#Like... I try to understand all my friends??

[houseofhyde]

manchild.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader mcu timeline. tfatws. synopsis. bucky can't help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you. warnings. smut ( pwp, service dom!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f receiving, clothed sex for like a sec, fingering, creampie, tummy bulge, dirty talk, dry humping, possessiveness, dumbification, praise, temperature play, food play, nipple play, pussy pronouns, hair pulling - m receiving, multiple orgasms, consent kink, implied competency kink and cum eating, bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™, both bucky and reader spend the whole fic towing the fine line between horny and pervy ), no use of y/n, angst, fluff, frenemies to lovers, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky ( if that even makes sense ) ( it doesn't ), jealousy, pining, so much bickering, attachment issues, miscommunication bc these two combined have the emotional intelligence of a chihuahua, bucky's hobby is baking bc i said so. reader inclusivity. bucky can pick the reader up ( but he's literally a super soldier so 🧍‍♂️ ), one mention of bucky trying to grab the reader's hair, reader has a nut allergy and does not speak russian ( neither do i, so please forgive the very small amount of google translated russian ) word count. 16.3k hyde’s input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don't let this flop, it's my birthday tomorrow and i'm not above crying over poorly-received erotica ( i'm joking ) ( no i'm not )

Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain. 

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail. 

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

 “You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B. 

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice. 

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it. 

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.

“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.

“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.

The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.

Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.

“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.

Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds. 

“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.

That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.

Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.

Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue

“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”

Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.

“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?” 

Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.

“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”

“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.

You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.

Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.

Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.

Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.

Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.

Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.

“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”

The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”

“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.

“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?

Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.

“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.

Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.

That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”

“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.

Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.

“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.

“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”

“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.

The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.

The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”

You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.

Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”

“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.

“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”

“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”

He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”

“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers.  I just… Fuck!”

You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.

The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.

The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.

A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.

It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.

The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.

The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.

Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.

“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”

Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.

Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.

Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.

How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?

While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.

“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely  a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.

“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”

His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”

At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers. 

He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.

When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.

A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.

Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.

Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.

Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.

He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.

Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.

“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”

The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.

“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”

Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…

“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”

Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.

“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”

He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.

You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.

“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”

Never has a more needless question been asked. 

You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.

“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”

“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”

“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”

No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.

He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.

You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.

Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.

“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”

“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.

Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.

Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.

“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”

“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”

“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.

“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”

“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.

He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.

His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.

Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.

“Jesus, doll, you okay?” 

“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.

If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.

“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.

“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.

Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.

The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.

Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.

The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.

Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.

There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.

“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”

There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.

You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.

“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”

“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”

No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.

Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.

“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”

Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.

Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.

Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.

When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.

“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.

He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.

All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”

“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”

“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up  at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”

“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.

“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.

One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.

“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”

“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”

Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.

You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.

As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.

“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?

“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.

Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.

“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”

“My age may be a hundred and six but-”

“Exactly my point.”

“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while  you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.

“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”

His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.

Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.

“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”

The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.

Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.

“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.

“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.

You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.

“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”

“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.

“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”

Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.

A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.

“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”

Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.

You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.

“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”

“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.

Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.

“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?

Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.

Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.

With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”

He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”

“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”

Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.

“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder.  “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”

Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.

“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”

“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”

“To blame for what?”

His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes. 

“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”

“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”

“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”

“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”

“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.

Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.

“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.

“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”

+ extra hyde ! · 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:

[sparrowwithaquill]

Pls do Saja Boys x Popstar!Reader. The popstar could be a Sabrina Carpenter type! Thank you!

You got it my friend 😘 I’ve been simping HARD for the Saja boys ever since the trailers and movie came out.

Saja Boys x F!Reader; otherwise called reader is nervous at all the attention from a group of hot guys.

I tried to make it as ambiguous as possible as to what the reader looks like, the only thing that’s set is that the reader has at least hair on their head 😅

Summary: Coming back from your world tour, you expect to rest for a bit before going back to performing. What you didn't expect was gaining the attention of five super attractive men that just can't seem to leave you alone.

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N: I might make a continuation of this with some nsfw bits for each member, let me know if that’s something y’all would be interested in

Tags: @floredaqueen

Getting back to your home from your tours has always been a highlight that you treasure, especially from how exhausting performing is. Still, there is nothing that you would change about your life. Currently, you just got home and cleaned yourself up and decided that going for a walk would be nice. The city is beautiful and getting some fresh air would do you some good.

That's how you now find yourself roaming the street in the market section of the city as you people watch. Occasionally, watching some of the birds as they're flying. One bird grabs your attention from the others though in the way it seems to be watching with... purpose, eventually landing on a sign that is nearby where you were standing.

Normally it wouldn't really be something that you pay attention to, despite you liking birds, but something about this particular bird just gets your attention.

The bird must have thought the same as it stays on the sign despite you getting closer.

"Well, you have some interesting patterns, don't you little guy?" You say to yourself as the bird just watched you, something flickers in your peripheral, but before you can turn to see it, the bird lets out a chirp bringing your attention back to it.

“Hm? Guess you don’t like being ignored, understandable, you’re a very handsome bird,” you smile at the bird before turning to leave, slightly waving to it as you continue to walk around, oblivious to the eyes that follow your form as you leave.

Some time passes before you decide to go back to your home, using the time to listen to some of the songs on your next album to feel out if they're up to your standards.

Days pass with you enjoying your short break and taking the time to slowly get back into your routine of dancing and singing practice. You had just finished your latest practice session when you decide to go back to town to get some groceries, maybe try out that new recipe you've been meaning to indulge in. You’re walking in the direction of the store you most frequent when you see the same bird, a smile coming across your face as you slightly wave to it again.

“Hello my little friend! Didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” you smile until a cough sounds from behind you.

You quickly turn face going red at being caught talking to a bird of all things, before it lands on an incredibly handsome stranger who has a small smile on his face. One that also shows he definitely saw you talking to a bird.

“You always talk to birds, or did I just get lucky to see it?” He says with a small smirk on his face.

“I- uh, no not,” you clear your throat trying to will the heat from your face to die down, “I try not to make it a habit,” you stammer out eventually calming down enough to meet his gaze.

His very handsome gaze that is, the heat slowly returns to your face while your eyes dart around.

You eventually get your bearings, clearing out your throat as you look at him eyes quickly flicking across him, really getting a look at him before finally retorting.

“Do you always watch girls when you’re out or did I just get lucky?” A small smile unintentionally making its way to your face before you quickly choke it down with an eyebrow raise, seeing a near drop dead gorgeous man definitely isn’t something you’ll complain about, but still a man is a man no matter how hot.

The stranger just lets out a low chuckle before stepping a little closer to you, eyeing the bird before it flies off to seemingly nowhere.

“Not really, only the pretty ones,” he says, hands in his pockets of his jeans while he looks you up and down. Before you get the chance to stammer out a reply, four other equally just as gorgeous men come around to him before one of them, the one with a shirt that is clearly hanging on for dear life, claps him on the shoulder.

“Yo, Jinu, we’re waiting for you man- woah,” the man who you would definitely say could call you any time looks at you with a look of recognition, one that you try to shake your head as fast as you can without looking insane.

“So you have a name! Love that for you, sorry for being weird- you guys have fun with whatever you were doing!” You quickly make your way out of there with a hand covering your face to shield it from their eyes as you could practically feel steam coming off it.

The one who recognized you still has wide eyes as he realizes that yeah you are that one definitely famous singer and oh my gosh he can't believe that you ran into them. He quickly clues in the other men who are just confused at both of your reactions, the news making Jinu smile as he starts to think maybe he was right to send his little bird to watch you.

“Oh my gosh I looked like an idiot, a complete moron in front of five hot guys. Ugh girl you need to get your shit together,” you mutter to yourself as you continue walking towards a clearing where some people are talking about a boy group performing there.

You pull your sunglasses on and pull up your jacket a bit to avoid being recognized as you stand in front of a gathering crowd as some music starts. To your shock and horror, the same men that you’d bumped into are performing and singing.

“Oh my gosh I’m so dead, I have to die of embarrassment now, no I need to leave the country,” your muttering is interrupted as you make eye contact with who you now know as Jinu as he winks at you, your face erupting into heat as you pull the strings of your jacket to cover your face. Meanwhile the women and men behind you scream as they think it’s for them.

The action causes the Saja Boys to smile wider as they notice you hiding your face. They continue with their song, you still listening and your shoulders unintentionally bouncing up and down to the music. They notice with glee, their song ending as they send out finger hearts to the crowd watching your reaction as you try to look anywhere but their faces.

They finish their song, officially making their debut as they seemingly disappear into thin air. This gives you the chance to finally go to the store and get all the things you need for your dinner. You're heading back to your home when you hear someone call out to you, you are turning with fear that it's a crazy fan. Instead, you hesitantly turn around to see that it is instead the five hot guys with handsome smiles on their faces. Maybe the fan would have been better, you think as your grip tightens on the groceries in your hands.

The one with long pink hair in the shape of a heart is the first one to greet you as he waves with a large grin on his face.

"You saw our show, right? Did you enjoy it? My name is Romance,” He smiles at you, the action has you lowering your shoulders a bit at his smile. He's pretty friendly, still devastatingly attractive though.

"Uh, yeah I did! It was really good, you were really good!"

You smile back a bit shy, eyes darting between the five men as their eyes zero in on you. The action causing you to get a bit bashful at the cropped shirt that leaves your stomach and cleavage slightly exposed. The men barely try their best to avoid being obvious at their shameless staring, but let their eyes wander a bit.

Jinu is the next one to speak, offering a hand as he speaks.

"Did you now? You need any help with those groceries; we'd be more than happy to help you~" He purrs out, a wolfish grin taking over his face as your face heats up at the look he gives you. Curse you for your dry spell, just looking at these guys is enough to bring some heat to you.

"No! No I'm- I'm fine really and I don't want to stop you guys from whatever you're up to," you let out as the one with mint hair has no shame in smirking at your bashfulness as you make eye contact with him. Who you later learn is Mystery, silently makes his way around you as you slightly back away from the hungry looks they give you. Your back hits his chest as you look up, you making a surprised sound to see him. He has a slight smile on his face at the look of shock on your own.

"We're not too busy, especially not when we could help a gorgeous woman out~" The one with the ill-fitting shirt says tilting himself down a bit to stare directly into your eyes, as he smirks at your nervous expression.

"No really! I wouldn't want to impose," you let out with a small laugh making your way into the direction of your house. They let you back away looking at you with a gaze that screams they would eat you up if given the chance.

A week passes by from the interaction you had, the memory playing in your head like a broken record. The memory is still playing during your practice in your dance studio as you hear voices passing by. You're in the middle of a break as your backup dancers are casually speaking to each other while you leave the room to grab more water and a sports drink. You're at the vending machine when you can physically feel eyes on you, you turn your head a bit to see the most muscular member of their group behind you.

He looks you up and down before letting a coy smile make its way to his face as he leans against the wall across the vending machine. You whip your head around, face getting heated up as you can feel it creeping to your ears.

"So, how's practice going for you?" You hear his deep voice close to you as you turn around a bit and see him now down to your ear, you let out a sound that could be comparable to unholy as you realize just how close he was. Immediately, you start stammering as you try to put some distance between you.

"It's- um, you're so close, it's going," you clear your throat as he just smirks at you, "It's um good; it's going good we were just going on our break for the next hour, rest a bit y'know? Hehe how's uh how's your practice going? What's your name by the way, never uh never got it..."

God, you have been out of the game for so long, can you speak to even one person normally?

He raises his eyebrows, not really expecting you to give a response, but gives a small smile, "names Abby, guess we never really introduced ourselves, huh?"

Your shoulders lower themselves at his response, a small smile gracing your features as you finally make eye contact.

"No, you really didn't, so new group, right? Your performance was really good, really catchy too!"

You smile at him before reaching to grab your drink from the machine, having forgotten about it, but Abby beats you to it, reaching down and grabbing the drink before holding it out to you. You grab it, but he holds it a bit tighter before letting go, his hand brushing yours.

"Well, if you get bored during your break feel free to come watch us practice in room four, I'm sure the guys would love to see you," Abby waves at you as he leaves.

You're left at the vending machine, heart thundering at the brief contact as you watch his back leave before he turns the corner to go back to their dance studio. You are so about to make a mistake going to see them, is all that you think as you're returning to your own room.

After getting back to your room, your dancers and you disperse to do your own thing for the next hour. With some thinking, you decide fuck it and head down to where Abby said they were practicing. You can hear music playing as you look through the door and see them taking a break and make eye contact with Abby who smiles before going to the door to let you in.

"So, you decided to join us?” Abby leans on the door covering your body form view as the other guys in the room wonder who he’s talking to.

“Yeah, figured why not not everyday you can watch a hot new group in their element,” you chirp out before realizing what you said.

“Sorry not hot! I mean you are hot, but I didn’t mean that hot I meant hot as in really popular!” You wince at Abby holding in his laugh as he leads you into the room.

As you enter the room, all their eyes fall on you and your hit with the feeling that you’ve walked into the lions den.

“Welcome princess, didn’t realize we’d have a guest or else I’d have cleaned up,” Jinu says as he looks your form up and down. He’s wearing a loose shirt and grey sweatpants that does nothing to hide his physique.

The other guys in the room all have looks of hunger at your outfit, still breathing heavily from their practice. The one with lilac hair covering his eyes is the second to approach you as he offers you some water.

“Figure you’d want water, I’m Mystery,” he quietly says before going to sit on the floor one leg propped out as he continues to catch his breath.

You’re holding the water to your chest when Abby leads you to where the speaker is, now turned off since they’re taking a momentary break. They sneak glances at you while you sit a little awkwardly just listening to them chat.

Eventually, Jinu calls them back to practice. They start with Soda Pop, as they dance your shoulders bop along to the music while they pour their attention to you making your face flush from the looks they give you.

"Cause I need you to need me," Jinu points at you and smirks, you look away before turning your attention back.

"I'm empty, you feed me," Romance licks him lips while looking you up and down.

"So refreshing," Abby winks at you while pulling his shirt a bit to expose his chest.

"My little Soda Pop," Baby turns towards you and gives you a sultry look before continuing with the dance.

They dance through the chorus while their attention remains on your form, you feel slightly exposed and flush a bit at all their gazes. They finish their dance, and you clap for them, "nice! You guys are good!"

Abby is the first one to approach you, leaning down breathing heavily as he cages you between his arms.

"Any notes you could give us, any suggestions," He asks lowly, voice slightly raspy. You swallow the spit in your mouth as you hold eye contact with him, stammering a bit.

Romance is the next to approach you going to your right side and leaning down a bit to your ear.

"Any pointers you could give us? Any moves you could show us?" He breathes in your ear, his hair tickling the side of your face. You start to breathe a bit heavier at the attention they give you, you lick your lips as they feel impossibly dry.

The action only grabs Abby's attention. He leans in closer so close he was only a hair away from your mouth and lets out a breath as he smirks.

"You nervous?"

You silently nod, leaning back the slightest bit as your back hits the mirrored wall of the studio leaving you trapped between the two men.

"Use your words, princess," Romance chides you from your right as your eyes dart to him. Breath leaving you at his words and your face heats before you stutter out a yes.

Abby takes some mercy on you and eases up on the barely there space and backs away leaving you to Romance as he gets a drink.

These boys are going to kill you.

Romance soon leaves the teasing as he goes off to get his own drink and talk with the other guys, you finally are able to grab a full breath, and your face finally calms down.

You bid goodbye to the boys as you go back to your own studio, mind reeling at the attention and proximity of the boys. These men are much too attractive to be doing this to you.

God help you, your heart can hardly take this.

[cressidagrey]

Override: Denied

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:  Five times Bee’s intelligence left kindergarten teachers speechless—and one time they tried to go behind Felicity’s back, only to learn that Oscar Piastri is many things, but a husband who betrays his wife’s trust isn’t one of them.

Warnings and Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

1. The Gruffalo

The whole thing started with The Gruffalo.

Bee had picked it up during free play and started reading it aloud. Slowly, carefully, but without hesitation. Her voice was small, her finger tracking the lines one by one. Half the class had gathered around to listen. One of the assistants had smiled indulgently, assuming she was reciting from memory.

Then she turned the page and kept going.

By the time the final line came — “And now my tummy’s beginning to rumble. My favourite food is—gruffalo crumble!” — the room had gone still.

Apparently, one of the teachers had laughed. Said it was “adorable pretend reading.” Bee had corrected her. Politely. Then read a second book just to prove the point.

Now, Felicity was standing in the cramped hallway outside the kindergarten classroom, still holding Bee’s raincoat, and trying very hard not to lose her temper.

Felicity had never liked the way Miss Caroline looked at Bee.

It wasn’t unkind — not exactly. But it had that edge. That clinical, calculating gleam Felicity knew too well. She’d grown up seeing it in the faces of tutors and family friends, in admissions panels and the polished smiles of dinner guests. The one that said: what can we make of this child?

Like potential was something you could bottle. Like brilliance had to be measured to be made real.

“I think we should consider a formal evaluation,” Miss Caroline said. Tight smile, worried eyes. “It’s highly unusual for a child her age to read like that. We want to make sure she’s getting the right support. Beatrice shows advanced pattern recognition. Abstract language comprehension. Her reading retention is—”

She didn’t say of course I know. She didn’t say I taught her to read before she turned two or I watched her sort herbs in the garden by both function and taxonomy last week. Felicity didn’t say she absorbs the world like light through glass.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Felicity said calmly.

Miss Caroline  blinked. “I understand your hesitation, but identifying her cognitive profile early can help us tailor her learning environment. There’s no harm in—”

“There is, actually,” Felicity interrupted. “There is harm in assigning numbers to children before they have the language to understand what those numbers mean.”

“But Mrs. Piastri, don’t you want to know how advanced Beatrice really is? We’re talking about early gifted indicators. She could—”

“She’s a child. She doesn’t need a label. She needs kindness, and structure, and not being treated like a science experiment because she reads well. She’s three,” Felicity repeated. “And intelligence tests aren’t reliable anyway until at least seven. I assume you know that.”

The teacher had the grace to look uncomfortable.

Miss Caroline’s expression pinched. “I understand your concern, but you’re quite young—”

And there it was.

Felicity blinked. Once. Twice. The hallway was full of the shrieking post-nap chaos of pickup. Bee was sitting near the coat racks, legs swinging, chatting happily to a stuffed duck.

“I’m sorry,” Felicity said, tone like ice cracking underfoot. “My age is… relevant how?”

“I just meant—sometimes younger parents don’t realize how early intervention can benefit —”

“My daughter is three,” Felicity said tightly. “You’re not slapping a number on her.”

“Mrs. Piastri—”

“Doctor Piastri,” she said, before she could stop herself. “PhD. Mechanical Engineering. Oxford,” Felicity said, her voice soft and cutting. “I earned it while raising a medically complex toddler and making all of my daughter’s baby food from scratch. Please don’t mistake my age or my trainers for incompetence.”

The teacher flushed deep pink.

Felicity adjusted the strap on her shoulder bag. “I’ve seen what happens to girls who get told their value is how exceptional they are. Who are taught to equate achievement with worth. I will not put Bee through that. I will not let you quantify her.”

Miss Caroline opened her mouth. Closed it again.

Felicity’s tone stayed level, but her words landed like a scalpel. “If Beatrice wants to build rockets when she’s ten, I’ll be first in line with the duct tape and codebooks. But right now, she’s three. She wants to make frog houses in the backyard and eat her weight in strawberries. That is more than enough.”

She stepped past her and crouched beside Bee, gently helping her into her coat. “Ready, baby?”

Bee nodded, duck tucked under her arm. “Did you know frogs have teeth on their upper jaws only?”

Felicity smiled. “I did not know that. Thank you for teaching me.”

She stood, lifting Bee’s backpack and taking her hand.

The teacher tried again: “She really is extraordinary.”

Felicity turned back, her expression softening — not for the teacher, but for the child who’d asked this morning if plants ever got tired of growing.

“She is,” Felicity agreed. “But that’s hers. Not yours to catalogue.”

Then she walked out, head high, daughter in hand.

Because if Bee was going to grow into everything she could be, it would be without a chart. Without a score. Without a number that hung over her like a ceiling.

She’d be brilliant.

And free.

***

2. Music Notes

It started — as it always did — with a well-meaning concern.

“Mrs. Piastri,” said Miss Eleanor at pickup, her cardigan slightly askew and a clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield, “do you have a moment?”

Felicity, who had just arrived after wrestling a leaky chicken feed bag into the boot of the car and still had dirt under her nails, nodded. “Of course.”

“It’s about Beatrice,” the teacher began.

Felicity offered a politely neutral expression, the one she reserved for conversations that were already exhausting before they began. “What about her?”

Miss Eleanor lowered her voice. “During quiet time today, Bee was reading from one of the classroom books — which is lovely, of course — but when I asked what she was doing, she said she was reading the music. Not the words. The sheet music.”

Felicity blinked. “And?”

“Well… it’s just rather unusual, isn’t it?” Miss Eleanor said, shifting uncomfortably. “For a child her age to understand music notation. We just wanted to check she wasn’t, ah… mimicking it, rather than actually reading it. Sometimes gifted children blur the line between memorization and comprehension—”

“She plays the piano,” Felicity said flatly.

Miss Eleanor paused. “I’m sorry?”

“She plays the piano,” Felicity repeated. “She can sight-read simple compositions. Because I taught her. We have a piano in the living room. I have been playing piano and violin since I was two. And we practice for twenty minutes most mornings, because it helps Bee focus.”

The teacher blinked.

“She knows what a treble clef is,” Felicity added. “She can count beats. She prefers Bach to Bartók, and last week she told me Mozart was ‘a bit fussy, but nice.’”

Miss Eleanor gave a slightly strangled laugh. “I see.”

“Do you?”

The words came out sharper than Felicity intended — but she didn’t apologize. She was tired of Bee being treated like a walking warning sign just because she was curious and quick and quiet.

“She’s not showing off,” Felicity said more gently. “She just loves music. It makes her feel steady. And she’s allowed to love it without being flagged for it.”

Miss Eleanor gave a stiff smile. “Of course. Thank you for explaining.”

Felicity crouched down to where Bee was waiting, humming softly and carefully zipping her backpack.

“Ready, sweetheart?” Felicity asked.

Bee nodded. “I was playing the notes in my head. They were from Clair de Lune.”

Miss Eleanor’s mouth twitched.

Felicity stood, offered one last smile — sharp and sweet all at once — and said, “Next time, maybe ask her what she’s doing before assuming it’s a problem.”

She held Bee’s hand as they left the classroom, tiny fingers warm in hers.

“Did I do something bad?” Bee asked quietly once they reached the parking lot.

“No,” Felicity said, squeezing her hand. “You did something beautiful.”

3. The Absence of Tantrums

Felicity didn’t expect much from pick-up anymore. A mild sunburn from the pavement. Bee’s curls plastered to her forehead. Crayons in her pockets and a rock in her sock. Maybe another baffling comment about her “advanced auditory memory” or her “preference for multi-syllabic words.”

What Felicity didn’t expect was to be asked in again.

“Just a quick chat,” Miss Kate said gently, gesturing toward the staff room. “About Beatrice.”

Felicity’s heart stuttered — just a fraction — but she nodded.

Bee, for her part, ran out with her usual boundless enthusiasm, clutching a folded worksheet and humming the melody to some Vivaldi piece she’d overheard last week. Felicity kissed her cheek and passed her a bottle of cold water, then followed Miss Kate inside.

Two other teachers were waiting, seated politely with that expression that said we are deeply concerned and also don’t overreact.

“Bee’s been doing really well,” Miss Eleanor began. “Very well. But we’ve started noticing some things that… well, we wanted to flag.”

Felicity sat. “Such as?”

“She doesn’t… react the way most of the children do,” Miss Kate said delicately. “No tantrums. No outbursts. If someone pushes her, she just… moves. If the class gets loud, she goes quiet.”

“That’s not necessarily a problem,” Felicity said slowly.

“No, of course not,” Moss Caroline jumped in. “But it’s… unusual. Concerning, even. We’re wondering if it might be worth evaluating her emotional range.”

Felicity blinked. “Because she doesn’t scream?”

“Or cry. Or talk over other children. She listens. She waits. She helps clean up when no one asks. At snack time, she shares without being prompted.”

“She’s empathetic,” Felicity said flatly.

“Exceptionally so,” Miss Kate agreed, as if that were a diagnosis.

Felicity’s jaw clenched. “I’m sorry. Are you saying there’s something wrong with her because she’s kind and self-regulates?”

“Not wrong,” Miss Eleanor said quickly. “Just… atypical.”

Felicity had tried. She really had.

She’d bitten her tongue. She had kept her mouth shut. 

But this?

“You think something’s wrong with my daughter because she’s quiet?” she asked, voice sharp.

“Children her age are typically more… expressive—”

“She is expressive. Just because she doesn’t throw herself on the floor doesn’t mean she’s emotionally repressed.”

Miss Kate shifted in her seat. “It’s just something we’d like to observe further. Sometimes these traits stem from environment—”

Felicity’s hands curled into fists in her lap. “Let me save you the speculation. She’s calm because we treat her like a person, not a problem. She’s gentle because she’s never had to scream to be heard. And she listens because we listen to her.”

A pause.

Miss Eleanor blinked rapidly, cheeks pinking.

Felicity stood.

“If Bee was loud and unmanageable, you’d call her disruptive. But because she’s quiet, she must be broken. Do you hear how absurd that is?”

Nobody spoke.

Felicity gathered her bag, expression cool.

“I’m not saying she’s perfect,” she added. “But if you’re going to label a three-year-old as suspiciously well-adjusted, then maybe re-read your developmental psych modules. All of them.”

And with that, she turned and walked out — just in time to find Bee gently rescuing a worm from the pavement and moving it to the grass.

“Ready, love?” Felicity asked, her voice soft again.

Bee nodded, slipping her hand into hers.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked quietly.

Felicity crouched and kissed her temple. “Never.”

Because the world might not understand her daughter’s quiet brilliance.

But Felicity? She would fight for it every single time.

***

Felicity had barely made it past the coat hooks when she was intercepted.

“Hi, Mrs. Piastri,” said Miss Eleanor, with the same clipped tone she always used when she thought she was being subtle. “Do you have a minute to chat about Bee?”

Felicity’s spine stiffened. She offered a neutral smile. “Of course.”

Miss Eleanor led her to the side, just out of earshot of the pickup line. “We’ve been observing Bee’s behaviour over the past few weeks and… well, we’re slightly concerned.”

Felicity blinked. “About what?”

“She’s very… mature for her age.”

“She’s three,” Felicity said flatly.

“Exactly!” Miss Eleanor chirped. “And we’ve noticed she doesn’t… well, engage in the typical behaviors we expect at this age. She doesn’t throw tantrums. She doesn’t shout. She doesn’t interrupt. Sometimes we’re not even sure she’s here until we turn around and she’s just… building an alphabet tower or alphabetizing the nature books.”

Felicity stared at her.

“I’m sorry, are you concerned that my daughter is well-behaved?”

“She’s very… compliant,” Eleanor said, with the faintest wince, as if the word tasted wrong. “She listens too well. Doesn’t push boundaries. Never screams or throws tantrums.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Felicity said slowly. 

“It’s just… unusual,” Eleanor said, lowering her voice like she was revealing something terrible. “She uses complete sentences. She lines up her toys by material and colour. She thanks the classroom aides without prompting. She doesn’t interrupt story time. She’s never once needed a time-out.”

“And this is… bad?”

“It’s atypical,” Eleanor stressed. “Children this age should still be testing limits. We’re wondering if she’s suppressing emotion. Or possibly masking.”

Felicity exhaled. Hard.

“She’s not masking. She’s self-regulating,” she said flatly. “She has a secure attachment style and a predictable environment at home. She has space to feel safe. She doesn’t need to scream to feel seen.She’s just… happy. We do emotional work at home. We talk. We teach. We model. You don’t see tantrums because she’s not trying to earn attention. She already has it.”

Miss Eleanor blinked.

Felicity crossed her arms. “If you ever do notice her in distress—if she starts withdrawing or acting out or going quiet in a different way—I want to know immediately. But please stop treating her self-regulation as a red flag. Not all children need to be loud to be healthy.”

Miss Eleanor flushed. “Of course. Thank you for sharing.”

“I’m sorry she doesn’t fit your expectations,” Felicity said tightly, “but I am not going to apologize for raising a child who understands her own feelings and trusts her environment.”

There was a long silence.

Then Felicity walked past the clipboard, past the chart of developmental milestones, and straight to Bee—who looked up with bright eyes and said, “Mama! I made you a pigeon out of pipe cleaners.”

Felicity knelt and hugged her tight.

“Best pigeon ever,” she whispered, and meant it. 

Bee grinned. “Can we make mushroom soup later?”

“Absolutely.”

She took her daughter’s hand, turned back to Eleanor, and said — as calmly as she could manage — “Please don’t pathologize her calm just because it makes your classroom quieter.”

And with that, she walked out of the building.

4. The Protest

It was nearly pick-up time, and Felicity was early — for once. She lingered outside the classroom with her coat still half-buttoned, scrolling through a work email when Miss Julia waved her over with that careful, tight-lipped smile that meant “We have notes.”

Felicity braced herself.

“Hi, Mrs. Piastri,” Julia began. “Just wanted a quick moment to talk about Bee. Nothing major, just… a few things we’ve been noticing socially.”

Felicity’s eyebrows rose. “Go on.”

“She’s very sweet,” Julia said — the kind of tone people use when they’re about to say but. “She shares well. Listens. Helps clean up. Very mature for her age.”

Another pause.

Felicity waited.

“It’s just — we’ve noticed she lets other kids take toys right out of her hands without standing up for herself. And she doesn’t always speak up when someone skips her turn, or if a game gets too rough. We’re a bit worried she’s not asserting herself. That she’s letting other kids walk all over her.”

Felicity’s mouth tightened.

“Did it occur to you,” she said coolly, “that maybe the other children shouldn’t be walking all over her in the first place?”

Julia blinked. “We just want to make sure she’s building resilience.”

“She is resilient,” Felicity said, voice calm but edged in steel. “She was in the NICU for the first three weeks of her life. She sat through a cardiologist appointment two days before her second birthday without flinching. She’s fluent in kindness, not confrontation — and that’s not a weakness.”

Julia opened her mouth again, but Felicity cut in. “If she’s uncomfortable, she tells me. If she’s overwhelmed, she seeks quiet. She doesn’t scream or shove — she removes herself.”

“I just worry that she’s not developing the ability to self-advocate.”

“She does self-advocate. She just doesn’t do it by yelling. Bee knows her own mind better than most adults I’ve met. And if another child repeatedly ignores her boundaries, maybe the question shouldn’t be about Bee’s assertiveness. Maybe it should be about why that behavior is allowed in the first place.”

Julia frowned. “It’s just important she learns not to be a pushover.”

“She’s not a pushover,” Felicity said, voice cool now. “She’s three, and she has empathy. She doesn’t hit or yell. She shares. She lets things go because they don’t matter to her. But when something does matter — when it’s her stuffed frog or the storybook she loves — she’ll hold her ground.”

“That’s not what we’ve observed—”

“Because she’s smart enough to pick her battles,” Felicity interrupted softly. “And because you don’t see what she’s like at home, when she’s explaining to her father why the frog gets a seat at the table, or insisting we play the same memory game four times in a row until she wins.”

She paused, gaze steady.

“You’re not raising her. We are. And we are teaching her when to hold the line, and when kindness is more powerful than claiming the toy first.”

Miss Julia opened her mouth. Closed it.

Behind them, Bee came skipping down the hall, her curls slightly lopsided from the day, her paper crown from craft time slightly askew.

“Mama!” she beamed. “Guess what? I let Henry borrow my glue stick, even though he never shares his paint.”

Felicity crouched to hug her. “That was generous of you, bumblebee.”

“I think he needed it,” Bee said seriously. “His crown fell apart. Mine didn’t.”

“I bet it didn’t,” Felicity murmured. “Let’s go home.”

She took her daughter’s hand and turned back once, calm and composed. “We’re not raising her to win playground wars. We’re raising her to know her worth doesn’t come from pushing the loudest.”

And that was the end of that.

Bee tugged her hand gently. “Can we go home now?”

“Definitely.”

Felicity stood and gave Miss Julia one final, polite smile.

“She might be soft-spoken,” she said, voice pleasant and sharp as glass, “but make no mistake. Beatrice knows exactly who she is. And that’s not something I’ll ever teach her to shrink.”

Then she took her daughter’s hand and left without another word.

***

Felicity knew something was up the moment she stepped into the classroom. Not from Bee — who was calmly drawing little frogs in a corner with a pink crayon clutched in her left hand — but from the way Miss Julia looked up like she’d been waiting.

“Mrs. Piastri,” she said, that same faux-gentle tone wrapped in tight-lipped concern. “Could I have a word?”

Again?

She nodded, stepping aside as Bee waved from her corner, already announcing, “Mama, I gave Hugo a lecture today!” like that was perfectly normal.

Felicity raised a brow. “Oh?”

Miss Julia’s smile tightened. “Yes, about that.”

They moved near the coat hooks. Felicity braced herself.

“There was a small… altercation,” Julia began.

Felicity blinked. “Bee? My child who apologizes to furniture?”

“Hugo took the magnifying glass she was using during nature station,” Julia said. “And when Bee asked for it back and he said no… she didn’t let it go.”

Felicity nodded slowly. “She asserted herself.”

“She told him, and I quote,” Julia said, checking her notes — her notes — “that it wasn’t kind to take something mid-use, and that he could wait his turn like everyone else. When he laughed, she told him she would be speaking to an adult, and that sharing only works if both people agree.”

Felicity’s mouth twitched. “Sounds reasonable.”

“Well, then she… sat down in front of the nature tray and told everyone that until Hugo returned it, she wouldn’t move.”

“So she staged a protest.”

Miss Julia frowned. “It disrupted the flow of the station.”

Felicity raised an eyebrow. “Because she asked for fairness?”

“She was very firm. Quite… unbending.”

“She asked for something politely. Was told no. Stood her ground. Warned she’d escalate. Then followed through.”

“It’s just that—last time, we discussed how she was too passive.”

“Yes,” Felicity said flatly. “And now she’s too assertive?”

“She could’ve come to a teacher immediately instead of creating a stand-off.”

“She tried to resolve it on her own. Respectfully. Which you flagged as a developmental concern the last time. So now that she’s advocating for herself—politely, might I add—it’s a problem again?”

Julia hesitated. “We just want her to strike a balance.”

“She’s three,” Felicity said, voice low and firm. “She doesn’t need to be perfect at conflict navigation. She needs to feel safe enough to say ‘this isn’t fair’ and be taken seriously.”

Julia looked mildly uncomfortable. “It just caught us off guard.”

“She was taught to speak gently first. Then stand her ground if kindness doesn’t work. And frankly, that’s more emotional regulation than I see in most adults.”

There was a pause.

Felicity reached for Bee’s cardigan. “I’m proud of her,” she added, quieter. “And if your takeaway from this is that she was too composed while being mistreated, then maybe your focus is off.”

5. The Mechanic

The first red flag was Miss Caroline’s tone — that overly careful cadence that meant someone was about to say something profoundly stupid with a polite smile.

“Mrs. Piastri,” she said as Felicity arrived at pick-up, Bee’s hoodie slung over one arm and a spare tyre gauge still in her coat pocket. “Do you have a minute?”

“Of course,” Felicity replied evenly.

Bee darted ahead toward her cubby. Miss Caroline waited until she was out of earshot before stepping slightly to the side, just enough to imply Serious Educational Concerns™.

“It’s about something Beatrice’s been sharing with the class this week. She’s been telling the other children she helps fix cars.”

Felicity raised an eyebrow. “She does.”

“Yes, well…” Caroline’s smile strained. “Yesterday she said she replaced a belt drive on a Daimler and… recalibrated a carburetor?”

“She did,” Felicity said, already irritated.

“She’s three,” Miss Caroline replied, as though that explained everything.

“And Bee’s been coming to work with me since she was a few weeks old. That particular Daimler is a restoration project I’ve had ongoing with a friend. Bee did most of the bolt placement herself. If you want to test her, you can hand her a ratchet set and ask her to identify sizes in metric and imperial.”

“She told one of the boys that she reassembled a gearbox,” Caroline added, as though accusing Felicity’s daughter of claiming she’d flown to the moon.

“She did that too,” Felicity said. “With my supervision. And torque charts.”

There was a brief pause.

Miss Caroline cleared her throat. “It’s just that… some of the children think she’s making things up. We don’t want her getting in trouble for lying.”

Felicity smiled, thin and tight. “She’s not lying. She has excellent recall and a near perfect memory. If Bee says she did something mechanical, odds are, she did.”

“Right,” Caroline said, clearly still trying to compute. “It’s just… unusual. Most children pretend to be mermaids or astronauts—”

“Bee prefers pretending to be a pit lane engineer,” Felicity said. “She likes impact wrenches. And ballast weights. Her father brings her telemetry data to colour in.”

Caroline laughed awkwardly. “Oh — is he a mechanic too?”

Felicity blinked. “No. He’s a driver.”

There was a beat of silence. Then: “…Like a delivery driver? Or a taxi service?”

Felicity inhaled sharply through her nose.

“No. Like a Formula 1 driver. He drives a McLaren at over 300 kilometers an hour while managing energy deployment and brake migration settings,” she said calmly. “He handles complex race engineering telemetry on a regular basis. So — no. Not quite pizza delivery.”

Miss Caroline turned a frankly amazing shade of pink.

“I see.”

“Do you?”

At that moment, Bee came skipping over, waving a drawing with great enthusiasm. “Mama! I drew the brake system from Uncle Mal’s Jag! It’s accurate! I even did the cross-drilled rotors.”

Jenna peeked at the paper, which did indeed feature what looked like a labelled cutaway of a Jaguar brake disc assembly.

“Can we go home?” Bee asked. “I want to check the tyre pressure on the Peugeot. It looked squishy.”

Caroline made a faint choking sound.

Felicity smiled down at her daughter, then looked back at the teacher.

“Yes, love,” she said sweetly. “Let’s go check our PSI.”

As they walked out, Bee held her hand tight.

“Mama?”

“Yes, bumblebee?”

“Do teachers not know Papa is a race car driver?”

Felicity leaned down and kissed her curls. “I think they’re just catching up.”

+1: Oscar 

It started like most drop-offs.

Bee had insisted on wearing her chicken-themed socks and packing three small rocks “for educational purposes.” Oscar had carried her in one arm and her bag in the other, already rehearsing strategy notes in his head for a post-sim debrief. He wasn’t really expecting anything more than a “Have a good day, Papa!” and maybe a small argument about snack order.

Oscar should’ve known something was coming the moment Miss Caroline said, “Mr. Piastri, do you have a moment?”

It was that same tone — the one that made it sound like she was about to gently suggest his child might be possessed.

Oscar turned. Miss Caroline again. Her smile was pleasant, like always — but too polished. Carefully rehearsed. Like the kind PR did before they dropped a ‘concerned’ statement.

He gave her a small nod. “Sure.”

They stepped slightly to the side, out of earshot from Bee, who had already launched herself into a group of kids with all the dramatic flair of a physics demonstration.

“It’s about Beatrice,” she said. “Nothing serious. She’s doing wonderfully — incredibly bright, of course. We’ve just been noticing some recurring markers that suggest she may benefit from formal assessment.”

Oscar blinked, already tired. “What kind of assessment?”

“IQ testing,” she said brightly. “Just to help tailor curriculum options and give us a clearer picture of her developmental profile. It’s quite standard for children who show early gifted tendencies.”

Oscar’s jaw shifted slightly, the muscles tightening.

“She’s three.”

“Yes, and early identification—”

“She’s three,” he repeated, voice low.

“Your wife mentioned she wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about cognitive testing for Bee, which of course we understand—but we were hoping perhaps you might… talk to her about reconsidering?”

Oscar stared at her.

Talk to Felicity.

Like she hadn’t made herself very clear. Like she hadn’t already explained — politely, firmly, and with the weight of her own experience — why she didn’t want Bee tested at three years old. 

Oscar smiled. But it was the smile he used in press conferences when someone asked if he thought he should’ve gone for the overtake on Lap 27 and lost his front wing in the process.

“I’m sorry,” he said, tone even. “Are you asking me to override my wife’s decision?”

Miss Caroline blinked. “Not override—just… maybe you could help her understand the benefits—”

“She understands perfectly,” Oscar said, voice still calm. “She speaks three languages, teaches Bee how to calculate G-force with flour, and once wrote a statistical model to predict tomato yields in our garden for fun. If Felicity says no, it’s no. Full stop. Not ‘ask again later,’ not ‘see if her husband agrees.’ Just. No.”

Miss Caroline flushed. “Of course, we didn’t mean—”

“And for what it’s worth?” Oscar said, voice still low but no longer soft. “She’s Bee’s mother. Not just ‘your wife.’ She gets to have the final say.”

A pause.

“Unless Bee needs medical attention or starts dismantling the plumbing system,” he added dryly. “Then I get a vote.”

“Let me be absolutely clear,” he said, voice calm but steady now, like carbon fibre under pressure. “Whatever my wife says goes. She’s not hesitant. She’s informed.”

“She may not realise how helpful a formal measure can be for placement later—”

“She’s got a doctorate,” Oscar snapped, finally. “She’s been teaching Bee how to fix brake calipers since she was two. My wife knows exactly what it means, and she still said no. Which means you don’t get to go around her to try and change that.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I… I didn’t mean to imply she wasn’t capable,” Miss Caroline said awkwardly. “I just thought perhaps coming from you—”

“She doesn’t need me to speak for her,” Oscar said. “She needs people to stop mistaking quiet for weakness and young for unsure.”

He glanced back at Bee.

“My daughter spent the first few weeks of her life hooked up to machines I can’t even pronounce,” he said quietly. “And if my wife says we’re not slapping an IQ score on our toddler like it’s a bloody badge of honour, then that is the final word. From both of us.”

Miss Caroline looked mildly stunned.

Oscar gave her a polite smile that absolutely wasn’t polite. “Thanks for your concern. I drive a car for a living, but my wife holds our life together. You can guess whose opinion wins.”

And then he turned and walked back toward the car, resisting the urge to punch his steering wheel.

He didn’t need a test to tell him what kind of person Bee was.

And anyone who underestimated Felicity?

Didn’t understand the reason Bee was that person at all.

*** The kettle clicked off with a soft pop. Felicity didn’t move.

She was still curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, Bee’s tattered picture book in her lap — the one with the loose page that always made Oscar flinch because he kept meaning to fix it properly. Her fingers were idly tracing the corner of the cover, but her eyes were a thousand miles away.

Oscar poured two mugs, dropped a chamomile teabag into hers, and crossed the living room.

“She’s out cold,” he said quietly, setting the mug beside her. “Didn’t even stir when I carried her to bed.”

“Long day,” Felicity murmured. “She was playing rocket launch with a laundry basket and physics blocks after dinner. Something about thrust-to-weight ratios.”

Oscar huffed a laugh and sat down beside her, shoulder to shoulder.

They didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then he added, “Your favorite teacher cornered me again.”

Felicity didn’t look away from the book. “Caroline?”

“Mhm.”

Her jaw twitched, just slightly. “What now?”

“She wanted me to convince you about the intelligence test.”

That made Felicity look up, brows knitting. “Seriously?”

“She even smiled when she said it. Like she was doing me a favor.”

“And?”

Oscar leaned his head back against the couch, eyes on the ceiling. “I told her no.”

Felicity arched a brow. “Just like that?”

“Not exactly.” He paused. “I said no. Then I told her that if you say no, that means the answer’s final. And that she could stop trying to go around you because I don’t entertain people who undermine my wife.”

Felicity blinked.

Oscar turned to look at her now, calm and clear. “I don’t care if Bee’s the next Einstein. She’s three. Her job is to eat blueberries and invent words and ask impossible questions about the moon.”

“She asked me yesterday if gravity works on dreams,” Felicity muttered.

“Exactly. You think a test helps that?”

Her shoulders sagged a little. “I just hate the idea of someone putting her in a box she didn’t choose.”

“I know,” Oscar said gently. “And I told her that. I told her that you are Bee‘s mother, and that if anyone gets to decide how Bee grows up, it’s you.”

Felicity let out a shaky breath, half-laugh, half-exhale. “Thank you.”

He bumped his shoulder against hers. “You don’t need to thank me for siding with you. We’re a team.”

“I know. It’s just—some days I feel like I have to justify everything I say to them. Like they’re waiting for me to slip up and prove I’m just… young. Or weird. Or too intense.”

Oscar took her hand and laced their fingers together.

“They don’t get to define what kind of mother you are. You do. And you’re brilliant.”

She went quiet, then leaned her head on his shoulder.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” she said after a moment.

“Like what?”

“Like protecting Bee would also mean protecting the version of myself I never got to be.”

Oscar kissed the top of her head. “That’s why we’re doing it.”

And on the table, the tea went cold. But neither of them moved.

[bebethsas]

(copying the tags up here, b/c I wrote them first, and you need them for a little context for how I got here)

#oh...oh they were *made* for this #Cait as the daughter of a lord (in this case Lady) #with her pretty fancy dresses #and perfect marksmanship #and Vi who can drink any sailor under the table as well as win whatever brawl that breaks out #cait joining the royal navy “for experience”

wait, no, shit, ohmygod, this just keeps spiraling outward in my head and I'm thinking faster than I can type--

okay, so Cait--joined the navy for experience, honorary title, one part sailor, one part royal guard

Powder/Jinx--supposedly lost at sea, became a sea-witch / captain of her own lone ship; known for isolated attacks, her dingy comes out of nowhere and wrecks whole ships, then slips away unnoticed

Silco--owner of pirate ship, his home/place of power is Jinx's homebase, has his own sector/ set-up on Pirate Island (think 'Tortuga'). (Edit: One part shelter, one part adopted father-figure for Jinx, but it's more of an allyship (she wrecks ships for him, and ships for herself; she does what she wants, and sometimes it lines up with what Silco wants.))

Jinx takes down Jayce's ship, she kidnaps him in the scuffle and holds him for ransom on Pirate island (which is under Silco's control, or most of it is under his control? Either works). Jayce manages to escape, but is injured in the attempt and forced to hide before he can truly *leave* the island, and is saved/ taken in by Viktor, a merman. They bond over a love of science and inventing and magic (and obvi fall in love, that's a given)--yes, Jayce is the prince, but his passion still lies in studying the Arcane and trying to "bring magic to the world." Viktor is the first person in his entire *life* who not only completely understands him (and his passion), but shares his vision.

Viktor--insanely clever, sarcastic, remarkable, and inventive merman with damaged fins on one side (one was a congenital defect--like Nemo's "lucky fin", and one was torn and healed successfully but the scar tissue still affects his movement). Took a 'cure' from Singed years ago (in order to either improve his weak fin, or so that he could temporarily join the human world and learn more about them, b/c yes, just like Ariel, he's fascinated and curious about humans and all the potential knowledge they may hold), and is now 'cursed' to be a human (with a disabled leg and hurt spine) during the day, and his true self at night. That's how he and Jayce meet--Jayce managed to limp/crawl his way down to the docks, but collapsed in front of Viktor's 'house' (he has a shack/storefront right on the water). Viktor realized who he is and his significance and why Jayce begged Viktor to hide him, and did so.

Jayce doesn't find out that Viktor's a merman for about a month (Viktor hides it from him as best he can). All Jayce knows is that he's living in his new friend Viktor's house, and that Viktor is a little cagey about things (and yeah he's curious, but he's not going to pester the man who saved his life, and demand that he tell him all his secrets), and at night he's visited by this enigmatic, mysterious 'thing' from the water. It's always too dark for him to see what they look like, he just knows that it has fins and scales and human hands, and once, he swore that he saw a pair of glowing amber-colored eyes.

And then, after a month, he knows that it has human lips too. And that whatever-it-is is a great kisser. But he's torn b/c he feels drawn to this mysterious Thing (his night-visitor), but he's also falling for Viktor during the day, and it's all confusing. (It also doesn't help that before all of this, he thought he only liked women?? But now...??? Whatever, it doesn't matter, he doesn't care, he doesn't need labels, all that matters is that he's in love with Viktor...as well as this other thing. And he can't choose between them, but he knows he has to.)

(Before you ask, Viktor wears tinted glasses during the day, yes even indoors, in order to hide his eyes--from everyone, not just Jayce. His eyes are too bright to be human, and they give him away.)

ANYWAY, where was I?? Oh, right.

So, Caitlyn is in the royal guard, right? She's also Jayce's best friend (or at least, his closest friend). She feels responsible for his kidnap, and swears 1) to get him back safe and sound, and 2) get revenge on Jinx (maybe Cassandra Kirammen died in the accident)

So, she needs to partner with someone who knows pirate island. Someone who blends in, someone who can help her sneak in undetected, someone who isn't affiliated with any of the major pirate clans on the island.

There's a rumor of a pink-haired pirate rogue. Someone who can get the job done for you. Someone wo knows this place in and out.

Cait finds Vi at a bar. Vi agrees to help her (Vi works alone, she's worked alone for *years*, she has one small sailing ship that she runs herself--formerly 'The Brawler', now named 'Vander' after her late father. She escaped onto the boat after an accident--mabe they crashed? Maybe they got caught in a storm?--where Claggor, Milo, and Vander were killed, and Powder presumed dead. the explosion killed Claggor, Milo, and Vander, and tore apart Vi and Powder, and has been surviving on it ever since. She was never thrown into Stillwater--she's not affiliated with any major pirate clan, but Zaunites--most of them, anyway--would rather protect one of their own rather than let Piltie enforcers snatch up a kid. She also fights in the ring and earns money that way. She regrets rejecting her sister after the accident, but Powder disappeared before Vi could make amends. So she gets by by running odd jobs for people, being a heavyweight for hire, and fighting in the ring (and earning a cut of the profits), while keeping an eye out for a girl with blue hair mourning the loss of her whole family. Her motives for helping Cait? On the face of it, the sooner that prince is found, the better (Zaun doesn't need *more* trouble). But really, she also wants Caitlyn's help to find her sister. Cait may want vengeance on Jinx (and the lives lost at sea thanks to her attack), but Vi hopes that she can still save her sister. (Edit: She doesn't know if Jinx is her sister or not, she's going off of hope and a hunch. She's heard rumors of a blue-haired wildcard who terrorizes the seas, and after all, Powder's body was never found...) Also Cait is really, really hot, and really, really pretty. (And really, REALLY Vi's type.)

(went back and made edits--hence all the strikethroughs--b/c I reread my original vision for Jinx at the top and liked it better.)

Viktor's shack is at one end of the island, and Vi's boat is docked on the other side. (So while she and Cait are scouring around Silco's territory, Jayce is hiding out with Viktor on the other side. Vi doesn't know Viktor, but she's heard of him, and not by name. All she knows is that there's a rumor of a weird inventor guy who lives at the edge of the island, who can fix just about anything--mechanical or medical--but usually gadgets. Vi doesn't know Jayce, so it wouldn't occur to her to check out the person whose job/ interests would be like catnip for him XD.)

(yes, Heimerdinger is King, yes he's still a yordle, no Jayce isn't really his son, just his chosen successor. Yes, he's king but he lets the Council decide how to run things--at this point, he's retired and only a King in name. He's having too much fun going off and exploring things incognito

The Firelights have their own secluded island a few clicks away from the pirate island; they raid ships but they save lives too. Thanks to the currents surrounding the island, it's near-impossible for anyone to randomly wash-up on their shores, so you have to be independently brought onto the island by an existing resident, who knows how to navigate the waters. Also no one can manipulate their way onto the island by earning a Firelight's trust b/c no one knows that the island even exists. Ekko runs it--like in canon--and is pretty close to his canon counterpart

ohmygod I almost forgot about Mel! Mel: ally, foreign princess, going through her own personal shit outside of Jayce being kidnapped and Zaunite internal power-struggles, discovers she has powers, has to go through her own personal journey of discovery in the *wake* of said discovery. Friends with Jayce, and engaged, but it's more of a smart political move than out of romantic love (they love each other and are lovers (sexually) and could be fairly content with one another, but they're not in love with each other, and their relationship would've started to fall apart at their first major argument). (Basically, if Jayce had never been kidnapped, and had never met Viktor, then he would have gladly married Mel--not knowing what he was missing out on--and, while not feeling happy, would have felt content. But that contentment would have been weak--not fragile, just weak. Because it would only take one conflict--Mel makes a decision that goes against Jayce's beliefs, such as a decision that ignores people in need, or takes advantage of them, or is just too selfish for Jayce's moral code--to shake Jayce's perfect relationship. And once that trust was broken, the cracks would only spread.)

Yes obviously she's still beautiful and charming and glamorous and cunning and strategic, with a kind, gentle side. (Lol, compared to all the others, Mel--and her story--changes the *least*. Okay, everyone else except Ekko. And Jinx, technically. ...also Silco? ... ...okay, I'm realizing that the only people whose stories and circumstances have really *changed* in this AU are Caitvi and Jayvik.)

The fissures run in cracks through the island, and are also cracks in the seafloor than form a natural reef just off the coast, and should be a source of nutrients for marine and human life alike (and traditionally, they were just that), but Piltover's been polluting them for decades, contaminating them and turning them into a source of harm instead of health.

one more thing about Jinx: she blames herself for the wreck that killed her family, it was her fault they were out at sea when the storm hit, she didn't know that Vi survived, so she thought that she lost her whole family and that it was her fault. Silco found her floating on a piece of wreckage from 'The Felicia', took her in, gave her a place to stay, helped her get on her feet. She wrecks ships, but is tormented by the ghosts of her past. She doesn't let anyone get close b/c she's a 'jinx'--anyone who gets close to her gets hurt. She has her own secluded cove.

caitvi in the pirate au

[raevpng]

all these rumours

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

masterlist

summary: times azzi was sick of subtle and quiet hints and attempts to hard launch with her longtime best friend and girlfriend. frustration and chaos ensues however, when she fails. multiple. times.

a/n: thank u for ur patience once again lovelies 🥹 im still gonna edit this but this is my longest one shot ever so i hope it’s still enjoyable 😭 tell me ur thoughts <3

azzi knew more or less that there was a hefty price to pay for the dream life she chased.

she knew that eventually, the talent she’s harnessed and worked on for years would pay off – that the world would know what she could do. who she could be.

picture perfect form, unshakable morals, a humble yet competitive spirit.

that was who azzi fudd is. the kind of basketball player kids dreamed to be.

and she got it – she has what she’s worked so hard to do all her life. she got in the basketball capital of the world, she had a team that felt more like family, friendships that grounded her, people she’d bleed for.

and somehow, in the middle of all of that—she fell in love.

people were always stunned when she told the story. the story of how she met her soulmate, her twin flame, her everything.

paige bueckers.

every bit of a great athlete azzi is. she led with a kind of love and passion for not only the game, but for the people she played with. she had the kind of faith that swayed you, and a personality that left everyone wanting more.

and really, azzi understands. she understands why the internet obsessed over every interaction they had. every glance, touch, every shared laugh. they were absolutely enamored with their dynamic.

she understands cause she was living it.

she found a lover in her best friend. and god, azzi could never forget how softly their relationship had blossomed. how gently they had crossed the line between platonic and romantic. she remembers the soft confessions, the nervous first date, the jealousy they felt as they tried to hide from each other throughout their highschool careers.

she remembers how tough it was for paige had to watch azzi go with a boy to prom, and for azzi to watch as the media spun narrative after narrative of paige’s latest rumored boyfriend.

a hundred moments they had to swallow their love and smile like it didn’t sting.

but when azzi got to uconn, everything changed.

they were no longer living parallel lives — they were living the same one. suddenly it wasn’t just about quiet stares and lingering touches. it was about navigating something real, something tangible. they had a much harder time trying to bury their affections for each other. hands lingered a little longer than necessary, stares burned in a way that friends definitely did not do.

they tried to hide it. they really did.

nonetheless, everyone caught up to it pretty quick.

including their coaches and staff.

and safe to say they had a very thorough talk about media training and deal that yes – there was no rule that they couldn’t date, but it had to be very quiet, down low.

and it was easy.

kinda.

they were surrounded by the best team mates, who supported them through thick and thin. who, sure, maybe gagged at their quick kisses and cuddles during move nights or quick embraces in locker rooms before a game. but through it all, even with the chaos, azzi was content. grateful, even.

but now?

now it was different. they weren’t teammates anymore. they weren’t under the same roof, with the same jersey, following the same rules.

and azzi, has quiet as she had been during their years in uconn, was absolutely dying to show off her girlfriend.

because why not?

she can now.

and she was so damn ready.

–

forget about ending it with a bang, they started it with a bang.

the 2025 draft was much anticipated, not only for the fates of their future rookies in the league, but for the fashion, the glitz, the glamour.

and azzi?

she made damn sure she showed up. she pops out in the glittery black dress that hugs her curves perfectly, with her hair styled in curls that cascaded down the expanse of her bare, toned back.

and she came with a statement to make.

she made sure to stay by paige’s side for photos, smiling at her in a way that no longer held back adoration. heart eyes, the fans said. she posed for pictures as paige wrapped her hand around her waist, smiling with a love-sick, dopey grin that only fueled the flutter of butterflies in her stomach.

and if that wasn’t enough, she smiled to herself victoriously as she settled down in her very own seat.

in paige’s table.

she smiled knowingly, already anticipating the craze that is their fans, knowing that some of them doubted she would be there. she was excited to stir chaos, to send the clear message that she’s been by her girlfriend’s side and she’s here to stay. that no matter where she goes, she’ll always be close to follow.

her name wasn’t being called yet, but she looked like the proudest person in the room when paige’s was.

but to her surprise, as the night settled down and they returned to paige’s hotel room, it still wasn’t enough.

she remembers being tangled up in hotel sheets, bare underneath the covers as she ran her fingers through her tussled hair. the night had been nothing but hectic, and she half expected paige to pass out by the time they entered their hotel room with the amount of media, socialisation, and tequil shots she had downed in celebration of her draft night.

safe to say, the night had in fact not gone down that road, and instead ended with paige’s hands wandering and azzi not being able to resist.

cause who was she to deny her number one pick girlfriend? she couldn’t – not when she wanted it just as much. not when paige mouthed at her neck, whispering thanks and gratitude and confessions in a way that made azzi’s heart skip a beat and ignited a warmth in her stomach. she remembers the way paige had glanced up at her from between her legs, looking up as if she was the one who had been drafted. she remembers the gentleness, the passion, and the silent promises between each kiss and each release.

“you okay there baby?” paige had said as she exited the bathroom, her loose button up long gone as she climbed into bed again, quickly wrapping azzi into a warm embrace as she breathes in her scent.

“hm.” she hummed, setting down her phone by her pillow. she was scrolling through social media while paige had gone to clean up, and much to her dismay, her message still wasn’t clear to some.

she reached up to plant a soft kiss to her girlfriend’s lips. “saw some people saying we were ‘bff goals.’” she scrunched her nose, bringing a quiet giggle from paige.

“is that a bad thing?” paige laughs softly, brushing away azzi’s hair to kiss her forehead.

azzi gasped.

“what kinda best friend sits at a draft table and gets hugged first?” azzi shook her head, as if personally offended. “i am very obviously your girlfriend, thank you.”

paige just laughs, eyes fond as azzi sinks deeper in her embrace.

“let’s try again then.”

–

she’d kept the hints going, subtle but steady, while paige threw herself into her rookie season.

likes on tiktok edits, continuously coming to her games, even helping paige settle in texas barely a day after they had been “separated.”

the big one came unexpectedly, on a regular thursday afternoon.

she’d been cleaning her room, hair pulled up and sleeves rolled to her elbows, with paige propped up on facetime. on screen, paige was standing in front of her bathroom mirror, rambling about practice and the new weight room, her voice bright as she pulled her hair into a sleek ponytail.

azzi half-listened. mostly, she stared.

her eyes were fixed on the way paige’s biceps flexed when she tightened her ponytail. the gloss of her lips as she applied balm. the arch of her brow as she talked, animated and glowing.

“ma, you good?” paige smirked when she realised azzi was no longer listening, laughing at the glossy look in azzi’s eyes. “something distracting you?”

azzi coughed and rolled her eyes, though the blush creeping up her neck gave her away. “just admiring what’s mine, that’s all.”

paige smiled, almost shy as her cheeks tint a pretty shade of pink at her girlfriend’s possessiveness. “i miss you, baby.”

azzi’s smirk faded, replaced with something heavier. her voice dropped to a murmur as she sat on the edge of her bed. “i miss you more, p. it’s not the same here without you.”

paige pouted, like she felt it in her chest too. “it’s weird seeing you more on a screen again. i’m so used to just walking downstairs when i missed you.”

“now it’s six hours and a flight just to hug you for a day,” azzi sighed.

paige pouts even harder, sighing dramatically. “i just miss my girl. you’ve been looking too damn fine in my jersey. you trying to kill me?”

and that’s when it hit her.

azzi shot up, rummaging through the clutter on her desk—books, lip gloss tubes, tangled chains – until she found it.

she held up the delicate silver necklace, triumph written all over her face. a small heart charm beside a number 5.

“baby,” paige laughed, eyes lighting up. she knew that face. “what are you planning?”

“you’ll see.” azzi smirked.

see if they can deny this now.

spoiler: they can.

–

the tiktok blew up instantly – a dancing video with suni and anna. but that wasn’t what caught people’s attention.

no, it was the subtle glint of silver that caught the light every time azzi moved, delicate, gleaming, and undeniably there.

from the second the video went live, suni and anna had teased her relentlessly, eyebrows raised, smirks smug.

“oh they’re gonna eat this up,” anna said gleefully as she posted it, watching the likes skyrocket in real time. and azzi beamed, half proud, half smug.

suni leaned over her shoulder with a knowing grin. “you really wore that necklace for this?”

azzi shrugged smugly, beaming like the mastermind she was. “they better catch on this time.”

she thought this was it. they had to get it now.

and for a while, it seemed like they had. comments poured in. likes exploded. azzi refreshed the app every few minutes, heart racing, already imagining the thinkpieces, the ship edits, the finally, we have confirmation!! tweets.

but a few hours later, when she opened her phone, her jaw dropped.

comments flooded in:

“i wear my best friend’s number too lol”

“okay but this could still be platonic?”

“my bestie gave me a necklace like that 🥰”

what the fuck.

azzi slammed her phone face-down onto her bed, letting out a long, dramatic groan.

“you’re fucking lying.” she muttered under her breath, already on her feet and storming down the hallway to kk’s dorm with one mission in mind: complain. violently.

she flung the door open without knocking, mouth open and rants waiting to spill out when she heard it.

paige’s voice, warm and amused, drifting from kk’s phone screen.

“hey, fudd,” kk grinned, turning the phone to reveal paige’s face, all soft lighting and softer smiles. her girlfriend brightens up immediately, smiling that soft smile reserved only for her.

“hey, babe,” paige greeted. but her smile faltered as soon as she took in azzi’s stormy expression.

“uh oh. what happened?”

“oh, you know,” azzi drawled dramatically, flopping down on the edge of kk’s bed like the world’s most exhausted gay. “just the fucking allegations.”

kk blinked. “azzi. they can’t be allegations if you’re actually dating.”

“nah,” paige cut in, already catching on. she chuckled, leaning closer to the camera. “by allegations, she means best friend allegations.”

a beat of silence.

and then kk howled with laughter, doubling over as azzi swatted her shoulder.

“it’s not fucking funny.” she whined, ignoring how paige smiles fondly, eyes crinkling and bright.

“how are we still getting best friend allegations?” azzi rambled, pacing now. “i sat at her draft table. i’ve been in texas more in the last two weeks than my own parents’ house. i’m literally wearing her number around my neck like a promise ring.”

kk wipes a tear that escaped her eyes as she catches her breath, “you kill me, genuinely.”

“shut the fuck up kk.”

“okay, okay,” she wheezed, holding up her hands in surrender. “just be more obvious, then. you know how the internet is. unless you’re holding up a giant neon sign that says ‘i’m in a gay relationship with paige bueckers’ they’re gonna think y’all braid each other’s hair while you watch love island .”

“should i tattoo it on my forehead?” azzi deadpanned. “i’m dating paige bueckers across my fucking hairline?”

“i’d be down,” paige chimed in helpfully.

azzi shot her a look.

paige grinned sheepishly. “sorry.”

kk just rolled her eyes for what had to be the fifth time. “no one said that. just make another tiktok. with paige this time. don’t you literally have a visit planned soon?”

azzi groaned again but nodded, slumping down into kk’s desk chair with a dramatic exhale.

“fine. i guess i’ll try again.”

“aww.” paige cooed at azzi’s jutted lip, clearly dejected at her failed attempt at yet another hard launch. “don’t worry babe, we can do that trend you’ve been wanting.”

azzi’s head snapped up, a hopeful smile dancing on her lips, “really?”

“of course, baby,” paige said, voice low and warm, and if azzi had been any closer, back in her arms where she belongs, she would’ve kissed her silly on the spot.

“ew, gross.” kk gagged, “this feels like watching my parents kiss.”

azzi flipped her off without even looking, already envisioning the tiktok that would put rumours to rest. hopefully. maybe.

they’d stop calling it platonic.

–

the restaurant was bustling with quiet noise – the clink of silverware against ceramic, the soft murmur of conversations blending with occasional bursts of laughter. dim lighting bounced off polished wood and wine glasses, casting everything in a warm glow. it was perfect, not because of the fragrant waft of food everywhere, (although that did help) but because she was here, with her again, back where she belongs.

they were sat on a spacious round table. and even though they were in the middle of the restaurant, surrounded by people and different conversations, azzi barely heard the hum of the world around her.

all she heard was paige.

“and then nai says it’s because i’m pale like casper the ghost. what does that have to do with anything?” paige sighed mid-rant, her hands animated as she recounted something that happened during shootaround, her voice trailing into another tangent about a meme she saw that morning.

and azzi would like to think she was a great girlfriend. she’d say she was attentive and ready to listen. but right now, with her girlfriend so soft and so close to her again? she couldn’t help but stare.

she was watching. warm eyes fixed on paige’s every expression. the way her nose scrunched when she laughed, the way her lashes fluttered when she looked down at her plate, the way her voice softened just slightly whenever she said azzi’s name.

god, it’s sickening how in love she was. maybe kk did have a point.

paige leaned forward suddenly, noticing the face her girlfriend had when she was in her head again. reaching across the table, she laced their fingers together. like it was the most natural thing in the world.

and it was.

her thumb brushed slow circles into the back of azzi’s hand as she watched azzi register her gentle actions.

“anyways,” paige said, a little quieter, a little gentler. “how are you doing, baby? still bothered about the rumours?”

azzi sighed before she could help it, spine straightening at the mention of the issue. paige laughed softly, lifting their hands and pressing a kiss to the smooth skin just below azzi’s knuckles.

“you have no idea.” azzi rolled her eyes, softening slightly at the affection. she fished her phone out to show her girlfriend a screenshot of the many tweets and tiktok comments. “look. best friend, former team-mate, anything but girlfriend. it’s ridiculous!”

a blur of screenshots filled the screen as paige squinted. tweet after tweet, tiktok after tiktok, each one circled or underlined in red like she was building a case. best friend. former teammate. “normal friendship between girls.” platonic. platonic. platonic.

paige cackled at a particular comment. “yall reaching. i look at my best friend the way paige does and we’re not dating.” she read aloud, biting her lip to stop a very inappropriate laugh from escaping.

“someone tell her…” paige started shakily, “if she looks at her best friend the way we look at each other…”

azzi’s hands shoot up to cover her mouth, knowing her girlfriend’s next words.

paige was near tears. “they’re probably-”

“gay.” azzi deadpanned, snickering into her hands as she tried to remain quiet.

paige didn’t even try, doubling into a loud laughter as she hid her face from curious stares.

“gay,” she repeated, muffled into her palms, before peeking back up at azzi with tear-glossed eyes and the widest grin. “god, i love you.”

azzi just huffed, still scrolling. “tell that to the internet.”

she opened tiktok on azzi’s phone, still in her hand with a sly grin. “wanna make it now?”

azzi’s eyes brightened instantly, nodding animatedly as paige leaned in to plant a soft kiss on her forehead.

—

they filmed it first try – azzi tilted her head, eyes wide with innocence. “how much was it?” she mouthed.

paige looked exasperatedly at the camera. “two hundred dollars.”

azzi let out a cute little gasp, a soft smile contrasting paige’s reaction. “that’s not bad!”

azzi could barely contain the shake of her body as she cackled at the slow motion of paige’s reaction. they both cracked up the moment the audio cut, laughter bubbling as paige nuzzled her face into the crook of the younger’s neck. they rewatched it ten times before even moving, paige pointing out how soft azzi looked in her sweater and her innocent smile.

“they gotta get it this time.” paige reassured as azzi typed up her caption.

princess treatment everytime i’m with her. 😇💗 #spoiled

then she hit post.

hard launch.

again.

they got up to stroll to paige’s car, scrolling through the initial reactions. thousands of likes, comments, even videos in response to the tikok flooded in almost initially. paige peeked over azzi’s shoulder as they sat, scrolling, her free hand still tangled with azzi’s.

“see ma?” paige murmured against her ear. “i think they really get it this time.”

azzi beamed, sliding into the passenger seat and sighing at the familiar scent of paige’s car. her favourite car freshener, her laundry detergent, the faintest whiff of her favorite perfume. Home.

“finally,” she whispered, curling into her seat with a grin.

princess treatment indeed.

but later that night, after dinner and after kisses and after laughter faded into quiet, they lay on paige’s couch. azzi was nestled between her legs, back pressed to paige’s chest, scrolling aimlessly on her phone while paige mindlessly played with the end of one of her braids.

“babe?” azzi asked quietly, tone dull.

“hm?” paige kissed her temple.

wordlessly, azzi flipped her phone around and shoved it in her face. paige stared, blinked, then winced.

“oh fuck, you were serious.”

–

“i know that look.” kk narrowed her eyes, watching azzi through the mirror as she twisted her curls into place, securing them with quiet precision.

soft music flowed from kk’s speaker, the low hum of kk’s r&b playlist mixing with the gentle clatter of makeup brushes. paige had a game in connecticut today, and they had decided to get ready together before boarding the team bus to the game.

“whatsoever do you mean, kamorea?” azzi asked, tone syrupy and suspiciously innocent. she didn’t even look up, just kept applying mascara to thick, long lashes that fluttered innocently.

kk squinted, reading between every single line. “nah, don’t play. you’re gonna do something to ruin the internet again aren’t you?”

a smile.

“maybe.”

kk shivers.

–

they had finished the game with a high. dallas took the victory as the crowd went wild – paige had once again scored the most points within the team and god she felt like floating. she exuded an electric energy, that dizzying, dazed smile stretched across her face as her eyes scanned the crowd, searching.

they land on azzi. always azzi.

always azzi, cutting through the overwhelming noise and cheer. it was cheesy to think, but it genuinely felt like those cheesy rom-com movies azzi adored, even years in their relationship. the roar of the arena faded to a hum when their eyes met, and paige’s smile softened like it always did. like she only saw her.

they were ushered out quickly once the game wrapped, fans still screaming, staff buzzing. azzi and kk lingered back in a hallway as the crowd thinned. kk had been filming a vlog the entire day, azzi giggling into the camera, cheeks hurting from smiling as they goofed around, waiting for them to be allowed back to the venue.

“hey, y'all can come back in now.” a staff member had said, halting kk’s rambling to her phone.

“thank you!” kk replied politely before turning to the vlog, tone changing in an instant. “guys, we’re about to go see paige bueckers!” she squealed dramatically like a fan, making azzi roll her eyes and laugh.

kk skipped to paige’s side the second they stepped in, faking stage fright with exaggerated gasps, wringing her hands as paige blinked at her, amused. still, a slow yet fond smile stretched across the blonde’s features at her friend’s theatrics.

she opened her arms, inviting an embrace as kk squealed and jumped into a hug, acting like she’d won a contest. azzi giggled from behind the camera, heart swelling when paige’s eyes flicked up to find hers, warm and instinctive. she opened her mouth to probably call her over for a quick peck before noticing the camera, tilting her head in a silent question.

azzi mouths “she’s vlogging.”

paige nods swiftly in understanding, wrapping her arms around kk as she rants about her first tech. azzi couldn’t help but swoon, heart softening at how paige was just glowing. she was radiant even after a tough game, so full of life as she interacted with the team. everyone adored her, loved her in a way that only pure adoration and respect could bring.

she doesn’t even wanna know how googly-eyed she looked right now, admiring her girlfriend, thinking of everything they went through. years of hiding everything, their affection, their love for each other.

and suddenly, azzi had had enough.

she was not about to sit quietly while the world missed the entire point of the most important thing in her life.

and she knew exactly what to do.

–

she rummaged around her suitcase, looking for the item paige had gifted her months ago.

the phone case.

it was a joke, really. they had been scrolling through social media when paige started giggling at her phone – a case a fan had designed.

“look at this, baby,” paige had grinned, tilting the screen as azzi took a peek. “some fan really made this.”

it was obnoxiously pink, bold letters stamped across it like a headline.

“excuse me,” azzi had scoffed, pouting dramatically. “position’s already filled, thanks.”

but paige had only laughed harder, tapping on the link to buy it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. she bit her lip to stifle her giggles as she silently ordered it, filling in her details with a mischievous smile. it didn’t take long for suspicious silence to get noticed by azzi though, gasping when she saw the screen.

“the fuck?” azzi gasped as paige snickered. “paige.”

“it’s for you,” paige said sweetly, azzi widening her eyes sassily. “you’re welcome.”

“fuck no.”

now though, azzi had never been more thankful for a phone case. “thank the lord for a weird girlfriend.” she muttered under her breath, snapping it onto her phone with a click and smirking as the lettering caught the light. bright pink. unmissable.

so, expect a lil something today.

the three bubbles appeared almost instantly, azzi smiling at how fast paige responded despite her being at practice.

should i be scared?

azzi giggled, biting back a laugh as she typed:

perhaps i’m using the phone case.

a pause.

the phone case? the one you swore you’d never touch?

maybe.

azzi typed with a smirking emoji, giggling as paige replied with a thousand shocked face emojis.

game time.

–

she was getting dolled up with her stylist when she decided to snap the picture. skin glowing from glam, hair curled to perfection by her stylist, the light hitting her skin just right. and yeah, maybe it was intentional that her legs looked perfect in the picture, almost distracting from the actual purpose.

the phone case clear as day with bright pink letters – a loud and proud declaration.

paige bueckers’ girlfriend.

“you menace,” hayley smiled, peeking over her shoulder as azzi typed out the caption.

azzi smirked, cheekbones sharp and eyes playful as she posed one last time in the mirror. “it gets to a point,” she sighed, tossing her hair dramatically, “where i’m like, maybe i do need to spell it out for them.”

hayley laughed, running her hands through curls gently, nodding in agreement. “baby, you’ve spelled it, shouted it, danced it, and now you really put it out there in bright pink letters.”

“real.” azzi nodded in agreement, looking over the story one last time.

post.

and then she waited.

the notifications came in like an avalanche: shocked emojis, screaming replies. fan edits already popping up her for you page with another taylor swift song. she tried not to let her hopes up too much, knowing the pattern from her previous attempts. still, she let herself breathe, heart thumping in her chest like she’d just sprinted across a court.

a buzz cuts through her thoughts, bringing a soft smile to her face.

paige bueckers’girlfriend huh?

azzi could already imagine the proud smirk on paige’s face, fingers dancing across the screen to reply.

you lucky woman.

paige’s reply came instantly.

god, i agree.

and just like that, azzi felt the warmth rush to her cheeks, biting her lip as she tried to calm the way her chest fluttered. she bit her lip, fighting down the stubborn blush paige still managed to coax from her, setting her phone down as she fanned her face. she glanced at hayley, who was definitely watching.

“don’t.” she warned, burying her face in her hands.

“you’re so in love.”

it was a simple sentence. one she’d heard multiple times from fans, friends, and family alike. she heard it when they posted a picture, played a game together, went to a family event together, or when a friend caught them staring at each other for too long. it was written in the way she and paige looked at each other, or in every quiet hug after a tough game, every stolen glance across a crowded room. yet, she couldn’t help but think back to everything – how it had started between them, and how this giddiness had yet to fade. she had a sneaking suspicion it never will.

because it was true. it was real, and it was theirs.

and maybe that was enough, the sure feeling she had when they made eye contact in a crowded room, the softness of paige’s touch even after a rough game, the unwavering support of the people around her and the fans.

that was enough.

she looked at the mirror, still smiling.

“yeah,” azzi whispered, almost to herself.

“i really am.”

[isabelckl]

whiskey & honey 6

ranch girl ellie williams x city girl fem!reader

every summer since you were fourteen was spent in Ellie’s family ranch. your mothers are best friends, which only made it harder to understand why you and Ellie were never even friends. or maybe the question isn’t about friendship at all.

Masterlist

You kissed your mom and Celine goodnight, watching them walk up the stairs side by side, their laughter echoing faintly. Their hands rested on each other’s shoulders like old friends who’d always be that way. You smiled to yourself, cheeks warm.

Your eyes shifted to Ellie.

She was gathering the bowls and glasses without a word, the soft kitchen light glinting off her wrist as she moved. You sighed, biting your lip, that fluttery feeling in your stomach kicking up again. You could swear your eyes must be glowing just watching her — like you’d been caught staring at something too good for too long.

You walked back over without thinking, reaching for the last bowl on the table. But Ellie snatched it from you immediately.

“I got it,” she mumbled.

You rolled your eyes, scoffing, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. You let her have it, jumping back onto the sofa with a quiet thump, the cushions bouncing under you. You sprawled there, that dumb smile still clinging to your mouth. Your jaw moved like it was trying to chew through a grin, and you smacked your cheek lightly to make it stop.

You weren’t even sure what was funny anymore.

The sound of the faucet running in the kitchen, the clink of glass on ceramic, her footsteps — everything felt like it was humming under your skin.

Ellie walked back in, drying her hands on a dish towel. She spotted you smacking yourself and raised her brows.

“If you’re too sleepy to think straight, just go upstairs already,” she said, standing there with her hands on her hips.

You frowned up at her. “I’m not.”

She stared down at you for a second. Then scoffed, that small, knowing smile slipping onto her face as she stepped forward and grabbed the blanket half-sagging beneath you.

You didn’t move.

She tugged again. “Come on,” she said, her voice low and rough, eyes lidded with something unreadable.

Still, you stayed put, sinking deeper into the couch and smirking up at her like the menace you were.

Ellie narrowed her eyes.

Then, without warning, she bent down and hooked one arm under your thighs and the other around your neck, lifting you up like you weighed nothing.

“Ellie—what the—!” you squeaked, heart jolting wildly, hands instinctively grabbing onto her hoodie.

But she didn’t even hesitate. Walked you straight over to the larger sofa and practically tossed you onto it. Not rough, not really — just enough bounce to make your hair fall in your face and your chest heave from surprise.

Ellie was already walking away, laughing to herself.

You scrambled up on the cushions, breath caught somewhere in your throat.

“Ellie!” you called after her, half-scolding. “You can’t just—what if I hit my head on something?!”

She turned back, now folding the last blanket like it had insulted her personally. “Yeah, like what?”

You glanced around, trying to find a plausible danger. Nothing. “I don’t know. Something.”

Ellie looked over her shoulder, eyebrows raised, a smirk carved on her lips. “You’ve got a hard head anyway.”

You glared. Rolled your eyes dramatically and collapsed back into the sofa again, arms thrown over your face, that stupid smile returning — because you couldn’t stop it.

Eventually, you let your elbows prop you up, fully stretched out across the couch as you glanced toward Ellie again.

“Let me help you,” you offered, voice quieter now, lips catching on a grin you tried to bite back.

She paused. Glanced at you — eyes trailing over your sprawled form for just a second too long — before she turned away again.

“Nope”

She turned her back again, gathering the last throw pillow and setting it neatly on the edge of the couch.

“Come on,” she said over her shoulder.

You groaned, but got up anyway, stretching your arms overhead like a cat and yawning hard.

Instead of following her right away, you padded toward the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the drying rack and filling it with water. The faucet hummed low while you drank in slow gulps, the quiet pressing down soft around you like a worn blanket.

When you turned back, Ellie was already halfway up the stairs.

You ran after her, the wood creaking slightly under your feet. You caught up just as she reached the top, her hoodie loose around her shoulders, one hand trailing the wall as she walked.

You both paused — like always — at the top of the landing, right in front of your doors. One across from the other. Her hand found the doorknob behind her without looking.

“Goodnight,” you said, voice low, looking up at her.

She nodded. “Goodnight. Remember our lesson tomorrow.”

You sighed, head tipping back with a groan. “I know. It’s literally been living in my head all night. I’m mentally preparing to be thrown off and sent into orbit by one of your horses.”

Ellie frowned, biting back a grin. “You’re really not that dramatic, are you…” Her eyes dipped down, taking you in casually — or maybe not casually at all. Her hand lingered on her doorknob.

You rolled your eyes, already backing into your room. “Whatever,” you muttered, mostly just to escape before the smile cracked your face completely.

You closed the door gently behind you and leaned your back against it for a second, lips pressing together tight. That buzzing feeling in your chest wouldn’t let up.

From across the hall, you heard her door click shut too.

And that was somehow worse.

Because now you were alone with it — the ache, the flutter, the way her voice kept replaying in your head like a favorite line in a favorite song.

You took a breath.

Let it out.

And smiled.

Like a total idiot.

The morning greeted you like an old friend — warm light bleeding through the curtains, the smell of bread baking somewhere downstairs, birdsong slipping in through the half-cracked window. It was the kind of morning that made you feel like the whole world had taken a deep breath just to let you rest a little longer.

You didn’t, though.

You stretched under the covers until your spine popped, groaning softly as you peeled yourself out of bed. Your face was still smiling — you could feel it, even in the mirror while you brushed your teeth and splashed water onto your cheeks.

You hummed under your breath as you dried your face, still barefoot on the cool floorboards, your hair pushed back lazily with a headband. The day already felt too nice to be real. You didn’t know what made you feel so content — the sunlight, the air, or maybe the weight of something unsaid last night still lingering like a good secret.

Just as you tossed your towel back onto the hook, a knock came from your door.

You blinked. “Coming,” you called out, padding over and tugging it open.

You expected your mom.

But it was Ellie.

She leaned against the doorframe with one hand braced above her head, casual and annoyingly pretty in her worn flannel and dusty boots, the corner of her mouth tugging up with some private joke she hadn’t even told you yet.

Ellie wasn’t exactly someone you expected to see this early.

But oh — to have her be the first thing you saw after waking up?

Yeah. That did something to your chest.

“I just knew you were awake already,” she said, voice low and teasing.

Your head tilted slightly, skeptical. “And?”

She shrugged, her eyes glinting with mischief but not saying anything.

You narrowed your eyes. “Stop. Literally. I’m not even on that horse yet and you’re already—”

“Already what?” she cut in, fighting a smirk. “I’m not even saying anything.”

You leaned in a little, one hand gripping the door frame as you looked up at her, narrowing your eyes.

She blinked innocently. “What?”

You groaned, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Go away, Ellie.”

You tried to shut the door in her face, but not before she saw it — that grin you couldn’t hold back, blooming across your face like you hated it. (You didn’t.)

She let out a short laugh from the other side.

And you stood there behind the closed door, forehead pressed lightly against the wood, trying to get your heart to chill out.

Eventually, after you managed to get your heart rate down and wipe that stupid smile off your face, you slipped out of your room.

You padded down the stairs quietly, the wooden steps creaking beneath your socks, warm light spilling in through the windows and across the floor. It smelled like toast and something soft in the air — like morning was really trying its best.

But the kitchen was empty.

No mom. No Celine. No Ellie.

You sighed a little, but then your eyes landed on the table — a plate of fresh toast, an avocado sandwich, and a chilled glass of juice waiting like someone knew you’d wander in late.

You climbed up to sit on the counter, swinging your legs as you ate in silence, biting into the toast first. Still warm. Buttery. Perfect.

You were mid-bite, finally letting the calm settle in, when the backdoor creaked open.

Ellie.

She stepped in like she wasn’t ruining everything just by existing, dirt smudged on her jeans, flannel sleeves rolled up, eyes scanning the room like she hadn’t been here three times already.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t even look at her. Just focused harder on your food, like it was suddenly the most important breakfast of your life. She wasn’t getting in that easily again — not after how fast she made your heart race just standing in a doorway.

She walked right past you to the fridge, opened it, and leaned in — hovering way too long, like she was searching for some rare, hidden treasure.

You kept chewing, slow and casual, pretending not to glance over — even as the chill from the open fridge drifted across your bare legs, raising goosebumps.

Finally, after what felt like a century, she emerged... with a bottle of cold water.

You blinked, trying not to raise your eyes.

All that... just for water?

She leaned her elbows on the other side of the counter, twisting the cap off. You felt her eyes on you the moment she settled there, and instinctively, you shifted your gaze away — like looking at her too long might undo you.

When you finally glanced back, she was still drinking — but that smug little smirk curled around the bottle’s edge.

You frowned. Narrowing your eyes.

Here we go again, you thought.

Yeah, as if you didn’t live for it.

You chewed slower, eyes sharpening, turning your glare up a notch as she lowered the bottle and raised a brow at you — like you were the one being ridiculous.

“What?” she asked, brow arched, smirk full and unbothered.

You rolled your eyes so hard you practically saw your past lives. Your heart had already had enough of her this morning and it wasn’t even 9.

Ellie scoffed, crossing her arms. “Okay, hotshot. Stop rolling your eyes and finish your breakfast so we can start already.”

You scoffed right back, grabbing the last piece of avocado sandwich. “You’re just gonna tease me the whole time.”

She shrugged, already turning toward the door again, boots thudding against the floor. “Probably.”

You sat beneath the shade of an old oak tree, the soft rustle of leaves above you mixing with the distant sound of hooves. The blanket you'd brought was bunched beside you, forgotten. You'd been sitting on the grass for a while now, elbows resting on your knees, eyes fixed on her.

The field wasn’t far from the house — just a stretch of open land kissed golden by the sun, ringed with hills and wind-worn fences. But it felt like a different world out here. Wide. Quiet. Untouched.

And in the middle of it, Ellie.

She rode like she’d been born in the saddle — back straight, legs loose, posture relaxed but strong. The horse moved in smooth, easy circles, responding to her slightest touch. Like the two of them shared some secret language only they understood.

Your eyes didn’t know where to land — the wind tugging at the edge of her flannel tied around her waist, the sunlight catching in her face, the way she leaned forward to stroke the horse’s neck when it slowed.

God.

She looked like a movie.

Or a dream.

Or both.

You hugged your knees tighter to your chest, chin resting there as you watched her laugh softly at something the horse did — a quiet chuckle you couldn’t hear from this far, but felt anyway.

And then she turned them toward you.

Your breath caught slightly as they trotted over, hooves kicking up soft tufts of earth. She looked almost unreal with the sun behind her, hat low on her forehead, a crooked smirk on her lips as she neared.

You stood up quickly, brushing off your denim jumper shorts, trying to swipe the dirt from the backs of your thighs. The material already felt too short, but you were too far gone to care. Your tank top clung lightly with sweat and the air smelled like grass and horsehair and everything good.

Ellie’s eyes flicked over you as she slowed the horse, her gaze dragging for just a second longer than it needed to — from your boots to your hat to the way your shorts clung too high on your legs.

She swung down from the saddle with ease, her boots hitting the earth with a soft thud. You stepped forward, reaching a hand toward the horse’s mane, fingers brushing gently.

“She’s not gonna throw you off,” Ellie said, voice low and calm. “She’s used to this.”

You looked at her, brow raised. “Used to what? Newbies climbing all over her like idiots?”

Ellie grinned. “Something like that.”

You exhaled slowly, pressing your hand flat to the horse’s neck. Its warmth was grounding. She blinked at you slowly, patient.

“Alright,” you muttered, shifting nervously. “Let’s do it before I change my mind.”

Ellie stepped closer, hand outstretched. “C’mere.”

You took it.

She braced one hand on your waist and the other clasped yours tight. Her fingers curled securely around you, steady, familiar. You could feel her strength in the way she lifted — not all at once, but gradually, guiding you, tilting you upward as your foot found the stirrup and you pushed.

Your breath caught a little as she boosted you up, her grip never faltering.

Once you were seated, legs awkwardly settling into place, you looked down at her — still standing close, her palm just barely leaving your waist.

You tried to ignore how warm it made you feel.

But then she stepped toward the stirrup again, climbing up behind you.

Your heart skipped.

“What are you—”

“I’m not letting you go out on your first ride alone,” Ellie said easily, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like her jeans didn’t brush yours as she settled into the saddle. Like her chest wasn’t brushing your back. Like her voice wasn’t curling against the side of your neck.

Her arms reached forward, one on either side of you, fingers taking hold of the reins. You could feel the brush of her sleeve against your arm, the warmth of her breath as she leaned in to speak.

“Okay,” she murmured, low and slow. “Loosen your grip. Sit straight, but not stiff. Let your body move with her.”

You swallowed hard, nodding slowly, every nerve ending buzzing.

The heat between you wasn’t just from the sun.

It was her.

All of her.

Right there.

You could feel her — her steady breathing, the subtle way her fingers moved, the way her hips shifted behind you slightly with the horse’s rhythm.

Your hands trembled slightly as you reached for the reins too, your fingers brushing over hers for a second before you found your grip.

The horse began to move forward. Smoothly at first. You tried to match its rhythm. Tried to listen to Ellie’s quiet instructions.

But it was hard to focus on anything when you were that aware of her body behind yours, steady and warm and impossibly close.

You wanted it to go well, at least.

You wanted her to be impressed.

But your nerves got the better of you.

Without meaning to, you jerked slightly — something too sharp in your hands, too sudden — and the horse gave a startled whinny before breaking into a faster gallop.

“Ah—!” you shrieked, eyes wide. Your body tensed as panic gripped you.

But then —

Ellie’s hand landed over yours.

Firm. Certain.

Her other arm wrapped slightly tighter around your middle, not pulling — just grounding.

“Hey,” she said softly near your ear, her voice calm and solid. “Breathe. I’ve got her.”

You did. Somehow.

The horse slowed, falling back into that smooth, easy pace again.

But your heart?

Still galloping.

Ellie didn’t move her hand. It hovered there over yours, her fingertips brushing your knuckles. The world felt quieter now, smaller — like it was just the two of you and the soft clop of hooves in the grass.

You glanced over your shoulder slightly.

Her face was close — too close — sun-kissed and unreadable, eyes fixed ahead, but you could feel her looking at you anyway.

She smirked.

“Not bad,” she murmured, voice husky. “It’s your first. It’ll get better.”

You turned back around quickly, biting your bottom lip so hard it might bruise.

But nothing could calm your pulse now.

Not even Ellie.

Especially not Ellie.

The horse kept circling, steady and slow. Neither of you spoke.

You weren’t sure if it was the quiet comfort of the ride or the way your heartbeat had just started to calm, but the silence didn’t feel heavy. Just full. Full of the warmth behind you, the slight sway of her movements synced with yours. The rhythm of hoofbeats on dirt. The breath of wind combing through the field.

You could feel everything.

The closeness. The way her chest brushed your back with each inhale. The warmth of her arms, steady at your sides. The occasional shift of her hand near yours on the reins.

“You smell so good,” Ellie said suddenly, voice low. Like she hadn’t even meant to say it aloud. “Like… honey.”

You felt her exhale the words, like the breath left her before she could hold it back.

Your face burned immediately. “I always smell good,” you tried to snap, but it came out embarrassingly soft.

Behind you, Ellie let out a scoffing kind of laugh — not mean, just amused. You could hear the smile in it. Like she was already filing that reaction away for future teasing.

“Speaking of honey… you wanna go get some fresh stuff?”

You blinked. “Uh—yeah. Sure.”

Ellie didn’t say anything else. Just adjusted her grip, the reins shifting smoothly as she guided the horse off the main loop and down a narrow path through the grass. You didn’t do much — just hovered your hand above the leather straps, letting her lead. She clearly knew where she was going.

The world around you changed slowly. The sky felt lower here, trees crowding in close, sunlight filtering through leaves like stained glass. The path was uneven, small branches brushing against your arms. You passed a half-collapsed fence, its wooden beams leaning at weird angles like they were tired of standing.

Finally, the horse slowed.

You looked up to see a tall, wild-looking tree — thick bark, broad shade, and a whole mess of bees floating lazily around its base like tiny golden ghosts.

Ellie hopped off like it was the easiest thing in the world, boots hitting the earth with a soft thud.

You didn’t move.

Not because you didn’t want to — but because you weren’t entirely sure how.

You sighed. Started fumbling with your leg, trying to figure out which direction your foot needed to go, but before you could do anything—

Ellie was already there. Hands sliding to your waist.

“Wait—”

She lifted you like it was nothing, lowering you gently to the ground before you could finish protesting.

You landed on your feet, a little stunned.

“I could’ve gotten down on my own,” you muttered, brushing your hands on your shorts.

Ellie tilted her head, not looking at you as she replied, “You don’t know how. And it’d take too long.”

You huffed. “Well, you’re supposed to be patient with your… student.”

Ellie scoffed, already walking toward the tree. “Stay there.”

You didn’t have time to argue before she stepped right into the swarm of bees — her movements unbothered, casual. She reached right into a hollow in the tree, hand vanishing into the shadows, bees buzzing around her like she was part of the air itself.

Your eyes widened. “Oh my god—”

You clutched your chest, watching in disbelief as she pulled out a sticky hunk of honeycomb like she’d done it a hundred times before. She moved calmly, brushing a few bees away with the back of her hand. The honey caught the light as it dripped, golden and slow.

You stayed frozen while she tucked the comb into a small jar — you had no idea where she’d pulled that from — and sealed it with a soft clink. The bees didn’t even follow her.

She came back over like it was nothing.

You gaped at her.

“You could’ve been killed, y’know,” you blurted. “And you just made me stand here and watch it.”

Ellie scoffed, smirking at you like you were being ridiculous again. “I do this all the time,” she said, holding the jar out to you. “Here.”

You didn’t take it.

You just stared.

So she twisted the lid open instead, dipping two fingers inside.

Then — without breaking eye contact — she brought them to her mouth and tasted it.

“Sweet,” she said, licking it clean.

tag lists:

@wwefan2002 @sulliefimmie @the-sick-habit @c1sne @darkdanixoxo @elliewillamsgf @momoloverr @piastorys @jester-loverre @adoreasellie @nishikorru @wrappedinvines @madsxh1022 @st0nerlesb0 @elliewilliamscutofffingers @bellaramseysgirlfriend @autisticratbagtm @jujueilish @sophipet @starinhereyes @pearl4oli @meeeh234 @womaniza @gracie1234567891011 @oatmatchalatte @rjfjfufjfjfuc @elliesfavtoy @nut-button-baby @lilithyys @eriiwaiii2 @gayasfffck @0phantom0 @sillyme12356 @azxteria @camcam-yass @oneinameliann @elliepoems @elslvrsworld @ssijht @sleepy--mango @liasxeatt @bilszsq @morphids @appleofmyii @elliewilliamsluvrr @wewerewildandfluorescent @angelaut0matec @princesscherryblossom15 @chappellroankisser @sabrinathewitchh982 @soldemiel

[velvetbeeez]

meet the child who beneath the blanket of stars had once wished to see the world from everyone's eyes. . .

a lover, a poet, a dream recurring . . .

hi hello hola bonjour namaste I am saadgi, my name means simplicity but it has always been a joke around school how my name fits me as a hat does a frog. I am seventeen and i brim with 3 am thoughts, ideas and wonders. I love spending all my time in my room doomscrolling and binge watching my favorite shows (tua, hi) until they do not ever feel the same again but i occasionally also love a good party with free alcohol. I vape like it's lifeline, a habit i must get rid of soon. My favorite colors are purple and pink. my birthday is on 28 December, i am a winter's daughter through and through, i can not stand summers, they drain my energy every time. I live in India (summers are lethal) i love our food, never hearing any criticism. I love the nighttime, i stay up the entire night just to sleep till 2 pm during the day, i love the stillness, the serenity, the soft humming of the moonlit stars in the background of my head. It remains all mine and i can not help but cherish it, i love how i can stare at the wall for an hour and no one would question me. I am an empath, i feel too much and it is a curse as well as a boon. I am the 'too woke' friend, I have had many of my close friendships broken because of the said wokeness. I am a capricorn sun, leo moon and aquarius rising, analyse me through that however you will. I am a sucker for numerology, i am a number 1, ruled by the sun, a leader, a winner. My hobbies include writing first and foremost, i am at my core when all the layers are peeled off, a writer, i sold my short stories to other kids for a sweet treat when i was 10, i wrote my first poem on my 8th mother's day.

she who wished, she who fulfilled . . .

My childhood was spend inside my head. My mind was always scattered in 10 different directions, i have lived different lives since forever, i was always in my palace, always in the beyblade arena, i was a vampire, i was a spy, i was dracula's mortal wife, i was a witch hunter...but i also was a student, i was slow at understand things of this reality, i used to daydream in class all the time, i remember my teacher yelling my ear off once but i couldn't hear her until she threw a chalk at my head because i was too busy being a pink haired vampire. I remember once asking my mom why i couldn't see the world from my best friend's pov....so yeah.

I was a witch and a master manifester even as a child. I remember bringing dirt from the garden and putting on it whatever leaves i could find and chanting a made up spell so rain would fall during hot summers....it always did....you are welcome, my neighbours. I got whatever i wished for, a thought of my favorite movie would pass my mind, it's being telecasted on the television. I think my english teacher is the coolest person on planet earth?? i am her favorite student. I want my favorite chocolate? dad has brought home a bag of it.

It is i believe in my veins to bend the thread of fate with a practiced swish of my fingertip, to whisper to the moon and have it return to me as an echo.

the multiverse left bare . . .

I had always known there was more to life, when i read 'earth is the only planet with life' in my grade 5 science book, i knew there was something unmistakably wrong with that sentence.

I found shifting at the worst time possible, summer 2022, 9th grade. I hated how i looked, i had an ugly haircut, i was in a trio (canon event). The sun blazed above my head everyday, everything was sticky smelly and clammy, i had a crush on a guy who had a crush on another girl, i doubted my competence, i was failing maths and science. I was losing my magic (or i believed i was). I had only recently found subliminals and decided i was not special enough for them to work for me.

Finding shifting then felt more of a burden then one lifted...i feared that i would try and fail, and when you think of failure it takes it's largest form and looms upon your silhouette like a victorian ghost unleashed mistakenly. I gave up on shifting, i decided it was not real, just an internet joke...after 2 years i found @hrrtshape's blog (forever grateful) and the lock on the door that i had been staring at for 2 years vanished, a flower bloomed inside of me, hope ignited like firework within my soul, i found shifting again and in a better place, i believed in it again, this time it felt like a sparkling wrapped present, like something given not taken.

characters across the multiverse who are but a reflection of me. . .౨ৎ

jo march, todd anderson, lexi howard, devi vishwakumar, loki laufeyson, klaus hargreeves, diego hargreeves, edmund pevensie, lucy pevensie, nadine (the edge of seventeen), lady bird, priscilla presley (not a character but...), lucy gray, cecelia lisbon, lux lisbon, celine (before trilogy), lisa swallows, miles teller, cassie ainsworth, tony stonem.....and many more i suppose, might edit later.

heavily heavily and i do mean heavily inspired by the amazing @kerryshifts

[crowecreates]

Hold on, I'm not done here yet actually.

Around 11-14 all children seem to develop deep self-consciousness that results in cruelty as a defense mechanism to protect themselves from their increasingly mean peers. As an adult standing over the sea of them, you watch that transformation happen in real time. You hear everything they're saying, you watch rumors form and spiral out of control, and you see how it avalanches into a lifelong trauma.

The hard part about being a teacher is, I can't say "Hey. The kid you keep saying 'smells' is unhoused and doesn't have access to a shower." or "The kid you think is 'weird' is just neurodivergent" Because that's not their fucking business! And legally I can't, obviously. But I can use my experiences and my friend's experiences because like...sometimes kids don't realize that people simply have experiences they couldn't have even imagined. It just doesn't come across their mind. And if you sit a kid down and be like "here is an example of why someone may act in a way you don't understand. It's not just people on tv or in books, your very classmates can be struggling or experiencing things you don't know" they're sometimes like. Oh fuck. Really?? Oops. My bad. They're too busy building a wall to defend themselves to see they're knocking down some other kids wall in the process.

I just remember in school having peers, sometimes even teachers and other adults, make assumptions about my friends. And I remember never wanting to grow up into an adult who wouldn't try and think with empathy and compassion. And I see some of those kids change but I also see some of them go onwards spreading cruelty through ignorance. And i'm just like man... I wonder if anyone stopped and told them 'you just don't know... you never know....'

[lowkeyremi]

"Hi," His smooth voice greets over the phone. This is already a bad idea... you shouldn't have picked up the phone.

"Hello, Miya. Is there a reason you called?" Your voice sounds like ice to his ears; his end of the line went silent. He hates hearing that tone directed at him.

He shutters quietly, the sound makes your heart throb, "I'm not Miya. Not to you." Is all he can mutter. His voice sounds broken, more so then when you first answered his call. If he starts to cry, you'll lose it too. Everything is still too fresh in your opinion.

"I don't want to do this— not today." You whisper quietly into the phone. In an attempt to calm yourself down, you glance at things in your living room; the tv, the mug your best friend made for you, the blanket covering your lap, just anything.

"I miss ya so fucking much, please hear me out." Atsumu pleads desperately.

"We broke up for a reason," You offer, trying to remind him why this wouldn't be a good idea.

"Our timing was off— well mostly mine but, baby, I promise I'll always make time for ya." You've heard that before... it was when you first started dating him. Worry took over you, you'd wonder if volleyball would ever make him too busy for you; he reassured you that it wouldn't. Until it did.

"I-i can't go back to being second priority in your life." It was awful.

---

Atsumu had missed so much within your relationship, because he was always working and practicing.

Evenings were the absolute worst. All you had wanted was for him to enjoy meals with you, but you'd often have to set a plate aside for him in the microwave. You found yourself watching movies by yourself, showering alone, winding down for bed on your own, amongst other things. The loneliness started to get to you. After working all day, all you had wanted to see was the man you loved.

The worst part of it all was that he chose to leave you alone. His practices never really ran late into the evening, but he insisted on staying longer in order to perfect something he's been working on or hit the gym after practice.

It was always:

"Hey, baby, so sorry but I'm staying at the gym later than usual."

"Don't wait up for me, I'll be back late."

"Ya don't have to cook, just get takeout since I'll be home late."

"I promise I'll make up for lost time."

You could only handle so much of that. Your last straw was when Atsumu stayed at the gym late despite it being your birthday. You weren't even sure he remembered that it was your birthday.

You stayed up that night, giving him the benefit of the doubt. When he got home, he was confused as to why you were still up; that's when you snapped at him. He snapped back of course, arguing that if he wasn't playing at his best then he'd get behind.

The night ended with you crying, and telling him that you were done, with everything. He didn't believe you at first. Of course he felt bad for forgetting your birthday, but he didn't think it was major enough for you to break up with him.

It all started to get very real, when he came home to you packing up your stuff. He pleaded and begged you to stay, but you couldn't do it. How could you stay for him when he couldn't even see that he was in the wrong? Or try to correct himself for that matter. It was all about Atsumu, Atsumu, Atsumu.

---

Atsumu clears his throat over the phone and sighs sadly, "I understand. I still miss ya though. Didn't realize what I had until I lost ya."

Neither of you speak after his confession, but eventually, Atsumu breaks the silence.

"Well I, I just wanted to tell ya happy birthday, since I fucked that up last year." His voice is so quiet that you could barely hear it.

You were doing so well, keeping composed during this phone call, but hearing him say that caused you to tear up. He remembered your birthday. No, it's not enough to win you back, but it's a start.

"Thank you, Atsumu."

©𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐊𝐄𝐘𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈 All works are written by me! Please do not copy, translate, or upload onto other sites without my permission, thanks!

credit to: @uzmacchiato for the pearl banner!!

[bewitched-hours]

Hiii can I ask for a 007n7 or 1x or any other character you wanna add as cats/beans? Reader adopted/saved them as strays and until now they didn't know that they can transform to their robloxian/human form? Reader was suspicious of how intelligent they are, because they actually do understand what reader's saying. I want fluff of them cuddling, and maybe finding out that they're not just pets lol x) [ignore this but since i have a cat sometimes i don't bother kicking them off my room when i need to change or i do something stupid like singing alone... reader probably does the same 😭] take your time, no pressure on doing my req :D

yes yes yes YES- 'scuse me- Yes- (I love this and I get it, I do the same but it's my brother who has cats, not me sadly) Don't mind me using them both and adding our baby CK into the mix-

Reader's getting She/Her!

You've been down in the dumps for a while.

You've finally cut off some toxic family and got yourself into therapy, something you've been working so hard on doing.

But you still felt guilt and shame.

Your therapist said that it was natural so you did your best to keep them out of your life...

Until one rainy day when you were rushing home from a therapy session.

It was especially stormy and your raincoat had trouble keeping you dry.

But something stopped you as you ran past an alleyway.

A small meowing. From a kitten.

You halted all motions in your body and went back to investigate, your heart not being able to let you go on without at least trying to help.

And there they were. Two cats and a tiny kitten that seemed hurt.

One of the older ones was all green and looked grumpy while the other had a strange blue pattern on it. But the kitten was completely red...

You assumed the older two must've been painted with some weird water-resistant paint while the kitten could still pass as a ginger cat.

Maybe the red colouring would lessen as it grew...

Regardless, you spared no time rushing in to take a look at the kitten. The older two seemed mostly unbothered but the blue one was a bit hesitant to let you inspect the kittens hurt leg.

Not like you could blame it. You assumed it was the parent to the little one and muttered apology after apology as you hesitantly picked up the older two first and held them on one arm before carrying the kitten on your other and making your way to a vet you knew personally.

The green cat just hissed a little but didn't make too much of a fuss as you entered your friend's clinic and checked in.

You had requested to see your friend specifically and he was surprisingly available so you were led directly into the first available room to wait for him.

You noticed one of the cats being quick to comfort the kitten as it mewed in pain, breaking your heart all over again while the green one kind of attempted to swat at you. A bit annoying but you were willing to overlook it.

"[Reader]? What brings you in today?" Your friend greeted you curiously before seeing the cats. "Oh! Poor things..."

"Yeah, found them in an alleyway on the way home and came here immediately... I can tell the kitten has a broken leg but I don't want to separate them unless absolutely necessary..." You sighed, noticing the kitten quieting down as you spoke. It was a little funny.

Like it understood you were trying to help...

"Well, there won't be a way around it but I'll get an x-ray done first to see what exactly we're dealing with. Do you want me to check the other two as well?" Your friend pointed at the older cats, who were now both looking at you and it made you think.

"You know what? Sure. I technically have the money to care for them and my brother probably still has some old stuff I can use until I can get them better playthings and such." You sighed, noticing how the blue cat seemed to relax a bit at your words while the green one nodded??

Again, you shrugged it off. Cats are supposed to be pretty intelligent so they probably recognized something about you or whatever...

It took about two hours for them all to get checked, with the green one being... Especially difficult...

But in the end, your friend gifted you two carrier boxes for the cats and told you to just come in the next day for the kitten.

You thanked him and went straight home afterwards, letting the carriers down on the ground and leaving them open for your new 'roommates' to get used to your apartment.

"What did I get myself into...?" You groaned slightly, taking out your phone to call your brother as you went off to prepare a bath for your new cats.

"Hey, so I may have picked up some cats and now they're living with me..." "I know, I know! But I didn't want them to be strays again and I'm worried what kind of people might pick them up- One of them had a kitten, for crying out loud!" "Yeah, I know... Is there any way I can have the old stuff from your cats to keep them entertained until I can get new stuff? I'll even pay you." "Wait- You'd do that?! You're the best!" "Okay~ Love you~"

You hung up with a satisfied sigh, noticing the water in the bathroom stopped running.

But when you went in, you just saw the cats both sitting on the edge of the tub and staring at you expectedly. You could only stare back, impressed that they knew how to stop the faucet.

With a chuckle, you went to give them both some gentle scratches between the ears, which they seemed to like. "You're much smarter than I thought... I'll have to ask my brother later how smart his two were so I can potentially brag about you two already knowing how to stop the faucet in the bathtub." You made sure to check the water temperature and carefully lifted them into the tub, nervously awaiting for them to put up a fight despite the water not even reaching past their legs.

But they didn't. They just stared at you. It was almost even more impressive as you went on to simply bathe them, apologizing for every mistake you made and actually feeling grateful that you managed to do it without that many scratch marks on you...

You were done just in time for your brother's arrival and left your new cats to continue drying off while you helped your brother get everything into your apartment.

"Thanks again!" You said as he left and you noticed the two cats immediately investigating all the new stuff with an amused grin on your face. They were growing on you rather quickly.

And the next day, you left them at home since you were only getting back the kitten and realized you'd now have to name them... Or maybe...

"Alright, maybe I'm crazy or this is the smartest I've ever been!" You declared as you set up a large keyboard in your living room that was connected to your TV. "Maybe this'll also allow me to test how smart you two are..." You muttered, stepping back and watching them explore.

The blue one kept glancing over at you, you assumed it was because you were keeping the kitten on your lap as it purred from your gentle scratches. It was simply too adorable to handle...

You let them walk over the keyboard as they pleased, watching them type until they gave you a stare that told you they were done and you sighed at what they wrote. "I guess I should've expected this from cats... But it's your names now..." You inspected the names and noticed they managed to colour the names in their respective colours.

"Hold on- How- I didn't-" You stammered, shocked but otherwise just going with it.

Within minutes were you on the phone to order some nametags for them all and awkwardly explained that their names weren't- in fact- a mistake.

"Welp... I guess I can try to call you all by nicknames and hope you understand me..." You sighed, looking back to see the cats still staring at you which made you freeze up for a moment.

It took a couple days ultimately but the nametags fit perfectly on some color-coded vests you got for them all.

C00lkidd was too small for one so he got away with a simple collar.

But you didn't want them to wear those all the time. Just when you had to be out and about to avoid any trouble.

Regardless, it was adorable how much they've come to trust you over time... Even napping on you or insisting on simply eating at the table with you- funny enough.

They weren't even interested in your food, spare for CK, but they were fully content just eating from their bowls at the table. It was strange but it became routine.

And you knew how important routines were for cats.

Hell, you've even started talking to them like they were roommates instead of just some cats you picked up and got emotionally attached to.

Sometimes they answered you with tiny little meows and it was the cutest thing, like they actually understood what you were saying and were trying to reply.

And c00lkidd even took a liking to climbing... Especially on you... And especially when you just got done making food...

Yup, that was definitely cat behaviour but it was funny so you didn't bother to correct it. Plus, how're you gonna say no to a kitten?!

You did notice that sometimes they straight up leave the room when you needed to change but you blamed that on cats being dramatic and comedic effect. Maybe you just smelled and they got irritated or whatever... You expected them to leave when an irritating smell intensified.

What you didn't expect, was when you came home early one evening and saw some kid trying to reach the higher cabinets in your kitchen.

You both just stared at each other nervously. Frozen. For the longest time...

"Please don't be mad-" He meekly asked, making you snap back to reality and facepalm with a deep breath. This was a child, there is no need to freak out unnecessarily...

"Alright, who are you and how did you get in...?" You asked with exhaustion practically written on your face.

"It's me, C00lkidd!" You stopped al movement again to look at him in shock and disbelief... At least until he turned back into the adorable kitten you had known.

You took a couple of seconds to process this, wondering if you were hallucinating.

So, you quickly went to the bathroom and splashed your face with some cold water, only to exit and see c00lkidd back in his robloxian form.

"Oh.. My... Stars..." You muttered, before looking to the living room just in time to see your other two cats also turn into full on men...

Suddenly you had a LOT to process...

It took them all explaining it to you and helping you come to terms but you all agreed to just continue on.

You accepted that C00lkidd saw you as another parent, it was even sweet.

You accepted that 007 and 1x- even through their differences- both cared for you and were ready to help if you were ready to let them keep their comfortable lifestyles.

All was well... Wasn't it...?

I definitely wanna make this a series now- oh god-

You can tell how much I enjoyed writing this-

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

[bouquetface]

PAC: Karmic + Destined Relationship

Not everyone will resonate - possibly only 1 person actually relates. Take this as entertainment!

For some, this “destined connection” has already occurred and for others this is a preview.

One.

In this connection, you will be in a stable and mature place. You will possess emotional intelligence. You attempt to understand all perspectives. You listen and try to navigate the struggles of the other person. You have a lot of compassion for them.

For some, this could be a lonely person you invite into your friend group. For others, this is a lover you initially feel is misunderstood. It may be a family relationship for some readers too.

Despite what you do for this person, you will be forced into the villain role in their story. You will be used as the scapegoat - you were everything wrong in their life. They will omit your kindness when re-telling the story of your relationship.

For some, this is specifically someone who will become (or has become) an ex-friend. They will move onto tell people about how you “bullied” them.

For others, this is a lover who will turn into an ex (or already is one). They will move onto tell the story about how you were a “mess”. They’ll reverse the roles - you drained them emotionally, they tried to help you but you kept bringing them down.

In each story, the person will believe their own bullshit and they’ll successfully convince the other people in their life.

This is the type of person if you give them a compliment out of pity, they eat it up and begin to think they’re better than you.

Nothing you do will be truly appreciated. They feel entitled to your kindness. Give this person a ride and they’ll feel you “owed” it to them.

And the second you get something in return even simple as them getting you a coffee, you’re the worst. You’re “using” them. They forget all the favours & kindness they’ve gotten from you and think something alone the lines of: “I do everything for everyone, no one appreciates me.”

THE OUTCOME for PILE ONE

This connection simply isn’t meant to last. Most likely you go no-contact. But before this happens, you may be brought down to their level. The bullshit will make you furious, you’ll act of our character - you may say or do something shitty in retaliation. You might flip someone off, tell them to fuck off, call ‘em a bitch. It’s not right but you’re human, everyone gets fed up, everyone has a breaking point.

Initially, they’ll be very angry with you. They’ll act impulsively - running to tell/text anyone who will listen about how shitty of a human you are.

Much later, this person will miss you. They will have a moment of clarity where they recognize their wrongdoings to get you to that point. They might have torn you down behind your back, might’ve nitpicked at you every chance they got, made you feel guilty for their actions.

Yet, to be able to live with themselves, those moments of clarity will be fleeting. They’re too fixated on having this victim narrative.

I was going to end the reading here but I do feel the need to share that this person will continue to be enabled after your connection. Other people will listen to them and confirm you’re so “toxic”. They may be told they need to stay away from you. “It’s not worth it.”People will say all sorts of bullshit to comfort this person.

I feel like this reading is meant to find the right people as a message from the universe. You likely won’t hear this from anyone else when all this does down. But remember: “You aren’t crazy, you aren’t a shitty person. I’m sorry no one had your back.”

Two.

My initial reaction to these cards is it’s so beautiful and positive, no way this is realistic 🤣 But I’m continuing anyways …

When this connection occurs, you’ll only be accepting genuine people. You won’t be accepting any form of toxicity.

People may secretly think your standards are too high. People may feel you’re closed off.

Some around you may have the attitude of “men are dogs” or “boys will be boys” and you just have to deal with it. But, you will not deal with it.

And you’ll have grown tired of how people excuse toxic behaviours in relationships as being passionate. It’ll all bore you. You’d rather focus on yourself.

The same goes for friendships with men or women. People who are inconsiderate and treat you like a second tier friend or an “option” will have you walking away.

You’ll be kinda strict about it. No second chances. No sticking by shitty people thinking it makes you loyal.

You may have Libra, Capricorn and/or Leo placements. You’ll be stepping into the matured traits of these signs. Independent, confident and loving/romantic.

For some this is destined connection is a friendship and for others this is a lover. I’ve broken it down into 2 sections.

Friend: It’ll be a woman. She’ll be like a “mom friend” to you. Her maturity may be a result of her being older. She is deeply supportive. She is a calming presence - teacher, librarian vibez.

This connection is destined because you will both be able to give one another the space and support needed to go through life’s obstacles. You may be getting ready for a new phase of life, it’s going to be tough. But the universe is bringing you and this friend together to be able to help one another. Some of you may already know this person. You’ll be getting closer in the coming years.

If you believe in past lives, she may be like a parent or sibling from a past life.

Lover: Someone who shows love through action and support. No mood swings or stupid mind games. Direct, stable and lots of love to offer. This person is in it for the long-run.

They are independent. They have the basics of adult life down - they may already live on their own. They aren’t looking for a “mom” in their partner. They simply want an equally loving and intelligent partner.

This person is slow-moving though. For some, this might be a long-term relationship that remains in the dating stage for years. You will support one another through big life changes and phases - as this is likely apart of your soul purpose to one another. But much later, it could later begin to feel like a dead-end. Reminds me of Austin Butler & Vanessa Hudgens in a way.

However, for some readers this could literally be your spouse. You may be destined for a genuinely loving, healthy and lasting marriage.

Three

You’ll be hopeful entering this connection. For some readers, this will be a long distance relationship. There’s a feeling of anticipation, “holding on” for hopes of a bright future.

At this point, there may se some desperation too. You may in a place where you’d ignore red flags because you just really want someone.

For this pile, this seems to clearly be about a romantic connection - not platonic and definitely not family or business.

This other person is definitely masculine in energy. He’s charismatic and driven. He may have some status - might be attractive, might have a good career, might have expensive things like his style/clothing or a vehicle. Basically, he has something that makes him feel like he’s “that guy”. This relationship will seem like it can offer you status in some way. Yet, this isn’t why you will desire the connection.

You’ll feel special having his attention. He may have a way with his words. Definitely a charismatic guy. He can be sentimental and sweet. He may shower you with small gifts and/or compliments.

Yet, there are many red flags. He is somewhat emotionally unavailable. He can be hot and cold. His confidence can steer toward arrogance.

You may have sidereal placements in Cancer - especially DK, Mars, Venus or 7th house ruler. This person may have Aquarius and/or Cancer placements too.

THE OUTCOME for PILE 3:

It’s going to be an intense and heartbreaking end. And truthfully, it’ll definitely end.

This is someone who won’t make it possible for you two to end on good terms. Despite all the passion, love and future-planning that is likely to occur, you’ll be left feeling emotionally hurt.

For some this is after a long relationship. For others this is a talking stage that will really get your hopes up.

[amberinn]

This reminds me of how I became transphobic, because of a joke

I remember being 12 years old, seeing a group of trans people, not inheritely malicious towards the concept of "being trans" just...... not really understanding it. at all.

I didn't know how people could change their gender, everything was confusing, I haven't known anything at all.

so being 12, first thing I typed in was "transgender memes"

lmao guess what popped up

I didn't even understand I have been doing anything wrong, when I posted the meme in a group of trans people and suddenly everyone was screaming at me to get out, insulting me, with one person sort of trying to navigate through the mess and gently push those people apart from me, while also wanting me to sort of simply leave

I remember one nonbinary person in particular being probably hurt by this more than anything.

I haven't even gotten to apologize, it was 5 years ago, but fuck I wanted to apologise.

I uh!!! ummmm..... well past that blow up I was kind of like "I'm transphobic now >:( those people are so rude! so mean!"

but didn't really mean it, and the whole time I tried to understand, while also being haunted, thinking over how if I do, then I'll be betraying Jesus, I kept on fighting between my religion and the kindness I wanted to provide to people with a concept I didn't understand (while still being so incredibly pettily upset at that blow up)

I uhhhh, I chose to support trans people, and break free from my religion the moment my best friend came out to me as trans

it was big, but id rather abandon jesus then my best friend (past fp crush)

nowadays theyve abandoned me over nothing at all and ive had the biggest bpd crashout on all earth but um. well ive made amazing friends and im a whole another person than the one id be if i

well im glad to be here still

[ddejavvu]

Excuse Me, Barmaid - Hiccup Haddock x Reader (Part 2) | SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary: Berk is a small island with a small populace. Everybody knows everybody, and everybody especially knows the son of the Chief. When you’re thrown into the mix, arriving alone on a ship from an island they’ve never heard of before, you’re the talk of the village. It, of course, doesn’t help that you’re now roommates with the aforementioned son of the Chief. Stoick’s hospitality is welcome, but how will you survive living amongst the Chief of Berk and his inquisitive son, all while keeping your secrets close to your chest?

Contents/Warnings: afab!fem!reader, mentions of sex, runaway!reader, non-canon timeline (no valka yet/stoick is alive but hiccup has dragonscale armor + trader johann hasn't... y'know...), more to be added as chapters are posted

WC: 7.6K / navigation / inbox / ddejavvu's summer of series

A/N: thank you for the love on part one! i'm massively inspired to write this series right now so I really appreciate that you guys are loving it and eager for more. I hope you like this part as much as the first! More is definitely on its way <3

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

Hiccup’s journal is a tattered, impressive thing. It contains pages upon pages of sketches, blueprints for Toothless’s prosthetic tail fin- the story of which you’ve been filled in on, as well as Hiccup's metal counterpart - and doodles here and there of his green-eyed best friend. They bear a striking resemblance to the dragon currently stretched out on the forest floor to place his head in your lap, and his warm breath puffs over your stomach, seeping through your threadbare tunic and heating your skin.

You may be in shock.

You’d have assumed it would be harder to assimilate to an island full of dragons, not even ones that breathe fire and snap their great heavy jaws at you, but ones that blink up at you, pupils wide and teeth sucked into their gums.

But he’s done such a good job of acting like a cat that you almost forget he isn’t one, and his wings take you by surprise when he curls one over his exposed belly, protecting it from the ticklish grass of the cove.

“He really likes you.” Hiccup smiles, “I suppose that’s another reason I’m trying to help you. I trust his judgement.”

“He’s- sweet.” You marvel, “He’s twenty-five feet long, he’s got to weigh a thousand pounds, and he’s… sweet.”

“Legends about dragons are wrong.” Hiccup states, slipping his hand beneath Toothless’s wing to rub over his belly, round with fish, “You won’t need to fight them unless you try to. They’re gentle creatures.”

Toothless demonstrates this by getting so delighted that his belly is being rubbed that he whaps Hiccup upside the head with his red tail fin.

“Ow! Okay, except for that.” Hiccup yelps, scrubbing a hand over the back of his head, “You’ve really gotta stop swinging that thing around, bud. You’re gonna knock me out one day.”

Toothless raises his head from your lap to chatter back at Hiccup, and though neither of you understand what he’s saying, you certainly understand how he’s saying it.

“He has tone,” You laugh, “He’s- he’s arguing with you!”

“Yes, he is,” Hiccup drawls, “He does it all the time.”

“Incredible.” You note, and Toothless purrs contentedly, pressing his face back into your belly.

You gently rake your nails over the smooth scales on Toothless’s chin as Hiccup turns back a page of his journal, “Okay, so, we’re both familiar with the plan?”

“Stay out of the way, wait until the mead hall is empty, scrub like my life depends on it, and then in the morning your friends divebomb my boat?”

“You forgot be polite.” Hiccup reminds you, “I know my dad can be… brash, but that’s because he feels like you’re being brash. You might have to do some ass-kissing.”

You wish you could act indignant about it. But you are being stubborn, you are hiding the truth, and you’re going to for as long as you can get away with. So you nod, losing yourself in the pattern of Toothless’s scales, “Right. Ass-kissing.”

“It’s starting to get dark.” Hiccup notes, looking at the pinkening sky, “Berk doesn’t get much sun. We should head back before its hard to see.”

“Right. We’re flying.” You remember, as Toothless gets to his feet and shakes himself off, “I’m still getting used to that. Do you fly everywhere?”

“Almost everywhere,” Hiccup nods, reaching for his helmet on instinct and realizing that he’d left it in the great hall earlier, “I’ll walk around the village- to the forge, or to the great hall or whatever, but anywhere more than that and Toothless likes to stretch his wings.”

The large dragon crows in agreement, wings already spread to their full span. It makes him more intimidating, but you take Hiccup’s helping hand and mount him without much hesitation.

Taking off is easier this time, because now you know he’ll be gentle. It’s not really anything you’ve ever thought to prepare for- handling dragons, so you’re adapting as best you can amidst all of the other crises you’re going through. Toothless is a good test subject, and you’re sure Hiccup knows that.

Landing reveals that apparently it’s feeding time for the dragons, and Toothless nudges his snout into Hiccup’s back, crooning hopefully as the other dragons swarm the feeding troughs.

“Go ahead, bud. We’ll be okay.” Hiccup ruffles his hand over Toothless’s nose, nudging him towards the fish being snapped up by the mouthful. The dragon bounds away excitedly, and sticks his nose in beside a dusty blue colored dragon with a yellow spiked tail. They gorge on food, stuffing their mouths and shoveling mounds of fish into their hungry bellies.

“Hiccup!” A woman’s voice calls, and you turn to see a blonde viking rushing over. She’s got furs on her shoulders and around her ankles, and her hair is intricately braided over her shoulder, “Hiccup, I heard what happened.”

“I’m sure you heard something happened,” Hiccup grimaces, turning towards her, “But I’m willing to bet everyone blew it a little out of proportion.”

“You’re our overnight guest?” She guesses, her eyes narrowed like Stoick’s, and you wonder if she’s heard from him, or his friend, “The one that won’t answer any questions?”

“I’m Y/N- That’s me.” You nod politely, “I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m only restocking my rations.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what they’ve all said.” She warns, “Everyone’s curious, y’know. It’d probably be easier just to tell us the truth, instead of whatever everyone else will come up with.”

“I’ll take my chances.” You let your weight rest on one leg, your hip jutted out defiantly, “But thanks for looking out for me…?”

“Astrid.” Her mouth forms a tight line, then she nods to the dragon beside Toothless, “That’s Stormfly, my nadder. Stoick wants us to keep an eye on you, too.”

“Toothless and I can handle it,” Hiccup reaches for her placatingly, but she rounds on him.

“He meant for us to keep an eye on you. The three of you, you, Toothless, and Y/N.”

“I don’t need babysitting.” Hiccup grumbles, sounding like someone who does, very much, need babysitting.

“Well, you’re just lucky Stormfly can’t leave her clutch for more than a meal this soon after hatching,” Astrid sighs, “I told Stoick I couldn’t do it. But I swear,” She leans towards you, poking an accusatory finger at your chest, “If I hear even a whisper that something’s going on with you, she’ll shoot every single one of those spikes into your gut, you got it?”

Astrid points at the nadder’s tail, and your arms cover your vulnerable torso instinctually.

“Alright,” Hiccup laughs nervously, pulling Astrid’s shoulder back so that he puts space between you two, “She already thinks we’re a little hostile to outsiders, let’s not make it worse. Toothless and I can handle it! He’s a night fury! And I’m Hiccup! And she won’t do anything, anyways. She promised.”

Astrid looks at Hiccup like wearing a helmet to protect his brain is a waste of time.

“Oh, she promised! Like Heather promised to-”

“Heather is different!” Hiccup insists, and the two devolve into squabbling that their dragons have to separate. You stand uselessly while the two bicker over each other, and Toothless nudges the dragon beside him with irritation clear in his narrowed eyes. Apparently, dinnertime is over.

They move as one, creeping up behind their riders and plucking them apart like mother cats scruffing kittens. Toothless drags Hiccup five meters backwards, and Stormfly ends up parking Astrid beside you, noticing you for the first time. She drops her rider into the grass in favor of examining you with one of her massive, yellow eyes, and you take a half-step backwards in fright before Hiccup can shout that you’re okay.

“She’s friendly!” He assures you, and to his credit, the dragon does nothing but stare, tilting her massive head towards you while keeping it sideways, “She can’t see in front of her, she’s just checking you out from the side.”

“You’re afraid of dragons.” Astrid notes, almost haughtily from where she’s picked herself up and dusted herself off, “Are you a trapper?”

“She’s not a trapper,” Hiccup scoffs, reaching out to scrub a hand over Stormfly’s nose and hopefully deter her from moving any further into your personal space, “She’s never even seen a dragon before.”

Astrid’s brow creases only further at that, “Never? What island did you come from, anyways?”

“Remember, I don’t answer questions?” You raise a brow at her, but then you remember the part of Hiccup’s plan where you’re supposed to kiss ass, “I- It’s just private, okay? It’s all very dramatic and I wouldn’t want to bore anyone with the details.”

Astrid’s studying you much like Stormfly had, but her arms are crossed in front of her chest, unimpressed.

“Well vikings are fond of storytelling,” She muses, and Stormfly has grown bored of Hiccup itching at her scaly snout, now huffing and puffing at your arm, “Maybe you could regale us with the tale around the dinner table tonight.”

“Astrid.” Hiccup snaps, his voice taut, “Lay off.”

Stormfly snorts, and you choose to ignore the dragon snot now adorning your tunic, because you have bigger things to worry about. The dragon knocks her great head into your side so roughly that you tip over, and you yelp as you hit the grassy ground, the dragon following your descent.

Stormfly barely misses clipping your chin with her horn with the way she huffs into your stomach, dragging her snout up and over you as her two giant legs move on either side of you. All at once there’s a very large dragon on top of you, and she tucks your flailing limbs into the space between her legs and tail with her chin, closing you in.

Your thigh is by your cheek, and your other leg is bent awkwardly away from it, your tendons burning as they strain to stretch and not snap. Your head is cushioned by a scaly dragon foot, and you barely have time to get your bearings before light spills into your eyes again, and Astrid is shoving Stormfly’s giant head out from between her feet.

“Sorry!” Hiccup calls, his voice muffled until one of your ears becomes uncovered, “She has a habit of collecting people she likes. You can take it as a compliment,” Hiccup offers a hand to haul you out from beneath the dragon that Astrid is persistently shoving backwards over the grass so that you can untangle your limbs, “But I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.”

“She frequently sits on people?” You ask, brushing loose grass from your clothes and stumbling warily away from the two-legged dragon currently squawking at her rider.

“That’s how Nadders protect their young,” Astrid glares sideways at you, like it’s your fault that her dragon had decided you were baby-shaped and tried blocking off your airways, “She’s just very friendly, that’s all.”

“It’s better than the alternative,” Hiccup reasons, “It’s a good sign that the dragons are liking you so far. That means we’ll have less problems to deal with in getting you to stay.”

“Stay?” Astrid raises a brow, her arms crossed in front of her chest, “The Chief said she could be here for one night.”

“I know that,” Hiccup hedges, grimacing at his slip-up, “I just mean- well, y’know, if she does a really good job at scrubbing the mead hall, maybe we’ll want to keep her around.”

“She’s leaving tomorrow.” Astrid glares first at Hiccup, then at you, “You’re leaving tomorrow.”

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” You lie, standing tall with your hands clasped primly behind your back, “No trouble.”

“We’re watching you,” She vows, and Stormfly emphasizes her rider’s point by staring at you sideways again out of one great big eye, “I swear, any suspicion and I’ll fling you out into the sea myself. Stormfly is very good at ditching people in the ocean.”

Despite her threats being empty, just for show, your stomach twists and you edge a step away from the dragon, to Astrid’s satisfaction.

“Yes, and Barf and Belch are good at blowing houses up,” Hiccup drawls, “And Hookfang is good at threatening to swallow Snotlout, and so on and so forth. They’re all capable of dangerous things, but they’re also capable,” He smiles at you, his eyes bright as Toothless burrows beneath his arm and against his side, "-of loyalty. Absolutely unfailing loyalty, at that. If you're kind to us, trust that you’ll be safe here.” He casts a backwards glance at Astrid, “Even if you’re only planning on staying one night.”

Toothless croaks happily at you, and when he carefully steps forwards, considerate enough to take slow steps in case he spooks you, you let him butt his head up beneath your palm for a scratch against his jaw.

“See? You’re a natural.” Hiccup grins, and you’re fairly certain that’s because your cousin had a dog while you were growing up, and they seem to be similar creatures, but you’re not going to talk back any more than you already have. Hiccup seems to be the only one on Berk that’s on your side, so you heave a silent, heavy sigh instead of opening your mouth again.

“It’s dinner time,” Astrid notes, watching the sun sink lower into the sky, as well as the swarm of Berkians headed for the doors to the great hall, “Will you be joining us, or are you late for another disappearing act?”

“Oh, don’t mind her.” Hiccup decides your conversation is over, pushing you firmly but not roughly towards the great hall while the dragons tail you, “In her defense, like I said, we have had newcomers sneak off to conspire against us. But stay where everyone can see you, and try not to be so, well, y’know, stubborn and mysterious at dinner, and you’ll be fine.”

Shoulders hunched, hair a mess from its rendezvous with the grass, two dragons and a pissed-off rider trailing at your heels, you’re not sure you could look more mysterious and stubborn. But you’ll try to do what Hiccup thinks is best, because right now he's all you've got.

The meade hall is bustling like nothing you’ve ever seen before. Berk is a refreshingly tight-knit community, with people lining up at tables against the far end of the hall to set up dishes they’d brought in communal pots. It seems as though it’s one big assembly line, food brought from here, there, and everywhere for everyone on the island to share. For the most part, people serve their own dishes, and you feel out of place lining up to be served instead of bringing your own portion.

“I told you we mostly barter.” Hiccup hands you a bowl, still wet from having been washed previously, “Berk’s gold is more for alliances than anything. A lot of people make food to share because everyone needs to eat.”

“It’s nice here.” You hum, stew poured into your bowl despite the curious glances from the people dishing out their food, “My home- well, people weren’t cruel, but we had to pay. And some people couldn’t.”

Bread and cheese are handed to you, and you let someone siphon a generous helping of shredded meat into your bowl. It looks delicious, but a smell wafting from the end of the makeshift assembly line has your eyes slamming shut as nausea roils suddenly in your gut.

“Oh no,” Hiccup mutters from behind you, nearly bumping into you where you’ve stopped dead at the smell, “Okay, uh, Astrid’s very... generous! And she likes to contribute to dinner, but some of her recipes aren’t always village favorites. Just- whatever it is, take some and thank her. Please? It’ll help your case.”

The stench is truly horrifying. You weren’t quite aware that anything besides a decaying corpse could produce such an odor, but whatever thick, chunky substance Astrid is pouring into mugs for everyone seems to be more than cadaverous.

“Oh, yaknog!” Hiccup laughs, his voice dead and his eyes despairing, “It’s not Snoggletog, Astrid.”

“I know it’s not,” She rolls her eyes, grinning all the while. She passes you your mug gruffer than she does anyone else’s, but you take it without spilling a drop, even if it makes your stomach churn and your delicious stew less appealing, “But everyone always drains their glasses, so I thought I’d make it as a summer treat.”

“Thank you,” You hum blankly, staring at the noxious substance actively curdling in your mug, and as soon as Hiccup takes his stein, he rushes off to a far corner of the hall to claim an empty bench.

“We can dump that.” Hiccup promises, setting his own cup halfway across the table like it might contaminate his other food, “She’s- we really do appreciate the thought she puts into making food, but…”

“Yaknog.” You nod, still pulling in breath after nauseating breath of the odor, “I think I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Here,” Hiccup glances at Astrid, finding her completely obstructed behind his father’s stocky form, “Quick, while she’s not looking.”

He takes both tankards, dumping them out into what looks like someone’s dirty pot. It blends in with whatever unusable scraps they’d left behind, and he slides it several feet away with the toe of his boot.

“Everyone does drain their glasses," He admits, grimacing, "We chuck it as soon as we get the chance. Just... tell her you liked it. She might stop threatening to kill you.”

“She’s very… spirited.” You continue your directive of ass-kissing, “Is she a part of your father’s council?”

“No, but she should be.” Hiccup digs into his stew, but your stomachache lingers, and you decide to give it a few more minutes before braving your meal, “She’s really smart. And she’s really strong. And she’s really good at scaring people off. Berk could probably use someone like her as Chief.”

“Are you next in line?” You ask, and you swear you see his face pale in the candlelight.

“Technically. It’s just- not really my thing.” He admits, “It’s complicated. But I think Astrid would do a better job than me.”

“I don’t know. You seem pretty smart,” You remember his journal, packed with pages and pages of blueprints and deductions, “And you’d have to be strong to fight off a dragon the size of a mountain. You two nearly scared me off,” You remind them, “But maybe she’s more like your dad.”

Hiccup nods, chewing through a bite of stew.

“That’s not a bad thing.” You add, conscious of the way his eyes have dimmed slightly, “Not being like your dad. I’m sure you are, in some ways. But that’s not the end-all be-all.”

He swallows and clears his throat, and you remember you’re not supposed to be there. You remember you’ve only set foot on Berk hours ago, and fall back into silence, still afraid to touch your meal.

“You know a lot about me,” Hiccup's eyes remain on his food as he tears into his bread, “Or, at least you think you do. And I still don’t know anything about you.”

“You don’t need to. And I’ll leave you alone.” You glance at your own bread, finding its bland flavor appealing to line your stomach with. You leave the cheese aside, but take a tentative bite of the bread, “I shouldn’t have overstepped.”

“If you’re gonna be staying here for more than a night, you’d be better off giving up,” He advises you, “I wasn’t kidding when I said we have stubbornness issues. You’re gonna be asked so many times that you’ll go crazy.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t stay for longer than a night, then.” You consider, “Maybe I’ve already botched my chances here.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Hiccup frowns, shifting in his seat, “You’re welcome to stay. I believe you. I… I trust you. It’s just- you have to trust us too.”

“Not- not yet.” You plead, fingers pinching the soft bread until it’s flattened, “I’m not ready to talk about it.”

You’re grateful when he shovels another spoon of stew into his mouth.

The bench shakes as someone sits down beside you, and your breath catches in your throat. You hadn’t seen them coming- perhaps you’d been too embroiled in your own thoughts. It feels like there’s a target on your back- and maybe there is, but they don’t know the half of it.

“Something wrong with your stew?” A loud, brash voice comes from the man beside you, and Hiccup grumbles something surely offensive into his spoonful of dinner, “I can go get you another bowl if you want. Or- two bowls. Like, any amount. I can get you whatever you want.”

It’s a dark-haired man, a helmet on his head with horns that spiral and wind. They look intimidating, but his wide, dark eyes don’t, even if he’s trying very hard to make them by accompanying them with a dry smirk.

“This is Snotlout.” Hiccup nearly bites through his name, “And you can ignore pretty much anything he says, all the time.”

“You told me to ignore Astrid, too,” You glance at Hiccup from across the table, “Do you have any friends?”

You don’t mean for it to come out rude, more concerned, but Snotlout barks a laugh, “Not without us, he wouldn’t! He’s just jealous, ‘cause I’m better than him, and Astrid doesn’t like him anymore.”

“I am not jealous,” Hiccup argues, “Your name is Snot. Lout. You have the word snot in your name. I’m just trying to give Y/N a peaceful introduction to Berk, and neither of you are ever peaceful- like Fishlegs is! Fishlegs, sit.” Hiccup offers the blonde man a seat beside him, and you kiss your empty table goodbye once and for all. The man who sits across from Snotlout offers you a wary smile, hesitant but not unkind.

“Fishlegs is peaceful. Just endure Snotlout for one meal,” Hiccup offers, “And I’ll have Toothless burn through the seat of his pants when we leave.”

“Toothless would never do that to me,” Snotlout brags, but you watch the way one of his large hands curls into a fist on the tabletop.

“That’s true,” Hiccup muses, glancing sideways at Fishlegs who grins back, “Because Hookfang would have already done it for him.”

“You’re all jealous.” Snotlout declares, eyes narrowing from beneath his bushy brows and wild hair, “Because the bond that I have with Hooky is far greater than any dragon-rider bond you’ve ever seen before!”

Hiccup and Fishlegs share a glance that tells you Snotlout is speaking out of his ass.

“Do you have a dragon, Fishlegs?” You speak, diffusing the tension by keeping your voice that same timbre of politely interested that it’s been when speaking to anyone but Hiccup thus far.

“Yeah, she’s a gronckle.” Fishlegs nods, scooping meat onto his spoon. Your brows raise, and Hiccup swallows so that he can fill you in.

“Y/N’s never seen a dragon before.” Hiccup reveals, and both men share a startled glance that they don’t keep secret well enough, “A gronckle is- uh, a big boulder-class dragon. She’s super friendly, you should meet her next.”

“Hiccup, you shouldn’t call her big.” Fishlegs frowns, “She’s sensitive.”

“Fishlegs, she eats rocks! She’s- she’s a little tubby.” Hiccup groans, “All gronckles are.”

“I’m sure she’s gorgeous,” You conclude, and both men smile gratefully at you for the effort. 

You hope you’re doing enough ass-kissing.

“Yeah, well, Hookfang’s a little more impressive than a gronckle.” Snotlout brags, and you marvel at how you can really hear the narcissism in his tone of voice, “He’s a monstrous nightmare. Probably the most dangerous dragon out there. I tamed him though.”

“Neither of those things are true,” Hiccup glares at Snotlout, “Don’t worry about Hookfang, Y/N. The dragons have seemed to like you so far, and the only one who Hookfang ever has problems with is Snotlout, anyways. Plus, he’s nowhere near the most dangerous dragon out there.”

“There’s worse?” You ask, stomach now twisting for a different reason. You can’t possibly fathom a creature worse than one named a ‘monstrous nightmare’. Maybe you should leave Berk come morning.

“None that you’ll encounter.” Hiccup assures you, “And none that would hurt you even if they could.”

You’ll take his word for it, because you need to stop worrying or you’ll never eat.

You’re starved from nothing but rations on your boat, dried meats that hadn’t filled you the way you’d wanted them to, and bread you’d had to gorge on before it got moldy. You welcome the warm, steaming stew, and try to clear the smell of yaknog from your senses while eating.

It’s delicious stew, and you let the cheese get gooey on the bread before dragging it through the dregs in your bowl. Your almost non-stop nausea since departing from being rocked constantly by the waves had put you off of food, but you hadn’t realized just how much of a difference a hot meal could make until now. You wolf down the rest of your dinner, and Snotlout eyes you like he thinks you might tear into him next.

“Did you want another bowl?”

“No, thank you.” You straighten in your seat, your belly stiff, bloated and uncomfortable now that you’ve stuffed it for the first time in a week, “I shouldn’t overdo it.”

“You can have more later, if you want.” Hiccup smiles at you, stretching out in his own spot, “I’ll have them keep just the one fire going.”

“If the twins left any,” Fishlegs groans, “Here they come.”

All heads turn towards the pair of blondes headed your way, mid-squabble about who gets what spoon. They look identical to you- the spoons, not the twins - but you suppose siblings have to bicker about pointless things else they wouldn’t be close.

“-my spoon! I always take this one!”

“No you don’t,” The man practically roars at his sister, “This one doesn’t have a chip in the handle and yours is chipped from when I bit it.”

“I had to get a new spoon after you bit mine! It was giving me splinters. The new one's not chipped."

“Ruff, Tuff,” Hiccup tries, arms outstretched placatingly, but he nearly gets whacked on the head with a non-chipped spoon handle for his efforts, so he chooses instead to duck and cover.

“Fine. Then I want the one with the knot in the handle.” The man throws his spoon at his sister, smacking her square in the nose, “That one.”

He points to the spoon in your bowl, and seems to realize that he doesn’t recognize it’s user.

“Woah. Fresh face,” He notes, and his sister blinks owlishly at you from where she’s rubbing her stinging nose, “I’m Ruffnut.”

“No, I’m Ruffnut,” The woman scoffs, “He’s Tuffnut. The lesser twin.”

“Lesser? I’ll have you know, sister, that I’ve pranked more people than you have. That’s clearly not lesser.”

“You have not.” Ruffnut snarls, “You’re lesser because you have less of a brain.”

“Here’s the spoon.” You briefly rinse it with water from a jug on the table, wiping it dry with the hem of your tunic, “Please don’t start a food fight. I have to clean this hall later.”

“We heard you got a nasty punishment,” Tuffnut grins mischievously, “I think the last time this hall was cleaned, it was by fourteen-year-old Hiccup after he blew up the forge. There’s probably, like, spiders everywhere.”

You shoot Hiccup a concerned glance, but whether it’s more about his explosive tendencies or the Berk’s arachnid presence, you’re not sure. Either way, his ears flush red and you can’t see his cheeks because he hides behind another mouthful of stew, shoulders shielding his face as he hunches.

“I won’t throw anything.” Ruffnut promises, meeting your eye curiously, “But I can’t guarantee my brother won’t.”

“If I throw anything it’s gonna be at you, not at the wall.” Tuffnut grouses, kicking her beneath the table, “And I have, like, such good aim, it would never make a mess.”

“Your whole room is a mess.” Ruffnut scoffs.

Tuffnut yelps, “It’s your room too!” and you’re fairly certain that you’ll be scrubbing stew off of the walls hours from now.

“Guys.” Hiccup cuts in, his voice sterner now, “Guys!”

“What?” The twins shout in unison, brows furrowed as they seethe at the interruption.

“I have something for you two to blow up.” Hiccup pitches, and all at once it’s like they’ve been tranquilized. Their expressions relax, then kick up into pleasant grins.

“You’re speaking our language.” Tuffnut encourages, “So what is it? The hatchery? Mildew’s yard? Snotlout’s house?”

“We were already gonna do that,” Ruffnut shrugs, “But we can move our schedule around.”

Snotlout, who looks justly alarmed at this information, can’t get a word in before Hiccup continues.

“We need you to bomb Y/N’s boat.” He drags his journal out of a pocket on his pants, flipping to the appropriate pages, “And we also need you to not tell Astrid. Or my dad. Or- anyone, really.”

Tuffnut blinks awkwardly at you, a grimace twisting his features, “She’s not gonna be in the boat, is she?”

“No! Why would she-” Hiccup rears back, hands waving wildly, “Oh, whatever. No, she will not be in the boat when you two blow it up. My dad’s only offering her one night on Berk. And she needs more than that. We’re trying to make her a permanent resident, and he can’t send her away tomorrow if her boat’s in chunks throughout the coast.”

“I like where this is going,” Ruffnut nods, her voice gruff and enthusiastic, “And after we blow up her boat, everyone will flock to the ocean to see what happened. It’ll be the perfect time to strike Snotlout’s house!”

“Don’t blow up my house!” Snotlout shrieks, and Hiccup, for once, agrees with him.

“Don’t blow up Snotlout’s house.” 

“Fine.” Tuffnut grumbles.

“Whatever,” Ruffnut sighs into her hand.

“So just- in the morning, sneak out before my dad wakes up. Make sure there’s witnesses though- we don’t want anyone thinking Y/N was responsible. Barf and Belch can do their thing, it’ll be dismissed as one of your regular escapades, and Y/N can get comfortable here.”

Tuffnut’s face twists into a pleased smirk, “Oh, but Hiccup, Barf and Belch don’t have to do their thing.”

“Indeed they don’t,” Ruffnut chuckles sinisterly, “We have a better plan.”

“Introducing!” Tuffnut reaches for a bag resting on the seat beside him, a messenger that’s bulging from the inside, “Thorston Productions' newest invention: The Zippleblasts!”

He shakes the bag, and the flap opens, letting tens of round, metal objects fall to the floor. They scatter around the hall, rolling this way and that, and Ruffnut laughs again, “We made bombs.”

Hiccup’s eyes widen, and so do the rest of your tables’, “You made bombs?”

“We made bombs!” Tuffnut shouts, louder than the crowd, and the hall falls silent. He doesn’t seem to notice or care, and no one moves to pick up the explosives at their feet, frozen in fear. “Ruffnut got Barf to breathe a bunch of gas and I kept Belch asleep so he didn’t light it.”

“You made bombs.” Hiccup repeats, “And you brought them into the meade hall?”

“We wanted to show them off,” Ruffnut huffs, as if Hiccup’s the crazy one, “Plus, it’s just gas in there. They’d need fire to get them going.”

“Right, so you brought them to the communal oven.” Snotlout scoffs, warily eyeing the fires still blazing at the head of the hall, “Nice going, geniuses.”

“I-I’d like to take a look at your production process,” Hiccup’s tone is, frankly, terrified, “But that’s a problem for another day. Ruff, Tuff, pick those up and keep them away from any flames. They might be useful if we ever have to fight again, but let’s not tempt fate by carrying them around the village.”

“As you wish, wise leader.” Tuffnut stands to bow dramatically, “Sister! Retrieve the bombs.”

Ruffnut’s already scooping them up from where they’ve rolled off to, and she flings one at Tuffnut’s ankles. It hits bone, and he drops to the floor to clutch at the instantly reddening skin.

“Ow! Hiccup, she bombed me.” Tuffnut gripes, “Can’t you throw her out or something? You’re the son of the chief.”

“Stop throwing them!” Hiccup exclaims, “Tuffnut, help clean them up. Ruffnut, stop throwing them. Just- help. For once. Please.”

“He’s exaggerating.” Ruffnut pops up beneath the table by your feet, snagging one of the explosives that had rolled under your bench. One of the horns on her helmet nearly stabs you in the stomach and you fling an arm around yourself to protect it, “We help all the time. Which is why we can definitely help get you an extra-long vacation on Berk by-”

“By what?” Astrid’s piercing voice cuts through the amicable chatter, Ruffnut’s eyes widening as she snaps her mouth shut. Evidently she's done dishing out yaknog, and is now standing with her food at the head of your table looking entirely unimpressed.

“Nothing!” Ruffnut and Tuffnut declare in unison, physically incapable of sounding more suspicious. Ruffnut disappears beneath the table again, and Tuffnut decides that he has to check on his smarting ankle again, whistling faux-casually all the while.

“Right. Nothing.” Astrid huffs, slamming her own food onto the table beside Hiccup’s, shoving him to the side despite his yelp and squishing him between her and Fishlegs on the bench, “You two are always doing nothing.”

“Astrid, don’t you think you’re being a little rude?” Fishlegs questions, but he seems to regret it when her eyes flash dangerously.

“Have you forgotten what’s happened to us every time someone new shows up out of the blue? Heather tried stealing my dragon her first night on Berk. You really think I’m gonna hold Y/N’s hand and teach her the quickest escape route?”

“Heather was… complicated at first.” Hiccup admits, shoulders around his ears with the way he’s compressed between his friends, “But let’s just try to keep an open mind here. Y/N’s gonna do a fantastic job scrubbing the hall, and we’ll send her off with rations in the morning.”

“Yes, we will.” Astrid speaks through a mouthful of stew, lessening the bite that her tone could have had, “Whatever you're planning, Hiccup, drop it, now. And Ruffnut, Tuffnut?" The twins glance warily at her as she meets their gazes head on and steady, "Stay out of this.”

--

“So they’re gonna do it?” You ask, your knees aching and your palms smarting from the way you’ve been hunched on the floor for three hours, “They’re gonna blow my boat up tomorrow?”

“They’ll use one of their Zippleblasts, I guess,” Hiccup nods, his eyes widening as his shoulders heave with a sigh, “Don’t worry about Astrid. The twins are the only two people on Berk that won’t listen to her. They don’t listen to anyone.”

“They’re certainly entertaining,” You groan, straightening up to find Hiccup scrubbing his own portion of the hall, “You don’t have to help me, you know? I’m supposed to be doing this all myself.”

“I’ve scrubbed this hall a thousand times.” He admits with a sheepish grin, “I know what I’m doing, and I know how to do it. Besides, we can get it done in half the time. We’ll already be finishing late, I’m not going to leave you hanging all the way until morning.”

“I appreciate it.” Is all you can huff before hunching over again to get a stubborn stain out of the floorboards. One lone fire crackles beneath a pot of stew beside Hiccup, and you can’t wait until you’re finished cleaning and get to indulge in the stuff. It provides warmth, too, but mostly an enticing aroma that keeps you motivated to finish scrubbing.

“So,” Hiccup calls, “Now that we’re alone again, away from the prying eyes of the Berkians, is there anything you feel like sharing?”

“Nice try.” You don’t mean it, “How about instead, we talk about why you’re an expert at cleaning duty?”

“I got in trouble a lot as a kid,” Hiccup admits, shrugging his shoulders while soaping up the wood around the fire, “I’m- clumsy. And I’ve always been imaginative. And bold, I guess. So those were really a recipe for disaster.”

You grimace, “I can imagine. So, what, you blew up the forge every week?”

“No! Just three times.” He grumbles, “And there were a few other incidents, maybe, but hey! This seems completely unfair. You won’t answer any of my questions, but you want me to humiliate myself for entertainment?”

“Fine. I’ll stop asking.” You nod resolutely, tossing water on another expanse of the floor, “I just thought we could make conversation.”

“You can keep asking.” Hiccup offers, his voice suddenly pointed, “If I can get just one honest answer from you.”

“What?” You snap, irritated, shoulders hunched and aching, sweat beading at your brow.

“Were you being honest with my father when you told him whatever you're running from isn't going to disrupt Berk?”

You glance up at Hiccup, surprised by both the question and its tone, and you find him kneeling in your direction, sponge forgotten on the floor and fire illuminating his expression. It’s concerned, but resolute, his brow drawn low and his jaw set tight. He looks chiefly in this light. Like his dad.

“I was.” You promise, sincerely as you meet his eye, “It was- listen, whatever you’re thinking it was, it wasn’t that crazy. Just- they would have hated me. When they found out. It was something stupid I did, and they would have excommunicated me anyways, so I just got it over with and ran away myself. Just some silly, interpersonal drama, and that’s it. It won’t come to Berk.”

He nods once, his face softening in the firelight. 

“Good.” He rises to his feet, stumbling slightly with his prosthetic as he hobbles his way over to you on sore limbs, “I know what it's like, you know? Being a social outcast. You’re safe here,” You hear a clinking sound as his metal foot collides with something behind the table leg he walks past, “-and we’ll convince my dad to let you stay.”

“Hiccup.” Your eyes widen, and your stew-filled stomach drops down to your aching feet, “Bomb.”

“What?” His face scrunches in confusion, but at the sound of metal scraping wood, his eyes drop to find one of the twins’ stray, forgotten bombs rolling across the floor of the hall, beelining fast and true straight towards the only fire left in the hall.

Hiccup must have accidentally kicked it open, because a seal in the metal has come undone, leaking noxious green gas that kickstarts your fight or flight response. You’re on your feet in seconds, and you repeat yourself, shouting ‘Bomb!’ as you dash for the door.

“Run!” You scream, as if it might not have occurred to Hiccup. He’s already racing after you, the bomb too quick and close to the fire to stop, and as the blast sounds from behind you, you cross the threshold of what was once Berk’s great hall, but is now a pile of timber as the whole thing collapses.

You’re safe from the blast, but there’s smoke pouring from the building already. You trip and land on your knees outside of the hall's perimeter, and Toothless, who had been asleep outside, exhausted from the day’s patrol, jerks awake, his eyes wide and his ears alert.

“Toothless!” You exclaim, coughing as he bolts upright and rushes towards you, “I- I- It blew up! Hiccup, oh my god, are you okay- Hiccup?”

He’s not behind you.

You freeze, not for long, only for a split second, but long enough to realize that Hiccup hadn’t made it out. 

God, you hope he’s not dead. 

“Hiccup!” You cry, calling out into the wooden building already fully ablaze, itching to do something but faced with a roaring fire, “Hiccup, can you hear me?”

There’s no answer. Toothless is already rearing back to shoot what’s presumably more fire out of his throat but you push his head aside, “No, no, no! More won’t help! Are you fireproof?”

He screeches angrily at you like you’re not very helpful and he can’t understand you, both of which are probably true.

An alarm bell rings, high up in the village as a watchman shouts, ‘Fire!’

Within seconds, villagers in their pajamas pour from their houses in alarm, and you’re already prying at fallen planks of wood to try to locate Hiccup. They’re scorched, some still on fire, and you hiss as the flames lick at your skin.

“Hiccup!” You shout again, and thundering footsteps appear behind you as you dig through the rubble you can get to, “Hiccup, can you hear me?”

“Hiccup!” Stoick’s voice booms from behind you, “Hiccup’s in there?”

“He didn’t make it out,” You shout, tears beading in your eyes as you find a microscopic opening in the wood, “Help- help me! Help me find him!”

“Get out of the way,” Stoick shoves you aside, roughly enough to send you sprawling on the grass, “I knew you’d be trouble. Gobber! Help me get Hiccup.”

“I’m trying to help him! It wasn’t me!” You scream, and Toothless dashes forwards and picks you up by the neck of your tunic to run you around to what used to be the side of the building. There’s a larger opening there, not enough for a dragon to weasel through, but just barely big enough for you. It hasn't been engulfed in flames yet, but it will be soon. You don't have much time.

You dive in without a second thought- what do you have to lose?

The mass of broken wood is hot and still aflame, and you dodge the roaring fire as you scramble to find Hiccup amidst the carnage. You’re looking for a thick boot, a scruff of brown hair, a scaled shoulder pad, but what you manage to find is a leg, metal and glinting in the firelight.

“Hiccup!” You shriek, grabbing and pulling. To your horror, it slips right off of his body, leaving the most important parts of him still buried.

You groan and toss the metal behind you, digging further through the rubble to unbury him enough. You don’t mean to hit Toothless with the prosthetic, but it manages to alert him that you’ve found his rider, and he bashes a larger hole in the wood with his head to help you unearth Hiccup, thankfully not trying the fire-breathing approach anymore.

“I’ve got his leg!” You screech, your face ashen and sweaty as you fight through the fire, “Toothless, grab hold of his torso, and pull!”

To do this, Toothless retracts his teeth and practically swallows Hiccup’s head. He has to get a good grip on the man, for fear of injuring him without removing him, and you decide you’ll apologize for the spit in his hair after he wakes up.

If he wakes up.

His unconscious face is just as soot-covered as yours, but it’s quickly eclipsed by Toothless’s gummy maw, and you and the dragon work together to pry Hiccup out from the ruins of the hall. The fire blazes around you, and you feel the back of your tunic catch, but you use all of your energy to heave Hiccup out of the rubble before it’s too late.

When you smell fresh air again it’s because Toothless wraps his tail around your middle and helps compensate for your weakness. He drags Hiccup out by the torso and you out by your belly, grunting with exertion as he brings you both to safety away from the fire.

You’re coughing and your back hurts, but Toothless is slapping his tail against your tunic to put out the flames before you can think about dropping and rolling in the grass. It leaves you to worry about Hiccup, and you fall to your knees beside him.

“Hiccup?” You shout, grabbing his face and jostling it back and forth, ��Hiccup!”

“Son!” Stoick’s voice reaches your ears again, and you feel the ground shake slightly as he parts the crowd to bound over to you both, “You found him.”

“He was buried,” You pant, coughing at the smoke filling your lungs, “But he’s- I tried, I swear I tried to help-”

Stoick takes the boy from your arms and nestles his ear against Hiccup’s chest, eyes squeezed shut in a silent prayer.

“He’s alive!” Stoick shouts, eyes springing open, and tears of relief and adrenaline bead at your eyes, “He’s alive, he’s- he’s not-”

“Thank the gods.” You breathe, your chest heaving with a sob. 

“You.” Stoick grunts, gruff again, cradling his son protectively to his chest. Hiccup begins stirring, coughing the same way you are though his eyes remain closed. Stoick glances at your singed tunic, and the way blood is smeared up your arm from a jagged plank of broken wood, “Why’d you go in after him?”

“Because I didn’t set the fire,” You growl, panicking even though it’s miles away from the politeness you’d promised Hiccup, “It was them!”

You gesture roughly to Ruffnut and Tuffnut, who have shown up beside their two-headed dragon, which you’re sure is the aforementioned Barf and Belch.

Their eyes widen at the accusation, but they don’t deny it, “Uh, you wouldn’t have happened to see one of our bombs, have you? We counted when we got home and one was missing.”

Stoick’s eyes squeeze shut again, this time in exasperation. He clutches Hiccup tighter as the man rouses, eyes blinking open, arms trying to reach his face to rub smoke and ash out of his eyes. Stoick mutters, “Odin’s beard.” Then shouts, “Ruffnut! Tuffnut! Put out the fire. Then, you’ll rebuild the hall. Plank by plank. And I’m confiscating those bombs of yours.”

They protest, but it’s not meaningful- they’d blown up the great hall. They seem to know this and get to work without much fuss, grumbling instead of causing a scene as their dragon takes them all the way to Berk’s water reserves.

“I can-” You pant, fiddling awkwardly with your fingers as you come down from your adrenaline rush, “I can help rebuild it. If you want.”

“I suppose it wasn’t your fault.” Stoick eyes you with a narrowed gaze, peering down at Hiccup who’s barely conscious. He sits the man up against his chest, tipping his head back to open his airway, “Still. It doesn’t help your case that the village blows up the same day you get here.”

“I- I know, but,” You try explaining, but before you can get far a black-and-red tail crosses over your face, and you find yourself pulled backwards against Toothless’s side. The dragon leans his great head over your shoulder and chitters at Toothless, all sass and gruff grumbles.

“That’s rude.” Stoick grunts. “I don’t know what you’ve said to me, Toothless, but I know it’s rude.”

“He said,” Hiccup wheezes, his voice interrupted by a trembling cough as the twins return with water, dumping it over the flames, “That Y/N’s been nothing but helpful so far. She saved my life and it’s only fair that we save hers. He said we should let her stay.”

You’re fairly certain the dragon didn’t say that, but you appreciate both of their efforts anyways.

Stoick sighs deeply, glancing down at his weakened, frail son. Hiccup does look especially pitiful, and you’re sure that’s why Stoick heaves a great sigh, eyes flickering upwards towards you where Toothless is keeping you tightly held against him.

“Right. You did save my son’s life.” Stoick acknowledges, “And that means a great deal to me. You can stay. But-” He points a thick, accusatory finger at you, “Not unconditionally, and not forever. You earn your keep, you stay out of trouble, and we’ll find you someplace else to stay.”

“That’s all I ask.” You breathe, shoulders lifting as Stoick releases their burden, “I’ll work for my food and wherever I sleep. And I won’t cause trouble. I swear on my life. And- and thank you. For helping me.”

“You’re welcome.” Stoick meets your gaze, his eyes deep and soulful, Chiefly the same way Hiccup’s were a mere ten minutes ago as he clutches his son to his chest, “Don’t make me regret it.”

[yanadolls]

preying on u tonight

18+, mdni ୨୧

jealous!nagi x fem reader, unprotected sex, degrading, praising, overstimulation, size kink, sending ur nude pics to reo

part one

part two of this req <3

at first, nagi was overjoyed to be with you. after all, this was the girl of his dreams we were talking about. you were perfect- so sweet to him, always giving him a smile and cheering him on during his games and spending time with him when nobody else wouls. then, when he had asked you out and started dating you, it was only going uphill. you made him feel special and loved, always making sure he felt cared for and even making meals for him whenever he was too lazy to eat. nagi was sure he was in love with you from the very start.

so when he eventually found out that you had been sleeping with his best friend for MONTHS, it made his heart drop.

nagi felt betrayed for the first time in his life- both by reo who he trusted, and a bit by you. the white haired boy had gushed over you for god knows how long and the other man who was always supportive; how could reo have been fucking you while encouraging nagi?! then..there was you. after confronting you about this entire situation, he did understand that it was just a friends with benefits thing, and nothing more. he knew you had no feelings for reo and he really did believe you when you said you had loved nagi all along. you were just doing it for stress relief.

however, just because he understood didn't mean he wasn't seething with jealous, blood boiling the entire conversation. nagi didn't hate reo per say, he was just very angry with him at the moment. it was a normal reaction to discovering the fact his best friend was sleeping with his crush for half a year, and had even called you over to fuck the night prior to nagi's confession to you. it made his stomach twist in an uncomfortable feeling, and maybe even causing him to feel anxious.

what if you got bored of him, and went back to reo? what if he couldn't pleasure you as good as his best friend could? nagi needed to prove that he was the right choice, not the other rich man.

"hah..s-shit sei! aah, too much! slow down!"

nagi clicked his tongue at your crying, holding you down by your wrists with one of his larger hands which entirely covered both of yours, thrusting brutally in and out of you. nagi wasn't one to get so worked up emotionally, but this was different. he was jealous and angry, so what better way to make himself feel a bit less bad than burying himself deep into your pussy and showing you who you belonged to? you always took it like a good girl, anyway.

"shut up." he growled against your neck, "sluts like you don't get to command. take all of it and stop complaining."

he didn't intend to be so mean to you, but could you blame him? multiple feelings were bubbling in his chest, primarily jealousy and lust. his intense gaze locked onto your fucked out face, before bringing his vision down to your sopping little hole which had cum leaking out. this was, what- maybe the third time he made you cum already? you were so sensitive it was overwhelming, yet it felt too good to stop. your boyfriend's hand grabbed your face and squished your cheeks, slamming his lips down onto yours with a heated passion.

"do you even understand how it feels to find out- shit.. t-that my girlfriend was fucking around with my best friend before all of this? what are you, some hooker? were you with other men as well?"

he moved his hands to your thighs, pushing them up to your chest so he could dick you down even more. your mind was clouded at this point, and the only thing you could babble out unconsciously were apologies that fell from your lips like a chant, and cries of his name. you really were sorry- you felt awful about it.

"m'so sorry sei! f-fuck, so sorry!!" you choked a sob, trying to bring your eyes to meet his. "was only reo- m'so sorry, baby! please please, w-wish i never did it..!"

nagi's eyes softened at the way your dolly ones were filled with fat tears, guilt written all over them with a hint of lust from how good he was fucking you. he knew that you couldn't have known about his feelings for you while sleeping with reo- if you had, then you definitely wouldn't have been going to him instead of the lazy genius. the purple haired man was the one at blame.

"mh.. such a cute thing, aren't you? can't believe fucking reo got to see this as well."

the mere thought made him feel jealous all over again, although he wasn't mad at you anymore. if he was gonna be angry at anyone, it was 100% going to be his best friend who went behind his back knowing how much nagi liked you.

"m'sorry, so sorry sei! i-if i knew you liked me-"

"shh, love. i know, i know."

with another kiss to your lips, you felt more reassured. nagi wasn't really good at expressing his feelings, but he was starting to feel a bit bad for being so mean during the entire night you two were having sex, even if being a bit more rough with you was turning him on secretly. while the fact reo slept with you still would be on his mind for a month or so.. nagi couldn't find it in him to stay frustrated at you, even if he wanted to.

"you're mine now, yeah? reo could never fuck you the way i do, only my dick could make you get like this.."

nagi was confident in his words for once as he intently watched your expressions, slamming his heavy, fat cock into your overstimulated cunt over and over. you were squirming under him, smaller body bucking up into his larger, much more muscular one without even meaning to. the mere size difference between you and him made his dick throb in your gummy walls, groaning at the bulge his length made every time he thrusted inside you.

"i'm all yours, sei! love you so much..! haah, love your dick s'much.."

"such a cute little thing, aren't you? so tiny and easy to manhandle.."

he pressed deeper into you, tip kissing your cervix and stretching out your walls so deliciously. he didn't miss the way your walls clenched around his dick when he mentioned how small you were compared to him, silently noting that reaction. you felt so full, so connected to him on an intimate level- something you never felt when you were fucking with reo. you never wanted nagi to feel insecure or jealous again- you just loved him too much.

"aah.. g-gunna cum again! oh sei, please please please-"

nagi moved his head back to yours, pressing more gentle yet passionate kisses to your lips, tongue clashing with yours. his rhythm became more sloppy as he buried himself deep inside you, dumping his load into your tummy once more while you cried out and came on his cock.

looking down, the messy sight made his dick twitch again. your hole was leaking with both your cum, dripping onto the bed- and your sweaty, fucked body was just the perfect sight; eyes rolled to your skull, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling quickly, hips still bucking a bit from how stimulated you had been..it was the hottest thing he had ever seen.

"stay still, babe."

nagi reached out and grabbed his phone from the nightstand, snapping a photo of you (and you were far too delirious right now to even acknowledge what he just did), before opening a certain someone's messages..

nagi: attachment: 1 image

nagi: you jealous, reo? ur never fucking her again lol

would he regret sending that in the morning? probably. however, he was far too tired now to care. with a lazy clean up and a kiss to your forehead, he held your tinier body in his arms and fell asleep, happy you were only his from now on.

AN; new layout! i hope yall like it xoxo i loved writing this sm ugh jealous nagi is so hot <3

[hansungie01]

PERV!JISUNG

Word count: 2.1k words

Contains: Basically jisung is a little perv and starts fantasizing about his best friend. This was a drabble but i don't know that 2.1k words really counts lol. Anyways enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jisung had always been a good friend to you. You had called him to show off a few outfits you had bought that day at the mall, which included some new lingerie.

You and Jisung were close, so these kinds of things weren't typically awkward. You had flipped the camera towards the mirror while you showed off some particularly revealing lingerie, rambling about how much you love the way it fit you and how it looked.

Meanwhile, Jisung could only nod his head and part his lips as he looked at you in the mirror on his computer screen. You were stunning; he'd seen you a thousand times before, but this time was different. He couldn't quite understand why. The way you flipped the camera over each time you tried on a new set, displaying your body for him and running your hands over your body, describing the way it felt and bragging about all the good deals you got while shopping.

At least he was pretty sure that's what you were saying. He could feel pressure in his lower half, and the waistband in his pants was suddenly noticebly tight. He was harder than he'd been in a long time. He was almost mad at himself for being turned on by this, because you were his best friend, and best friends don't generally get each other hard like this.

But what irritated him the most was the fact that he was genuinely enjoying himself. No, he was loving this. Watching your body on the screen, imagining how fucking beautiful you would look naked, underneath him, on top of him, anywhere. He was ashamed of how fucking hot this was - thinking about all the dirty things he could do to you, and you had no idea. You’d probably call him a perv or a freak, and he wouldn’t mind that. He was, he couldn’t deny that this was so, so wrong of him.

But the only reason he hadn't ended the phone call was because 1) he physically couldn't look away from your body and 2) what he was doing wasn't that bad, as long as you didn’t know, right?

So Jisung took one of his hands off his phone, dragging it down all the way down to his pants. He shifted his position in his bed, so that it looked like he was just adjusting and not that he was about to touch himself.

His breath hitched as his palm came into contact with the bulge in his pants, thankfully able to conceal his reaction by biting his lower lip and nodding at something you were saying.

He wasn't sure what you said, or if you had said anything at all - his eyes were glued to the curve of your body in that lingerie and the way it made your chest look. God he loved your chest.

Slowly, as if he were trying to test to see if you'd notice, he started to move his hand back and forth, reliving some of the discomfort his hard-on had caused. He couldn't help but start to imagine it being your hand - with you sitting on top of him, rubbing down on his length from the outside of his jeans, smiling at how easily turned on he was.

You’d call him a perv, and make fun of the fact that he was already spilling precum onto your hand.

His hips began to buck forward as the idea of you teasing him for being a perv was turned him on even more. Soon enough, the feeling of his hand wasn't enough anymore, and he needed more. He was watching you closely, spinning your body in the mirror, showing off every stitch of that damn lingerie that you could, unaware of how much it was affecting your best friend.

"Fuck", he jumped. He hadn't even realized he had now stuck his hand in his pants, and the contact of his hand against his dick through his boxers had snapped him back to reality for a moment.

"What was that Ji?", you asked, looking back up at your phone, eye brows raised, mouth opened slightly, concerned that he had hurt himself.

"Nothing, I almost dropped my phone from my hand. Don't worry, I'm fine”

He wasn't fine. Not at all. He'd saved himself that time, but soon enough, he could feel himself getting closer as time went on. He glanced up at the top of the screen to see the time, it had only been about five minutes. His pants had become soaked with his precum, he was starting to feel the warmth of it on his hands. He was hoping you wouldn't hear the sounds of his low grunting, the sounds he wished you were making with your pussy riding his cock instead.

He thought to himself, he couldn't finish in his pants, right? He was already embarrassed that he had gotten this far, and he knew he'd had to wash his pants immediately after anyway. He also knew it would feel so much better if he just unzipped his pants, enough for him to fully indulge in his dirty thoughts, enough to touch himself and finish on his hands. That way, he could just wash himself without making much of a mess.

And so very carefully, he reached to unzip his pants completely, feeling his throbbing length in the palm of his hands. Impulsively, he let out a deep groan, one that was quiet enough so that he could play it off as a cough.

He began to jerk himself off as his thumb rubbed along his tip every now and then, trying his hardest not to let out any indication that he had been jerking off to you, his best friend.

"Ji?", he heard your voice on the other end of the phone, and his actions froze. Well, at least most of them. He couldn't help but to keep bucking his hips into his hands, eager to finish even now.

"Yeah?", Jisung said, his voice rather shaky. He was starting to get nervous, there was no way you hadn't suspected anything by now. But he couldn’t help himself, the feeling was becoming addictive and there was no way he was stopping now.

"Do you like this one, or the last one I wore more?", you asked. Jisung sighed as his hand relaxed, relieved that you hadn't caught on to his shameful actions on the other end of the phone. He quickly answered with "the last one", not even sure which one he was referring to. The way that each piece of clothing fit your body made him think about how nicely his hands would fit in the curves of your skin instead.

His hands were rubbing up and down his length at a quick pace now, and he found it harder and harder to control himself. His hips were twitching uncontrollably, lifting off of the bed so that he could thrust into his hand even harder. He glanced down at his length, and the thought of you riding him crossed his mind. Your legs placed on both sides of his hips, your hips rolling against his while you made yourself cum on his cock. He bite his lip harshly, enough to draw blood. He didn't care. In that moment, he wished so fucking badly that he could replace his hand with the feeling of you. That he could watch you on top of him, hear you moan out his name, see you shake as your orgasm washed over you.

He'd imagine how good you'd look with the head thrown back, your hands on his chest, hips stuttering. He'd reach his hand down to rub your clit, the other gripping your hip so hard as if you'd fall if he let go. His tounge sticking out the side of his mouth, his eyes watching your chest, then your face, and down to your pussy. He wouldn't need to watch his movement, he's sure he'd be a pro at touching you just the way you liked. You were his best friend, and he knew you so well, so there's no way in hell he'd have a hard time getting to know your body as well. God, he could cum just looking at you, but the idea of you using his body to cum would drive him mad.

He wouldn't even care that his hair was messy, his sweat sticking to his skin, he wouldn't care how dirty he looked. All he'd care about is you.

Jisung tightened his grip around his length slightly with the fantasy.

And that was all it took for him to lose it.

He knew that if he continued like this, you'd find out what he was doing. Snapping back to reality once more, he cleared his throat and spoke up.

"Uh hang on , y/n. I gotta mute for a second", he said, and without waiting for your response, he had muted himself and tossed the phone across the bed he had been laying on.

Finally, he could cum without worrying about what you might say, what you might think of him if you knew he was getting off to his best friend. He shuffled down so his head was now on the pillow, just like in his fantasy.

But what he didn't expect, was for his orgasm to hit him the moment he began to think about the possibility of you finding him like this. He started to moan to himself, calling himself a perv and imagining it was you. He could imagine how you’d sound, with your cocky tone and a smug look on your face. “You’re such a perv”, you’d say as you rode his cock. “I bet you like being called that, hm?”

"Oh fuck, yes", he groaned, speaking as though you were right there. “Fuck, baby, just like that. Make me fucking cum.”

With one last thrust toward his palm, his hips stilled as his head rocked back into his pillow, the images of your body on his phone screen and the fantasy of you riding him still etched in his head.

His release coated his hand, dripping down to his balls and falling onto the bedsheets. Usually he'd grab a towel, but he had no time. His head was dizzy; he couldn't remember the last time he experienced an orgasm that hard. It took him a few moments to regain his strength before he lifted his head, looking down at his phone across the bed.

“What the fuck”, he said. He soon realized he had nothing to clean up with, at least not here. For now, he’d have to leave it, just long enough for him to hang up the phone. He reached over to his bed side table to grab some napkins he had left for, you know, special occasions. At least he was prepared in that sense.

A black screen. The call had been ended. Had he accidentally hung up the phone when he was trying to mute?

He sent a quick message to you, apologizing for hanging up. He couldn’t call you back, not when his hand were coated in his own cum and his breath was still heavy. He almost dozed off, not noticing the time passing by.

And suddenly, the door bell rang.

“Fucking hell”, he jumped, tossing the bed sheets over and getting up to grab the hem of his pants. He shouldn’t even be answering the door in this state, but on the off chance that it was Chan or Changbin, he figured he better. He ran to the bathroom, washing off his own cum and adjusting his clothing. It wasn't perfect, but at least they wouldn't be able to guess what he was just doing.

He still couldn’t believe this was all from you, how he couldn’t control himself long enough to hold a fucking phone call with you.

Whatever, he thought. As long as you would never find out, he could keep it a secret.

He walked over to the door, and to his shock, there you were, standing in doorway with a smile on your lips.

“Fucking perv”, you smiled, stepping into the room. He stood, confused. When did you..?

“Learn how to mute your phone before you go jerk off to your best friend”

His heart stopped as you reached over to grab onto his shirt, pulling his closer into a kiss. He couldn’t respond, due to the pure shock he was in and because of the fact that your lips were pressed against his, preventing him from talking.

He’d get to live out his fantasies from just moments prior, and he’d love every second of it.

[curiousorigins]

I was in a car accident a few years ago. I'll have a funny shaped bone probably for the rest of my life because of it. There was a serious delay in treatment, for many reasons... Then a few months into physical therapy, things are a little better. Like it doesn't hurt so bad, like it's still constant. (I got tendon related issues... I'll probably never go into the details deeper than that...tbh.). Then I end up staying the night at a friend's house... I wake up, pain is gone. (It did end up coming back... and there's reasons for this... but that's not the important part of this story.) I was in constant pain for around 3-4 years... and it went away (briefly) after a single night on a better mattress.

So inevitably I end up getting a new mattress when money happens. It's not even a super nice mattress. I spent $130 (on a new) mattress. First one in my entire life. I get something more on the firm end because that's what my friend's was. (Genuinely look up Old People reviews for them. Old people have all the health issues that future you might end up having. And Older Person is going to say if the mattress made them worse. Young Person might not notice.) I would say around 40% of my daily chronic pain literally went away with a new mattress.

(Also as it turns out, been in chronic pain for like 30ish years and didn't know it. Because it was constant from an early age... and feeling like that was kind of my default until post-one physical therapy appointment. Go to a good physical therapist. Don't settle for what your work recommenda from workers' comp. My sister did that and hers was a crapshoot as they were more worried about getting you back to work for the cheapest amount possible. Go somewhere else and send your work the bill. I went for Sport's Medicine because they have more injury knowledge, and understand what it takes to be fully active. I had a very labor heavy job then.)

Got a new pillow and in a fit of bougey-ness upgraded my old one to be a leg pillow. (Side-sleeper.) I'd say that those changes, mattress, and 2 pillows. Got me out of 70% of my daily pain. After that, Physical Therapy busted more. (Probably 80-90% pain reduction [90% being good days.] on the daily. With Physical Therapy.) I still have regular dislocations but they only mild hurt. (And honestly my pain scale is so broken after running on pain 24/7 for 30 years... that I don't notice it was dislocated until it shifts back. It'd probably happen less or maybe not again on the regular... if I was better at doing my exercises. But alas, routines are hard for me.)

But yeah, something like 70% of my chronic daily pain for the last 30 years was fixed for $200ish. Well worth it, and I'm worth that. Sometimes, even when you're struggling to pay to eat... you should try to invest in you. You only get 1 body. Wishing you all some health... and smart investments.

I saved up for worst things that had less of a positive effect on me. I just wish I had prioritized the mattress thing much earlier. Hope you all end up with enough wiggle room in the budget for similar positive impacting stuff.

I'm turning 30 this month, and for some reason have become suddenly interested in material possessions. like what if,,,,,,,,my couch was nice. what if my sheets were nice. is this what happens to you??