Rafe rolled over, squinting against the sunlight breaking through the shitty broken blinds he'd meant to replace weeks ago. His phone buzzed on the nightstand, and before his eyes were even fully open, he swiped it up.

"Yeah?" His voice was a low growl, all gravel, and irritation.

The voice on the other end was professional. "Mr. Cameron? We’re calling to follow up on your father’s properties. There are a few—"

Fuck off.

Rafe cut them off with a sharp exhale, rubbing his temples.

He didn’t let them finish. "Yeah, I know what you’re calling about. I’m not dealing with that right now, okay? Call someone else."

"Sir, you are listed as—"

"I said call someone else," He snapped, hanging up before they could launch into another scripted response. He tossed the phone onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling, breathing hard.

It had been months since Ward died, and somehow, his name was heavier now than it ever was when he was alive. Everyone wanted something—answers, signatures, money. All things Rafe didn’t have or didn’t care to deal with.

The phone buzzed again. He grabbed it, ready to tell whoever it was where to stick their questions, but it was just a reminder about his plans with Topper. For half a second, he considered texting back: Can’t make it. Something came up.

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he shoved himself upright, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and dropping his head into his hands.

The dream the call robbed him of was still vivid. For a moment, he forgot where he was—his room felt colder, and emptier, and the bed might as well have been a mile wide.

In the dream, you were eighteen again, and so was he. Back when things were simpler—or maybe just felt that way. Back before he’d ruined everything.

He could see it so clearly: the two of you sneaking out of some party you didn’t want to be at, your hand locked in his as you ducked through the dark streets. You’d been laughing, trying to shush him because he couldn’t stop cracking dumb jokes.

You ended up at the dock by your uncle’s boat. The stars were out, scattered across the sky like a million little promises. He remembered how you’d sat cross-legged on the wooden planks, your hair falling into your face as you smiled at him like he was the only person in the world.

The dock, your laugh, the stars—those were the good parts. But he remembers what you were going through back then, and it hit him all over again.

You’d just lost everything—your parents, your sister, gone in an instant. The private plane went down, and so did the life you’d always known. He remembers the way you’d talk about them—your family—late at night when it was just the two of you. Your voice would crack, and your eyes would shine with unshed tears, but you’d talk anyway. About your dad teaching you how to sail, your mom’s tenderness, the way your sister used to be your role model.

He hadn’t thought about those nights in years, but now they come rushing back, all tangled up with the dream. He still wasn’t strong enough for you back then. He let his own shit get in the way, let his insecurities and his anger twist everything good between you over the years. And when he walked away, he left you to deal with the wreckage of your life and his own cowardice.

He threw on a shirt, and some old shorts, didn’t even bother fixing his hair. No one was going to care—not like anyone was looking to him for anything these days anyway. He stomped down the stairs, rubbing at the back of his neck, pretending like he didn’t spend the night dreaming of your face. 

Wheezie was at the kitchen counter, cereal in front of her, scrolling her phone.

She didn’t glance up when she heard him, "You look like shit."

Aw, nothing like a teenager. 

"Good mornin’ to you too," Rafe grumbled, heading for the fridge. He grabbed a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap like it had personally offended him, “You’re really settling in, huh?"

Wheezie snorted, not looking up from her phone. "Rose stuck me here with you. What else am I supposed to do? I’m just trying to survive." 

“It’s two days."

He hadn’t exactly planned on babysitting Wheezie while Rose was out of the country, he hadn’t planned on much lately

"Two days too many," she shot back, smirking. "You going somewhere?" 

Rafe slammed the fridge shut, twisting the cap off his water.

"Why are you stomping around like that?" 

"Not fuckin’ stomping," Rafe muttered, leaning against the counter.

"You are," she scowled, shoving a spoonful of cereal into her mouth. "You sound like a baby elephant."

Rafe glared at her, but she just shrugged, unfazed. "You’re up early. What’s the occasion?"

"Just woke up, okay?" he snapped.

"Jeez, someone’s in a mood," Wheezie rolled her eyes. "What’s your deal?"

"No deal." He took a long sip of water, staring out the window.

"Can you drop me off later?" she changed the topic, her tone too casual to be innocent.

Rafe side-eyed her. "Drop you off where?"

"Poguelandia.”

His hand froze halfway to the trash can. "You’re kiddin’."

"Nope," Wheezie said, popping the “p.” She didn’t even look at him, scrolling on her phone like this was just a normal request.

"You know Sarah’s there, right?"

"Yeah, that’s kinda the point," Wheezie finally met his glare. "She texted me. Wants to hang out."

Rafe scoffed, tossing the empty water bottle into the trash. "Since when are you and Sarah talkin’?"

"Since forever," Wheezie pursed her lips, "Just because you two can’t stand each other doesn’t mean I can’t hang out with her. Also," She adds, "there’s a party happening later. Like, nothing crazy, but… y’know."

He hadn’t been around much for his little sister lately—shit, not for a long time, if he was honest with himself. After their dad died, he kind of just… checked out. Too much of his own crap to deal with. But Wheezie didn’t ask for any of that.

"Nothing crazy," Rafe repeated flatly, his arms crossed.

"Relaxxxx,” She shoved another spoonful of cereal into her mouth. "Just drop me off. I’ll figure out a ride back."

He rubbed a hand over his face, groaning. "Wheeze, do you even know what you’re walking into? Pogues don’t fuck with us."

"I wonder why….” She hummed, waving him off. “I’ll be fine, they don’t hate me."

"Yeah, well, they hate me."

"Good thing I’m not you.” Wheezie fired back, hopping off the stool.

Yeah, good thing.

"And it’s not just a party. I’m visiting Sarah, too."

"Yeah, I heard you the first time," Rafe rolled his eyes, "Here’s the deal: I’ll drop you off—"

She perked up, her face lighting with hope.

"—but on one condition," he cut in, smirking just enough to make her suspicious.

He hadn’t really spent time with her in ages—not since Ward died. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, it was just…easier not to. Easier to stay away, to let the silence pile up.

The real issue was that, for the longest time, he’s been gone for a reason. He didn’t want to be here. It was easier to be numb by being drunk or high. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his sister—it was just that it was too painful, and complicated.

Yesterday, his therapist had told him to invest time in his sisters. To be there for them, to reconnect, because they were his only real family left. Whezzie he could do, Sarah? 

Only time would tell. 

You have to show up for the people you love. Even if it scares you.

It scared the shit out of him, honestly.

"What?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

"You come with me and Topper on the boat first," he said, folding his arms tighter like he’s already won.

Wheezie groaned, slumping back in her chair. "Seriously? What part of not showing up on a yatch is this?”

“Take it or leave it.”

“Why? So I can sit there and listen to you two talk about girls you’ll never get and beer brands you can’t pronounce?"

Rafe glared at her. "It’s not up for debate. You wanna go to fuckass poguelandia? You’re comin’ with us. End of story."

At least he was trying—trying to do something for her, to make up for the time he’d lost, the ways he’d been absent or worse. Even if he still sounded like an asshole most of the time.

"Fine. Whatever. I’ll go with you and Topper. But you owe me big time.”

The whole idea of being present was terrifying, it ruined him when he was a teenager, but he couldn’t keep hiding from it. There was nothing left to hide behind.

“I’ll buy that stupid cereal you like.”

"Lucky me."

"Alright, smartass," He grabbed a mug and filled it with coffee, trying to ignore her smug look. "What do you even eat besides cereal? You’re gonna starve or some shit.”

"I’ll survive. You, on the other hand…" she trailed off, gesturing vaguely at his unkempt pantry. "You look like you could use a babysitter."

Rafe let the corners of his mouth twitch. "You’re an asshole, y'know that?"

“You’re my brother, what did you expect?”

It was just the two of them in his big, empty condo. He might not have been much of a role model—or even a decent older brother—but for the next two days, he could try.

“You’re the worst,” she grumbled, grabbing her phone off the counter.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Rafe said dismissively, turning toward the door. “Be ready in ten.”

Wheezie, rolling her eyes so hard he thought they might fall out of her head, stomped back upstairs, probably to change into something less “little sister on a boat” and more “teen rebel” or whatever the fuck kid’s liked these days. She could dress however she wanted as long as she didn’t make him regret dragging her into this.

Rafe leaned against the truck while he waited for his sister. His arms were crossed, his fingers drumming against his bicep in a nervous rhythm. It wasn’t about the boat—he didn’t even know why he’d suggested it. Maybe it was just an excuse to keep her close for a little longer before dropping her into pogue territory. He missed her.

An hour later, he was pulling the truck into the dock’s gravel lot, the tires crunching as he rolled to a stop. Topper was already there, lounging on the boat, a beer in one hand and sunglasses perched low on his nose.

Wheezie hopped out of the truck before Rafe even had a chance to cut the engine. “God, does he ever not look like a wannabe country club poster boy?”

Rafe smirked as he climbed out.

“Rafe! Wheezie!” Topper called out, spreading his arms wide like he was greeting royalty. “What’s up, losers?”

Wheezie snorted, marching toward the boat. “Nice shorts. Did Vineyard Vines have a clearance sale, or did you just raid your dad’s closet?”

“Stop being ruthless,” Topper glanced down at his pastel pink swim trunks, feigning offense. “These are a classic.”

“A classic embarrassment,” she fake gagged, stepping onto the boat.

Rafe followed her, shaking his head. “Play nice.”

“Fantastic,” Topper drawled, “There’s two of you today.”

“You make it too easy.” Whezzie dropped onto one of the cushioned seats and leaned back, pulling her sunglasses down over her eyes. “What’s the plan, Captain Douchebag?”

Topper raised his beer in a mock toast. “The plan is sailing.”

“Wow. Revolutionary.”

Rafe chuckled, untying the boat and giving it a shove off the dock. “Just sit back and relax, Wheez. We’ll drop you off later.”

Topper’s head snaps up, “Drop her off where?”

"Where do you think?" Rafe leaned over to check the boat's engine. He didn't bother looking at Topper, already waiting for the inevitable reaction, “Sarah's.”

"Wait, wait, wait," Topper held up a hand like he was stopping traffic. "You're taking her to Poguelandia? Are you out of your mind?"

"It's not your problem," Rafe grumbled, starting the engine. The low hum drowned out part of Topper's rant, but not enough to miss the gist.

"Not my problem? Dude, the second you step foot over there, it's everyone's problem. She’s there too, y’know? Stopped by earlier to make peace…She changed her gate’s code. And the lock.”

The gate code. The lock.

He couldn’t get it out of his head.

For years, it had been the same—just like the keys he used to have to your place. Just days ago, the gate had swung open just like it always did, the same code he’d memorized like it was second nature.

You hadn’t changed the code, hadn’t swapped the locks. He’d half convinced himself it meant something, maybe you weren’t ready to fully let him go, either.

Rafe’s hands stilled on the throttle. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but his jaw tightened all the same. Topper, of course, noticed immediately.

"See? This is what I’m talking about," Topper leaned back in his seat, spreading his arms like he was laying out some grand revelation. "Where do you think she’s staying at? It’s fuckin’ obvious. We show up, and it’s gonna stir shit up.”

It was almost like you’d left the door cracked open for him. Just enough to make him believe there was still a chance. Now he wasn’t so sure. Had his visit been the final straw? Had the sight of him standing on the other side of your door—looking desperate and pathetic—been the thing that made you decide to shut him out completely?

You didn’t let him in, but you’d opened up the door. After everything he’d put you through, it was your way of protecting yourself. Shutting the door so he couldn’t come crashing back in.

Topper’s voice snapped him back to reality, “You even listening to me, man?”

Rafe blinked, forcing himself to re-focus on the boat’s controls.

“Yeah. I heard you. ’m not staying. Just dropping her off."

“We’re dead meat.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Topper knew better than to keep talking, the conversation ended there.

For the next twenty minutes, the boat cruised over the water, Rafe kept on steering, letting Topper and Wheezie chatter away behind him. He wasn't really listening—hadn't been for most of the trip—but every now and then, Wheezie's laughter or Topper's exaggerated storytelling pulled him back just enough to remind him they were still there.

When they finally dropped anchor near the sandbar, Topper leaned back, cracking open another beer as he stretched out under the sun.

"Alrigh’, who wants to make a toast? First outing of the month, gotta celebrate properly!"

Rafe shook his head, pulling a bottle of water from the cooler instead. He twisted off the cap and took a long sip, ignoring the way Topper raised a brow at him.

"Wait a second," Topper said, sitting up slightly. "You're not drinking?"

The fact his best friend sounded surprised was reason enough to stay sober. He didn’t like being scrutinized.

"Nah," He waived off, leaning back against the seat and letting the sun warm his face.

He’d made the choice not to drink before they even left the dock, but it didn’t stop the instinct—the small urge to crack open a beer and let the eventual numbness take over like it usually did.

Topper looked between the beer in his hand and Rafe, "You serious? Could've told me, wouldn’t have brought all this shit."

“Yeah, sure you wouldn’t have.”

"Fair," Topper admitted, "Still, man. That's… good. Like, really good."

Wheezie, who had been scrolling on her phone, perked up at the exchange. "Yeah, Rafe. I think it's awesome."

Proud. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had said that to him. Maybe you, but it had been a long time since anyone had looked at him and seen something worth being proud of.

He shrugged, “It’s not a big deal.”

But it kind of was. Because sitting there, sober and fully present for the first time in months, he realized it didn’t feel as bad as he thought it would. He’d been drinking non-stop—first to deal with his dad’s death, then to quiet the guilt, and then to forget you.

The therapist had called it “self-medicating.” Rafe had scoffed when she first said it, she didn’t know what she was talking about, but the longer the sessions went on, the harder it was to deny. Drinking had become a way to drown out the memories and feelings he didn’t know how to face. 

The therapist had suggested he take a break from drinking, just for a while. “You don’t have to stop forever,” she’d said. “Just give yourself a chance to feel what’s really going on.”

Yeah, because that sounded like fucking fun. Sitting with his feelings. 

But something about today felt different. He couldn’t explain it—maybe it was Wheezie’s not hating spending time with him after all the stunts he pulled, or the way Topper had thrown himself into planning this trip like he was trying to cheer him up—but for once, he didn’t feel like drowning himself in alcohol.

It wasn’t like drinking had helped anyway, if anything, it made it worse. The mornings after, when the hangover hit and he couldn’t even look at himself in the mirror, let alone call you to apologize for everything he’d done wrong. 

So, yeah. Maybe the therapist had a point. 

He glanced at the cooler full of beers and liquor that Topper had dragged aboard. “Don’t feel like it today.”

Topper was still eyeing him like he was an alien, while Wheezie had gone back to scrolling her phone, but every now and then, she'd glance up at him, like she was checking to see if he was still there—if he was still him.

"Alright, enough of the sentimental shit," Topper declared, "Let’s make this a proper day. Who’s up for some wakeboarding?"

Wheezie groaned, flopping back dramatically. "You two are so predictable. Wakeboarding, really? What’s next, golf? A steak dinner? Gonna break out the cigars and talk about how much you love cripto?"

Rafe snorted, tossing a towel at her. "Wheez, you screamed your head off last time you tried it."

“Yeah, because I nearly died!" she threw the towel right back at him.

"You were fine.”

“You said I was fine while I was choking on lake water.”

Rafe smirked, standing up to adjust the rope for the wakeboard. “Builds character.”

“Builds trauma,” she retorted, kicking her flip-flops off and stretching her legs out over the seat. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you when I’m suing your ass.”

“Good luck with that.”

She tilted her chin up with a satisfied grin, “I can now, thank you very much. I’m an adult.”

“You turned eighteen two weeks ago. Chill with the big-girl talk.”

Topper cracked up from the other side of the boat, pointing his beer at her like it was a microphone. “She’s got you there, big bro. Maybe let her drive the boat next.”

Wheezie perked up instantly. “Wait, can I?”

“No,” Rafe deadpanned.

“Why not?” she whined, her entire body deflating.

“Because last time you tried, you almost ran over a dock,” Rafe tugged the line to make sure it was secure.

“Okay, that was one time, and I was learning,” Wheezie argued. “You’ve done way dumber stuff.”

Topper leaned over, watching the exchange like it was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all week. “This is amazing. You guys should fight more often.”

“Shut up,” Rafe and Wheezie said in unison, which only made Topper laugh harder.

The afternoon passed quickly, filled with sun, water, and Wheezie’s relentless commentary. She refused to try wakeboarding again, opting instead to sunbathe and heckle them from the safety of the boat. Rafe couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard her laugh so much—or the last time he’d felt this calm.

As the sun dipped lower, painting the water in shades of gold, Rafe slowed the boat to a gentle drift. Wheezie was sprawled out with her headphones in, her phone propped up on her stomach. Topper had passed out in the corner, his sunglasses slipping down his nose. Rafe sat at the helm, one hand resting on the wheel, the other dangling over the side. The cool water lapped at his fingertips, calming him in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

For once, he wasn’t thinking about the mistakes he’d made or the people he’d lost. He wasn’t drowning in guilt or regret. He was just… there, present. It didn’t feel as bad as he thought it would

Rafe cut the engine as the boat drifted closer to the dock. The sight of Sarah’s house on the Cut came into view. It wasn’t a kook mansion or some pristine estate—just a house that Sarah and her friends had claimed for herself.

The second the boat bumped against the dock, Wheezie sprang up, tugging her bag over her shoulder. Rafe was quick to follow, throwing the rope around a cleat to tie them off.

“You’re not getting off, are you?” Wheezie asked, looking over her shoulder with her brows furrowed.

Rafe stepped off the boat, sneakers hitting the creaky dock with a purpose. She rolled her eyes when she realized he wasn’t staying behind like she hoped.

“You don’t need to come,” she grumbled, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“Yeah, I do,” Rafe said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Not letting you walk in there alone.”

“She’s our sister, not some random stranger,” Wheezie stomped down the dock.

She might as well have been.

Rafe grabbed the bag she was struggling with and followed her toward the weathered building at the end of the pier. Sarah’s place wasn’t just a house; it was a business. A small café-slash-bait shop that catered to the locals. The painted sign hanging over the front door read Cut Cafe in faded lettering, with a little drawing of a fish under it. 

He hated it.

Not because it wasn’t nice, but because it wasn’t theirs. It was Sarah’s—a piece of her new life that had nothing to do with him or Wheezie or anything resembling their family. Another reminder of how far he hadn’t gone.

If he was being honest—something he rarely let himself do—he missed her. Not the Sarah she was now, but the sister she used to be, before the huge fights, before she looked at him like he was some kind of monster. Before Ward.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? Ward had made sure Rafe would never get to have what Sarah did. She was the golden child, Dad’s favorite. And Rafe—he was just there, a constant disappointment.

It wasn’t that he hated her; it was that he hated what she represented.

Approval he’d never get, a life he wasn’t good enough for.

It was ironic, really. He used to resent Sarah for being Ward’s favorite.

Now he resented her for being yours.

Rafe scowled as the sound of the party reached his ears, even from the dock. Music thumped loud enough to vibrate the air, shouted conversations, and the occasional crash of something—probably a bottle—shattering.

Someone let out a loud whoop, followed by the unmistakable sound of people chanting for a keg stand. Rafe pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience thinning with every passing second. He wasn’t in the mood for this juvenile shit.

“You're way too comfortable here,” he scoffed under his breath as Wheezie marched ahead, her steps confident. It pissed him off more than it should have.

“Maybe because Sarah doesn’t treat me like I’m still twelve,” Wheezie shot back, smirking at him over her shoulder.

Rafe ignored the jab, his eyes scanning the small crowd outside.

A couple of Pogues lingered near the porch, laughing over beers and baskets of fries. Their relaxed, judgmental stares followed him like they could smell the kook entitlement on him from a mile away. He bristled, tightening his grip on Wheezie’s bag.

She bounded up the steps and pushed open the door, the bell above it jingling. He hesitated for half a second before following her inside, knowing he was going to regret ever stepping foot in this place.

The air smelled like beer, fried food, and sunscreen. Behind the counter, Sarah stood with her back to them, her hair tied up in a loose bun.

Wheezie cleared her throat loudly. “Hey, Sar!”

Sarah turned, her smile faltering the second she saw Rafe lurking behind Wheezie. Her expression hardened. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too,” Rafe said dryly, crossing his arms.

“I told Wheezie to come by. Not you.” Sarah’s eyes flicked to Wheezie, softening just slightly. “You didn’t need to bring a bodyguard.”

“I wasn’t gonna let her wander around here by herself,” Rafe shot back, his voice low and defensive. He hated the way Sarah’s words hurt, hated that her disapproval still got under his skin after all this time.

Sarah rolled her eyes, wiping her hands on her apron as she stepped out from behind the counter. “Wander? She’s not a toddler. She knows how to get here. It’s safe.”

Wheezie stood between them, looking like she was torn between laughing and rolling her eyes so hard she might fall over. “Okay, can you two stop? It’s embarrassing.”

Sarah sighed, brushing past Rafe as if he wasn’t even there.

“Whatever. You can go now. Wheezie’s fine here.”

He stood awkwardly near the door, arms crossed, glaring at the locals who cast curious glances his way. It wasn’t worth staying.

Wheezie was safe.

Sarah would make sure of that, whether she hated him or not.

With a sigh, hr pushed open the door and stepped back out onto the porch, letting the door slam behind him. He took a deep breath of salty air, rubbing the back of his neck.

He’d barely made it to the dock when he spotted someone climbing off the boat—

“Dude,” Rafe’s brow furrowed as his friend stepped onto the creaking wood. “Thought you were scared shitless of this place.”

“I’m not scared,” Topper lied through his teeth.

Rafe raised an eyebrow, “Right.”

“We ran out of snacks on the boat, and I’m starving, figured I’d raid the stash at the party.”

“Snacks?”

“I’m starving!” Topper argued, throwing his hands up. “And unless you brought a secret bag of chips somewhere, this is my best shot!”

He sighed, knowing there was nothing he could do to change Topper's mind. “Hurry up.”

“Relax, I’ll be two minutes!"

He watched Topper jog away, sighing and leaning against one of the wooden posts. 

You were probably in there, somewhere. Laughing, maybe, or smiling that smile he used to wake up to, a smile that used to be for him.

Now, it was for everyone but him.

He tried not to think about you, but that was like telling the ocean not to rise and fall with the stupid tides. Therapy had taught him to sit with his feelings, to not let them rot into something worse, but he was just starting and you weren’t just the girl he loved.

You were the only person who had ever seen him for more than his name, his mistakes, or the wreckage Ward Cameron had left in his wake. You didn’t just tolerate him; you chose him, since day one.

He didn’t deserve you, not then, not even now. 

The sound of footsteps broke his focus.

“About time,” Rafe muttered, turning. But it wasn’t Topper.

Sofia stumbled into view, her dark hair wild and face flushed. Her hand gripped the railing for support as she swayed slightly.

He frowned, mildly concerned, “What the f—are you okay?”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and frantic. “Y-You need to go get Topper. Right n-now.”

His first thought was that she might’ve come here to throw some drunken, slurred insults his way.

The last time they'd spoken, things had ended...He didn’t even know how to classify that mess. But it didn't look like she was there to slam him with any guilt-trips or hurtful words.

She just looked scared.

“What?” His brows knit together as he stepped toward her, “What are you talking about? Are you drunk?”

Sofia waved him off, her breathing panicked. “The T-thorntons.”

That stopped him cold.

“What about them?”

She tried to grab his arm, her eyes wide, “They’re fighting. It’s bad.”

“Fighting?”

It couldn't be just some random fight; this had everything to do with the bullshit Topper had pulled.

Shit.

Rafe wasn’t even sure if he could fix it. Could he? You hated him too, and no matter how hard he tried, it seemed like you’d never forgive him for everything he’d fucked up. But Topper—Rafe didn’t even have to think twice.

He knew you, how you were when you’d had enough. You weren’t the type to lose your shit unless it was really bad.

He gritted his teeth, knowing full well that when you finally let it out, it was never just a “throw a drink and move on” kind of thing. Nah, when you lost it, it was like you’d been holding all this shit in for way too long and finally decided you weren’t gonna take it anymore.

He knew exactly what you were pissed about.

Topper. Of course. And him. Fuck.

He hated it.

The way your voice would rise when you finally let everything out.

You weren’t someone who yelled, but when you did? Jesus fucking Christ, it hit different. Rafe could never prepare himself fully for that kind of fury, especially when it was aimed at him. 

He hated seeing you like this, especially when he knew it was because of him. But it was his fault, wasn’t it?

Rafe’s thoughts were a mess as he followed Sofia, who was clearly way over tipsy, stumbling a little, but she was still trying to explain, voice slurring a bit from the alcohol.

“You gotta understand—she was helping me. I wasn’t feeling so great, right? M-my head was spinning, I don’t know… I just needed a little space. But then Topper walked in and he...S-she just lost it.”

He wasn’t even surprised when she mentioned that you’d been helping her out. Of course you would.

You always had that side to you. Even when you were pissed, even when you hated people, you couldn’t help but step in when someone was in need. You hated Sofia, and everyone knew it. You hated the fact that she’d come around right after he’d fucked everything up with you. You hated how fast she seemed to take your place, even though Rafe didn’t want to admit it to himself either.

Still, there you were, trying to make sure Sofia was okay, again. It made him feel like shit. Not just because you were still holding it together when he couldn’t, but because he knew the whole fucking reason you probably didn’t want anything to do with Sofia—because of how it’d felt when he’d jumped into something else so quickly, so recklessly, after breaking your heart.

The sound of raised voices reached him before he even saw you. He could hear the anger in your voice. There was no mistaking it: you were pissed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen you this way, and it fucked with his gut. You didn’t lose control easily. You never let anyone see the mess, the shit you were going through.

Now you were ripping into Topper in a way that made his blood run cold. He rounded the corner and saw you, hands flailing, and he couldn’t help but wonder: When was the last time anyone stepped up for you? It certainly hadn’t been him. Not the way he should’ve.

And then, of course, there was Topper. He could see the look on his face—guilt, embarrassment. But it wasn’t going to be enough. You had to work through it yourself.

Your shoulders were tense, the way you stood, like you could snap anyone who walked through that door in half if they so much as blinked the wrong way, was all too familiar.

Your cousin was standing in front of you, trying to apologize like it was gonna fix anything, but you weren’t hearing it. No, you were done with that shit.

Topper wipped his hands down his ruined shirt, green smears of guacamole spreading across the fabric. “I fucked up.”

“No shit,” you hissed, “You don’t get to come back from this. You have no idea how fucking sick I am of you—” Hands shaking as you shoved him back, your words coming out in short bursts, "You're the fucking worst. How could you—"

You were about to throw something—probably another drink—when your eyes snapped over to Rafe.

For a fraction of a second, he thought he saw your breath hitch. You froze, eyes wide for a second, and then your expression soured.

Your lip quivered before you sucked in a breath and squared your shoulders.

"Not you too,” you sneered, throwing your hands in the air as the world had just dropped another pile of shit on your already full plate. “Oh my fucking god, seriously?"

Your face was flushed with anger, lips twisted in a snarl. You were so fucking beautiful, even when you were fuming. He could see the fire in your eyes, that same spark he’d fallen for all those years ago. You were just... you. And it was killing him.

He was so fucked. 

“All of you—” You spit out, “I should’ve known better. I did know better, but I was stupid. So fucking stupid.”

He couldn’t think straight when you looked at him like that, when you had that look in your eyes. Even in the middle of a fight, it was so goddamn hard to look away.

You weren’t just a memory to him anymore. You were right in front of him, and he couldn’t even breathe straight.

Rafe’s throat tightened, feeling something that wasn’t just anger or regret or confusion. He felt longing. He longed to hear your voice, all the time, longed for those mornings when you’d be pressed against him, all warm, the world outside his shitty room irrelevant.

He missed the simple stuff.

He missed your face, the way you’d look at him with that irritation and affection.

It hit him harder than anything had in months—how much time had passed since he last saw that pretty face smile at him like you used to. Since he last kissed your forehead while you fell asleep next to him, since you last fit so perfectly into his arms that he didn’t want to let go.

He didn’t even know how to start getting that back.

He left. Over and over again.

Rafe registered another drink splashing across Topper’s face a little too late, the sound of the liquid hitting his skin pulling him out of his trance. He blinked a few times, the moment dragging back to the mess in front of him.

You weren’t done, though, as if throwing the drink wasn’t enough, you whipped a bowl of guacamole from the table and hurled it at Topper’s face. It splattered across his shirt, leaving a sticky, green mess in its wake.

He didn’t even flinch, still apologizing, still taking it.

“Sis—”

“I don’t want some bullshit excuse! You were supposed to be my family. You were supposed to—” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head because you couldn’t fathom finishing the thought.

And then—slap, slap, slap—you were hitting his arms, frustration flashing across your face as you let him have it. 

Your cousin stood there like a fucking idiot, wiping guac off his face, trying to stammer out some kind of half-assed apology. 

“You had no right,” you spat, voice breaking on the words. “None. You don’t just walk in here and act like everything’s fine after what you—” your words choked in your throat. You threw another plate, “You had no right!”

Rafe saw it all, saw the tears ready to spill as you wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand. You weren’t crying yet, but he knew that was about to change. And when it did, it was going to hurt worse than the yelling, worse than the throwing.

Before you could even get another word out, Rafe was there, stepping in between you and Topper, his body tense, preparing himself for something, maybe a few slaps across the face, a drink if you felt generous. You didn’t have to say a word, he could sense it in the way your lips quivered, the way your shoulders shook.

“You need to calm down,” He told you tenderly, though it wasn’t a demand—it was more of a desperate plea.

You didn’t listen.

Instead, you shoved him out of the way, the tears starting to slip down your cheeks, but you didn’t even bother to wipe them away.

“Get out,” you snapped, "Move.”

Rafe didn’t budge, he was here for you, he never stopped fucking choosing you even when he had no right to. He remained still, staring down at you with those blue eyes that had always known you better than anyone.

“Fuck, not like this,” Rafe muttered under his breath, stepping forward once more, this time blocking your path before you could reach Topper again. His hands were gentle on your shoulders as he held you back, “Please, stop.”

You froze, eyes wide, like you couldn’t believe it—you hadn’t been expecting him to step in, hadn’t been expecting him of all people to be the one to try and talk you out of it. 

Rafe’s heart dropped when he saw the way your body was starting to shake. You were spiraling, he could see it coming—he'd been here before. The way your breath hitched, how your eyes turned glassy.

He still knew the signs all too well.

His hands shot out instinctively, grabbing your arms, trying to hold you still, "Hey, hey, calm down," he muttered, his voice soothing, "You're gonna make yourself worse if you don’t stop."

He could feel the rapid pulse under your skin, the way your body tensed like a coiled spring, and he didn’t give a fuck that you still hated him. 

"Look at me," he coaxed, "Please, just breathe with me. You know this ain't gonna help. You gotta breathe."

Rafe’s heart broke all over again as you crumbled in front of him, damn it, he should’ve been there. He should’ve been there when this all fell apart, when you needed someone to hold you together instead of pushing you away.

He hated seeing you like this.

"I’m right here," he said again, softer this time, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

Topper stood there, eyes wide, not sure what to do, his face pale as he watched you fall apart in front of Rafe.

Sofia, still drunk and disoriented, caught the look in his eyes and quietly grabbed his arm, “We need to go," she whispered, nudging him, "T-this isn’t helping her."

Topper’s eyes moved to you, and then to Rafe, you could see it in his expression—the guilt, the regret. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

Rafe shot him a look, one that said everything—get out.

Your cousin, wiped his face before he took a few steps back. "I’m sorry," he muttered, eyes darting between you and Rafe.  "I’m so sorry.”

He turned away like a dog with his tail between his legs, Sofia following him without saying much, leaving you.

Rafe barely paid them any mind, his entire focus on you, his hands still holding yours, as he watched you try to calm your breathing.

He pulled you closer, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with yours as he whispered again, "Not going anywhere. I’m here, swear to God, I’m here."

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you into him fully, not caring if he was blocking the view of anyone else, not caring if things were a fucking mess—he only cared about getting you back to yourself.

He could feel it in his chest, every shitty thing that had piled up, every moment no one had your back when you needed it most.

You didn’t pull away. Maybe it was the anger finally burning out or the exhaustion catching up to you, but for a moment, you let him hold you. Your chest heaved as you fought for control, but your weight sagged against his hands.

His hands loosened their grip, his thumb brushing against your arm without him even realizing it. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to risk letting go because God knew if he’d ever get this close to you again.

You’re safe. You’re okay. I’ve got you. 

He didn’t deserve it—not even a little, but he couldn’t let go, you needed someone, even if it wasn’t really him you wanted anymore. 

Rafe could sense the way your breathing came out as almost pants against his chest. Every little tremor sent a pang through his chest, like someone had grabbed his ribs and squeezed until it hurt to breathe.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Why hadn’t he fought harder? 

Rafe rested his cheek against your hair, closing his eyes as he let himself feel it—the weight of you leaning on him. The smell of your perfume, faint but still the same as always. He felt like a fucking thief, stealing this moment from you when he had no right. You didn’t want this from him, didn’t need this from him.

He wished he could take it all back, erase every mistake, the fight, every stupid decision that had pushed you to this point. If he could trade places with you, take all the pain and carry it himself, he would. In a heartbeat. 

You took one shuddering breath, then another. It was enough for him to feel like maybe he’d done something right for once. Maybe he could—

“Get your hands off me.”

Rafe barely moved. His grip slackened, but he didn’t let go, didn’t step away like you wanted.

You pushed at his chest, but he didn’t budge. “I said get your fucking hands off me.”

“Not happenin’,” He swallowed hard, his pulse thrumming against his throat, but he didn’t loosen his grip. “You’re not okay.”

 “Go fuck yourself. You don’t get to decide that—”

Your voice cracked, and the sound of it nearly knocked the will to live from his body. He’d always known your tells, had always been able to read you better than you liked.

Rafe’s hands twitched, and then he moved them, moving like he was about to let you go—but then you did it.

You curled your arms around yourself, your fingers gripping the fabric of your dress, right over your stomach. Protective.

Fuck.

Could it be? It was an unconscious gesture, you probably didn’t realize you’d made, but to him, it might as well have been a fucking confession.

Rafe felt his body lock up, every muscle going rigid as the pieces fell into place. 

Fuck fuck fuck. Topper was right, wasn't he?

His throat went dry, he managed to croak out, “You’re—”

“No,” you snapped immediately, your fingers tightening on your dress, but you wouldn’t look at him.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I don’t need you.”

He knew he was losing you.

Rafe exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Bullshit.”

“Fuck you. You don’t get to— say shit like that. You don’t get to—” Your breathing hitched, and you bit down on the inside of your cheek.

“To what? To give a shit?”

He waited, watching, hoping, praying—please look at me, baby, please—but you didn’t move.

You scoffed, a bitter sound.

“You don’t care. You just don’t like the idea of—” Your breath caught, but you swallowed it down, pushing past the lump in your throat. “You don’t like the idea of me making a choice that doesn’t involve you.”

He hadn’t breathed properly since he saw your hands gripping your stomach, hiding yourself from him like you thought he was something to be afraid of. Like you thought he wouldn’t love you.

You thought he wouldn’t fucking stay.

“I love you.”

He barely recognized his own voice when he said it, but it was the only thing he could spill out. He swore to God he saw your left eye twitch at the confession, he knew what came next, but he’d never been good at shutting up when he should when it came to you.

“I do,” he insisted, “And I know I don’t—I don’t deserve to say that. I don’t deserve to expect anything from you.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “But I need you to know it.”

You clenched your jaw.

“I fucked up, I know. I fucked up so bad.”

You turned your head to the side, blinking up at the ceiling, refusing to spare him a glance. “I don’t want you to fix it.”

“I know,” he said immediately. “I know, but I can’t—I can’t just let you go through this alone.”

Your chest rose and fell too quickly, your breath uneven, but still—you stood your ground. “I don’t need you.”

“Please don’t say that,” he nearly dropped to his knees. “Please.”

You looked at him, since he’d realized what this meant, you lifted your head, met his gaze—really met it.

And shit—It nearly destroyed him, because he knew that look.

“Where the fuck were you, Rafe? Kissing her two months after we ended? Huh—” Your breath shuddered, and you shook your head, stepping back, “You didn’t even wait. You just—just moved the fuck on like I never even mattered—”

“It wasn’t like that—”

"Did you fuck her?" Your lips curled into a faux smile. "That’s what I thought."

"No,” He added quickly, shaking his head like the thought alone disgusted him, "No, I didn’t."

You chuckled disbelieving. "Don’t lie to me."

"I’m not," he said, stepping closer despite the way your body went rigid. "I didn’t touch her like that. I swear to God."

"But you wanted to, right?"

His head moved so fast it gave him whiplash, "No. The only person I’ve ever wanted is you.”

You scoffed, “That’s real sweet, real fucking poetic.”

“I let my own shit get in the way, and I hurt you. But I swear to God, I’ve never stopped loving you.”

“That supposed to make me feel better? You fucked off to play house with some other girl,” You swallowed hard, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Why were you there with her? Why did you let me think—"

"Because I’m a fucking assshole," he admitted, "I was trying to forget you, okay? But I couldn’t. No matter what I did, it was always you."

“Fuck you.” You snickered. “Where were you when I finally got my internship? The one I worked for, the one I wanted so bad?” You shook your head, “You didn’t even text me. Not once.”

His throat was tight, his pulse hammering, because he had thought about it—so many times, so many nights staring at his phone, fingers hovering, but he hadn’t.

Rafe’s heart plummeted.

“I—”

“You what? You forgot?”

His nails bit into his palms, “I—”

“You don’t get to speak,” you seethed, you eyes burning through him. “You don’t get to fucking say you care when you weren’t there, when you didn’t even fucking check if I was okay.

"I'm sorry."

"Where the fuck were you,” you whispered, voice shaking with grief, “when I found out I was pregnant with your fucking kid?”

Rafe froze, his stomach jumped around, violently, his ears started ringing. His brain short-circuited, his lungs forgot how to take in air, his heart fucking stopped.

Pregnant.

Pregnant. With his—

“Oh, right.” Your laugh was venomous, “You showed up at my charity gala.” You licked your lips, shaking your head, “Defending her.”

He never felt so completely useless, completely fucking helpless while you stood in front of him, looking up at him like you hated him.

“I—” He started, but nothing came out. “You—”

There was nothing to fucking say, you were right, he had failed you.

You weren’t telling him this so he could weigh in or because you wanted him to be a part of it. You were telling him so he’d know, so there wouldn’t be any misunderstandings, so he wouldn’t ever think, even for a second, that there was still a version of this where he got to be a part of it.

“How long?” The words were hoarse, hardly audible.

Your lips curled in disgust, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Like you fucking care.”

He did, he did care.

So fucking much that he thought he might fucking die under the weight of it. Except the realization hit him just as quickly—he didn’t get to stand here, wide-eyed and breathless and shocked like this wasn’t the natural conclusion to the shitshow of mistakes he’d made.

“Don’t fucking stand there and act like this is some big revelation. You didn’t spend the last months with your tongue down someone else’s throat while I was home—sick, alone—wondering how the fuck I was supposed to do this without you.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, pressing your knuckles to your lips to stop them from shaking.

His gut twisted.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Jesus Christ, he’d been so fucking stupid.

“I don’t need you. I never did.”

It was a lie, maybe you even believed it.

But Rafe knew you, understood how hard it was for you to ask for help. Knew how much it had hurt to stand in front of him, admitting the truth. And Rafe—he needed to fix this. Even if it was the last thing he ever did.

“I should’ve been there.”

“Yeah? No shit.”

Rafe felt his ribs caving in. “I’m here now.”

“That’s not good enough.”

It was a death sentence, it was fair but fuck, he couldn’t accept it.

Rafe stepped closer.

You took a step back.

“Don’t.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he swore, desperate. “I don’t care if you fucking hate me, don’t care if you never forgive me.” His throat worked around the lump in it. “I’m here.”

You were so fucking angry. So fucking hurt. He didn’t blame you for it. But if he didn’t try, if he didn’t fucking show you—prove to you that he was here now—then he’d never forgive himself.

“You think I’m gonna just forgive you for this?” you sneered, arms folded tightly over your chest. “Just because you’re here now, just because you say the words that mean nothing—that’s enough? After everything? After all of it?”

All he could do was look at you—look at the person he had ruined, the person he had loved, and still loved, more than anything. 

“I just—” He sucked in a breath, running a hand through his growing hair. “Tell me about the baby.”

Your expression faltered before you hardened again, lips pressing into a thin line.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Bullshit.” His voice broke. “Don’t do that—don’t shut me out. Is it... a boy? A girl?”

You hesitated, shifting uncomfortably on your feet. “Why does it matter?”

“Don’t—don’t keep me in the dark, please. You’ve felt them move?” 

You looked down at your feet. “No.” 

"Did you—uh—" He rubbed the back of his neck, nerves raw. "Do you have morning sickness? I read that happens early on, right?"

You blinked, "What?"

"Like... throwing up and all that? You okay?" He sounded genuinely concerned, but it only made your head spin.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, “Can we drop it?”

It’s then he remembers the beach cleanup, the memories of that afternoon colliding all at once—the way you’d collapsed into him, pale and unresponsive. The panic that gripped his chest as he carried you to the truck. The fight during the drive, when you told him to leave, your refusal to let him come inside.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“You were…” He pratically gasped, “You were pregnant. At the beach cleanup.”

You stiffened, already dreading where he was going with this.

“Don’t.”

His pulse raced, “That’s why you didn’t want me to come inside the hospital, wasn’t it?” His words spilled out, “You were scared they’d tell me. Holy shit.”

“Stop,” you snapped, but he couldn’t.

“You passed out because of—” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. “Jesus Christ.”

“I said stop.”

He couldn’t unsee it now—couldn’t unfeel your dead weight on his arms. He’d been right there, clueless, driving you to the hospital while you were carrying his baby. And instead of being there for you, he’d made everything worse.

“I didn’t know,” he pleaded, voice breaking. “I swear I didn’t know.”

“Exactly.” Your voice was cold, “You didn’t know because you weren’t there.”

He was going to have to spend that entire fucking inheritance fortune on therapy

TAGLIST: @maybankslover @october-baby25 @haruvalentine4321 @hopelesslydevoted2paige

@rafebb @rafesbby @whytheylosttheirminds

@zyafics @astarlights @bruher @nosebeers @carrerascameron

@serrendiipty @sunny1616 @yootvi @ditzyzombiesblog

@psychocitylights @maibelitaaura @kiiyomei

@stoned-writer @justafangirls-blog-deactivated2

@starkeygirlposts @enjoymyloves @ijustwanttoreadlols @icaqttt

[pucksandpower]

Don’t Let Go

Charles Leclerc x Bianchi!Reader

Summary: five times, spanning nearly three decades, that you and Charles held hands (a little treat for Valentine’s Day from me to you)

Warnings: mentions of Jules Bianchi’s death and depictions of labor

Based on this request

The Mediterranean sun bathes everything in warmth, and the beach is alive with laughter and the salty scent of the sea. Families dot the sand, umbrellas casting colorful spots of shade, and kids run along the shoreline, kicking up sprays of water that glint in the sunlight. You and Charles stand together, eyes wide with the thrill of the world around you, hands clasped tightly.

“Don’t let go, okay?” He says, giving your hand a little squeeze. His face is solemn, as if this is the most serious promise he’s ever made.

You nod with all the gravity a four-year-old can muster. “I won’t.”

And then his face breaks into a grin, eyes bright with excitement. “Look! Over there!” He points, and you both tilt your heads up to see a man spinning cotton candy onto a cone, a swirl of pastel pink and blue that looks like a cloud.

“Can we get some?” You ask, voice small and hopeful, like the entire day depends on this one piece of fluffy sugar.

Charles looks at you, then at the cotton candy man, then back at you. He lowers his voice, like he’s plotting something daring. “We’ll ask Maman, but … maybe we could sneak away?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “No, we’re not allowed.”

“Oh, fine,” he says with an exaggerated sigh, as if being five years old and following rules is already exhausting. “But if we did, you’d have to hold my hand the whole time.”

“I’m already holding your hand,” you remind him, swinging his arm a little.

He laughs, and then your parents call out, reminding you both to stay close, to not let go of each other.

“We’re not letting go!” Charles calls back, his hand still firmly in yours.

Together, you walk with your families through the crowded boardwalk, weaving around beach bags and coolers, dodging groups of older kids with towels slung over their shoulders. But then, in one sudden, disorienting moment, everything changes. A group of teenagers pushes through, their laughter loud and jarring, and somehow, in the confusion, Charles’ hand slips from yours.

He realizes it just a split second too late, his fingers grasping at air. He turns, panicked, eyes wide. “Y/N?” His voice is barely louder than a whisper, and in the noise of the crowd, it’s swallowed up.

You’re gone.

Charles stands there, frozen, heart pounding. He looks around frantically, calling your name again, louder this time. “Y/N!”

He sees nothing, only the sea of legs and sunburned shoulders and wide-brimmed hats. His heart races, and his chest feels tight. He can’t lose you — not like this. He bolts back to where your parents are, his voice high-pitched and breathless.

“Maman! Y/N … she … she’s gone!”

The look on his mother’s face goes from confusion to alarm in an instant. “Gone? What do you mean, gone?”

“We were holding hands, but … but then-” He’s trying to explain, but the words feel sticky in his mouth, and he can barely get them out. “She’s gone! She’s not here!”

Your mother’s face pales as she clutches Charles’ arm, her eyes darting around. “Where did you last see her?”

“There!” He points back toward the spot by the cotton candy vendor, but it’s as if the place has transformed in the few seconds you’ve been gone. Nothing looks the same. Every face, every family, every child blends together into a blur.

The panic spreads, rippling through the small group of adults as they start scanning the crowd, calling your name with voices that tremble.

Charles stands rooted, clutching at his mother’s hand. It’s all his fault. He let go. He was supposed to keep you safe. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, feeling tears start to sting at his eyes. “I didn’t mean to …”

Your father places a hand on Charles’ shoulder, his voice calm but with an edge of urgency. “Stay with your mother, Charles. We’re going to find her, okay?”

But even as the adults scatter, scanning the faces in the crowd, calling your name with increasing desperation, Charles can’t just stand there. He looks up at his mother, his voice tiny. “I want to help.”

“Charles-”

“I have to help,” he insists, tears slipping down his cheeks. “Please. I promised I wouldn’t let go.”

There’s a pause, then a nod. His mother’s grip tightens on his shoulder, as if grounding him. “Stay close, mon chéri. We’ll find her.”

Together, they start moving through the crowd, calling your name. Charles’ voice cracks each time he says it, and with every passing minute, his chest feels heavier. He keeps glancing around, hoping to see your face, to see you waving back at him with that little smile. But all he sees are strangers.

The minutes stretch, dragging into what feels like hours. He begins to wonder if maybe you’re lost forever, that maybe this is his punishment for letting go, for letting his fingers slip from yours.

And then, in the distance, he catches sight of a cluster of people gathered near a lifeguard stand. His heart skips a beat. He grabs his mother’s hand, tugging her in that direction. “There! I think … I think I see her!”

They make their way through the crowd, weaving between the umbrellas and beach chairs. As they get closer, Charles’ heart beats faster, and he barely dares to breathe. And then, finally, he sees you.

You’re sitting on the edge of a bench, a scrape on your knee, a police officer crouched in front of you with a first-aid kit. Your eyes are red, and you look so small, clutching the edge of the bench like it’s your lifeline.

“Y/N!” Charles shouts, breaking into a run.

You look up, and the relief that washes over your face makes his heart soar. Before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s running up to you, arms wrapping around you tightly. “I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry!”

You sniff, burying your face in his shoulder, and for a moment, the two of you just cling to each other, letting the world fall away.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, though your voice wobbles a little.

Charles pulls back just enough to look at your scraped knee, his face scrunched up in worry. “Does it hurt?”

You nod, biting your lip. “A little.”

“I shouldn’t have let go,” he says, voice choked with guilt. “I promised I wouldn’t.”

You reach for his hand, holding it tightly. “It wasn’t your fault.”

But he shakes his head, and there’s a fierce determination in his eyes. “I’m never letting go again,” he says, as if the promise itself is enough to keep you safe.

The adults gather around, relieved but still shaken, fussing over you and asking if you’re alright. But for Charles, none of that matters. All he cares about is that you’re here, safe, with his hand in yours.

And this time, he’s never letting go.

***

The sky is a steely gray, heavy with clouds that seem to press down on the earth. There’s a chill in the air, one that makes the hairs on your arms stand up as you stand at the back of the chapel, your hand locked in Charles’. His grip is firm, steady, and you cling to it like it’s the only thing tethering you to the ground.

There’s a silence that fills the chapel, a thick, suffocating silence punctuated only by soft sobs and the occasional clearing of a throat. People fill the pews, faces somber, eyes red-rimmed. Friends, family, teammates — people who loved Jules, people who are hurting. But none of it quite feels real. Like you’re stuck in some strange dream that you can’t wake up from.

Charles squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a way that’s meant to be soothing. He leans in close, voice barely a whisper. “Are you okay?”

You shake your head, eyes fixed on the casket at the front of the room, draped with flowers, a picture of Jules propped up beside it. “No,” you murmur. “I don’t … I don’t think I’ll ever be okay again.”

Charles’ hand tightens around yours. “Me neither.”

The words hang between you, a shared understanding, a grief that you both carry but can’t seem to put into words. You look up at him, at the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes are fixed forward, like he’s afraid to let his emotions show. And yet his hand never leaves yours.

The service begins, a series of voices taking turns, sharing memories, stories that make people laugh, others that draw out quiet tears. You sit through it all, barely moving, your hand clenched in Charles’ so tightly that your fingers start to go numb. But you don’t let go. You can’t let go. Not now.

When it’s time for your parents to speak, you feel yourself tense, fighting back the tears that have been threatening to spill over all morning. Your mother’s voice cracks as she starts, her words halting, her grief so raw it’s like a wound ripped open. You stare down at your lap, feeling the weight of it all press down on your chest.

Charles leans over, voice low and soothing. “If you want to leave, just say the word, alright?”

You shake your head, blinking back tears. “No … I want to stay. I need to stay.”

He nods, pulling you closer, and you feel his arm around your shoulders, warm and steady. “Okay. I’m right here.”

The room blurs, faces and voices blending together. Your mind drifts, memories of Jules flashing through your mind, moments you thought you’d have forever but now feel so achingly out of reach. His laugh, the way he used to ruffle your hair, the way he’d tease you and then instantly apologize whenever he saw you starting to get annoyed. The last time you saw him, hugging him goodbye before he left for his race, the way he promised to bring you back a souvenir from Japan. And now he’s gone, and it feels impossible to wrap your head around.

You glance at Charles, who’s staring ahead, his expression stoic but his eyes filled with pain. He’s hurting, too. You know how close he was with Jules, how much he looked up to his godfather. And somehow, even in his own grief, he’s here, holding you up.

When the service ends, everyone slowly files out of the chapel, moving in a quiet procession to the gravesite. Charles doesn’t let go of your hand, guiding you through the crowd with a quiet determination, shielding you from the sympathetic looks and soft murmurs of condolences.

As you stand by the gravesite, surrounded by people but feeling more alone than ever, Charles keeps you grounded. You barely hear the words the priest is saying, barely register the people around you. All you can focus on is Charles’ hand in yours, his steady presence, the way he keeps glancing over at you, checking to make sure you’re okay.

And then, the moment comes. Charles takes a deep breath, his hand slipping from yours for the first time since you arrived at the chapel. He gives you a look, one that’s filled with so much understanding and pain and strength that it nearly breaks you all over again.

“I have to go,” he says softly, his voice choked.

You nod, even though you don’t want him to leave. “I know.”

He hesitates, looking at you like he wants to say something more, but the words seem to catch in his throat. Instead, he reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

“I’ll be right back,” he whispers. “I promise.”

And then he’s gone, moving to join the other men, their faces grim as they prepare to carry the casket. You watch as they lift it, your heart twisting with every step they take, each one a reminder of the finality of it all. It’s real now, in a way that it wasn’t before.

Jules is really gone.

You stand there, watching as they carry him to his final resting place, feeling like your heart is breaking into a million pieces. Tears blur your vision, and you quickly wipe them away, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no hiding from the pain.

When they lower the casket into the ground, you feel a fresh wave of grief wash over you. It’s like losing him all over again, like the wound has been ripped open and there’s no way to stop the bleeding. You cover your mouth, a sob escaping despite your best efforts.

And then, suddenly, Charles is there again, slipping his hand back into yours, pulling you close. His own eyes are red, his face streaked with tears he can no longer hold back. He wraps his arm around you, and for a moment, the two of you just stand there, clinging to each other, letting the grief wash over you.

You bury your face in his shoulder, letting yourself cry, letting yourself feel the full weight of it all. Charles holds you tightly, his hand rubbing gentle circles on your back, his voice a soft murmur. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

You don’t know how long you stand like that, lost in the pain, but eventually, the crowd starts to disperse, people offering quiet words of sympathy before leaving. You barely register any of it, your focus entirely on Charles, on the way he keeps holding you, grounding you.

When it’s just the two of you left by the gravesite, Charles finally pulls back, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He looks at you, his expression soft but filled with an intensity you’ve never seen before.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” he admits, voice hoarse. “I don’t have the right words for this.”

You shake your head, your own voice barely a whisper. “There aren’t any right words.”

He nods, swallowing hard, and then, after a moment, he takes your hand again. “Do you want to sit? Or … walk?”

“Walk, I think,” you say, your voice shaky.

He leads you away from the gravesite, his hand still holding yours, and the two of you walk in silence for a while, the weight of the day pressing down on you like a physical thing. The cemetery is quiet, save for the soft rustle of leaves in the wind, and you let the calmness settle over you, soothing some of the ache in your chest.

After a while, Charles speaks, his voice soft. “I miss him too, you know.”

You look up at him, surprised. “I know.”

He hesitates, looking down at his feet. “I looked up to him. He was … I don’t know. He was like a second big brother.”

You nod, understanding completely. “He was the best. He always made everything seem … possible.”

Charles smiles, a bittersweet expression that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. He did.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, letting the silence fill the space between you. And then Charles lets out a shaky breath, his hand tightening around yours. “I’m not going anywhere, you know. I’m here. For whatever you need.”

You feel a fresh wave of tears prick at your eyes, but this time, it’s not just from grief. There’s something else there, something warmer, something that feels like hope.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He nods, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand in a gentle, comforting way. “We’ll get through this,” he says quietly. “Together.”

And somehow, standing there with Charles, his hand in yours, you believe him.

***

The paddock buzzes with energy — the sound of engines mixing with the hum of reporters and the fast-paced clatter of team members shuffling between garages. The air is thick with the scent of fuel, rubber, and anticipation. But for all the excitement and all the people around, Charles only seems to have eyes for you.

He’s been gripping your hand tightly since you both walked through the gates, his eyes flicking nervously over every inch of the bustling scene as if he’s trying to take it all in at once.

“You okay?” You ask, squeezing his hand.

“Yeah, of course,” he says quickly, but his voice betrays him, a touch higher than usual.

You raise an eyebrow, giving him a knowing look. “Charles …”

“What? I am,” he insists, flashing you a grin that’s a little too bright, a little too quick. “I mean … you’re okay, right?” His tone shifts, softer, more concerned. “I know how you get sometimes with all the noise and people.”

You almost laugh but hold back, letting him keep up the charade. “I’m fine.”

He glances around, still keeping a firm grip on your hand as he leads you down the paddock walk. “I just don’t want you to be … I don’t know, uncomfortable or something. This place is … chaotic.”

You glance at him, taking in the way his jaw is clenched, his brows drawn together. “I think I’ll manage,” you say, your tone soft, teasing. “If anything, I think you might be the one who’s a little uncomfortable.”

His head jerks up, and he looks at you with wide eyes, feigning innocence. “Me? Uncomfortable? No, not at all.”

You smile, brushing a thumb over the back of his hand. “Good to know, because I’d hate for you to be nervous or anything.”

He clears his throat, casting a quick glance around as if looking for a way to escape the conversation. “Well, I’m not,” he says, his voice firm, though he still refuses to let go of your hand. “I’m just … making sure you’re okay.”

“Of course you are,” you say, unable to hold back your grin.

He leads you toward his team’s hospitality suite, and you can see the Alfa Romeo logo emblazoned on the side. He hesitates at the door, glancing at you as if he’s not sure if he should go in or not.

“I’ll be right here,” you reassure him, squeezing his hand again.

He nods, but instead of letting go, he steps closer, looking down at you with that soft, serious expression that makes your heart skip a beat. “Promise you won’t go anywhere?”

You tilt your head, amused. “Where would I even go?”

“I don’t know. Just … promise.”

“Promise.”

That seems to settle him, at least a little. He takes a deep breath, nodding to himself before pushing the door open and leading you inside. The room is a hive of activity — strategists and engineers clustered around screens, mechanics talking in low voices as they discuss parts and plans.

“Charles! You made it!” A tall man with a headset and clipboard hurries over, offering him a firm handshake. “Ready for your first big day?”

Charles nods, but his hand tightens around yours again, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Yeah, ready as I’ll ever be.”

The man’s eyes flicker to you, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Ah, and who do we have here?”

Charles glances at you, then back at the man, standing a little straighter. “This is Y/N,” he says, his voice filled with a quiet pride. “She’s … she’s here with me.”

“Ah, got it,” the man says, giving you a polite nod. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. Quite a day to be here, huh?”

You nod, giving a small smile. “It’s definitely … exciting.”

Charles looks at you, his expression softening. “Yeah, she’s a bit nervous, so … I thought it’d be good if she could stick around.”

You bite back a smile, deciding not to correct him. If he wants to pretend that you’re the one with nerves jangling out of control, you’ll let him. “You’re very thoughtful, Charles.”

He grins, looking relieved, as if your words have eased some hidden weight off his shoulders. “Well, someone’s got to keep you calm, right?”

The team member chuckles, clapping Charles on the shoulder. “You’re in good hands, then.”

As the man walks away, Charles pulls you closer, lowering his voice. “See? I told you I’m just making sure you’re okay.”

You roll your eyes but squeeze his hand, letting him believe his little fiction for now. He needs this, you can tell — needs you here, needs the quiet reassurance of your presence.

He leads you through the paddock, his grip on your hand never faltering. Every so often, he pauses to introduce you to someone, his voice filled with a quiet pride each time he says, “This is Y/N, my girlfriend.”

You smile and nod, feeling the warmth in his words, the way he seems to draw strength from saying them out loud. Each introduction, each little moment, seems to ease some of the tension in his shoulders.

Eventually, you make your way to the garage, where his car is waiting, sleek and gleaming under the bright lights. Charles stops in his tracks, his gaze fixed on the car, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and nerves.

“Wow,” he breathes, his voice barely a whisper.

You look up at him, watching the way his expression shifts, the excitement and fear flickering across his face. “You okay?”

He nods slowly, not taking his eyes off the car. “Yeah … yeah, I am.”

For a moment, he seems lost in thought, his hand loosening in yours as he stares at the car. Then, as if snapping out of a trance, he turns to you, his expression softening. “Can you stay right here? I just … need to check something real quick.”

“Of course,” you say, giving his hand one last squeeze before letting go.

He steps forward, reaching out to touch the car, his fingers brushing over the cool metal. You watch as he takes a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling, and you can almost feel the weight of his emotions — this dream he’s been chasing for so long, finally within reach.

After a few minutes, he turns back to you, his face a little calmer, a little more settled. He walks over, taking your hand again without a word, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

“For what?”

“For being here. For … everything.”

You smile, leaning into him. “Always.”

He nods, his gaze dropping to the ground. “I don’t think I could do this without you.”

“You’d be fine, Charles,” you say, nudging him playfully. “But I’m glad you want me here.”

He chuckles, his fingers threading through yours. “I’d probably be a wreck without you.”

You both stand there for a moment, letting the quiet settle around you. And then, suddenly, one of his engineers approaches, clipboard in hand, looking a little flustered.

“Charles, we need you in the strategy meeting. Now.”

Charles tenses, his grip on your hand tightening. “Right … okay.”

The engineer hesitates, his gaze flickering to you. “It’s … it’s a closed meeting. I’m sorry, but your guest can’t come in.”

Charles’ face falls, a slight pout forming as he looks down at you, his expression almost pleading. “But … she’s with me.”

The team member shifts uncomfortably. “I understand, but it’s policy. Only team members and essential personnel.”

Charles’ pout deepens, his eyes fixed on the man. “But she’s … she’s my good luck charm. And besides, she’s nervous.”

You stifle a laugh, watching as Charles’ pout turns into a full-fledged puppy-dog look. It’s so endearing, and clearly, the team member is wavering.

“Please?” Charles says, his voice soft, almost childlike. “Just this once?”

The team member sighs, glancing between you and Charles before finally relenting. “Fine. But she has to sign a confidentiality agreement. A dozen of them, actually.”

Charles’ face lights up, and he turns to you, grinning. “See? You get to come with me.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Well, if I’m signing my life away…”

He leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “Thank you.”

Together, you follow the team member into the conference room, where a stack of paperwork awaits. Charles never lets go of your hand, even as you pick up the pen, signing each NDA with his fingers intertwined with yours.

As you finish the last signature, Charles looks at you, his eyes filled with a quiet, grateful warmth. “Now we’re ready,” he says softly, his voice steady, sure.

And as you walk into the meeting room together, hand in hand, you know that, no matter what happens out on the track, you’ll be by his side — just as you’ve always been.

***

The lights pulse in dizzying shades of blue and red, the music thrumming deep enough to shake the walls of the crowded club. The place is packed — friends, family, team members, strangers all shoulder to shoulder, all there for one reason: to celebrate Charles’ win at the Monaco Grand Prix. His first home victory. The energy is electric, and the night feels like a dream he’s been waiting his whole life to have.

Charles is beside you, his arm draped heavily around your shoulders, his hand gripping yours like he’ll lose himself if he lets go. His eyes are bright, and his laughter fills the air as he turns to you for the hundredth time tonight.

“Can you believe it?” He shouts over the music, eyes wide, dazed with disbelief and the effects of far too many celebratory drinks. “We did it! I did it!”

“You did, Charles!” You say, grinning up at him, matching his energy. “You won Monaco. Your home race!”

He lets out a roar of joy, pulling you close, swaying unsteadily as he laughs. “Home race!” He echoes, like he’s trying to savor the words, rolling them over his tongue. “Did you see it, though? Did you see it happen?”

“I saw it,” you assure him, laughing. “I think everyone saw it!”

He laughs, a sound so bright it’s almost childlike, and then he leans close, lowering his voice like he’s about to share a secret with you. “I really thought I’d never get it, you know? It’s Monaco. It’s just … Monaco.”

You squeeze his hand. “You deserved this one. More than anyone else.”

He tilts his head, considering your words, his gaze unfocused but sincere. “Do you really think so?”

“Of course I do,” you say, your voice strong enough to cut through the noise, and he nods, satisfied, the smile on his face softer now, less manic.

But then someone calls his name from across the room, and Charles is yanked back into the whirlwind. He lifts his drink — something fizzy and definitely too strong — and waves it around with a cheer. The crowd erupts in applause, chanting his name like he’s royalty.

“Charles! Charles! Charles!”

He takes a deep gulp of his drink, wincing as he swallows, then laughs, shaking his head as if he can’t believe any of this is real. “All these people …” he mutters, glancing at you with a slightly drunken smile. “Do they even know me? Really?”

You chuckle, squeezing his hand a little tighter. “I think they know you well enough to celebrate. Besides,” you tease, “I’m here. That should be enough, right?”

“More than enough,” he says, his gaze fixed on you, intense even in his inebriated state. “You’re … you’re the reason I’m even here.”

You laugh, brushing it off, but he shakes his head, suddenly serious.

“No, really.” His words are slurred but sincere. “You — remember all those times I thought I’d never make it? You were there. And now look at us. Monaco! My Monaco.”

You smile, feeling the warmth of his words, the affection that cuts through the chaos of the club. “I’m so proud of you.”

He grins, his face lighting up like he’s just won all over again. “Say that again.”

“I’m so proud of you, Charles.”

He beams, then tugs you closer, spinning you in a clumsy half-circle that nearly sends both of you toppling over. “You’re coming with me, always. Even if I’m-” He fumbles for words, laughing. “Even if I’m old and can’t drive anymore. You’re coming with me.”

“Wherever you go,” you say softly, humoring him as he wobbles, leaning his full weight against you.

“Wherever I go,” he repeats, nodding as if this is the most important promise he’s ever made. He glances down at your joined hands, lifting them for a moment as if to check they’re still there. Then, just as quickly, he clutches them to his chest. “You’re my good luck charm, you know that?”

“You’ve told me,” you say, laughing. “Probably about fifty times tonight.”

“Then fifty-one,” he declares, raising your hand like he’s holding a trophy. “You’re my good luck charm!”

“Okay, Charles,” you say, glancing around at the curious looks people are starting to give you. “Maybe a little less shouting?”

He scoffs, his face scrunching up in indignation. “Shouting? I’m not shouting!” Then he laughs at himself, realizing he’s practically yelling.

You shake your head, laughing as he leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. “But really,” he murmurs, his voice dropping. “Thank you for everything. I wouldn’t have done any of this without you.”

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and you feel your throat tighten, emotions welling up. But before you can respond, someone else is clapping him on the back, dragging him back into the raucous celebration. He goes willingly, laughing as he lifts his drink again, but he doesn’t let go of your hand — not for a second.

People congratulate him, hug him, raise their glasses in his honor, and through it all, he keeps glancing over at you, as if he’s checking to make sure you’re still there, that this night, this victory, isn’t a dream he’ll wake up from.

“Charles!” An old friend shouts, clinking his glass against Charles’. “How’s it feel to finally win your home race?”

Charles laughs, tipping his head back. “Feels amazing! Like … like nothing else!”

Another friend chimes in, “And you’ve got the best date to celebrate with, huh?” He winks at you, raising his glass.

Charles nods, his grin widening as he wraps an arm around you, his hand still holding yours. “The very best,” he says proudly, his words a little slurred. “Don’t know what I’d do without her.”

You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks, but you just smile, squeezing his hand. “I’m lucky to be here with you.”

He laughs, leaning in so close that his forehead brushes yours. “Not as lucky as me.”

And then, in one swift, impulsive move, he presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment. It’s sweet and almost innocent, and despite the noisy club, it feels like a quiet, private moment just between the two of you.

He looks at you, eyes soft, the drunken haze giving his expression a kind of unguarded warmth. “Promise me something?”

You nod. “Anything.”

“Promise you’ll be with me next year, too. For the next Monaco. And the next … and the one after that.”

You laugh, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. “I think I can manage that.”

“Good,” he murmurs, his eyes drifting closed as he rests his forehead against yours. “That’s all I need. Just you … and Monaco.”

You chuckle, wrapping an arm around him to keep him steady. “And maybe a bit of sleep.”

He groans, shaking his head. “Sleep? No, no … we have to … keep celebrating! I mean, it’s Monaco!”

But despite his protests, his eyelids are starting to droop, his body leaning more heavily against you.

“Charles,” you say gently, guiding him to a quieter corner of the club. “Maybe we can take a little break?”

He mumbles something incoherent, his head resting on your shoulder, his hand still holding yours in a loose but unbreakable grip. Even in his exhaustion, he refuses to let go, as if the victory, the night, everything will disappear if he loosens his hold.

“Just … five minutes,” he mutters, his voice soft. “Then … more dancing.”

You smile, brushing a gentle hand over his hair. “Five minutes.”

But as he drifts off, his breathing evening out, you know he won’t be getting up for any more dancing tonight. He’s given everything — his heart, his soul, his strength — to this race, and now, finally, he’s at peace.

You sit there with him, holding his hand, listening to the muffled thrum of the music, and you realize that, in his own way, he’s won more than just a race. He’s found a sense of belonging, of fulfillment, a piece of himself he’d been chasing for so long.

And as you sit together, the noise of the club fading into the background, you feel that same sense of peace. You’re here, with him, exactly where you’re meant to be.

***

The hospital room feels impossibly small, filled with sounds of beeping monitors, the hum of the fluorescent lights, and the murmured voices of nurses and doctors. But for you, it’s all a blur — just flashes of movement and noise as you lie there, clutching Charles’ hand like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

His grip is firm, steady. He’s been by your side since the contractions started hours ago, and now, with each excruciating wave of pain, he tightens his hold, murmuring to you softly, his words meant only for you.

“Breathe,” he says quietly, as if he can breathe for you. “You’re doing amazing.”

You grit your teeth, feeling another contraction start to build, a pressure so intense it’s as if your entire body is caught in its grip. “This doesn’t … feel amazing,” you manage to say, your voice strained.

Charles chuckles softly, though you can see the tension in his eyes, the worry that’s been there since you first squeezed his hand, hours ago. “I know,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “But you are. I promise.”

You close your eyes, focusing on his words, on the warmth of his hand in yours. For a moment, it distracts you, gives you something to hold onto in the midst of the pain. But then the contraction peaks, and you’re squeezing his hand so hard you hear him suck in a sharp breath.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, the pain so intense it’s blinding. “I’m so sorry … your hand-”

He just shakes his head, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. “I’m fine,” he says, his voice gentle. “Just focus on you. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t have to stay,” you say, half-laughing, half-crying as the contraction finally starts to ease. “You can go … take a break or something.”

His expression softens, and he leans in close, his eyes locked on yours. “Are you kidding? You think I’d leave you now?”

You shake your head, managing a breathless laugh. “I don’t know how you’re not terrified.”

“Oh, I am,” he admits with a grin, glancing at the nurse nearby, who raises an amused eyebrow. “But you’re stronger than me. I have to keep up.”

The nurse chuckles softly, patting you on the shoulder. “You’re in the home stretch now, almost there. Just a little longer.”

“A little longer,” you echo, glancing at Charles, trying to find the strength to keep going. “Okay … I can do that.”

He nods, his hand never loosening from yours. “Of course you can. You’re the strongest person I know.”

Another contraction hits, and the pain tears through you like fire. You can feel your grip on his hand tighten again, your nails digging into his skin. “I’m sorry,” you gasp, but it’s all you can manage. The pain is blinding, all-consuming.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away. “Don’t apologize,” he murmurs, his voice calm, steady. “You hold on as tight as you need to.”

“Charles …” Your voice is choked, and you can feel tears prickling at your eyes. “This … this is …”

“I know,” he whispers, brushing a kiss to your forehead. “But you’re doing it. You’re so close.”

The doctor speaks softly to you, offering encouragement, but all you can focus on is the feel of Charles’ hand in yours, his thumb tracing gentle circles against your skin. He’s been there through everything — every fear, every doubt — and now, here he is again, steady, unwavering.

Another contraction builds, and this time it’s different. The pressure feels like it’s reaching its breaking point, like something’s about to give. You squeeze his hand harder than ever, and he leans in, his forehead resting against yours as he murmurs, “Just a little longer. You’ve got this.”

You close your eyes, focusing on the warmth of his breath, the feel of his hand, and push with everything you have. The room fills with noise — your own cries, the encouraging voices around you — and then, finally, there’s a new sound. A tiny, piercing wail that cuts through everything.

You open your eyes, gasping, and see the doctor holding a small, wriggling bundle. Charles’ hand is still in yours, his face pale, his eyes wide with something like awe as he stares at the baby. “Is that …”

“That’s your son,” the nurse says, beaming as she places the little bundle in your arms.

You’re exhausted, every muscle in your body aching, but as you look down at the tiny face, your heart swells with a love so fierce it’s almost painful. You glance up at Charles, tears shining in your eyes, and he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Look at him,” he whispers, his voice choked with emotion. “Just … look.”

You nod, a tear slipping down your cheek as you cradle the baby close, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. You glance down, realizing you’re still clutching his hand in a death grip. “I think … I nearly broke your hand,” you say, laughing softly, tears blurring your vision.

Charles laughs, glancing down at your intertwined fingers, his own knuckles white from the pressure. “I’d let you do it a thousand times over,” he says softly, his voice filled with all the love and pride in the world. “For this moment … I’d happily let you.”

[mariasont]

Be So Stupid - S.R

a/n: this has been sitting in my WIPs for so long and i finally finished it! now going to reward myself with online shopping xoxo

kind of inspired by when jj and reid split up in season 2 i think? when morgan was kinda being rude to her but i picture like season 12-13 spence

masterlist

pairings: spencer reid x gn!reader

summary: you make a mistake while on a case nearly getting spencer killed, morgan has some choice words and spencer is ready to beat his ass over it

warnings: morgan being a little shit simply for the plot, mention of spencer almost dying, spencer being a protective king pussy boss

wc: 1.4k

How could you be so stupid?

Those were the words that had been on replay, a constant loop, for the past two days. It's because, somewhere inside, you knew Morgan was justified in what he said. How could you have been so stupid to split up with Spencer at the unsubs house?

He was taken by the unsub, a trigger pull away from death. But the team got there, and he was okay. He was alive and breathing and healthy, and you tried to focus on these facts when your chest tightened with that familiar agonizing twinge.

It was a relief not to face anyone afterward. As soon as you got home from the case, you holed yourself up in your apartment, obsessively dissecting the events until the recollections twisted your insides with a nauseating sense of dread. You had run through every potential scenario in your head, agonizing over the grim outcomes if you hadn't arrived when you did.

You would've never forgiven yourself.

So here you were, hiding out in Penelope's lair, doing your paperwork. You convinced yourself it wasn't hiding; rationalizing it as a need for more peace and quiet than the bullpen could offer. You knew it was bullshit, and so did Garcia.

"Just so you know, I'm fully prepared to kick his ass on your behalf," she announced, swiveling to face her monitors, the ribbons in her hair trailing her movement like colorful comets. "It was totally uncalled for. Everyone agrees."

"Everyone?"

"Well, okay, not Spencer, but that's only because he doesn't know," Garcia continued, her pen tapping a silent code against her cheek, followed by the clack of keys. "If he did, he'd definitely kick his ass."

"I don't know about that," you said, repeatedly stretching and releasing the hair tie around your wrist, each snap a self-inflicted reprimand.

"He called you stupid." She was shaking her head so vigorously her blonde locks tumbled into her eyes as she paused her typing to look at you. "And you, my gorgeous friend, are anything but."

"Generally speaking, sure, but this time, Pen, I really screwed up."

"Who called you stupid?"

Spencer's voice was incredibly hard to ignore, distinct—you would recognize it anywhere.

Garcia and you stopped dead, your eyes growing impossibly large as she gave you a look as if to say, Morgan is screwed.

"No one."

"Morgan."

You and Garcia blurt your words out at the same time, your voices clashing in the air. You whipped your head to Garcia, the betrayal written on your face as she only shrugged her shoulders.

"Why would he say that to you?"

Spencer's steps towards you were measured, but each one amplified your unease, you hands wringing together as you looked away. He could read you like a book, and most times that was a good thing, but today it was definitely not.

"It's really not a big deal, Spencer," you insisted, pursing you lips as you dragged your gaze up and over him. "But how about you? How are you holding up?"

You were on your feet in an instant, a little too quickly, wobbling on your heel just a tab before Spencer grabbed your elbow. You ignore his touch, or at least you try, and press the back of your hand to his forehead.

He wasn't warm, but you sure were.

"You know, I don't think you should be back at work so soon."

You weren't lying when you said that. It seemed to soon. Was he looking a little pale? You couldn't tell. He should be home.

His hand was suddenly around your wrist, soft but firm, easing you away from his forehead, his eyes narrowing at you.

"Hey, I'm alright." He was trying to be assuring, offering a faint smile that only served to make your stomach do backflips. "Really, I am."

His fingers frapped around your wrist, not quite letting go, as he directed his attention to Garcia. "Why did he say that to her?"

"I'm right here," you grumbled under your breath, but Spencer was paying you no mind.

"I'm aware," Spencer answered without looking at you as his hands found their way to your shoulders, thumbs tracing absent patterns on your skin. "But you are not providing any answers."

Garcia cut in, folding her arms over her chest as her eyes pinned you with an unspoken accusation. "He said it because you two split up on the case."

Her words seemed to thicken the air itself, snatching away the previous ease as Spencer's expression darkened. It was a new and unsettling sight--the tightness in his jaw, the faint crease in his brows, and the steely sharpness in his eyes.

Without uttering a single syllable, he spun on his heel and strode out the door. You didn't hesitate to chase after him, an inkling of his destination propelling you forward. The look on his face had planted a seed of fear about what he was going to do.

Sure enough, there he was, just as you anticipated, in the middle of the bull pit. His gaze locked on Morgan with a laser-like precision, like a hawk eyeing its prey.

"How could you say that to her?" His voice was jagged, hands thumping against Morgan's shoulders in a way that you frantically looked around for Hotch. "What? Were you trying to make her feel bad? What's the matter with you?"

"Easy, Spencer, what are you getting at?" Morgan's hands went up defensively. But when Spencer's eyes flickered to you, the puzzle pieces clicked into place. "Oh..."

Morgan's eyes found yours. "Come here, sugar."

Morgan was your friend, a good one at that, and you really didn't blame him for what he said. He had good intentions. But here in the bullpen being open and exposed you found yourself stalling, glancing towards Spencer.

Only after he gave you a nod did you take that tentative step forward, clammy palms running down your pants as you stood in front of Morgan.

"Look, I was out of line. Calling you stupid was stupid of me," he started, hand grabbing on your upper arm as he spoke. "We've all been in tough spots and I was an asshole for adding to the pressure instead of helping you through it."

And you knew he meant it, even if it took Spencer nearly coming to blows to bring it about. 

"It's okay, I know you didn't mean it, Morgan. And it was my fault really, for not staying with Spencer."

"First off, we made that call together, so if anyone's at fault, it's both of us," Spencer reminded, his hand settling on your lower back as he moved closer to you. His gaze then drilled into Morgan. "And second, Morgan, she's too nice. I say you owe her a month's work of paperwork at least."

You opened your mouth to object, but Morgan cut you off, his hand on your shoulder stopping me mid-breath. "After what I said? I'll do you one better--I'll handle your paperwork for two months."

He was gone before you could even thank him, making his way towards the break room, leaving you and Spencer.

"Hey, look at me." You did, raising your eyes to meet his. "What happened on that last case—it's not on you. We made a call, and we did it with the best intentions. It's not your fault."

He regarded you so... softly. It stirred a flutter of goosebumps across your skin, your hands rubbing up and down your arms as if to smooth away the sensation.

"Seeing you in that situation, so close to..." You paused, drawing in a ragged breath as the sickening memories came flooding back. "I can't help but feel responsible. It's a tough guilt to shake."

He rearranged a lock of hair behind your ear. 

"It's a cognitive distortion to assume sole responsibility, but that's just your brain tricking you." Taking your hand he pressed it over his heart. "A human heart beats over two billion times in a lifetime. And every beat right now is telling you, I'm all good."

You could feel his heartbeat—thump, thump—against your palm. You caught yourself wanting to know what it would be like to fall asleep to the sound.

You were so close to each other now, the distance, or lack thereof, slightly overwhelming. "You're all good?"

He gave your hand a squeeze. "I'm all good."

You remained motionless, hand pressed to his chest, wondering if your heart could ever beat in sync with his.

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna @readergf @sarcasm-and-stiles @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath

[hauntedfawnn]

۶♡ৎ White Rabbit ۶♡ৎ (Rafe Cameron x Reader)

✰ Rafe goes to Barry for help with his “pogue problem” but he gets more help than he bargained for when he meets Barry’s cousin. He can’t stay away from you, despite Barry’s protests, especially when you’re just as unhinged as he is. ✰ (This is a revamped repost from my old blog of my first ever Rafe fic)

♱ Gun violence (Reader shoots a guy), cocaine use(Reader & Rafe), unprotected sex, face fucking, choking, hair pulling, instant infatuation, spit kink, unhinged!reader, alt!reader, daddy kink, spanking, biting 18+MDNI ♱

Rafe slams his truck door shut as he walks up to Barry’s porch, scoffing when he sees him sitting there with his feet propped up while he reads a book.

“Hey, you got my shit?”

“Shit, you’re early.” Barry closes his book and sets it down on the table in front of him, a condescending smirk spreading across his lips.

“Do you have my shit or not, man?” Rafe groans as he plops his large body down onto the rundown cushion of one of the porch chairs.

“Yeah, I got yo shit.” Barry chuckles, pulling the baggy from his pocket and tossing it on the table. “You got my money?”

“Yeah.” Rafe pulls a wad of cash from his pocket and slaps it into his hand before grabbing the baggy so he can make himself line. He snorts it, letting out a deep breath after. “I need a piece too.”

“Hooohoooo!! You need a piece? Country Club Killer now, huh?” Barry laughs, his hand coming down to slap his knee.

“Don’t!!” Rafe slams his hand on the table. “Mess with me right now.”

“Aight, what the hell you need a piece for?”

“John B is fucking back.”

“John B is fucking dead bruh.” Barry chuckles and rolls his eyes.

“Nah man, I saw him for myself in the Bahamas, and just now Top saw him in town with my sister scoring beer.”

“FUCK!!!!” Barry kicks the table, sending it flying a few feet away. “Are you fuckin’ kiddin me? I’m done playing with these kids bruh.”

Barry kicks himself up from his seat, walking over to a locker on the side of the porch. He enters the combination before he pulls out a gun and starts to load it.

“You wanna be done with those little shits once and for all? You’re gonna need a lot more than just a piece. You gotta start going at this shit like a soldier.” He spins the barrel, clicking it into place before handing the gun to Rafe.

“You do this, you know I’ll take care of you, alright? You won’t be doing this shit for nothing man I’ll -“

“YOU THINK I’M SCARED OF YOU, YOU LITTLE BITCH?” A male voice came booming from behind the house.

“IF YOU AREN’T NOW, YOU FUCKING WILL BE!” Another voice followed, but this one was unmistakably female.

“Dude, what the fuck was that? Is that chick okay? Should you like - I don’t know - deal with that or some shit?” Rafe’s blue eyes scan the other man’s face for signs of distress but it was almost like if he hadn’t mentioned it, he wouldn’t have even noticed.

“Nah bro, that’s my cousin. She’s got it, stop trippin. We doin’ this or not?”

There’s a loud crash and then he hears the girl's voice again.

“I TOLD YOU TO GET ON YOUR FUCKING KNEES, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!!!!”

“Dude I’m gonna go check it out, that doesn’t sound good.” Rafe isn’t sure why he really gives a shit if this random chick who he hasn’t even seen is alright or not, maybe he’s just high and paranoid. Either way his curiosity gets the best of him and he starts walking towards the back of Barry’s place.

“She doesn’t need your help pretty boy, trust me.” Barry snorts and shakes his head as he begrudgingly follows him.

When Rafe rounds the corner the sight he sees is far from what he was expecting. The man who he heard yelling was shorter than him but more built, probably middle aged, he wore a white tank top and black board shorts and the look in his eyes told him that he was definitely one of Barry’s customers or less reliable dealers. The girl on the other hand? You were half his size, your hair in two braids with ribbons tied at the ends of them, you were wearing a tiny little black lace top and white lacy shorts that barely covered her ass. You had combat boots on your feet that had little white ruffle socks sticking out of the top of them, but what was most shocking? You were holding a Glock in one of your small hands, and the collar of the man’s tank top was gathered in the other. You were standing on your tiptoes whilst also pulling the man down so he was face level with you, the Glock held to his head.

“I said, get on your fucking knees mother fucker, you got a hearing problem or some shit?” You growl at the man and it sends shivers down Rafe’s spine. You were beautiful. He watches as you shove the Glock into the man’s temple and ram your boot clad heel into his thigh causing him to fall to his knees with a grunt.

“Much better.” You smile as you tap his cheek with the gun before bringing it back to the side of his head. “Now, where the fuck is my fucking money?”

“I told you! I told you I don’t fucking have it right now I just need a little time!” The man’s voice is shaky now, his eyes traveling between you and the gun held to his head.

“Time? This isn’t a fucking loan service! Get me my money by tomorrow, or you’re fucked!” Your eyes are filled with fire and you let out a dry laugh.

“What’re you gonna do? Send Barry after me? Where is he at? He knows I always pay, just let me talk to hi-“ He’s cut off abruptly when you hit him across the cheek with the gun.

“SHUT UP!! You’re not fucking talking to Barry, you’re talking to me. If you don’t get my money you aren’t going to have to deal with him, you’re going to have to deal with me. Which I promise you don’t fucking want.” Rafe watches as you lean down into the guy's face, your eyes boring into his, a sinister smile paints your lips, and he isn’t even ashamed of the fact that he felt his cock stir in his pants at your display of dominance over this man twice your size. “Got it??”

“I don’t know how you expect me to get that amount by tomorrow I-“ The man grunts when you hit him in the face with the gun again, his face whipping to the side.

“I said, got it?” You hold the gun between his eyes, your smile never faltering.

“Yeah - yeah! I got it! I got it! Can I go now!?” The man holds his hands by his head in surrender, seemingly not wanting to argue with you further.

“I fucking mean it asshole, tomorrow, by sunset.” You glare at him momentarily before your smile returns, tapping his cheek with the gun again before turning to walk off.

“You aren’t gonna do shit bitch, you’re nothing without that little gun.”

Rafe’s blue eyes widen as he watches the man’s hand reach out and grab for your Glock. He subconsciously takes a step forward in your defense but soon realizes maybe you really don’t need help. Your body whips around, pulling the gun from the guy's reach and shooting him in the foot all in one motion. He screams out in pain, his hands grabbing onto his foot as he falls to the ground.

“Bring me my fucking money. Tomorrow. Or you’re going to be in a lot more pain than that.” You crouch down and spit in the guy's face before walking over him and into the house, letting the door slam shut behind you. Rafe stands there with his dick half hard and his jaw hanging open as he stares at the closed door you just disappeared behind.

“I told you she fuckin’ had it, and don’t even fuckin’ think about it, country club.” Barry’s voice snaps him out of his trance.

“Wha-? Think about what?”

“I see how you’re fuckin’ lookin at her dude, that’s like my sister in there. You stay your messy ass away from her, aight?”

“We should go check on her…” Rafe ignores Barry’s warning, walking towards the house despite his protests.

You let out an agitated groan as you flop down on the couch and toss your Glock on the cushion next to you. You grab a little clear baggy off the coffee table and sprinkle some of the powder onto the small mirror in front of you, using the random gift card you found in your wallet to push a portion of it into a straight line. You grab the rolled dollar bill sitting on the mirror and bring it up to your nose so fucking ready for this line after dealing with that shit head, but right when you bend over the front door slams open, causing you to jump back. Your foot hits the table and the movement makes a mess of your line. You let out a curse under your breath, your eyes rising to glare at your intruder.

You expect Barry, or maybe that fucking idiot really did want to lose a finger today. But instead of the brown eyes of your cousin, or the bloodshot hazel ones of your unreliable dealer, your eyes lock with piercing blue ones. You have to physically stop yourself from gasping at the sight of the man in front of you. He’s tall, really tall, and built, his chest and arms perfectly filling out the blue button up shirt he wore. His chestnut hair looked silky to the touch, his jaw looked perfect for biting, and his face was just all around beautiful. Especially those eyes, the look in them stern. There was something else there you couldn’t quite decipher, it almost seemed possessive.

“Are you okay?” He asks, his voice laced with concern.

“Uh - yeah? Aside from the fact that you just scared the shit out of me and made me knock my line all over the table, I’m just peachy.” You scoff, throwing him a playful smirk and roll of your eyes.

“Country Club here seems to think you’re some kinda damsel in distress or some shit.” Barry walks through the door behind him, smacking his bicep with the back of his hand and laughing loudly.

“Damsel in distress, huh? I don’t think I’d mind if a pretty boy like you came to my rescue.” You bite your bottom lip, your eyes roaming his figure.

“Hell fuckin’ nah! Quit that shit out right now, Bunny. I mean it. I told him the same shit, I don’t want this.” He gestures between you and Rafe. “To be a thing. You two are a recipe for fuckin’ disaster. This is Rafe Cameron, the dude I was tellin’ you about.”

“What the fuck did you tell her about me man?” Rafe’s voice comes out almost panicked and you find yourself wanting to comfort him immediately. You jump up from your seat and walk around the table so you can stand in front of him. He’s even taller up close, you have to tilt your head all the way to meet his eyes and you stop yourself from clenching your thighs at the height difference.

“So this is the guy that killed the sheriff, huh? Pretty boy is a cop killer? I find that kind of sexy…” You twirl a strand of your hair between your fingers, your teeth subconsciously finding your bottom lip again as you look up at him through your lashes.

“Barry, what the hell man? You told her that shit?” He addresses the other man but his eyes don’t leave yours, the look in them changed from concern to defense, and maybe a little lust? He was honestly looking at you like he wanted to choke you to death and this time you really couldn’t stop yourself from clenching your thighs where you stood.

“Hey, I’m not going to rat you out or some shit. Barry gave me the low down on everyone on the island when I moved, if I’m going to work for him I need to know the ins and outs, ya know? He trusts me, if you trust him, you can trust me. I’m cool.” You give him a smile that you hope is reassuring, you aren’t sure why but you want him to trust you.

“Alright.” His eyes search your face, almost as if he’s trying to read your thoughts, to see if you really mean it.

“Alright, we good?” You extend your hand towards him and he takes it in his much larger one, shaking it.

“We’re good.” You go to pull your hand away but he tightens his grasp, keeping it held in his. “You didn’t tell me your name though, or should I just call you, what did Barry call you? Bunny?”

“Bunny is preferred, but you can call me my real name too, if you’d like.” You let your thumb run across the back of his hand as you tell him your name, your eyes never leaving his.

“AIGHT! That’s enough of alla that.” Barry pushes past you, plopping down on the couch he grabs the bong on the coffee table and starts to load it.

“Bare, stop acting like you’re in charge of who I flirt with. I'm a grown ass woman, you're being dramatic.” You scoff, sending him a death glare.

“Seriously man, you’re acting like you’re her dad or some shit.” He chuckles when your cousin flips him off. “I’m sorry about your line by the way, I really just came to check in on you after I saw you arguing with that asshole out there. Let me make it up to you.”

Rafe brings his hand up to your shoulder, running his thumb over the blade a few times before letting it graze down your arm as he walks towards the couch. You watch as he sits down next to Barry and picks up your gift card, expertly lining the fine power back into a nice row before patting the cushion next to him. A smile breaks across your lips as you take the empty seat. He doesn’t miss the way your tits bounce when your ass hits the couch and the smell of your sweet perfume makes his cock twitch.

“For you, pretty girl.” He holds the folded dollar bill up to you with a smirk and you happily take it from him.

“Thanks, cutie.” You wink at him. When you lean down Rafe notices your hair is in your way so like it’s the most casual thing in the world he brings his large hand up to your face and sweeps the straw pieces behind your ear. He pushes the rest of it behind your shoulder and his hand stays there while you inhale through your nostril. His touch doesn’t leave you, even when you lean back against the couch, he simply adjusts it so it’s around your shoulder.

“You gonna flirt with my cousin all goddamn night or are we gonna deal with your little pogue problem?”

“Pogue problem? What’s going on?” You raise your eyebrows, your eyes traveling between Barry and Rafe.

“You remember that little fucker John B I was telling you about? His ass is alive and back on the island.” Barry shakes his head and lets out a dry laugh.

“That’s the kid the cops think killed the sheriff, right? Damn. That’s not good for you, Rafe.” You make eye contact and bite your lip nervously. “Those kids know you actually killed her, don’t they?”

“Yeah, and my fucking sister is with them. Her and John B were there, they saw the whole goddamn thing.” Rafe groans, his hands running through his hair in frustration. “I can’t have them opening their fucking mouths. I just can’t.”

“Then you know what you have to do, right? Shut them the fuck up, once and for all.” Your eyes darken and it reminded him of the way they looked outside, when you were holding a gun to your dealer's head.

“Yeah, no shit dude, that’s why I said we were going to deal with it.” Barry scoffs, rolling his eyes at you.

“Okay, I don’t know what the hell is up with you attitude Bare, but fucking ditch it.” You glare at him as you grab the couch pillow next to you and throw it at his face.

“Oh? You wanna fuckin’ go bruh?” Your cousin grins at you, gripping the pillow in his hand and swinging it over Rafe’s body, directly into your face with a cackle.

“Oh you mother fucker!” You let out a laugh, your hands go for the pillow but it’s ripped from your grasp.

“CUT IT THE FUCK OUT!!” Rafe takes the pillow in his large ringed hand and throws it across the room causing you to jump, your smile falling. “Barry, are you gonna help me or not man?”

“Hey.” Your eyes are soft again, you put your hand on his chest and rub soft circles onto his skin through his shirt with the pad of your thumb. “He’s going to help you, and I will too. We were just fucking around, everything’s alright. You’re probably under a lot of stress, huh? Poor thing.”

Rafe isn’t exactly sure how to react. No one has ever taken his anger and looked at it as more than just that, anger, yet here you are knowing him for all of ten minutes and the minute he loses his temper you see it for what it is, stress. Plus you’re kind of coddling him, and he’s never had anyone coddle him before. He almost feels speechless.

“I’m not gonna suck your dick about it like she is but I’m gonna help you man, fuckin’ relax. We doin’ this shit tonight?” Barry cracks his knuckles and kicks his feet up on the coffee table, earning an immediate glare from you. He scoffs, taking his feet off the table with a roll of his eyes. “I don’t know why you care so much if my feet are on the table dude, it’s my fuckin’ table anyways.”

“The drugs I put inside my nose are on this table, I don’t want your dirty ass shoes on it. It's common sense really.” He rolls his eyes and you flip him off, sticking your tongue out at him.

“Yeah man, tonight. I want to give this shit over with. I bet you anything they’re at John B’s. They’re stupid enough to go there.” Rafe’s hand is tapping on his already shaking leg and you can tell he’s anxious, you reach out and grab it, stopping his motions. He doesn’t look at you, but he intertwines your fingers, his hand squeezing yours. You squeeze his back and bring your other hand to his bicep so you can rub soothing circles on it. He lets out a sigh. “Once it’s dark, then they won’t see us coming.”

“Aight, let’s do this shit. Bunny, you in?” Barry raises a brow at you, his eyes lingering on the way you’re touching Rafe. “Also, I thought I said I didn’t want this to be a thing.”

“It could be dangerous, I don’t know if you should come, I wouldn't want anything to happen to you.” Rafe answers before you can, his hand squeezing yours again in what you assume is supposed to be reassurance but it actually just pisses you off.

“Okay.” Your voice is stern, your hands leave him as you stand from the couch and he immediately misses your touch. “I wanna get something straight, right fucking now. I am not some weak little girl who sits at home while all the fun shit goes down. If that’s the kinda girl you’re into, you are not going to find that with me. I’m a ride or die type of bitch. If my man is in trouble, I’m helping him. So if you want this to be a ‘thing’ as Barry is calling it, then I suggest you accept that sooner rather than later.”

“And you, have no fucking say in who I do and don’t engage with sexually or romatically. Me and Rafe clearly have chemistry and I could tell that the moment I locked eyes with him, so you’re just going to have to get the fuck over it. Are we clear? Both of you?” You look between them, your hands on your hips and that fire Rafe is already becoming addicted to in your eyes.

“Whatever, your lil ass has always been fuckin’ impossible to control. If this blows up in your face I’m gonna say I told you so, cuz.” Barry snorts.

“Yeah baby, I got it.” Rafe cuts in, sending a shockwave through your body with the pet name. “I saw you out there with that guy, you might be tougher than Barry.”

This makes you smile, your eyes turning soft as you approach him on the couch. This time you don’t take the seat next to him, you sit across his lap, facing your cousin with a triumphant smile. Rafe's arm circles around your waist and you nestle in closer to him.

“Alright then. Glad we are all on the same page now. So what’s the plan?”

“FUCK!!!!” Rafe was pissed, he threw himself into the driver's seat of his truck, slamming his hands down on the wheel. “FUCKING BULLSHIT!! THEY HAD TO OF JUST BEEN FUCKING BEEN THERE! POUGE FOR LIFE SARAH?! HUH?! I SEE HOW IT FUCKING IS!!”

“Rafe…” You approach the open driver's door, gently resting your hand on top of one of his that was white knuckling the steering wheel. Completely unafraid, despite the fact that he’s still holding the gun Barry gave him in his other hand. “Let’s just calm down for a second, okay? We’re gonna work it out, they aren’t going to fuck with you.”

“ARE YOU SERIOUS? I’M FUCKED! YOU DON’T FUCKING GET IT! YOU DON’T KNOW MY FUCKING DAD! YOU DON’T KNOW MY FAMILY, IF IT COMES BETWEEN ME AND MY GODDAMN SISTER HE’S GONNA FUCKING CHOOSE HER!!!” His hands leave the wheel, weaving through his hair and tugging, the gun pressed up against the side of his face.

“Hey.” You put your hands over his, turning his face towards yours. “I might not know about all that shit, maybe not yet at least, but I know that when I say I’m going to do something I get it done. You aren’t alone in this, I’m going to help you, okay?”

Your voice is sweet, the look in your eyes is gentle and reassuring, and your hands? They’re so soft, and cool against his face, the feeling of them soothes him in a way he’s never felt before. He lets out a sigh, relaxing under your touch.

“We are going to deal with this, but for right now we need to get the fuck out of here. Those gunshots could’ve caught someone’s attention.” You run your thumbs over the top of his hands before grabbing onto the gun, pulling it from his grasp with a smile. You tuck it into your boot and lean up onto your tiptoes to place a gentle kiss on his cheek.

“Yeah, alright.” He nods, his hands smoothing through his hair.

You walk around the front of the truck so you can hop into the passenger seat, Barry already sat in the back anxiously bouncing his leg.

“Okay, let’s take Barry back to the house and then I think you and I should go somewhere together.” You buckle your seatbelt and turn to face him.

“Yeah? Where?” He shoves the keys in the ignition and puts the truck in drive, pulling away from the Châtea and into the night.

“Just trust me, I know a spot.” You kick your feet up on the dash, reaching into your purse for a cigarette and your lighter.

“Every instinct in my body is telling me to tell you to bring your ass home with me, but you’re not gonna listen to me for shit so I’m not gonna waste my breath. Gimme one of those fuckin’ cigarettes though.” Barry leans forward, snatching the entire pack and your lighter from your hands.

“Yeah, you’re better off not arguing with me Bare. Fucking give those back though, dick.” He rolls his eyes, lighting the cigarette he took from your pack before throwing it back to you.

“Yeah whatever, just fuckin’ take me home man.”

“Okay, take a left here and on your right you’re gonna see a little road that goes through these trees.” You point out the window, directing Rafe as he drives.

“Where the hell are you taking me, huh? You taking me out somewhere quiet to sacrifice me?” He chuckles, looking over at you with a smirk.

“Mmm, I bet you’d like that, huh? Preppy rich boys like you always like the fucked up alternative girls from the sticks.” You return his smirk with one of your own.

“Ha! I guess you’re right, I wouldn’t mind if you spilled a little bit of my blood, as long as I could spill yours too…” he reaches the end of the road, driving into a clearing in the trees, a patch of lone beach in front of you.

“Yeah? That’s hot. Stop here.” He obliges, putting the truck into park and taking off his seatbelt. You do the same, turning towards him with your legs tucked underneath you.

“What’re we really doing out here, vampire girl?” His eyes meet yours momentarily before the trail down your body, taking extra time to admire your tits in your top.

“Mmm, well, I know you’re really stressed and I just thought… maybe you could take some of your frustrations out on me?” You lock eyes with him, your tongue running over your bottom lip before you take it between your teeth.

“Yeah? You brought me out here so I would fuck the shit out of you?” He licks his lips, his large hand reaches out to rest on your thigh, squeezing the meat of it between his fingers.

“Yeah, I figured you wouldn’t want to take me home after that shit you said about your family and Barry would probably either kill us both or have a stroke if you fucked me how I want you to fuck me at my place.” You said it oh so matter of fact, that smirk ever present on your lips.

“And how do you want me to fuck you? Huh, bunny?” His hand runs along the length of your thigh, stopping at the hem of your shorts. He grabs onto it, the tips of his thumb and his pinky just dipping under the fabric.

“I want you to fuck me like you hate me, take your frustrations out on me, Rafe. Use me.” Your voice comes out desperate and it makes him groan.

“I’ve barely even touched you yet and you’re already practically begging for me… you wanna be my little slut, that it?” His thumb runs down the seam of your shorts, stopping at your wet core. “You’re fucking dripping. I can feel it through your panties.”

“It’s all for you, want you, want to be your little slut so bad.”

“Fuck.” The hand not on your thigh reaches for your throat, squeezing it and cutting off your air supply in the most delicious way. “I’m going to fucking ruin you.”

He uses his grip on your throat to pull your face to his, smashing his lips against your own in a bruising kiss. You moan against his mouth and he uses the opportunity to slip his tongue past your lips. You bring your hands up to tangle your fingers through his hair at the same time that his hand on your thigh pushes your shorts and panties to the side, burying two fingers in your wet cunt with little resistance. He begins pumping them in and out of you while his grip on your throat never falters. He pulls away from the kiss, his blue eyes almost black with lust as they bore into your own. His thumb finds your clit and your back arches, a loud moan ripping through you.

“Open your fucking mouth.” You oblige, sticking your tongue out and looking up at him through your lashes. He leans over you and lets a string of spit drop onto your waiting tongue. You moan as you happily swallow it. “Good girl. Want you to cum for me.”

His fingers hook just right inside you, rubbing against your g-spot and his thumb circles your clit perfectly. You feel your high approaching fast, you push your tank top down, letting your braless tits fall free. You grab them in your hands, tweaking your nipples, it causes your eyes to roll back and you feel that coil in your stomach about to snap. Rafe’s hand leaves your throat and grips onto your jaw in one swift motion.

“Fucking look at me when I make you cum.” He squeezes your cheeks between his thumb and pointer finger, causing your lips to pout. “I own this pussy now, that means I own your orgasms too, look at me while I take what’s mine.”

You open your eyes, and the minute they meet his, your high crashes over you like a tidal wave. A broken moan leaves your throat and your walls clench around his large fingers as they continue to fuck you through your high. He pulls them from your pussy, holding them up to his face to examine them. They’re creamy white and glistening in the moonlight. You grab his wrist and take them into your mouth, swirling your tongue around them. He growls in response, shoving them further down your throat. You gag and he licks his lips, the sound going straight to his cock.

“Fuck, wanna feel you gagging around my dick. Get out of the truck and get on your knees, now.” He pulls his fingers from between your lips and takes them into his own mouth. The taste of your spit mixed with the remainder of your arousal sending his eyes to the back of his head. You follow his direction, hastily throwing the truck door open and getting out. You start to walk around the back and he stops you halfway, grabbing you by the hair so he can pull your head back, forcing you to look up at him. “I’m going to fuck this pretty little mouth while you kneel in the sand like the dirty slut you are. Bet you’d like that, huh?”

You nod as best as you can with the grip he has on your head, that sickeningly sweet smirk from when he first saw you earlier that day spread across your lips.

“Yeah, daddy, I want you to use my mouth like a fucking cock sleeve.” His eyes widen and a groan rips through him at the sound of that name leaving your lips.

“Fuck. Take this off.” He grabs the hem of your tank top and you lift your arms so he can pull it over your head. He takes your tits in his hands and squeezes them, the coolness of them sending a shiver down your spine and straight to your core, your nipples hardening under his touch. “Fucking perfect tits. Knees. Now.”

You drop to your knees and eagerly reach for the button on his shorts undoing it and his zipper in one swift motion. His cock is straining against his black boxers and your mouth waters at the sight. You pull his shorts and boxers down and it springs free, thick and hard and leaking just for you. You knew he would be big, but goddamn his cock is huge.

“Mmm daddy, you’re so big, fuck.” You spit on your hand and bring it to his shaft, lightly stroking him. That bead of precum on his head is practically begging you to taste it so you lean forward and lick his slit with the tip of your tongue. You circle his tip before taking it in your mouth and sucking eagerly.

“Yeah, that’s right baby, suck daddy’s cock.” His hands grab onto your braids like makeshift handlebars and he uses his grip to push himself all the way down your throat, causing you to gag around him. He holds your head there for a few seconds before pulling you off with a pop. Your mouth subconsciously chases his taste. “Oh you’re such an eager little whore huh? You like that? You like gagging on my dick?”

You nod and his grip on your hair tightens, pulling your head back so you’re looking up into his eyes.

“Fuckin’ answer me when I’m talking to you.”

“Yes - yes daddy, I fucking love it.”

“That’s what I thought.” He smirks down at you, shoving his cock back into your mouth and immediately thrusting into your throat. You gag and your eyes water, your mascara already starting to run down your cheeks. “God. Fucking look at you, I can see my cock in your throat baby.”

So much drool is dripping out of the sides of your mouth that it’s started to run down your chest and onto your tits. You swipe your fingers through it, wetting them before bringing them to his balls, caressing them in your lubed up hand.

“Oh fuck! Yeah, shiiiiit, play with my fucking balls, that’s so fucking good.” You look up at him and his head is thrown back, his neck on display, you can see all the veins in his biceps and the moans leaving him are feral. Your pussy clenches around nothing at the sight. Your hand travels between your legs and into your little spandex shorts, expertly finding your already slick clit and rubbing quick circles over it. Your moans increase in volume and it causes him to glance down at you, taking notice of your hand in your shorts.

“Hey, what the fuck did I say huh?” He pulls you off of him, bending at the waist so his face is hovering over yours. “I said that’s my fuckin’ pussy, that means I’m the only one who gets to make you cum. Get up.”

He lets go of your hair, grabbing you underneath your arms and pulling you to your feet. He turns towards the truck and rips the bed open, grabbing onto your hips and roughly turning you. He pushes down on your back, and you take the hint, bending at the waist so your top half is against the truck bed. The plastic floor is cool and rough against your nipples and your lower half hangs off the truck, your feet not touching the ground. A harsh smack lands on your ass, causing you to help and jolt forward.

“You’re not so tough now, huh, vampire girl? Your pathetic dealers know you’re just a little slut who likes to get thrown around? Or is that just for me?” He grabs onto your shorts and panties, ripping them down to your ankles where they pool at the top of your boots. “Look at you, you’re so fuckin’ wet.”

He drops to his knees, his tongue licking a stripe from your clit to your asshole and back again. He sucks your sensitive bud into his mouth and his hand comes down on your ass again. You feel like you’re going to cum embarrassingly soon. His fingers run through your slick lips before they’re sliding inside you, immediately hooking into your sweet spot. You cum suddenly and hard, your whole body shaking underneath him.

“Please fuck me now daddy, please, I want your cock so bad” you voice is whiney and you shake your ass from side to side, arching your back so it’s further on display for him.

“Quit begging, I’m gonna give you what you want, don’t be a greedy brat.” He stands, two harsh smacks landing on your ass. He takes his cock in his hand and runs the head through your slit, coating it in your wetness. He pushes into you in one swift motion, and immediately starts fucking you at a brutal pace.

“Yes! Fuck! You’re so big, feels so full.” Your voice is a breathy moan, his cock feels like it’s in your lungs and the door to the truck bed is digging into your hips but god it feels so good. His hands are grabbing your hips so roughly that you think his nails might be drawing blood, and god you hope they are. You want him to mark you as his, anywhere and everywhere.

“Fuuuuck, you’re so fucking tight, gripping my cock so good. This pussy was fucking made for me. Say it.” He leans over you, practically crushing you, but his cock hits even deeper than before and his mouth latches onto your neck and it’s like he read your mind because he starts to roughly suck and bite into your skin. Definitely leaving marks behind. “Say it. Say this pussy was made for me.”

“This pussy was fucking made for you, daddy.” You arch your back, pushing your ass back against him the best you can with your limited movement, wanting to feel every ridge and vein of him as deep inside you as possible.

“Yeah it fucking was.” He leans back, his hand gripping onto your hair again so he can pull your back against his chest. The sting of the truck against your hips at an all time high. He releases your hair so he can grip onto your throat instead, his other hand coming down to rub your clit. The feelings of pain mixed with pleasure sending you closer and closer to another orgasm. “You gonna cum already? I can feel you tightening around my cock baby girl.”

“Yeah - yeah I’m - fuck - I’m gonna cum for you daddy, you just feel sofuckinggood.” You’re a drooling whimpering mess and the coil is seconds away from snapping when he stops his movements and pulls out of you, taking your orgasm with him. “Hey what-“

Before you can protest he grips onto your hips, flipping you over onto your back. He grabs your throat and pulls you into a sitting position, grabbing onto your thigh with his other hand so he can pull you to the edge of the truck.

“I told you, I want you to look at me when you cum. You owe me for that last one.” He slams his cock into you, continuing to fuck you like his life depends on it. His thumb finds your clit again and his mouth latches onto your neck, biting down so hard you wouldn’t be surprised if you had a bruise in the shape of his teeth marks. You’d get it tattooed if he wanted. You already knew at that moment this man had ruined all other men for you. He had you.

“Fuck - fuck daddy, I’m gonna - I’m gonna cum I’m gonna cum”

“Fuckin’ cum for me, I’ll fill this little pussy up, paint your walls with my cum. Milk my cock, slut.”

His words send you over the edge, cumming harder than you have all night. Your walls convulse around him and your nails rake down his back, leaving red marks in their wake. But that’s not what does him in, it’s the fact that you never break eye contact with him for a second. Obeying him like the good girl you are.

“Fuck! Good fuckin’ girl, best fucking pussy I’ve ever had. Never gonna leave you alone now. Never quitting this pussy.” He cums with a growl, shoving his cock deep inside you. He fucks you through his high, his thrusts never letting up, his face shoved into your neck. When he finally starts to come down he lets his softening cock slip out of you, his lips finding yours and kissing you with fever.

“Never quitting this pussy, huh, pretty boy? That’s a bold statement to make about a girl you just met.” You smirk at him, taking his face in his hands and caressing his cheeks with your thumbs.

“I don’t fuckin’ give a shit, I meant every word. You’re fuckin’ mine now.” He turns his head to the side, placing a kiss on the inside of your palm.

“Does that mean you’re mine too? I don’t do one sided bullshit.”

“Yeah baby, that means I’m yours too. Come on, get your clothes on, let’s get the fuck out of here.” He places a gentle kiss on your lips, grabbing your clothes off the sandy ground and shaking them out before handing them to you.

“You gonna take me home now? Barry is just gonna love all the hickies I know you left on my neck.” You smirk at him, pulling your shirt over your head.

“Nah, I’m bringing you home with me. Gonna fuck you all night long.” He cups your jaw in his hand, his thumb running over your bottom lip.

“What about your family?” You raise an eyebrow at him.

“Fuck em, you’re my girl now, they’re going to have to get used to it. Get your ass in the truck, I wanna fuck you in my shower.”

You giggle, running around to jump in the truck. You didn’t even see his family that night. But they definitely heard Rafe making good on his promise to fuck you all night long and you couldn’t even find it in yourself to feel bad. Not that night, and not the next morning when he introduced you to his dad and step mom while they had disgusted looks on their faces. You just smiled, happily shaking their hands like you weren’t calling their son daddy until the sun came up.

Tagging mooties: @rafescorpsebride @rafesheaven @rafescvntyclubgf @eerielamb @that-sarcastic-writer @moonlightseranade @loserboysandlithium @sarahsangelicdoll @songbirdmunson @eddiesxangel ✨

Dividers by: @anitalenia & me

[cherrixpie]

ACCISMUS

↬ maybe it was stupid trying to make theodore nott jealous by going to the yule ball with mattheo. maybe.

↬ sfw; wc: 9.4k; cw: violence, suggestive; theo nott x reader, friends to lovers

( masterlist )

Mattheo Riddle was a genius. At least after today he was. Though it wasn't like he wasn't sharp, it was more so the fact that his desire to punch someone got in the way of his composure that had earned him the reputation of a beater rather than a schemer. Usually, it was Theodore with the observant eyes, perfect composure and the thoroughly thought-out plans. Mattheo would know, as Theo’s quick-witted responses and excuses were likely the only reason he hadn't been kicked out yet. But today, he would turn the tables.

As usual, younger students jumped out of his way as he stormed through the halls, climbing the stairs that led up to Gryffindor tower. A group of his peers that were climbing out of their common room entrance cast him incredulous looks as Mattheo surged forward to hold it open and slip in in their wake. The second he entered the lion’s den, conversations fell silent and a sea of Gryffindors wearing expressions of varying shock stared at him, standing panting before the exit.

With a sweeping glance, Mattheo spotted you, sitting by the fire with your friends and playing chess against Weasley. When he had entered, you had looked up from your game and were now looking at him with a raised eyebrow. He called your name and motioned outside, hoping you'd get the hint. You did and rose from your seat, quelling the nervous remarks of your Gryffindor friends.

In spite of your house, you had been included in Mattheo’s friend group ever since you’d had a charms project with Enzo in fifth year, who had introduced you to them. Against all odds, it had been an instant match, and you hung out with them whenever you could, even though your housemates had been opposing the idea from the start.

Now, you stifled their complaints and slipped past Mattheo out of the portrait hole, who followed in suit, not sorry to leave the room of judging stares behind. When he let the portrait fall back into place, he found you frowning at him. “Did you run all the way up here, Mattheo?”

“Maybe,” he grinned cheekily and you rolled your eyes, though actual annoyance was missing from both your eyes and voice. “Whatever for?”

His appearance was slightly unnerving. Though completely out of breath and heaving heavily, an eager, almost crazed smile tugged at his lips and his eyes glinted dangerously. “I have a proposition for you,” Mattheo grinned and you sighed. Oh Merlin. You were going to get roped into another one of his schemes, weren't you?

“So, here’s the deal,” Mattheo whispered conspicuously and dragged you into a darker part of the corridor. “I think we can both do each other a favor that benefits both of us.” He swatted his hand at your skeptical expression. “I mean, actually benefitting both of us.”

“Let's hear it,” you replied and crossed your arms. You had your doubts wether this wasn't just an elaborate plot advantageous to exactly one person: Mattheo. That wasn't prejudice talking, but experience. Just a few years ago, you would've thought it impossible that you would be friends with Mattheo Riddle one day, but he had turned out to be a genuinely funny and easy to talk to person. But that didn't mean you trusted him when he looked at you like that. Especially because Mattheo had a way of causing trouble that rivaled Harry Potter’s.

“Be my date for the Yule ball,” Mattheo blurted out and your brows only rose higher.

During the last few weeks, nobody had known another topic of interest than the Yule ball that would take place at the end of the week, the hustle and bustle around it had been exhausting. Not to mention the drama resulting from the dating rumors. Secretly, you’d been hoping that Theo would ask you out. You had been crushing on him since even before you were properly introduced, and befriending him had only intensified your feelings for him. But he hadn't made a move. And now this.

“How would that benefit either of us?” you said, stunned. “What use could either of us possibly have to gain from stepping on each other's toes for a whole evening?”

“Well,” Mattheo started, rubbing his neck. “Ya see, I have a lot of … options, but I don't want anyone to become attached and start bugging me or expecting a relationship.” He pulled a disgusted face and you suppressed the urge to roll your eyes. Out of his whole friend group, who were all very sexually active, Mattheo had earned himself the title of the biggest whore, but it looked like that came to beat him in the ass for the first time.

“Why don't you go alone, then?” you asked sensibly. “I'm sure no one is going to doubt your sexual prowess just because you go solo to the Yule ball.”

Mattheo shook his head. “Not an option. I did a bet with Draco and I have to eat a hundred living flubberworms if I don't get a date.” A shudder ran through his body at the thought. “So I’m thinking I'll just ask a friend. But Pansy and Blaise are going and Draco and Daphne have made arrangements and Merlin forgive me for not wanting to go to the ball with Enzo or Theo.”

You couldn't help the snort that escaped you and turned into a laugh at the incredulous look he gave you. “God, Mattheo, I can't believe it. This is absurd.”

Patiently, Mattheo waited for you to come down from your laughing fit. “So, what do you say, angel? I can dance, I promise.”

“What's wrong with going out with Enzo or Theo?” you asked elusively. Though you had become used to the looks and stares that you earned every time your friendship to the Slytherin gang came up, you weren't keen on the attention you’d get for going out with the Dark Lord’s son, even if it was merely platonic.

“Come on,” Mattheo pleaded with you and it was a genuinely curious sight to hear him beg. “Think about what's in it for you!”

“Having to listen to you for hours on end and a public witch hunt?”

“Aha!” he called and sprung up. “That's where part two of my plan comes in.” When you opened your mouth to protest, he waved his hands to stop you. “Listen to this. I get to escape the flubberworms and the nosy girls and you get to make Theo jealous.” Ignoring your spluttered response, he continued. “That boy’s head over heels for you, and with a little luck, seeing you with me will make him explode and confess, and the two of you can ride into the sunset together yada yada yada.”

Luckily, your hidden corner was so dark the blush on your cheeks would not be visible to the eye, but in the deafening silence that followed, you could hear your heart beating faster. Finally, you broke it with a wavering laugh. “You’re ridiculous, Theo doesn't like me like that. He isn't- he wouldn't-” But Mattheo grinned wider the more you stuttered on and you glared at him. “If he likes me, why hasn't he asked me out yet?”

It was impossible. Too good to be true. Theo was stunning, he was smart and just overall great. When you first joined their friend group, he had warmed up to you the fastest, after Enzo of course, even though it was quite unusual of him to be open to strangers. But you had bonded over your shared academic interests, and once you had started recommending each other books and studying together, you were a done deal. But it was a purely platonic deal, at least from his perspective. Right?

“He will,” Mattheo interrupted your train of thought. “And he’ll give you the same spiel as me. He just needs a wake up call to realize he wants to fuck you!” Ignoring your piqued look, he gesticulated wildly. “Come on, are you just going to let him use you when you love him and he can't wrap his head around his feelings for you?”

“Like you are using me?” you reminded him but it couldn't deter Mattheo. “That's different. You don't have feelings for me, do you?”

You avoided his eye as you pondered his proposal. What if it didn't work? Well, at least you'd know and finally be able to let go of your stupid crush. There was, objectively, nothing wrong with going to the ball with Mattheo, you could just say you were helping out a friend.

Mattheo had said Theo had feelings for you- but what did he know? Why would someone as amazing as Theo be interested in you? Then again, there had been those moments, between bookshelves in the library, or in his common room, or out at the lake, shuffling closer to each other because of the cold. Moments when he had said or done something more befitting of a boyfriend rather than a friend. Rare smiles, interlaced fingers, sweet compliments, weirdly romantic Italian nicknames you had researched in a muggle library over the holidays. Was there a chance that Mattheo, who had the emotional intelligence of a tree trunk, was right about Theo’s feelings, or was he simply misinterpreting them?

“He really likes you,” Mattheo added quietly, as if he had read your thoughts. “He just needs a little push. Come on, angel, what could go wrong?”

Angel. That nickname. The first time Mattheo had called you that had been in the Slytherin common room. You had been lounging on the couch next to Theo, a book abandoned in your lap, and tried to cheer them up after a depressing quidditch practice. When Mattheo had called you an angel, Theo’s hand on your thigh had tightened and you had looked up just in time to see him throw a warning glare at Mattheo. Maybe there was something to his words.

But then again, you reminded yourself, Mattheo had an agenda with this, and when had someone else ever been more important for him than he himself? It was ridiculous to think that Theo liked you, but you were so hopeful. What if Mattheo’s stupid plan did work in your favor?

“F-fine,” you spluttered out before you could start to doubt yourself again. “I'll go with you. But it won't work because Theo doesn't like me like that. And you’re just taking advantage of my stupid schoolgirl crush. So, if it doesn't work, which it won't, you’re going to let me test my practice potions on you for a weekend. Deal?”

“Deal,” Mattheo grinned, shaking your outstretched hand. “But I fear you’ll have to find another guinea pig for your potions, because it will work.”

When Mattheo strode into the Slytherin common room fifteen minutes later, he walked in on Pansy beating Blaise at chess maliciously. The light of the flickering green fire made the shadows of their chess figures flicker over the walls in giant dimensions. Both of them looked up when he fell down on the couch with a triumphant grin and exchanged a glance. Usually, Mattheo's good mood could mean one of two things: someone was bleeding or someone was going to bleed.

“So…,” Blaise began when Mattheo made no indication of speaking. “What's got you in such a good mood?” Immediately after, he began to curse bitterly when Pansy took advantage of the distraction to get rid of his Queen.

“I’m not going to eat any flubberworms any time soon,” Mattheo said, satisfied. “y/n just agreed to go to the ball with me.”

The reaction was immediate. Pansy choked on a chocolate frog she had been eating and Blaise was too shocked to pat her back when she began to cough. In the armchair a few feet away, Enzo shot up and stared at Mattheo as if he had just announced he’d take a Hungarian Horntail to the ball. Then, he folded up his edition of the daily prophet he had been reading and sighed. “Mate, Theo’s going to kill you. Like, properly murder you.”

“That's what I'm counting on!” Mattheo retorted enthusiastically, undeterred by the skeptical looks on his friend’s faces. “Hold up, it's actually genius. I go out with y/n, Theo’s jealousy overloads, he explodes, finally confesses to her and stops yapping to us about how great she is.” He had framed his words with dramatic gestures, but they didn't have the planned effect.

“Mattheo, you absolute idiot,” said Pansy, so outraged at this display of foolishness that she didn't catch Blaise sneaking some of his chess pieces back onto the board. “You think jealousy is going to work? Have you met Theo? He’ll just brood in the corner forever.”

“She's got a point,” said Enzo, rolling up his newspaper and staggering over to his friends. “Also, Theo’s not going to confess if he thinks she’s into you!”

“You all underestimate his selfishness,” said Mattheo, still wholly convinced of this plan. The others exchanged looks. “Of course he’ll be broody and torn, but in the end, he’ll choose himself, as much as he loves her. And then he'll finally man up and tell her how he feels, she’ll confess right back and they ride out into the sunset together. Come on, it's guaranteed to work!”

A long silence followed, in which Mattheo smiled to himself giddily and the others contemplated the plan. Then- “this is why no one trusts you with anything emotional, Mattheo,” said Blaise, shaking his head. “Why not just talk to Theo instead of creating this drama? Oh, right, because you’re Mattheo.”

“We’ve tried, haven't we?” Mattheo asked in an exasperated voice. “We’ve told both of them again and again to finally get off their ass and make a move and they never listen, because they are oblivious angsty idiots.” He did have a point. Since the start of term, it had been obvious to the whole friend group how head over heels in love the two of you were for each other. Their attempts to get you together had failed miserably, however. Though the two of you were probably the smartest in your friend group, in this matter, you were wholly oblivious.

Enzo was the first to speak. “I swear, if you ruin this for Theo and y/n, I’m taking you down myself.”

“You can try, Berkshire,” grinned Mattheo, reaching for his wand, but Enzo only rolled his eyes and retreated back to his armchair, unfolding the daily prophet and continuing to read where he had left off.

“Wait,” said Pansy, narrowing her eyes at him. “y/n actually said yes to this? She's either braver than I thought or just as mad as you are.” She groaned exasperatedly and rubbed her temple, giving Blaise the opportunity to wipe a few of her chess pieces off the board without her noticing. “I give it two days before Theo starts plotting your untimely demise. Maybe less.”

“Well, that's the spirit, isn't it?” Said Mattheo, brimming with excitement. “Haven't had an equal fight in months.”

“Oh, that's what this is about,” murmured Pansy under her breath and gave Blaise a sharp look at if to say 'I've done all I can, it's your turn now’. Blaise, who wasn't one to let down his girlfriend, frowned thoughtfully. “Mark my words, this isn’t going to end well- for you, at least. I’ll enjoy watching, though.”

“Watching what?”

All four of them shot around at the sound of a drawled out voice coming from the entrance. It was Draco, covered in mud and shouldering a broom, and in his wake Theo, looking no less in need of a bath. “Why weren't you at practice, mate?” Draco asked Mattheo, who surely didn't regret ditching practice now that he'd gotten a clean shirt and a date out of it.

“I had to make a trip to Gryffindor tower,” he answered honestly, eyes roaming over their dirty forms. “Equally as unpleasant, I figure. Though it did ultimately work in my favor. Because I have a date for the ball now.” His observant eyes rested on Theo, who’s tired ones briefly flickered over and narrowed at him in suspicion.

“You’re taking a lion to the ball?” asked Draco skeptically, he seemed unable to imagine Mattheo having the audacity to ask you out, since, as everyone knew, you were Theo’s girl. “You must be really desperate. Who's the unlucky girl?”

“y/n,” grinned Mattheo simply, but the words had their intended effect nonetheless. A loud clatter silenced the common room when Draco’s broom landed on the floor, having slipped right out of his hands. His face was almost as white as his platinum hair as he gaped at Mattheo and then glanced back at Theo who had frozen mid-motion. Now, he straightened up once more to look at Mattheo. Theo, other than Mattheo, understood it to hide his reactions behind a mask of indifference, but his blue eyes were as hard and cold as ice.

“She said yes?”

“Yeah,” grinned Mattheo, failing to read the room, or he simply said the following out of madness. “She seemed pretty stoked!”

“Did she?” asked Theo tight-lipped and Mattheo only grinned in response. Teasing Theo, prodding him, holding you over his head, waiting for him to snap, for his oh-so-great composure to crack was the definition of fun. Mattheo could almost see it flicker in his eyes, the desire to punch him, to punish him, for taking what was his. And then, Theo’s annoying righteousness when it came to you, how he would remind himself that you didn't belong to him, that you could do whatever you pleased.

Mattheo could imagine both sides battling viciously in Theo’s head as he returned his gaze, it was delicious to have him squirm. He only had to watch his step, not play with the fire too much. Theodore Nott was one of the few people he knew that could actually beat his ass if they got poked too much. But he didn't take his eyes off Theo's who seemed just as determined to hold his. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see his hands tighten around his broom before they relaxed, he spread his fingers like spiders and disciplined his own body into submission.

“So,” said Theo cooly, a certain bitterness tinging his tone that he kept to a minimum. Of course Theo knew Mattheo was trying to provoke him, and he was determined not to give him the satisfaction, or that was what Mattheo himself concluded. “When exactly did you decide you were into her? Before or after you knew I-” Theo paused and clenched his jaw “Never mind.”

“Does that bother you?” Mattheo asked in faux consideration and he could feel his friends holding their breath. Theo's infamous death stare fell upon him and the grin fell off his face, though the daring look in his eyes did not subside.

When Theo answered, his voice was smooth and controlled. “Doesn’t bother me. I just… didn’t think she’d be your type.”

“Why not?” asked Mattheo, his body ready for attack, every nerve tense in excited anticipation of a good fight. “She’s sweet, pretty, smart-”

“She's too good for you,” Theo cut him off with narrowed eyes, but Mattheo only shrugged. “It's the damn Yule ball, mate, I just need a date so I don't have to eat three courses worth of flubberworms, and I could imagine way worse than spending the evening with her. I mean,” a light smirk curled his lips, “she's not your girlfriend, is she?”

Oh, he could just feel Theo’s fury in his fingertips, the way he looked at him as if he wanted to take his head off. How he had to regret not asking you sooner, how confused over his anger he had to feel. Mattheo reveled in the power he had over him. But Theo smoothed out his features and stared at him through a mask of indifference. “Right.” Looking somehow a lot moodier than when he had stepped in, already brooding, he shouldered his broom and left for the boy’s showers.

His absence left behind a tense silence. Blaise was the first to speak. “Mattheo, mate… you're dead.” But Mattheo only laughed, pulling out a pack of cigarettes, unbothered by his pessimistic outlook and still wholly convinced of his plan.

You wondered if Theo had caught wind of the Yule ball arrangement when you caught sight of him the next day in the Great Hall, looking more somber than ever. Even from the Gryffindor table, you could see him staring gloomily down on his porridge as if it had wronged him somehow. You were equally as unable to eat. Gnawing on your lip, you weighed the explanations in your head. Could he be jealous? No, that was too good to be true. It couldn't be.

Maybe he too had made a bet with Draco and had to eat flubberworms if he didn't find a date? Maybe there was some other explanation as to why Theo seemed to be answering all questions directed at him with either a frown or a shrug. Hunched over, his dark locks fell into his eyes as he glowered at his meal, fingers flexing around his fork. It was true, Theo was a grim person, and on bad days, he tended to glower at everyone who crossed his path- could this be just another one of his mood-swings?

“Everything alright?”

Taken aback, you looked at Hermoine who surveyed you with a cautious look in her brown eyes. “You haven't eaten.”

“I'm just not hungry,” you smiled truthfully and discarded the fork. No use pretending, you weren't getting any breakfast down today. Not when Theo looked so distractingly sinister and gorgeous.

But Hermoine didn't look convinced. “What did Riddle want yesterday? When he wanted to talk to you, what did he say?”

Your attention had been captured by Theo giving Mattheo his nastiest death glare, so you only registered the words slowly. “Huh? Oh, he only asked me to be his date for the Yule ball.” you replied, making Hermoine choke on her cereal. “He did what?”

Biting into the sour apple, you decided to come clean. “I said yes.” To escape her unbelieving and quite frankly accusing eyes, you rose from your seat. “See you in Arithmancy, Hermoine,” you said hastily and walked along the Gryffindor table in long strides. When you reached the doorway, however, you turned left and walked along the Slytherin table towards your friends.

Pansy noticed you approaching and waved, making the others look up as well. Mattheo grinned at you and blew you a kiss you rolled your eyes at. When Theo’s eyes fell upon you, however, they softened visibly. He scooted to the side, making space for you to sit down next to him. You smiled at him, albeit intimidated slightly by his bad mood, and moved closer to him. To your immense relief, he returned your smile and grabbed an empty glass to fill it with pumpkin juice and place it before you.

“Decided on a dress yet?” Pansy asked from the other side of the table and you looked at her, therefore missing the slight narrowing of Theo’s eyes at the mention of the ball. You did, however, notice his hand, reaching for yours over the table and interlocking your fingers with his. The Nott family ring on his ring finger burned cold against your skin, the calloused tips of his fingers from all the smoking burns felt even more uneven against your soft skin. You didn't know why you noticed his hands so clearly at this moment. Maybe, you realized, because you had never actually held his hand.

“Uh- yes,” you said, a little flustered, and returned your attention to Pansy who gave you a knowing look. “And you?”

The two of you slipped into a conversation about the ball and your dresses that the other boys participated scarcely in. Blaise asked questions about Pansy’s dress that he had never actually seen before. From time to time, Draco threw in a comment about his dancing skills and Enzo laughed along to Pansy’s teasing. Mattheo made flirty comments towards you when you talked about your dress, glancing at Theo to gauge his reaction.

Only Theo didn't participate in the conversation, though his fingers stayed interlocked with yours. Every now and again, they seemed to tighten, especially when Mattheo directed one of his flirty comments at you. But maybe that was just wishful thinking on your part. When everyone rose to go to class, he tugged you down again by your interwoven hands. His expression was serious. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

“Uh, sure,” you smiled, waving the others goodbye. Mattheo winked at you and you rolled your eyes at him. You sat back down, but Theo didn't speak immediately. His eyes studied your face, roamed over your features, as if he was seeing you for the first time- really seeing you. Merlin, he was an idiot. He should have asked you before Mattheo would be able to. The thought that you had looked up at Mattheo this sweetly just a day prior, before he had gotten ahead of him and asked you, was gnawing at him.

“You're going to the ball with Mattheo?” he forced the words past his lips, but managed to make them sound casual, as if he was asking about the weather.

“Yes?” you said and immediately scolded yourself for making it sound like a question. Your tone made him lift his brow as his eyes searched yours for any hesitance. “You don't have to go out with him, if you don't want to,” he said.

You could hear your heart beat in your ears. Was he trying to tell you that you had other options? Like him? For one second, you could see yourself, in the dress you had already picked out, side by side with Theo. He had to be a wonderful dancer. But then, you remembered what Mattheo had said. It was a platonic offer, even if he had feelings for you. Which you doubted. The thought of going with him when it was a merely platonic deal for him but meant so much to you, it was almost unbearable.

“I want to,” you replied and your voice sounded steadier than you’d dared to hope. For a second, you thought you saw his expression drop, but you could never trust your eyes with him, his fleeting expressions and flashes of emotions were hard to keep up with, even for you, who could see through him better than most people, by his own admission.

Theo merely nodded and stood up. Before you could, he shouldered your book back as well. Like the gentleman he was, he fended off your protests and held out his arm for you to take, as if you were at a special occasion, when, in truth, it was just another Tuesday in the Great Hall. Both glad and disappointed that nothing had changed, you slipped your arm into his and you left the Hall on your way to the Arithmancy classroom.

The soft hum of chatter filled the entrance hall as students in glittering gowns and sharply tailored dress robes gathered beneath the glowing light of the enchanted candles. The winged doors to the Great Hall were still shut as students who had partners in another house pushed through the crowd in search of them. You, however, didn't have much of a hard time finding your group of Slytherin friends, as any sane student steered clear of them. Before they could make you out in the wave of Gryffindor students that swept over the hall just now, you spotted them in a more secluded corner.

Of course, you noticed Theo first. He looked impossibly handsome in his dress robes. They were black, but with subtle hints of dark green. A dark green that matched the color of your dress. As if you were just meant for each other. Well, in your dreams. You noticed he didn't have a girl on his arm, neither did Enzo. Pansy and Daphne both looked gorgeous in their dresses, and especially Blaise looked hopelessly smitten. Then, there was Mattheo. You were somewhat surprised to see that he was actually wearing something formal. It was already a rarity for him not to be bloody, but to wear something festive was not a sight you ever expected to be subjected to.

Mattheo was the first to spot your approaching frame, a slow grin spreading across his face as he leaned casually against the wall, hands stuffed in his pockets. His gaze seeped over you with an aporoving nod. “Well, aren't you dressed up nicely,” he drawled when you were in earshot, causing the others to take notice of your presence as well. Pansy, ever supportive, let out a low whistle, Blaise wiggled his eyebrows and Enzo gave you a thumbs up. But it was Theo’s reaction that you felt most acutely- a subtle shift in his posture, his jaw tightening ever so slightly as he looked you over. His gaze felt hot on your body and you felt your breath hitch when his stormy eyes locked with yours, a flicker of something unspoken flashing across his face before he quickly glanced away.

Fuck. You were gorgeous. Of course, he'd always known you were pretty, but seeing you in that dress did something to him. That green was the color of his house, of his family, the color of him. You looked like his, even though Mattheo put an arm around your waist and pulled you towards him. He could have killed him, he might have, if you hadn't let out a bright laugh at something he had said that stilled every and all remains of fury in him. Your laugh was disarming, especially when you looked over at him and gifted him one of your sweet smiles. “Hey, Theo.”

He could only nod, unable to take his eyes off you, even when the doors to the great hall opened and the group slowly made their way towards them. His gaze zeroed in on Mattheo's hand on your lower back. That was not Mattheo's spot, that was where his hand lay when he was walking you to class or Hogsmeade. Unable to look anywhere else, he followed the others mechanically, unaware of the glimpses you stole at him to gauge his reaction. But all you could see was indifference.

When you stepped through the doors you were momentarily distracted from Theo. The Great Hall was alight with blue light, decked in ice crystals. The usual four house tables had made way for a multitude of smaller, round tables surrounding the dance floor that took up the better part of the hall. Mattheo led the way to one table in close proximity to the dance floor, which surprised Theo. Usually, Mattheo preferred corners over the center.

Mattheo pulled out your chair for you before Theo had the chance to and - wether by chance or because he was a snarky asshole - sat down in between Theo and you. With a sly grin at Theo, he interlocked your fingers over the table and moved closer to you. In that moment, Theo swore to himself that he would dance with you today. He'd stay up until three in the morning if necessary, but he would hold you in his arms tonight, twirl you around in that damn dress and see the light of the crystals reflected in your eyes. And if he had to hex Mattheo, he would gladly do so.

Your laughter rang in his ears and he cursed himself. Hex Mattheo, and ruin your night? What right did he even have to feel like this? As much as he hated to admit it, Mattheo was right. You weren't his girlfriend, he had no claim over you. His possessiveness was sick, twisted and entirely selfish. You were his friend and he should only want the best for you. What he had masked as ‘the best for you’ was no more than what fulfilled his desires. He was being a horrible friend to you.

“Wanna dance, angel?” Theo couldn't even find it in himself to feel anything but bitterness when Mattheo rose and offered you his outstretched hand. Over his death stare directed at the table, he missed the way you glanced over at him before taking it and allowing Mattheo to eagerly drag you to the dance floor. The music was fairly quick and as Mattheo twirled you around, you let him pull you into him and mirrored his steps. Mattheo was a fairly skilled dancer, but you struggled to keep up with his extravagant style and quick steps.

Mattheo twirled you around so fast you could barely see beyond the flashes of blue that remained of the room. And even when a more slow piece came on, he found a way to keep you on your toes. “He's looking over,” you whispered after daring a glance over your shoulder to see that Theo's brooding gaze was fixed on the two of you.

“You even have eyes in your head?” grinned Mattheo, pulling you closer by your waist. “He's been looking at you the whole evening.” A smirk curled his lip. “Told ya”

You were a little too out of breath to answer, but when Mattheo leaned close to whisper a question in your ear, you nodded, albeit a little hesitant. Your rowdy dancing partner pulled you even closer until there was barely any space between you two. When he said something, anything, you giggled and he laughed along, even though neither of you remembered what he had said. In spite of the dancing, Mattheo managed to dip his head down and trail pecks up your neck to the shell of your ear. The shudder that went through your body was not as much a result of his lips, but a reaction to the way Theo’s fists clenched as you locked eyes.

Worry and stupid excitement coiled in your stomach. The way he was glaring at you through his dark locks, his fists clenching and unclenching, his cerulean eyes so dark, his posture so tense as if he was a predator ready to devour his prey, was so damn attractive that you couldn't help but stare longer than you intended to, before you managed to avert your eyes and focus them back on Mattheo. But you couldn't help but worry what his tense appearance might mean. Had he seen through Mattheo's plan to make him jealous and considered this a betrayal of your friendship?

Meanwhile, Theo had to summon up his last reserves of restraint when his best mate’s hand crept down your back, further than he was supposed to, teetering the edge of inappropriateness. But you looked so happy, laughing along to Mattheo's jokes. Though somehow, he had missed the repeated glances you cast at him all throughout the dance.

When the next number came on, you parted from Mattheo who lifted his brows. “That's enough. If he hasn't done anything by now, I must be right. You were wrong about these supposed feelings, Mattheo.” You sighed and shook your head about your own stupidity. Of course Theo hadn't reacted, you’d been right all along. Still, disappointment stung in your heart. Maybe you had held on to hope. Oh, who were you kidding, a part of you had believed Mattheo, and now you felt way worse than you had before. Before Mattheo could talk, you parted from him and left the dance floor.

Theo slowly, dangerously, lifted his head from his knuckles as his gaze followed your figure, ducking in between dancing couples to make your way back over. Your expression showed disappointment, sadness… you’d always been easy to read for him. When he asked you about it, you said you showed your emotions openly on purpose. Why, he had asked, and you'd laughed and said that you wanted to make people feel at ease and safe when talking to you, so you showed yourself to them to invite them in, make them feel welcome.

Even though he didn't fully understand, he admired you for it, recognized it as a strength when Mattheo had outright laughed at your explanation, earning him a sinister glare. But right now, Theo desperately wished he wouldn't be faced with your sorrow, it would make it easier to keep himself from walking over to Mattheo, drag him out into the hall and finally confront him. A horrible suspicion dawned on him as he locked eyes with Mattheo, who had been watching your retreating figure as well. When they locked eyes, he grinned, winked and disappeared into the crowd of dancing bodies. Had he been using you to make Theo jealous, to tease him for his personal satisfaction?

His sinister thoughts were quelled when you reached the table and sat down next to him, bending over with a groan and slipping out of your heels. But before you could even grab a slice of cake to drown your sorrows in sweets, someone got a hold of your hand. You followed the arm and saw Theo, looking at you with a serious expression. His grip was soft, as if you were fragile, made out of glass, made to look pretty and shatter. But his eyes were hard as stone. “What did he say to you?”

“Huh?” you asked, genuinely perplexed at the growl in his voice. “Who- what- You mean Mattheo?” A curt nod. You understood. Theo must've misinterpreted your bad mood upon leaving the dance floor for hurt at something Mattheo had said. “Nothing,” you said quickly. “Everything's alright.” But your reassurances couldn't wipe the skepticism from his eyes. “Look, it's just my feet that started to hurt, alright? It's not Mattheo's fault.”

Though he still looked doubtful, Theo seemed to accept your explanation and reached over to cut you a large piece of cake. In spite of your expensive dress, you brought your knees to your chest as you started eating, but your sudden appetite quickly subsided. With a long sigh, you leaned your head on Theo’s shoulder and reveled in his warmth. “‘M sorry,” you murmured under your breath, unsure if he would even catch it.

He did, and frowned, you could hear it in his voice though you didn't see his face. “What for, amore?” Amorina. It meant ‘little love’, or that was what the muggle dictionary books said. Those damn Italian nicknames. His accent, barely noticeable in everyday conversation, was thicker when he spoke hushed and you allowed yourself to revel in how it made you feel, just for a moment. Then, you shrugged, hoping it would be enough of an explanation for now. Would you ever be able to tell him why you had gone to the ball with Mattheo or would you sooner die of embarrassment?

This wasn't so bad. Actually, it was quite nice. You rocked slightly in the rhythm of the music and leaned into Theo who, in turn, leaned onto you carefully. Somehow, your hands had found each other. Draco was dancing with Daphne, Blaise and Pansy were making out in a distant corner of the room and Enzo was at the buffet to get seconds. It was quite peaceful, almost like you two were the only thing that mattered and all around you was just noise and light and colors. They would fade, he wouldn't, and you wouldn't either.

Your peace was only disturbed when Mattheo arrived, who, to your not-really surprise, had a giggling girl holding onto his arm. Unbeknownst to you, Mattheo had not given up just yet. If Theo's selfishness wasn't stronger than his desire to see you happy, maybe his knight-in-shining-armor urges would be. He grabbed your plate from in front of you, ignoring Theo's frowns, dug the fork into it and held it out to the giggling girl that was clutching his dress robes.

“You enjoying yourself, darling?” he asked and she nodded, giving him a sultry look. He cast you a deliberately indifferent look. “You don't mind, angel, do you?” Though he didn't dare look at Theo and give himself away, he could practically feel him fuming.

“Knock yourselves out,” you replied with a wave of your hand but Theo was not so quick to dismiss the scene. He rose from his seat, feeling as if all his frustration and resentment of the last week had reached its peak and was ready to boil over. In moments like these, when he allowed his anger to escape, to be felt just for a moment before funneling it towards the intended target with deliberate precision, he could feel himself getting calmer. The rushing in his ears subsided, his heartbeat slowed to a normal pace as he looked down on his best mate.

“What do you think you're doing?”

“Taking a gorgeous girl to dance with me,” Mattheo answered casually, grinning at the girl on his arm. How could he act as if you weren't even there? How dare he run to another when he had taken you to be his date, was he never satisfied?

“You already have a date, scemo,” he growled. By now, a few pairs of eyes had gotten wind of the brewing storm. A few of them stepped closer to observe the scene, others pushed through the crowd to put some space between them and the two boys who now glared at each other. Mattheo was tense, brimming with excitement and pushed away the girl. Theo, on the other hand, seemed almost unnaturally calm, his hand slowly slipping into his robes in search of his wand.

“Theo,” you said quietly, in an ineffectual attempt to avoid more attention. “I really don't mind.” He cast you a quick glance and you knew it hadn't been enough. His eyes were soft all of the sudden, but you knew he wouldn't back down. And you weren't going to lie, it did warm your chest that he was so willing to stand up for you. Though you didn't want the situation to escalate into an actual fight because of your’s and Mattheo’s stupidity.

Mattheo would apologize to you for the following later, but now he had to wound Theo up so much that he’d attack him with bare hands, Mattheo's preferred method of fighting, because he knew he couldn't beat the academic weapon Theo in a wizarding duel. “Yeah, she was kind of a bore so I-” But he didn't get to finish that sentence, because Theo had abandoned the search for his wand, surged forward and tackled Mattheo so they fell to the ground in a heap of robes and fists.

You had rarely seen Theo fight. Well, that was not quite true. You'd seen him hex people, curse fellow students, but never like this. The punches he delivered to Mattheo’s face were less deliberate and full of rage. It was a show of force unlike any you'd ever seen from him. When tackling Matteo, he had discarded his robes and now his white shirt got the first red spots. Mattheo hit and kicked back with the same fervor you already knew from him, and you could see it in his eyes, this was all just a game for him.

Students screamed when a resounding crack echoed through the hall, amplified by the sudden silence that had come over the crowd as everyone formed a circle around the fighting boys. Theo had broken Mattheo's nose, you were sure of it, and for a moment, you thought Mattheo was down, but of course not. Without a sound of pain, he shot up and tackled Theo, who had hesitated for a split second too long, to the ground. Wherever they threatened to crash into the wall of onlookers, the students moved back like a coordinated swarm of fish.

Slowly, Theo seemed to get the upper hand on Mattheo who seemed slightly knocked out from the hit in the face that had broken his nose. But nonetheless, while Theo’s expression was bitter and hard as he brought his fist down on Mattheo's face again and again, the latter laughed, almost crazily, coughing up blood. His laughter was the loudest sound, and for a good minute, you doubted his sanity. In contrast, Theo was eerily silent as he beat Mattheo with the utmost concentration, jaw clenched and eyes full of disdain.

Finally, the headmaster managed to push through the crowd. Some of them were chanting, others were covering their faces with their hands. Dumbledore assessed the situation in one glance, and you thought he even winked at you, before he pulled out his wand. As if pulled apart by invisible hands, Mattheo and Theo were ripped apart and both stumbled a few feet back, making the crowd on either side burst to scramble away.

They were both heaving. Mattheo looked worse than Theo, his nose was visibly broken and his face was littered with cuts and bruises and two black eyes. Theo’s lip and nose were bleeding, dripping crimson upon his stained shirt, as were his fists, and a darkening bruise bloomed above his right jawline. Both of them looked ready to jump back into it, if it hadn't been for a very disgruntled Snape, who stepped in between and sneered at Theo especially. “What a display! You have dishonored your house with your public brawling-”

“Now, now, Severus,” said Dumbledore calmly and smiled in understanding. “Tempers run high at events like these. I can remember, in my youth, there was no ball without a good duel. Of course, some choose the more direct approach.” His eyes twinkled.

Unfortunately, Mattheo chose the exact moment to send you a wink and Theo, who looked just about a hundred percent done with his bullshit, took a step towards him, only to be roughly pushed back by Snape. It couldn't stop the words leaving his mouth through gritted teeth, though. “Sei praticamente mio fratello,” growled Theo with a wild look in his blue eyes. “come hai potuto farmi questo, pezzo di merda?"

Mattheo was still gasping for breath and wincing at every inhale, but he grinned nonetheless. “non parlo italiano, you dumbass,” he sneered with what you could only assume was a heavy British accent, and Theo, still fuming, spit on the ground over Snapes shoulder who was still holding him back.

“Now, now,” said Dumbledore with a level of indulgence you could only admire him for. “I believe, Mr Riddle, you should see Miss Pomphrey. As for you, Mr Nott, how about a walk to, ah- cool off?”

Theo pushed Snape off of him who glared at him, only to be glared at right back. “Twenty points off Slytherin, Nott,” he said with clear disdain in his voice. Before Theo could protest or do something rash (you had never seen him like this, he looked like he was capable of anything), you grabbed his hand and started pulling. To your immense surprise and relief, Theo gave in immediately, following you as you pushed through the students, out of the door, through the entrance hall, and finally, out into the dark grounds where the chilly night air finally cleared your head a little.

You sat down on the stone steps and Theo followed suit, still breathing heavily and flexing his hands. For a few minutes, you didn't dare speak. When you finally managed to work up the words and the courage, it was Theo who spoke first. His voice had lost all temper, all edge, it was full of regret. “I'm sorry, amore.” Taken aback, he turned your head to look at him. His gaze was fixed on his hands, covered in both Mattheo's and his blood, seeping out of his knuckles.

“What for?” you asked and he finally looked at you, albeit as if you were asking a very ridiculous question. “Cazzo, for ruining your night. You deserve better, I was a-” But you didn't let him finish, you reached over to wrap your arms around him and pull him in, needing his warmth more than ever. Immediately, his arms engulfed your form and he pulled you into him so that you were sitting halfway in his lap, but neither of you cared. Maybe even without realizing, he rocked you back and forth lightly and you breathed out, breathed in, let the smell of him consume you whole. Cigarettes had never smelled better.

When Theo reluctantly released you, his gaze trailed over the goosebumps on your arms. Your dress, as wonderful as it was, did not have sleeves. “Let's go,” he said softly. He didn't say where, but you didn't care, you trusted him. So you let him pull you up and back inside, down the staircase to the dungeons. None of you said a word. When you stepped inside, the Slytherin common room was deserted, as everyone was still upstairs, enjoying themselves.

Theo urged you towards the couch, but you had come to a halt. You knew you needed to come clean. Now. Before he had the chance to actually take Mattheo's head off. Mistaking your hesitation for doubt rather than guilt, Theo let his arms engulf you once more. It may have been a trick of your imagination, but you thought you heard him breathe in the scent of your hair. “Maleditelo, that bastard. Merlin, I could have broken his fucking jar if they'd given me one more minute. Curse him for doing that to you. I’d never have-” He fell silent.

You sighed against his chest, silently wishing you'd never taken part in Mattheo's crazy plan. “I didn't mind that,” you murmured into his blood-stained shirt, reveling in the feeling of his thumbs brushing over your shoulder as he held you. But it stopped, and Theo pulled away, face contorted into a bitter smile as he began to pace in front of you. “No, of course you didn't. Sei troppo dannatamente bonario, troppo gentile, troppo perfetto.”

“Theo!” you said loudly and that made him look down on you. Your voice was shaking slightly. “I’m sorry.” He frowned, and then it all spilled out of you. How Mattheo had proposed the idea of making him jealous because he was convinced he liked you, how you had said yes because you were a lovesick idiot, how he had been purposefully riling him up and you had went along with it all. “I'm sorry,” you said shakily, holding back tears. “I was so stupid, this is all my fault, I'm so, so sorry Theo.”

During the whole tale, Theo hadn't moved an inch. Now, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes from out of his pocket, ignited one with a bit of wandless magic and took a long drag. Usually, Theo didn't smoke when you were around, because he knew you didn't like it. But desperate times seemed to call for desperate measures. Staring down at the glowing cigarette between his fingers, Theo seemed to gauge the words, weigh them on his tongue, before he spoke. “You like me?”

“I love you,” you confessed, hiding your face in your hands. “God, Theo, I'm so sorry.”

“Why didn't you just talk to me?” You peeked at him through your fingers, but he seemed calm. Sure, he was frowning, but the cigarette seemed to have helped. His gaze was fixed on you as he studied your expression, what little he could catch a glimpse of, anyway.

You let out a helpless sigh, feeling ridiculous. “Because… you know, you’re you.”

At that, his frown deepened and he took another drag of his cigarette, as if to calm himself. Then, he flicked it into an ashtray and approached you slowly. His gentle hands came up to pry your hands from your face. They fell helplessly at your sides. “What's that supposed to mean?” he asked with furrowed brows. “Are you intimidated by me, amorina?”

“N- no!” you stuttered desperately, “it's just…” You let out a long sigh, not daring to look at him. “I was scared it might ruin our friendship, it just… seemed like the best way.” As you spoke them, you realized the stupidity of your words, and Theo, too, raised his brow at you. “You thought going to the ball with Mattheo to make me jealous, letting him kiss you on the dance floor and rile me up all evening was the best way, did you?”

“Yes?” you squeaked, never having felt this abashed in your life.

Theo rolled his eyes, but he leaned down and suddenly he was so close. So close you could feel, hear and smell his breath, still reeking of cigarettes. So close you suddenly realized just how blue his eyes were, a deep cerulean blue. So close your breath hitched. Theo's voice was but a whisper, but he seemed distracted, his eyes darting between your eyes and - could it be? - down to your lips. “Stupid plan.”

“I know,” you breathed, looking at him with wide, teary eyes that Theo wanted to burn into his memory forever. He couldn't find it in him to be mad at you. Not when you looked at him like this, not when he could smell you.

“It worked,” was all he said, and you could barely comprehend the words before his lips crashed onto yours.

You'd imagined many times how it might feel to kiss Theo, too feel those soft lips on yours. Would it be messy? Gentle? Rough? It turned out to be none of those, or perhaps all of those. Kissing Theo was dizzyingly overwhelming. His lips moved in yours in a controlled passion, slow and meticulous, but at the same time, hungry. So, so hungry when he let out a groan and parted your lips with his to slip his tongue into your mouth. To explore, to discover, to make you whimper against him as he pulled you in tighter by the waist.

You suddenly felt impossibly hot and bothered, especially when Theo's lips departed from your mouth to nip at your jaw and travel down the crook of your neck, biting, sucking, caressing, worshipping. When you felt something solid poke against your thigh, you gasped, nervousness coiling in your stomach. “M-maybe,” you stuttered, “now that all is cleared up, we should maybe go look after Mattheo in the-”

You gasped loudly when Theo bit down hard on your neck, silencing you effectively with the growl that escaped his throat. “Don't say his fucking name, amore.” You nodded frantically, biting back moans, and Theo started lapping at the bite, rubbing his tongue over it in soothing circles as his hands travelled down, further down before they reached the slit in your dress and he grabbed a handful of your thigh. “You can scream mine instead.”

Suddenly, the door burst open and you jumped, Theo took a step back from you to glare at your intruders. It was Pansy, and, following right behind, Blaise. She had her brows lifted and grinned. “Holy hell, get a r-”

“Get out, Pansy,” Theo cut her off, fingers digging into your thigh. Though she held Blaise back from standing up for her, she rolled her eyes at his tone and turned to leave. “Lock the door,” Theo called after them and you somehow found yourself giggling. “Theo, you can't just shut your whole house out of the common room.” You felt light headed, slightly dizzy, but you smiled and he managed to return it. “'Course I can.”

He let go of your thigh and walked a few steps, over to what had to be an enchanted record player. With a tip of his wand, it started playing a slow song. Theo looked back at you, extending his arm, offering you his right hand. A small smile played around his lips as he crooked his head to the side. “Dance with me, amorina.” And of course, you took it, let him pull you towards him and closed your eyes as he began to move you to the slow rhythm. Somehow, your head landed on his shoulder, his came to encircle your waist as you moved, barely taking a step.

He would make the stolen night up to you. Every single second.

[societyfolklore]

Trapped Together

Title: Trapped Together

Pairing: Sheild!Bucky Barnes x Sheild!Female Reader

Summary:  A mission doesn’t go as planed. The result?  Bucky and you find yourselves handcuffed together without the key and no easy way out.

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings:  / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Accidental Handcuffs, Forced Proximity, Smut, Fingering, Unprotected sex, Soft Dom Bucky, Mild Dubcon Elements (squint), Mentions of thigh riding, Porn with min plot.. but yeah.. No Beta

A/N: my entry for  @avengers-assemble-bingo  for Bucky 108th Bday event – Final square! Square: A2 – ‘I didn’t do a thing’ Card Number: 4B003 The mission was supposed to be simple- just a routine investigation of an old HYDRA base. No hostiles, no active threats, just a sweep for any lingering tech or classified intel. But, of course, things didn’t go to plan.

The air was thick with dust and the scent of rusted metal as you navigated the dimly lit corridors, your boots scuffing softly against the cracked concrete floor. The remains of outdated HYDRA technology sat abandoned, wires frayed, panels dark, the remnants of a long-dead organization still clutching at relevance. It should have been nothing more than a cleanup job- catalogue the junk, confirm there were no active threats, and get the hell out.

You were scanning a particularly decrepit-looking console, fingers grazing over a series of faded HYDRA insignias, when something clicked.

A sharp snap echoed through the room as a metal cuff clamped down around your wrist.

“Oh, shit,” you muttered, instinctively tugging at it.

“What happened?”

Bucky’s voice was immediate, sharp with concern. He was at your side in an instant, his vibranium hand gently gripped your forearm as he inspected the cuff. His brows furrowed as he studied the mechanism, and before you could warn him to be careful, his metal fingers drifted too close.

With a soft hiss, another cuff snapped into place- this time, locking around his vibranium wrist.

You both froze.

“Seriously?” you exhaled, staring at the unforgiving metal that now physically attached you to Bucky Barnes.

He let out a slow, deliberate breath through his nose. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Your heart hammered as you gave the restraint a sharp tug, testing it. The metal didn’t so much as shift. You turned, twisting your wrist, but Bucky moved with you- because there was no getting away.

Panic crept into your voice. “Okay, okay, we can just take these off, right?”

Bucky pulled at his side, first experimentally, then harder. The muscles in his jaw twitched as he yanked at it, but the cuff refused to budge. His frown deepened as he examined the lock.

“No keyhole.”

You blinked. “What do you mean ‘no keyhole’?”

“I mean,” he muttered, voice edged with irritation, “there’s no keyhole. No latch, no release.”

Your stomach did an uncomfortable flip. “So… what? We cut them off?”

Bucky flexed his vibranium fingers. “They’re HYDRA-made. If I try to break them, I could crush your wrist in the process.”

The realization settled between you, heavy and unshakable.

You inhaled sharply. “Fantastic.” Then, with far less patience: “We’re stuck.”

Bucky exhaled, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “Yup.”

And then the inevitable happened.

“This is your fault!” you snapped, yanking at the cuff in frustration, your wrist burning from the chafing metal.

Bucky had the audacity to smirk. “Doll, I didn’t do a thing.”

“You- ugh!” You yanked again, but it was pointless. You weren’t getting out of this without cutting off his damn arm, and even you weren’t cruel enough to suggest that he try to dismantle parts of it.

Being this close to him was already annoying on the best of days. His constant 'follow my lead' attitude, the way he always seemed so sure of himself- it drove you insane. And now? Now you were literally stuck to him. Your pulse kicked up for reasons you refused to acknowledge, and you scowled, masking the unease with irritation.

You huffed, turning your attention back to the restraint. “We need to find a way to break these.”

Bucky tilted his head, looking far too entertained. “Oh, I dunno. Could be fun like this.”

Your glare could have cut through steel. “We are not staying cuffed together, Barnes.”

Bucky shrugged, tugging lightly at the cuffs again. “I’m sure Stark will get us out of these once we get home.”

You grumbled under your breath. “Great. Our extraction isn’t scheduled until tomorrow.”

Bucky let out a dry chuckle. "Guess that means we're getting real cozy till then, huh?" He glanced down at where your wrists were bound together and smirked. "Hope you don’t snore, Doll."

Despite your efforts there was no solution. The cuffs were far beyond ordinary restraints. No brute force, no backdoor override, no simple trick was going to free you. And with Bucky’s metal arm restrained, even he wasn’t willing to risk hurting you to break them.

Which meant you had no choice but to wait for Tony to take a look.

And that? That was going to be a problem.

By the time night fell, exhaustion was settling in. You both managed to find a somewhat decent place to rest- an old, creaking bed in a safehouse nearby. The mattress was thin, the sheets smelled vaguely of dust and damp, but it was better than nothing. But sleeping while attached to Bucky Barnes was proving to be a nightmare.

“Stop moving,” you grumbled, trying to get comfortable without your arm getting yanked.

Bucky exhaled through his nose. “Kinda hard when you’re sprawled all over me, Doll.”

Your cheeks burned. “I’m not- ”

But you were.

There was no way around it- his arm was wrapped around you, keeping you pressed against his side. Every shift, every twitch of his muscles, sent a jolt of awareness through you. The heat of his body, the solid weight of him, the sheer size of him against you…

You tried to shift away, but the cuffs made it impossible. Every tiny movement just pressed you closer, your body molding against his like a puzzle piece that fit all too well. You could feel the way his chest rose and fell, steady, unbothered- while your own breath was coming far too fast for comfort.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, twisting slightly, only to freeze as Bucky's grip instinctively tightened around you.

“Doll,” his voice was low, rough with sleep, “if you keep wiggling like that, neither of us are getting any rest.”

Heat flared in your cheeks. “I’m not- ” But you were, again, shifting just enough to feel the tension coiled in his muscles, the slow flex of his vibranium fingers resting against your waist.

You swallowed hard, willing your body to ignore the way he felt against you. But it was impossible- the warmth, the solid weight, the steady, controlled power that had you feeling far too aware of every single breath he took. You could smell him, the faint traces of sweat and gunpowder mixed with something unmistakably Bucky.

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Just go to sleep.”

Silence stretched between you before Bucky let out a slow chuckle, the vibrations rolling through his chest, through you.

“Whatever you say, Doll.”

And somehow, despite everything, you did.

You blinked awake, mind still foggy. The sky outside the safehouse window had shifted to muted shades of gray, the first signs of dawn creeping in through the thin curtains. The air was thick with early morning stillness, broken only by the soft creaks of the old bed beneath you. As you stirred, trying to shift into a more comfortable position, something stopped you.

Something warm. Solid. Heavy. The unmistakable weight of an arm draped over you, pinning you in place. Not just any arm- his arm. The hard, unyielding pressure of metal wrapped around your waist, anchoring you to him even as he slept. The sensation was grounding and suffocating all at once, leaving you hyper-aware of every shift, every breath, every slow, unconscious squeeze of his vibranium fingers against your bare skin.

But it wasn’t just his arm. Sometime during the night, you had gotten tangled together, his leg slipped between yours, pressing up against your crotch in a way that made your breath stop. The pressure, subtle yet insistent, had you far too aware of how sensitive you felt, of the heat pooling low in your belly. The way your body responded, the way the tension in the air had shifted from mere discomfort to something else entirely.

You tried to move his hold was  unyielding  so you shifted back.

Only this time your butt was pressed firmly against something unmistakable.

Bucky was hard.

Heat rushed up your spine, your senses suddenly painfully aware of everything- the solid warmth of his chest flush against your back, the slow, deep rhythm of his breathing, and the way his hips had begun rocking against you, even in sleep.

You swallowed hard, torn between panic and something far more dangerous as another slow, instinctive roll of his hips sent a spark of heat straight to your core. You should move- you should wake him up- but then a quiet, needy sound slipped from his lips, muffled where his face had buried against the back of your neck.

His vibranium hand flexed, the cooler metal splaying over your stomach. Skin to metal. Your shirt had ridden up during the night, leaving you bare beneath his touch, and when his thumb brushed the soft skin just beneath your ribs, your entire body tensed. A shiver rolled through you, unbidden, and that’s when you felt it-

Your own arousal.

The ache that pulsed in time with the steady press of his body against yours. The sharp awareness of how easily, how seamlessly, your bodies fit together, the tension stretched so tight between you it felt like a live wire.

You needed to wake him up.

But trapped as you were, there was no room to press your thighs together- only to shift, just barely, along the firm muscle of his leg between yours. The motion sent a ripple of sensation through you, what had you done in the night that had gotten you as wet you were becoming. Shifting your hips again trying to do something to make it better- Bucky growled.

His nose brushed against the back of your neck, breath hot, lips so close to your skin. His hips pressed against you again, slower, deliberate, sending a shockwave through your already tense body. His grip on your stomach tightened, just enough for you to feel it, to need more.

Then came the sharp, teasing graze of teeth against your nape.

His voice was hoarse, rough with sleep and something else entirely when he muttered, “Stop moving, Doll. You’re making it worse.”

His breath fanned against your skin, sending another shudder through you, and suddenly you weren’t sure who was torturing who.

You stiffened, before trying to move away.

"I just- "

"Said stop moving." His grip tightened, pulling you back against him, his leg pushing up harder, and you swallowed the moan that nearly slipped past your lips.

"Been teasing me all damn night in your sleep."

"I didn’t do a thing.”

"Really?" His breath was hot against your ear, voice rough and edged with something dangerous. "'Cause I can smell it, you know..."

Your stomach flipped. "What?"

Bucky's fingers flexed against your bare skin, his tone dark with amusement. "You. Been leaving little wet patches on my leg with all your grinding…"

His words sent another wave of heat through you, your breath hitching as your body betrayed you yet again. Bucky hummed, his lips grazing your neck as his grip on your waist tightened. "Drove me crazy, y'know. All those little sleepy moans while you were riding my leg. Thought I was imagining it at first, but nah- " his teeth nipped at the delicate skin just below your ear, making you jolt, "- you were using me, weren’t you?"

"I wasn’t- "

"You're always such a brat in the field, you a brat in the bed, too, Doll?" His voice was smug, teasing, completely in control now. Your fingers clenched around the cuffed hand as he slowly dragged it down your stomach, his movements deliberate, testing. You tensed, instinctively trying to pull his hand back up, but the metal was unyielding. His fingers merely flexed beneath yours, a silent warning that he could take control if he wanted to.

"Don't get all shy on me now, sweetheart…" Bucky murmured, his lips tracing a slow, heated path down the side of your throat. "Not after all the trouble you've already caused."

Bucky's hand cupped you through your pants, his palm pressing against the damp fabric, making you gasp. A dark chuckle rumbled against your neck as he felt the heat radiating through the thin material.

"Undo your pants," he murmured, the command cutting through the thick haze of tension.

You found yourself shifting, your own shaking fingers undoing the button and pulling down the zipper, Bucky’s hand sliding in without hesitation. The sensation made you arch, your body betraying you as his fingers made contact. A little whimper slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

"All that grinding made you all ache and sensitive, Babydoll…" His metal finger barely pressed your underwear against your swollen clit, the faintest amount of pressure making your breath stutter.

Bucky hummed in satisfaction, his fingers starting a slow, teasing circle over the fabric still covering you. "Bet you've been dripping for me all night," he murmured, his lips tracing the shell of your ear. "So wet and needy, and you don’t even wanna admit it."

His hand slid further, fingers pushing past the final barrier of fabric to find you bare beneath, slick and ready. He groaned at the feel of you, his grip tightening as his fingers slipped through your wetness, coating themselves in evidence of your arousal. "Fuck, sweetheart… you're soaking."

A strangled sound caught in your throat as his fingers circled your clit, the cool contrast of metal making you shudder. You tried to resist the pleasure flooding through you, but Bucky was relentless, keeping you spread open with his thigh between yours.

"Bucky- "

"Shh, sweetheart. Just let me feel you," he whispered, voice thick with desire. His hand moved with intent now, slow and devastating strokes that had you trembling against him. "That’s it, good girl… just like that."

His fingers slid lower, teasing along your folds, gathering the slickness that betrayed just how much you wanted this. A wicked smirk ghosted across his lips as he pressed against your entrance, just barely dipping in before pulling back, his touch agonizingly light.

"So sensitive," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. "So fuckin’ wet for me."

You let out a strangled moan as his metal finger circled your clit again, more pressure this time, more purpose. Heat coiled low in your stomach, each slow stroke sending sparks of pleasure racing through your veins. Your hips moved before you could stop them, chasing the friction he so cruelly teased you with.

"That’s it, sweetheart," Bucky coaxed, voice laced with dark amusement. "Knew you wanted this. Knew you couldn’t resist."

You barely had time to bite back another moan before he flipped you onto your stomach, his grip firm as he pressed your cuffed hand down against the mattress. His free hand slid to your hip, tugging your pants lower, the cool air ghosting over your bare skin making you shiver.

The bed creaked as he moved behind you, the unmistakable sound of his belt being undone making your breath hitch. The rasp of his zipper sent anticipation curling through your spine, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress keeping you exactly where he wanted you. His own pants coming down, the clank of his metal belt

"Been waiting for this all night," Bucky murmured, his hand smoothing over the curve of your ass before squeezing. You felt your hips raise back to meet his hand, instinctively seeking friction, rubbing against the heavy, hard length pressed against you.

He groaned at the contact, his breath coming out harsher as he gripped your waist, his flesh hand against your skin. "That’s it, sweetheart," he muttered, grinding his cock against you slow and deliberate. "You want it, don’t you?"

You barely had time to answer before his free hand slid between your thighs, fingers teasing along your already slick folds. "So fuckin' wet for me," he groaned, his touch purposeful as he spread your arousal with slow, torturous strokes. "Bet you were dreamin' about this, weren't you? Ridin' my leg, gettin' yourself all worked up..."

Your breath stuttered, a whimper slipping from your lips as he pushed a finger inside you properly, curling it just right, making your body jolt. The pleasure was overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once.

"Bucky- " you gasped, barely able to form the words as he worked you open, his touch both devastating and precise.

"Yeah?" His voice was low, teasing, his breath warm against your skin as he pressed another finger in, stretching you further, our cunt clenching and holding onto his fingers. "That feel good, sweetheart? You gonna admit how bad you wanted this?"

Your fingers curled into the sheets, a desperate moan slipping from your lips as he thrust his fingers deeper, stroking the spot that had you trembling.

"Fuck- Bucky, I- " you tried, but your words cut off into a whimper when his thumb circled your clit, sending another wave of pleasure through you.

"That’s it," he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. "Let me hear you."

Bucky chuckled, dark and pleased, withdrawing his hand only to replace it with the heavy press of his cock against your entrance. "Gonna take my time with you, Doll," he murmured, voice thick with hunger. "Gonna stretch you open nice and slow... make sure you feel every inch."

And then, with a deep, steady push, he sank into you, stretching you inch by inch, until there was nothing left between you but heat, pressure, and the raw, unrelenting pleasure of being completely, utterly filled.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he groaned, the weight of him making it impossible to properly move. Your walls fluttering around him as you let out a soft whine.

Bucky’s fingers tightened against your hips, his breath ragged against the back of your neck. “That’s it, not so sassy now, are ya baby?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement. His thrusts deepened, each roll of his hips sending pleasure spiking through you. “Just needed my fat cock to make you behave.”

A choked moan escaped your lips, your body arching instinctively, pushing back against him. The stretch, the pressure- it was too much and not enough, and you couldn’t stop the desperate sounds spilling from your throat.

Bucky chuckled darkly. “Fuck, listen to you,” he groaned, his pace picking up, the slap of skin against skin echoing in the room. “Moanin’ like a needy little thing. Thought you hated being stuck with me?”

You couldn’t even answer, couldn’t form words between gasps and whimpers.

“C’mon, sweetheart, use your words,” he taunted, his flesh hand slipping beneath you, fingers finding your clit. “Tell me how good I feel stretching you out.”

Your breath hitched, your back arching as pleasure ripped through you. “Bucky- I- fuck- ”

He groaned, thrusting harder, deeper, hitting that spot that made you see stars. “That’s it, take it, baby,” he rasped. “You’re so fuckin’ tight- so fuckin’ perfect wrapped around me.”

Your body clenched, heat coiling in your belly, the pleasure unbearable as his fingers worked you mercilessly, pushing you closer to the edge.

““Gonna come for me?” Bucky growled, his grip on your waist tightening. “Gonna soak my cock like a good girl?”

Your breath hitched, your body tightening around him, the pressure building unbearably fast. His fingers on your clit never relented, pushing you closer and closer, his thrusts turning sharper, rougher, until it was too much-

The pleasure crashed over you in a blinding wave, your cry muffled into the pillow as your body convulsed beneath him. You clenched around him, squeezing him so tight he let out a strangled moan, his grip on your waist turning bruising.

“Fuck- just like that,” he groaned, his rhythm faltering, his body seizing as he drove into you one last time before he buried himself deep, spilling into you with a deep, shuddering groan. The heat of it sent aftershocks rippling through you, your body still pulsing with the remnants of your orgasm as he slumped over you, both of you panting, sweat-slicked, and utterly spent.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress. His breath fanned over the back of your neck, warm and uneven, his heart hammering against your spine. Neither of you spoke, your bodies still tangled, still connected, the cuffs a firm reminder that there was no pulling away just yet.

Bucky chuckled breathlessly, his lips ghosting over your shoulder as he murmured, “Guess being stuck together ain’t so bad after all, huh?”

His words sent a lazy shiver through you, but you were too boneless, too utterly wrecked to argue. Instead, you let your eyes drift shut, exhaling slowly, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back.

Yeah, you were definitely in trouble.

By the time backup arrived, you were fully dressed again, but nothing about the tension had faded. If anything, it had settled deeper. The flight home was quiet, and you were quiet too.

Bucky hadn’t let go of you the entire time. His fingers brushed your thigh every so often, casual, like it was nothing. Normally, you would have said something- told him to quit it, nudged him away- but right now, your brain was too hazy, too fluffy to form a real thought. The ache between your legs made every small movement an unspoken reminder of where he'd been, of what he'd done.

You kept your eyes on the window, forcing yourself to breathe, to act normal. But in the reflection, you saw it-

Bucky watching you.

That same small, satisfied smile on his face.

As the jet touched down, Bucky finally pulled at the cuffed connection, his vibranium arm giving a gentle but insistent tug. Your gaze snapped up, attention pulled from the window as your fingers instinctively curled into your lap.

"On your feet, Doll. Don't wanna keep Stark waiting."

"Yes, Sir." The words left your lips before you could even think about them, your breath hitching the moment you realized what you’d said.

Sir? When had that slipped into your vocabulary?

Bucky’s smirk deepened, though he didn’t comment, just gave a slow hum of amusement as he stood, the cuffed hand ensuring you followed right after. Blinking, heat creeping into your cheeks, you cleared your throat and got to your feet, falling into step slightly behind him as you made your way toward Stark’s lab.

Tony raised an eyebrow at the sight of you and Bucky, still cuffed together. "What the hell happened here?"

"Long story," Bucky muttered, avoiding your gaze, though his grip on the cuffed hand lingered a second too long before finally letting go.

Once the cuffs were finally removed, you should have felt relief. Should have been grateful to be free. But instead… you hesitated.

Bucky hesitated, too.

You both lingered, standing too close, the air between you charged with something unspoken. His fingers flexed at his side like he was fighting the urge to touch you again, his jaw tightening as his gaze flickered over you, lingering on the places he'd marked just hours ago. And for one, sharp moment, you thought he might- might say something, might pull you back in, might remind you exactly how good you felt under him.

But then, he just smirked. Slow, knowing, dangerous.

"Don’t think this means you’re off the hook, Doll."

Your breath caught. "I’m not?"

Bucky leaned in, his voice dipping into something husky. "Not even close."

His eyes held yours, heavy with meaning, and your stomach flipped, heat flooding your face and running down your chest. You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering as he finally stepped back-

But instead of leaving, he gave your cuffed hand a light tug, guiding you toward the hallway. "C'mon, sweetheart," he murmured, his smirk deepening. "Think it's time I take you somewhere a little more comfortable."

Your breath hitched, your body still too warm, too sensitive from everything that had happened. "Bucky- "

He shot you a look over his shoulder, teasing but firm. "Unless you wanna sleep alone tonight?"

A nervous giggle bubbled up before you could stop it, and you cleared your throat, shaking your head as he led you toward his bedroom.