#SOGGY SWEEP

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Soggy Bottom Boys - I Am a Man of Constant Sorrow 2000

"I Am a Man of Constant Sorrow" is a traditional American folk song first recorded by Dick Burnett, a partially blind fiddler from Kentucky. The song was originally titles "Farewell Song" when printed in a Richard Burnett songbook in 1913. Burnett recorded the song in 1927 but this version was unreleased and the master recording destroyed. The first commercially released record was by Emry Arthur in 1928, and which gave the song its current title.

It's been covered plenty of times during the years with lyrical tweaks, but the biggest impact worldwide happened with the release of the 2000 film O Brother, Where Art Thou?, where it plays a central role in the plot, earning the three runaway protagonists public recognition as the Soggy Bottom Boys. The song had lead vocals by Dan Tyminski, who also was the vocalist on Avicii's 2013 hit "Hey Brother".

"I Am a Man of Constant Sorrow" received a CMA Award for "Single of the Year" in 2001 and a Grammy for "Best Country Collaboration with Vocals" in 2002, and also named Song of the Year by the International Bluegrass Music Association in 2001.

It earned a total of 70,4% total yes votes here.

If you love great movies with amazing music, please do check this one out! :D <3

[un-mime]

victorian guys. decided to try something with wilson

[scribespirare]

new chef officially took over today and god the number of times I looked past him to make direct eye contact with a coworker b/c staring blankly at them was the only thing to keep me from walking the fuck away....

[junojoel]

Dancing is a Dangerous Game

Joel Miller x Fem!Reader, 9.4k

Summary: You need to escape the city, Joel needs help on his ranch. Despite the differences in your lifestyles, cowboy Joel teaches you the ways of the land.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, unprotected piv, creampie, THEN oral (f!receiving), outdoor sex, joel is a widower, sorry i accidentally made it really sad, joel is also soft for reader, and a romantic

this is the product of me playing stardew valley and reading the pumpkin spice cafe. enjoy :)

The city had a way of hollowing a person out.

You realised it the morning you woke up with your cheek pressed against your desk, a half-finished cover letter stuck to your forearm, and the acidic tang of stale coffee burning your throat. Four years of late-night study sessions, unpaid internships, and networking events had earned you a shiny degree and absolutely no idea what to do with it.

The job offers were there if you wanted them. Cubicle farms with fluorescent lighting and managers who'd call you honey in meetings. Apartment leases with paper-thin walls and neighbours who played bass-heavy music at 3am. A life measured in subway delays and happy hours that weren't happy at all.

So when you found the ad for Miller Ranch buried in the classifieds—Help needed. Room and board. Quiet place for quiet souls—you didn't overthink it. You packed your duffel, left a vague note for your roommate, and pointed your car west until the skyscrapers melted into golden fields.

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The ranch wasn't what you expected.

You'd imagined something from a postcard—red barns, cheerful horses, maybe a friendly dog trotting up to greet you. Instead, you found a sprawling property that looked like it had been wrestled from the earth itself. The main house was all rough-hewn logs and a sagging porch, the wood weathered silver by decades of sun. A few outbuildings dotted the land, their roofs patched with rusted tin. And beyond it all, endless stretches of pasture fading into shadowy pines.

You were still sitting in your car, gripping the steering wheel, when the screen door creaked open.

He moved like the land did. Slow, deliberate, utterly unconcerned with anyone else's pace. Broad shoulders filled the doorway, his faded flannel rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and scars. His beard was more grey than brown, his hair just long enough to curl at the nape of his neck. But it was his eyes that caught you: dark, assessing, the kind of eyes that had seen too much to be impressed easily.

He studied you with dark eyes that missed nothing. Your clean sneakers, your manicured nails, the way you squinted against the sunlight like you'd never truly seen it before.

"You lost?" His voice was rougher than you expected, like gravel under tires.

You lifted your chin. "Are you Joel Miller?"

"You the one who called about workin' here?" His voice was gravel wrapped in velvet, the kind of sound that settled low in your stomach.

You swallowed. "Yeah. I, uh—I emailed last week."

He didn't smile. Just nodded once and stepped aside. "Better come in, then."

You learned fast that Joel Miller didn't waste words.

He showed you the ropes in silence—how to check the fence lines for breaks, how to tell if a horse was favouring a leg, which tools to use when a storm knocked a branch through the chicken coop roof. His hands were always moving, always working, rough fingers handling everything with a care that surprised you.

"You ever done any of this before?" he asked on your third day, watching you struggle to coil a rope properly.

You wiped sweat from your brow. "Does petting a pony at a county fair count?"

A huff. Not quite a laugh, but close. "Guess we're startin' from scratch, then."

He didn't baby you, though. When you spilled a bucket of grain, he made you sweep it up. When you misread the clouds and left the hay bales uncovered before a downpour, you spent the next afternoon hauling soggy bundles to the compost. But he never yelled. Never made you feel stupid. Just showed you, again and again, until your hands stopped shaking and your muscles stopped burning.

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You found him in the kitchen at 2 AM, the old percolator hissing on the stove.

"Couldn't sleep?" you asked, lingering in the doorway.

He didn't turn around. "Old habit. Used to take night shifts checkin' the herds."

You padded closer, the wooden floor cool under your bare feet. The kitchen smelled like coffee and cinnamon—he'd been baking earlier, you realized. There was still flour dusting the counter.

"Mind if I join you?"

A pause. Then he reached into the cabinet for a second mug.

You sat at the scarred oak table while he poured, the steam curling between you. Outside, the wind whispered through the pines.

"City girl like you," he said suddenly, sliding the coffee toward you. "What made you come out here?"

You wrapped your hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into your skin. "Needed to remember what quiet sounded like."

"Why'd you really come out here, darlin'?"

The endearment slipped out so naturally you almost missed it.

You watched the horizon lighten from black to deep blue. "I think... I needed to prove I could."

His knuckles brushed yours as he reached for the bottle. Neither of you moved away.

For the first time, Joel looked at you—really looked at you. And you saw something flicker in his gaze, something warm and understanding.

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The sky turned the colour of a fresh bruise an hour before the twister touched down.

You were repairing the chicken coop roof when the wind kicked up, sending your hammer tumbling into the dirt. The air felt charged, like the moment before a lightning strike.

Joel's shout carried across the yard. "Get to the cellar! Now!"

You'd never seen him run before. He moved like a man possessed, boots pounding the hard-packed earth as he closed the distance between you. His arm hooked around your waist just as the first hailstone struck your shoulder, a marble-sized bullet of ice that left your skin throbbing.

The storm cellar doors groaned in protest as Joel wrenched them open. Damp, cool air rushed up to meet you as he practically carried you down the stairs.

Darkness.

Then the single bulb flickered to life, revealing shelves of canned goods, emergency supplies, and, oddly, a stack of well-loved paperbacks.

"You okay?" Joel's hands were suddenly everywhere, tilting your chin up to check your pupils, running down your arms to inspect for injuries, his touch clinical yet somehow intimate.

"I'm fine," you breathed, though your heart was trying to escape your chest. "Just... just scared."

The admission hung between you as the storm raged overhead. The bulb flickered again, then died completely, plunging you into blackness.

Joel's voice came from closer than you expected. "Ain't nothin' in this world can hurt you while I'm here."

You reached out blindly, your fingers finding the rough denim of his shirt. His breath hitched as you fisted the fabric.

Somewhere above, the world was ending. Here in the dark, something was beginning.

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The cellar doors groaned as Joel shouldered them open, releasing you both into a world transformed. Dawn painted the ravaged landscape in pale gold, revealing the storm's cruel artistry. A century-old oak now lay uprooted across the north pasture, its massive roots clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. Fence posts had been plucked from the earth and scattered like straws, barbed wire curling in dangerous spirals across the mud. The chicken coop roof had taken flight, landing thirty yards away in a splintered heap.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound more weary than angry. He rotated his left shoulder unconsciously—the old injury from a mustang bucking him off always acted up before rain.

"Gonna need to—"

"Check the livestock first," you finished.

His eyebrows lifted slightly. Two months ago you'd asked if cattle could swim during a flash flood. Now you knew ranch priorities.

The work was brutal. By noon, your shirt clung to your back with a mixture of sweat and residual storm humidity. Joel moved with relentless efficiency, his forearms corded with muscle as he wrestled fence posts back into alignment. You watched the way his wedding band caught the sunlight when he wiped his brow, the silver chain glinting against his sun-darkened skin.

At the third post, your blisters burst.

You didn't make a sound, but Joel's head snapped up like he'd heard something. His eyes dropped to your hands, where blood seeped through the leather work gloves.

"Goddammit." He was in front of you in three strides, peeling the ruined gloves off with surprising gentleness. His thumb brushed the raw flesh of your palm, and you hissed involuntarily.

Joel's mouth tightened. "Should've said something."

"You would've told me to toughen up."

"Would've told you to take a damn break." He rummaged in his saddlebag for the medical kit he always carried. The antiseptic stung, but his hands were steady as he wrapped your palms in gauze. "Stubborn city girl."

The way he said it sounded almost like praise.

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The next week passed in a haze of exhaustion and unexpected discoveries.

You learned that:

A properly sharpened axe sings through wood with a sound like a breath being released

Joel's coffee preferences involved exactly two sugar cubes (never spoonfuls)

Your body could ache in places you didn't know existed

Each evening, Joel would appear at your elbow with some new remedy; a salve made from beeswax and lavender for your sunburn, a stretch to ease the knot between your shoulder blades, a cold beer pressed into your hand with a quiet "You earned it."

Tonight, you found him at the workbench, repairing a bridle by lantern light. The golden glow softened the lines of his face, catching the silver strands in his beard. He didn't look up as you approached, but his shoulders relaxed slightly when you set a fresh cup of coffee beside him—two sugars.

"Thanks." His voice was rough from disuse.

You leaned against the bench, close enough to smell leather and the faint cedar scent of his soap. "Show me?"

Joel's hands stilled. For a heartbeat, you thought he'd refuse. Then he shifted, making space for you at his side.

"Watch close," he murmured, his shoulder pressing against yours as he demonstrated the intricate stitch. His fingers moved with practiced ease, the needle flashing in the lamplight. "This part's gotta be tight enough to hold, loose enough to flex."

You tried to focus on the technique, but his proximity made concentration impossible. The heat radiating from his body, the way his breath stirred your hair when he leaned in to correct your grip—

The needle slipped.

"Shit." A bead of blood welled on your thumb.

Joel reacted before you could, catching your wrist. His calloused thumb brushed the droplet away, his mouth set in a hard line. "Ain't paying you to bleed on my tack."

But he didn't let go.

The lantern flickered, casting long shadows across the barn wall—two silhouettes frozen in the amber light, fingers intertwined.

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Betty the nanny goat had taken a disliking to you from day one.

Today, she'd decided to escalate hostilities.

"You're gonna want to—" Joel's warning came too late as you bent to refill the water trough.

Betty's horns connected with your backside with the precision of a missile strike. The world tilted violently as you face-planted into the mud, the entire herd erupting in gleeful bleats that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

Strong hands hauled you upright before you could drown in three inches of water. Joel's chest vibrated against your back—the bastard was laughing.

"Told you she don't like people looming over her," he said, voice thick with barely-contained amusement.

You wiped mud from your cheek, glaring. "You could've warned me sooner."

"Where's the fun in that?" The words slipped out before he could stop them, his eyes widening slightly at his own audacity.

Something warm unfurled in your chest. This was new—Joel teasing, letting his guard down. You retaliated by flicking a glob of mud at his shirt.

His jaw dropped. "Did you just—"

The second mudball hit him square in the chest.

For one terrifying second, Joel looked genuinely pissed. Then his eyes darkened with something far more dangerous. "Oh, you're gonna regret that, city girl."

What followed was a mud battle worthy of any childhood memory, complete with strategic retreats behind hay bales and Betty the goat serving as an unwitting double agent. By the time you both collapsed against the fence, breathless and filthy, Joel's laughter rang out clear and unguarded—a sound you'd only heard in fragments before.

The setting sun painted him in gold, his smile lines crinkling in a way that made your chest ache. Mud streaked his cheek, his shirt clung to his torso, and his eyes—

His eyes held yours with an intensity that stole your breath.

The moment stretched, thrumming with something unspoken. Then a cold rivulet of mud slid down your neck, breaking the spell.

Joel cleared his throat, suddenly business-like. "Better clean up before supper." But his fingers lingered on your elbow as he helped you up, his touch lingering just a heartbeat too long.

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The generator sputtered its last breath during the season's first real cold snap.

You found Joel in the living room, already building a fire with the economical movements of someone who'd done this a thousand times before. The flickering light caught the silver in his stubble, the strong line of his nose, the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders as he worked.

"Got extra blankets in the cedar chest," he said without turning.

You hesitated in the doorway, suddenly hyperaware of the flannel you wore—his flannel, the soft blue one that had been hanging in the hall until you'd "borrowed" it three days ago. The one that smelled faintly of his soap and the woodsmoke that always clung to his clothes.

Joel turned then, freezing when his eyes landed on you. His gaze darkened as it travelled from your bare feet to the oversized cuffs swallowing your hands to the way the fabric draped off one shoulder.

Neither of you moved.

The grandfather clock ticked loudly in the silence, each second stretching taut between you. Somewhere in the house, a pipe groaned. Outside, the wind howled through the pines.

Joel's throat worked as he swallowed hard. "You—"

A log shifted in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks. The moment shattered.

"Should check the livestock," he finished roughly, grabbing his coat with unnecessary force. The door clicked shut behind him with deliberate finality.

You sank onto the couch, pressing your face into the flannel's collar. His scent surrounded you, warm and familiar and utterly intoxicating. Outside, the temperature dropped steadily, but your skin burned as if touched by sunlight.

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The invitation arrived on a Thursday, creased and coffee-stained, delivered by old man Henderson when he came to pick up his repaired plough.

"Annual Harvest Social," the flyer read in looping script. "Music, supper, and dancing at the Grange Hall. All welcome."

You were elbows-deep in soapy dishwater when Joel tossed it onto the counter with a grunt. "Town nonsense," he muttered, but his eyes flicked to your reaction.

You wiped your hands carefully, studying the faded print. "We going?"

The silence stretched so long you thought he hadn't heard. Then:

"You wanna go?" His voice was carefully neutral, but you noticed the way his thumb worried at a callus on his palm.

The image flashed unbidden—Joel in a clean shirt, his large hands warm at your waist, moving to music under paper lanterns. Your throat went dry.

"Could be fun," you managed.

Joel studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he gave a single nod. "I'll dig out my good boots."

The night of the dance, you stood frozen before the hallway mirror, suddenly unsure. The dress—a thrifted floral sundress—felt foreign after months of denim and flannel.

A knock rattled the doorframe.

"Ready or not, we're gonna be—" Joel's voice died abruptly as you turned.

He stood transfixed in the doorway, his good white shirt half-buttoned over a clean undershirt, his usual scuffed boots replaced by polished ones. His gaze travelled down your bare legs with the weight of a physical touch before snapping back to your face.

Something dark flickered in his eyes. "You... uh." He cleared his throat. "We're gonna be late."

The truck ride into town was silent except for the staticky country station and the sound of Joel's fingers tightening rhythmically on the steering wheel.

The Grange Hall glowed like a lantern against the prairie night, alive with fiddle music and laughter. You felt every eye on you as Joel guided you through the crowd with a hand at the small of your back—his touch burning through the thin fabric of your dress.

"Miller!" A grizzled rancher clapped Joel on the shoulder. "Ain't seen you at one of these in—" His gaze landed on you. "Well I'll be."

Joel's fingers flexed against your spine. "This is—"

"His ranch hand," you supplied, watching the older man's eyebrows climb.

The music shifted then—a slow waltz, all aching strings and longing. Joel stiffened beside you.

Across the room, women whispered behind their hands. You caught snippets—"...that Miller..." "...never brought anyone since..." "...still wears Tess's..."

Joel's jaw clenched. "We should—"

"Dance with me." The words left your lips before you could stop them.

His eyes went wide. "I ain't much for—"

"Please."

Something in your voice broke his resolve. With a shaky exhale, Joel took your hand and led you onto the floor. His right arm slid around your waist, his left hand cradling yours like something precious.

"You're supposed to—"

"Just follow me," he murmured into your hair.

And God help you, you did.

Joel moved with surprising grace for a man who claimed to hate dancing, his body swaying in time to the music. The heat of him surrounded you—the cedar and leather scent of his cologne, the scratch of his collar against your cheek, the way his breath hitched when your hips brushed.

The song ended too soon. Joel made to pull away, but you clung to his hand.

"One more?" you whispered.

In answer, he drew you closer, his lips brushing your temple as the next song began.

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The truck cab was thick with unspoken words as Joel navigated the dark ranch roads. Moonlight painted his profile in silver, catching the tension in his jaw.

"You okay?" you ventured.

His grip on the wheel tightened. "Tess loved those dances."

The name hung between you like a ghost. You'd never asked about the wedding band he still wore, about the locked bedroom door at the ranch, about the way he sometimes stared at the horizon like he was waiting for someone.

The truck rolled to a stop outside the darkened house. Joel didn't cut the engine.

"I should tell you about her," he said hoarsely.

You reached across the seat, covering his hand with yours. "Only if you want to."

His fingers turned, intertwining with yours. For a long moment, you sat there in the quiet, two sets of breath fogging the windshield.

Then Joel killed the engine.

You sat in the stillness, your hand wrapped around his, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. The only sound was the soft rustling of the wind through the trees, the hum of the distant creek, and the distant calls of coyotes. For a second, you both just... sat. Neither of you moving, neither of you speaking. The weight of the unspoken words between you felt like an uncharted territory neither of you were willing to navigate just yet.

Joel’s thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, a subconscious comfort more than anything else. His gaze shifted to the darkened ranch house ahead, his eyes narrowing as though the past was pressing in, refusing to let go.

“Tess was…” He started, then paused. The words seemed to choke him for a second. “She was my world, y'know? Before…” He swallowed hard, and you could see his jaw tighten as he forced the rest of it out. “Before she died.”

Your breath caught, the weight of the sudden revelation hanging thick between you. You could feel him pull away into himself as soon as the words left his mouth. He wasn’t looking at you anymore—his eyes were trained somewhere in the distance, focusing on nothing in particular.

“She was the love of my life," Joel continued, his voice low, raw. "We had a house, a future... hell, we had plans. Then…” He trailed off, his hand tightening briefly around the steering wheel, like he was holding onto something for dear life. “She got sick. Fast. One minute, she was fine. The next, she was gone. Just like that."

You stayed quiet, your heart thumping painfully in your chest. You didn’t know what to say, how to ease the weight of that kind of loss. The kind of grief that ran so deep it felt like it might swallow him whole. Joel had always been a man of few words, but this? This was raw.

“The doctors said there was nothing they could do. That it was too late. I kept telling myself I should’ve known... that I should’ve noticed sooner, that maybe I could’ve done something. But I didn’t. And now…” His voice cracked, but he quickly cleared his throat, regaining his composure, even as his hands trembled on the wheel. “Now, it’s just me. And sometimes I wonder if that’s all I’ll ever be. Just a guy who lost everything.”

You swallowed hard, heart aching for him. The grief, the loss—it was so much more than you’d ever imagined.

His gaze flicked to you, but only for a moment, before he looked away again, his expression unreadable. There was a tension in his posture, a stiffness that told you he was holding himself back from saying more. From letting it all spill out.

“I don’t talk about her much," he muttered, his voice hoarse, like the words had been locked away for far too long. "Tess… she was everything to me. I don’t know how to move on from that. I don’t know if I ever will.”

You reached out without thinking, your fingers brushing against his hand, and for a moment, he didn’t pull away. He just let you hold on to him, his rough fingers curling against yours as if you were grounding him, pulling him back from the edge of a memory that threatened to pull him under.

“I’m not asking you to forget her,” you said quietly, squeezing his hand, your voice steady. “You don’t have to. But you don’t have to carry it all by yourself, either.”

Joel’s breath hitched, and for the first time, you saw the rawness of the man behind the rancher—the weight he’d been shouldering for so long, and the part of him that was still fragile, even if he didn’t show it. His eyes softened, though there was still that quiet wariness in his gaze. He hadn’t let go of the past, not entirely, and maybe he never would.

But maybe, just maybe, he could let a little of it slip away.

“You remind me of her,” he whispered, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. “The way you... the way you care. Even when I don't deserve it.”

Your chest tightened, and you leaned in, your hand still holding his. "I'm here, Joel," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "And I'm not going anywhere."

For a long moment, there was nothing but the quiet hum of the truck’s engine and the distant sound of wind rustling through the trees. Neither of you moved, neither of you spoke. It was as if the world had paused, just for that instant, to let the weight of the moment settle.

Eventually, Joel shifted, breaking the silence with a deep breath. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a slow exhale. “Guess it’s getting late,” he said, trying to regain his usual composure, but his voice was still rough, thick with something unspoken. “We should get inside.”

You both climbed out of the truck, and Joel led the way into the house, his hand brushing against yours once more as you followed him inside. The warmth of the fire hit you immediately, the familiar scent of woodsmoke mingling with the faint smell of coffee and cinnamon.

Joel stopped by the fire, his shoulders hunched slightly as he stared into the flames. You stood beside him, not speaking, just being there. A quiet presence, a steady hand in the darkness.

After a long while, Joel spoke again, his voice low. “You remind me of the way things used to be. Before…” He let the sentence trail off, like he didn’t want to finish it.

You didn’t press him. Instead, you simply nodded, letting him find his own pace.

For a while, neither of you said anything, but there was something in the silence now. Something warm. Something that felt like the beginning of something new, something fragile but real.

Eventually, Joel turned toward you, his eyes dark but not empty. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingering just a moment before he pulled back, like he wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to touch you like that.

"Thanks," he muttered, his voice rough. "For listening."

And for the first time in a long time, Joel Miller didn’t feel quite so alone.

The fire crackled softly, casting a warm glow over the room as the shadows danced across the wooden walls. The night was quiet, but it wasn’t heavy. It felt more like a kind of peace settling in around the two of you. Neither of you spoke for a while, as if the silence had become its own conversation.

Joel stood by the fire, staring into the flames, his posture a little less rigid than it had been before. His hand rested on the mantle, his fingers curling around it like a lifeline, but the tension in his body had softened. He looked different somehow, less burdened. Maybe it was the weight of his grief being shared, maybe it was just the comfort of your presence, but something in him had shifted.

You stayed quiet, sitting on the couch, your eyes watching him, the soft sound of his breathing filling the space between you. You didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with words—it felt like a space where both of you could just be.

But eventually, Joel shifted, breaking the stillness with a quiet sigh. He ran a hand through his hair again, like he was trying to work through something in his mind.

“I don’t know what to do anymore, y’know?” he said, his voice low, almost like he was speaking to himself more than to you. “I’ve been running on autopilot for so damn long... Just trying to make it through the day. But lately... everything feels harder.”

You could hear the weight of exhaustion in his voice, the kind that had settled deep in his bones over the years. He wasn’t just tired from the work—he was tired of the constant struggle, of carrying everything on his own.

You stood up slowly, walking over to him. Without saying a word, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his arm. It was an almost imperceptible gesture, but it was enough. He stiffened for a second, but then his shoulders relaxed, and he glanced at you, his eyes softening.

“I don’t know how to fix everything for you, Joel,” you said quietly. “I can’t take away the pain, or bring back what you lost... But I’m here. And you don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

He looked at you for a long moment, like he was seeing you in a different light—maybe not just as someone to lean on, but as someone who was offering him something he hadn’t realised he needed. A way out of the solitude he’d built around himself.

You reached up then, gently cupping his face with your hands. His stubble scraped lightly against your skin, and his breath hitched for a second, but you didn’t pull away. You simply held him there, your eyes locked with his, letting the words settle between you.

“Maybe we don’t have to figure everything out right now,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the storm you could sense in him. “Maybe we can just... take it one step at a time.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sounds in the room were the crackling of the fire and the soft rhythm of your breathing. And then, almost imperceptibly, Joel leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly, like he was allowing himself to feel something—anything—that wasn’t the weight of the past.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, as though the words were both a confession and a plea. “I don’t know how to make it right.”

You smiled gently, your thumbs brushing the roughness of his skin, your heart aching for him. “You don’t have to make it perfect, Joel. You don’t have to fix everything. Just... be here. With me.”

The tension in his body slowly ebbed away, and for the first time in a long while, Joel allowed himself to lean into you. To let someone else carry a small piece of the burden. The moment was fleeting but meaningful, a quiet understanding passing between you both.

“I’m not promising anything, but…” Joel trailed off, his gaze softer now, something more vulnerable creeping into his eyes. “Maybe I’ll start trying. For once.”

You nodded, your heart full of quiet hope, and took a small step closer to him. “One step at a time.”

Joel didn’t answer, but his hand reached for yours, his grip gentle but firm. He didn’t let go when your fingers intertwined. It was a small gesture, but it meant something bigger than words could convey.

The fire crackled again, casting more dancing shadows on the walls, but it felt like the start of something new. Something fragile but real. And for the first time, you didn’t feel like you were alone either.

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You woke early, as usual, the first light of dawn peeking through the curtains. You could hear Joel already moving around downstairs, the familiar sound of boots on the wooden floor, the creak of the old chair at the kitchen table. You stretched and pulled yourself out of bed, the chill of the room pushing you into motion. It was another busy day ahead—feeding the animals, checking the fences, mending what needed mending—but you found yourself looking forward to it more than you had before.

You made your way downstairs, the aroma of brewing coffee filling the air before you even reached the bottom step. Joel was standing at the stove, his back to you, flipping pancakes in a skillet with an ease that came from years of practice. The warm, golden light of the morning spilled through the windows, making the kitchen glow.

"You’re up early," you said, leaning against the doorframe, your voice soft but teasing.

Joel glanced over his shoulder at you, offering a small, almost imperceptible smile. "Not much for sleepin’ in." He turned back to the skillet, flipping the pancake with a practiced flick of his wrist. "Figured I’d get a head start today."

You crossed to the counter, grabbing the mug Joel had already set out for you. "I could get used to this," you said, pouring yourself a cup of coffee. "You know, waking up to pancakes and coffee."

He let out a low chuckle, his eyes catching yours for just a second. "Don't get too comfortable. I’m not much of a cook. You might end up makin' these yourself sooner or later."

You laughed softly, your fingers curling around the warm mug. "I think I could manage."

There was an ease in the way the two of you moved around each other now. Where once you’d felt like a stranger in a new world, now it felt... natural. Even the hard work didn’t seem quite so overwhelming anymore. You knew the land better, understood its rhythms, the way it demanded respect without asking for much in return. And Joel—well, Joel was becoming something you hadn’t anticipated. He was still the man of few words, the one who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, but there was a gentleness in him now. A trust.

You sat down at the table, watching him finish cooking, the way his large hands moved so gracefully despite their size. There was a quiet confidence in him now that made your chest tighten, and it wasn’t just because of his strength. It was because, for the first time in a long while, he seemed like he was allowing himself to be here—really here—with you.

"After breakfast," Joel said, setting the last pancake on the stack, "we need to check the horses. Haven’t seen 'em this morning."

You nodded, taking a sip of your coffee. "Got it. I’ll grab the gear."

The work felt familiar now, but there was something different about it. It wasn’t just about chores anymore—it was a way to connect, to feel part of something larger than yourself. You and Joel worked together, side by side, fixing fences, checking the cattle, and tending to the land. It was a steady rhythm, one that was comforting in its predictability.

By midday, you’d found your stride. You’d mended a tear in the barn roof, helped Joel move hay bales, and checked the water troughs. And when the sky turned to gold with the setting sun, you both found yourselves leaning against the fence, the last light of the day painting everything in warm hues.

Joel’s hand brushed against yours as he shifted, and for a moment, you felt like the world had quieted completely—just the two of you, standing in the vastness of the land you had come to love, connected in a way that felt timeless.

"You know," he said, breaking the silence, "I never thought I'd be this comfortable with someone around. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had people work with me before, but it’s different with you."

You looked up at him, meeting his eyes. There was something in his gaze now—something deeper. "I think I’m finally getting used to the quiet, too," you admitted. "And to you. I’ve never met anyone quite like you, Joel."

Joel’s lips twitched, a small, rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Guess I’m just a stubborn old cowboy," he said with a hint of humor, though there was something more sincere in the way he said it, like he was offering a piece of himself you hadn’t seen before.

You shifted closer, the space between you shrinking. "I don’t mind stubborn," you replied softly. "It’s... kind of endearing."

Joel's smile softened, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The evening air was still and cool, the sound of the crickets chirping blending with the distant lowing of the cattle. The world was small here, simple. But somehow, it felt full.

When you reached up to brush a loose strand of hair from your face, your hand grazed Joel’s arm. He stiffened just slightly, and for a heartbeat, you both seemed to hesitate. Then, almost without thinking, you reached out again, this time more deliberately, and placed your hand on his forearm, your fingers lingering.

Joel’s gaze flickered down to where your hand rested, and then back to your face. There was an unspoken understanding between you now—no more games, no more hesitations.

"Don’t go getting any ideas," Joel said, though there was no real bite to his words. "You might end up stickin' around for good."

A light laugh bubbled up from you, and you squeezed his arm. "I’m already stickin' around," you said, your voice more certain.

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The sun was beginning to dip low in the sky, casting an orange glow over the horizon as you and Joel made your way back from the creek. The day had been long, but there was a certain satisfaction in it—a quiet contentment that settled in your chest. Now, as the evening light bathed everything in gold, the two of you walked in silence back toward the house. The barn loomed behind you, and the fields stretched out endlessly before you, a peaceful canvas of green and brown.

You were both tired, but there was an energy between you that felt new, something that tugged at the edges of your thoughts. It was the way your heart seemed to race just a little faster every time Joel’s presence shifted around you. The way your breath caught in your throat when you glanced at him from the corner of your eye.

Joel stopped walking a few paces ahead of you, his boots kicking up the dirt, and turned toward you, his face softening in the fading light. The warmth of the day was still lingering in the air, and the world around you seemed to hush, waiting.

“You’ve been here for a while now,” Joel said, his voice low, like he was considering each word carefully. “I’ve seen you adjust. You’ve done more than just fit in. You’ve... become part of this place.”

You met his gaze, your heartbeat quickening at the seriousness in his eyes. "I never thought I’d find a place like this," you said quietly, your voice almost a whisper, as though sharing a secret. "And I never thought I’d meet someone like you."

Joel stepped closer, his boots scraping softly against the dirt. His presence felt different now—closer, more intense. He stood just a few feet away, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The distance between you seemed to shrink with each passing second, the silence heavy with unspoken words.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Joel said, his voice softer now, like he was letting down a barrier. “About how much you’ve changed things around here. Not just for the ranch, but... for me.”

Joel’s eyes flicked to your lips for the briefest moment before returning to your eyes. And in that instant, the world seemed to still, the sounds of the ranch fading into nothing.

With a slight movement, Joel reached out, his hand gently cupping your cheek. It was a soft, almost tentative gesture, but there was a strength to it, an undeniable certainty in the way his thumb brushed across your skin.

Your heart pounded in your chest, and you could feel the warmth of his touch spread through you, igniting something that had been slowly building since you arrived.

Before you could think, before the moment could slip away, you leaned in.

Joel’s hand slid around to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened, the world around you melting away. His lips were warm and insistent, and the gentle pressure of his kiss sent a thrill rushing through you. For a moment, it was just the two of you—the world and all its distractions faded into the background.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and slightly dazed, you rested your forehead against his, your eyes fluttering open to meet his gaze. There was a quiet understanding between you now, something new, something that had shifted in the space between the two of you.

Joel’s voice was barely more than a whisper as he spoke. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while.”

You smiled, your chest full, heart racing. “I think I’ve wanted you to.”

He chuckled softly, his thumb brushing across your cheek. “You’re not what I expected, you know that?”

You laughed softly, the sound light and genuine, before stepping back just slightly, your fingers brushing his. “Neither are you.”

You were up earlier than usual, moving through the kitchen in a daze of thoughts, your mind still racing from the kiss. The silence of the ranch was comforting, almost like a cocoon, wrapping you up in the stillness of everything around you.

Joel hadn’t said much when you parted ways the night before, but the look in his eyes—intense, yet soft—had told you everything. It was clear that neither of you had expected the shift that had come so naturally, but now, there was no denying it. Whatever had just begun, it wasn’t something you could walk away from.

You heard the soft sound of boots on the porch, the familiar rhythm of Joel’s steps as he made his way toward the house. You turned around just as he entered, the sight of him bringing an unexpected rush of warmth to your chest.

He smiled, a little shy, a little unsure—like he was still figuring out where to stand in all of this. You both were.

“Mornin’,” he greeted softly, his deep voice carrying a quiet sincerity.

“Morning,” you replied, offering him a smile that felt more like home than anything else.

By the time breakfast was ready, the kitchen was filled with the scent of eggs and bacon, the soft clinking of plates as you set the table.

“Want to head out to the fields later?” Joel asked, his voice casual but with a hint of anticipation.

You nodded, your stomach fluttering with excitement. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Joel smiled, that familiar warmth returning to his expression.

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The sun hung high in the sky, casting long shadows across the fields as you and Joel made your way out into the vast expanse of the ranch. The air had warmed up since the early morning, and there was a gentle breeze rustling through the grass, carrying with it the sweet scent of wildflowers.

As you walked beside him, your thoughts drifted back to the peaceful breakfast you’d shared. The conversation had been easy, flowing naturally between you, but there had been something comforting in the silence, too.

When you reached the edge of the field, you stopped, your eyes falling on a patch of grass where Joel had already laid out a blanket. There, in the middle of the field, with nothing but the sounds of nature around you, he had set up a picnic. The scene was simple, but there was something about it that felt intimate, like a secret just for the two of you.

The two of you ate in comfortable silence, the easy rhythm of sharing a meal together only adding to the sense of peace that seemed to settle over you both. After a few moments, Joel reached for the book beside him, holding it out to you with a slight grin.

“I thought you might like this one,” he said, his voice quiet. “It’s one of my favorites. I’ll read it to you, if you’d like.”

You took the book from his hands, glancing at the cover—The Secret Garden. Your heart warmed at the thought of him wanting to share something so personal. It felt like an invitation to step into his world, to see the things he held close.

“I’d like that,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his.

Joel settled back against the blanket, the sun casting a golden glow over him, and you curled up beside him, resting your head on his shoulder. The moment felt so simple, but in its simplicity, it was perfect. The world outside this small bubble you had created seemed to fade away as he began to read aloud, his voice deep and steady, the words flowing smoothly into the air.

As he read, you let yourself relax, the sound of his voice weaving a sense of comfort around you. There was something incredibly romantic about the way he read, each word filled with a quiet intensity, like he was sharing a piece of himself with you in each sentence. The book’s story was a good one, the characters coming to life with Joel’s voice, but it wasn’t just the story that held your attention—it was the feeling of being here with him, in this moment, with nothing else to do but listen and be present.

You could hear the occasional breeze stirring the trees, the distant call of a bird, but everything else seemed to fade into the background as you found yourself wrapped up in both the story and in him.

Eventually, Joel turned a page, pausing for a moment as he glanced at you. “You comfortable?” he asked, his voice low, almost like a whisper.

You nodded, lifting your head slightly to look up at him. “I’m perfect,” you said, and it was true. There was no place you’d rather be than here, beside him, feeling the warmth of the day and the gentleness of his presence.

Joel gave you a soft smile, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he returned to the book. He continued reading, his voice almost a soothing hum against the backdrop of the quiet ranch. Every now and then, you’d glance up at him, watching the way the sunlight caught in his hair, the way he spoke with such focus and care. It was moments like this—quiet, intimate, with no rush—that made everything feel so right.

As the story unfolded, you both became more absorbed in the tale, but time seemed to stretch, becoming less important. The whole world could have passed by, and you wouldn’t have noticed. It was just the two of you, sharing a peaceful day in the fields, wrapped up in a story and in each other.

When Joel finished the chapter, he closed the book and placed it beside him, his hand gently resting on the blanket. He looked over at you, his expression soft.

“Did you like it?” he asked, his voice a little hushed.

You smiled, a soft warmth spreading through you. “I did. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

He nodded, his lips curving up at the corners. “You’re welcome.”

There was a moment of quiet, a small but meaningful silence that held everything you both hadn’t yet said, but didn’t need to. You shifted slightly, turning to face him more fully, your gaze catching his. You could feel the subtle change in the air between you, the quiet understanding that had been building all morning, now palpable.

Slowly, as if it had always been meant to happen, you leaned in, closing the space between you. Joel’s hand gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin, and then, without any more words needed, your lips met. The kiss was slow and tender, the kind that lingered in your soul long after it ended.

When you pulled away, you stayed close, your foreheads resting together, both of you breathing in the same quiet rhythm.

“I think I could get used to this,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel smiled, his eyes soft with affection as he gazed at you. “Yeah. Me too.”

"You’ve... you’ve got a way of making everything feel a little different," Joel said, his voice catching slightly as he looked into your eyes. The silence that followed was thick, the weight of his words settling between you like a promise, an unspoken acknowledgment of something growing deeper between you both.

You could feel your heart beating a little faster. The way he was looking at you now was unlike anything you’d seen before. His gaze was hungry, but not in the way it had been before—this was more. More raw, more real.

You didn’t say anything in response. Instead, you let the tension build, your breath shallow as you reached for him, cupping his jaw gently in your hand. His breath hitched as your thumb traced the line of his jaw, and you couldn’t help but lean in just a little, your lips barely brushing against his.

Joel’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and when he opened them again, the storm that had always been present was even clearer now. You could see the restraint in the way his body was coiled, like a man holding back the tide.

“Don’t hold back,” you whispered, not trusting yourself to say more.

Joel didn’t need any more encouragement. His lips crashed against yours, hot and urgent, a mixture of relief and longing as if he were finally giving in to something he’d held at bay for far too long. The kiss was fierce, as though he were trying to make up for all the time spent keeping his distance.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging him closer as his hands gripped your waist, pulling you into him with a strength that made your breath hitch. The heat between you two grew, making the air around you seem almost too thick to breathe. You could feel the solid weight of him against you, the way his chest pressed into yours with each kiss, the way his hands wandered across your back, memorising every curve of you.

His lips left yours only long enough for him to breathe, his forehead resting against yours. "God, you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me," Joel murmured, his voice rougher than usual, the words a low growl.

You laughed breathlessly, your hands still resting on his chest. "I think I’m starting to get the idea."

The blanket beneath you was rough against your bare thighs, the late afternoon sun warming your skin as Joel hovered over you, his body casting a shadow that made the gold in his eyes burn even brighter. His lips had just left yours, swollen and wet from the way he’d kissed you—deep, consuming, like he was trying to memorise the taste of you.

"You’re sure about this?" he asked, voice rough, his fingers flexing against your hips like he was already fighting the urge to take more.

In answer, you arched up against him, your chest brushing his, and Joel let out a low groan, his forehead dropping to yours.

"Christ," he muttered, his breath hot against your lips. "Out here like this—anyone could—"

You cut him off with a roll of your hips, grinding against the hard length of him, and Joel cursed, his restraint snapping.

His hands were everywhere at once—one tangling in your hair, the other sliding up your thigh, pushing the fabric of your dress higher until his calloused fingers met bare skin. You gasped as he traced the edge of your underwear, his touch teasing, maddening.

"Joel—"

"Tell me what you want," he growled, his lips brushing the shell of your ear before dragging down your neck, teeth scraping lightly.

You whimpered, your fingers clutching at his shirt. "You. Just you."

That was all it took.

His hand slid beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers finding you already wet, already aching for him. He groaned against your throat as he stroked you, slow at first, then firmer when your hips jerked against his touch.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he rasped, watching the way your body responded to him. "Look at you."

You could feel the tension coiling tighter, your breath coming in short gasps as his fingers worked you with a precision that had your toes curling. But just as you were teetering on the edge, Joel pulled back, leaving you empty, desperate.

Your protest was cut off when his mouth crashed back onto yours, his kiss filthy, his tongue sliding against yours as he guided your hand to his belt.

"Wanna feel you," he muttered against your lips, his voice wrecked. "All of you."

You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers fumbled with the buckle, then the button of his jeans, and when you finally freed him, Joel hissed through his teeth, his hips jerking into your touch.

He was thick, hot in your hand, and when you stroked him, his entire body tensed, his grip on your thigh tightening almost to the point of pain.

"Fuck—" His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his breath ragged. "Gonna ruin me."

You smiled, squeezing lightly, and Joel growled, his patience gone.

In one swift motion, he yanked your underwear aside and pushed into you, filling you so completely that you cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders.

Joel stilled, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. "Okay?" he gritted out, his voice strained.

Joel's breath was fire against your neck, his body trembling with restraint as he waited for your answer.

"More than okay," you gasped, arching into him, needing him deeper.

That was all the permission he needed.

Joel moved with a roughness that stole your breath—deep, relentless strokes that had you seeing stars. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you exactly where he wanted you as he drove into you again and again.

"Look at me," he growled, his voice raw.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his dark, hungry gaze. Sweat glistened on his brow, his jaw clenched tight with pleasure. The sight of him—undone, wrecked, yours—sent a fresh wave of heat spiraling through you.

"Joel—"

"Know what you do to me?" he rasped, his thrusts turning slower, deeper, dragging against every sensitive inch inside you. "Fuckin' ruin me."

You clenched around him, and his control snapped.

With a groan, Joel flipped you onto your back, pinning your wrists above your head as he surged into you, his rhythm turning desperate. His lips crashed against yours, swallowing your moans as pleasure coiled tighter, hotter—until you shattered, crying out his name.

Joel followed with a broken groan, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside you, his forehead dropping to yours.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing, the heat of his body pressed against yours. Then Joel exhaled, rough and unsteady, his thumb brushing your cheek.

"Christ," he muttered, voice wrecked.

You grinned, still trembling beneath him. "That a complaint?"

Joel huffed a laugh, pressing a kiss to your pulse point. "Ain't even close."

His touch gentled as he traced the curve of your waist, your hip, the inside of your thigh—checking, silently, for any discomfort. When he found none, his hand returned to cradle your face, his thumb brushing your kiss-swollen bottom lip.

"You good?" The question was gruff, but his eyes—dark and liquid in the low light—held an intensity that made your stomach flip.

You caught his wrist, pressing a kiss to his palm. "Better than good."

Joel’s throat worked. He leaned in, kissing you slow and deep, nothing like the frantic heat of before. This was something else—a claiming, a promise, a thank you that didn’t need words.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. His nose brushed yours, his breath warm on your skin. "Gonna take care of you," he murmured, already moving to slide down your body.

You caught his shoulder. "Joel—"

"Shhh." A kiss to your sternum. "Let me."

His mouth was hot as it traced the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his beard scraping deliciously. You gasped when his tongue laved over you, slow and thorough, his hands spreading you wide.

"Joel—"

His grip tightened. "Told you," he growled against your skin. "Gonna take my time."

And he did.

By the time he was done, you were boneless and breathless, your fingers tangled in his hair as he crawled back up your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, your ribs, the flutter of your pulse.

"Still good?" he asked, his voice rough with satisfaction.

You could only nod, your limbs heavy with pleasure.

Joel smirked, that rare, real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. Then he gathered you against him, tucking your head under his chin, his heartbeat steady against your cheek.

"Rest," he murmured, his hand stroking down your spine. "I got you."

And for the first time in your life, you believed it.

As you drifted, Joel reached for the spare blanket, draping it over you both. His fingers traced idle patterns on your shoulder—circles, spirals, the occasional brush of his knuckles—as if memorising you by touch.

Joel’s lips brushed your forehead. "Stay?"

Not a command. A question.

You curled closer, your leg hooking over his. "Try and make me leave."

His chest rumbled with quiet laughter, his arms tightening around you. "Wouldn’t dare."

And in the quiet that followed, wrapped in the heat of him, you realised—

You were home.

[gold-onthe-inside]

swallows and ravens

n. def: operatives who use sex as a tool; to engage in sexual activity with the targeted person and gather the intelligence either through pillow talk or blackmail.

who? spencer reid (s7) x analyst!reader summary: after getting caught in the rain after a bookstore date, you and spencer have the perfect moment to take things to the next level. content warnings: smut, oral (f recieving), penetrative sex, softdom!spencer, brat/brat-tamer dynamics if you squint, no use of contraceptives (please use protection people), no use of y/n, NSFW MDNI 18+ ONLY word count: 4k (no judging) a/n: based on the prompt "you look good on your knees like this", written for my 1k event

The only protection you have from the rain is a pair of newspapers, clutching your bags of books as you and Spencer run from the subway exit to his building, before you end up having to spend the night in the tunnels waiting for the rain to stop. You’re shivering beside him, watching him fumble with his keys to open the door to get you both inside. He lets out a triumphant noise as the lock clicks and he hurries you inside and out of the rain.

Once the pair of you are safely inside and out of the rain, Spencer takes the soggy newspapers from you, folding them neatly and leaving them to dry out, then pulls his bag off his shoulder, dumping it in the floor, toeing off his sneakers beside it, and peeling off his mismatched socks.

You tugged off your coat, teeth chattering as you hung it on a chair, looking down at your long black dress, soaked and clinging to your skin. You shake out your wet arms, sweeping damp hair back and out of your face as you look at your boyfriend. God, that was still so new to you. Spencer Reid, your roommate's team member, the guy you used to tolerate, now your boyfriend. You don't know how to get used to that idea.

“I really didn’t think we’d get caught in the rain,” he was saying, grabbing the throw off the couch and walking over to wrap you up in it. “I knew I should’ve gotten us to leave earlier, but that classics section was like a wormhole. A-and to be fair, I was only looking for Moliere because I thought you’d like his work—”

“Spencer, breathe,” you reminded him, trying not to laugh as he zealously rubbed your arms to warm you up. “It’s rainwater, not acid.”

Spencer pouted but did as he was told. He did have a tendency to ramble, he’d been trying to tone it down for a while now. He settled for running his hands over your arms and then pulling you just a little closer in the hopes that his body heat might just help to warm you up a bit faster. “You’re shivering,” he muttered.

"I think I'll survive," you said, voice muffled against his chest.

He chuckled, wrapping his arms around your middle and pulling you as close as humanly possible, letting you bury your face in his chest. “We should probably get you out of those wet clothes,” he said.

"Bet you say that to all the girls," you said into his chest.

“Ha ha,” Spencer said, rolling his eyes. “You’re hilarious,” he said, although he couldn’t help the smirk that was spreading over his face, and the way his arms just held you that little bit tighter at your comment. You raised your head, tipping your chin up so he could kiss you.

He obliged, tilting your chin up even farther until he met your lips in a soft kiss. His arms wrapped even further around your waist, his palms splaying out across your lower back, holding you to him as his lips slowly moved over yours.

Spencer gently backed you up until your the backs of your knees hit the edge of the couch, at which point he used that as leverage to push you down onto the couch. He ended up on his knees, breaking away from your lips to pull your boots off.

"You think of everything, don't you?" you asked softly, letting the throw fall away and smiling at him.

"I’d like to think so." He smirked at you, arranging your shoes on the floor beside his bag. His knuckles brushed over your skin as he lifted your bare foot into his lap, fingers working to slowly peel your stockings down your leg from your thighs.

"Or maybe this whole thing was planned," you continued, grinning at him. "Wine and dine your girlfriend, buy her books, get her caught in the rain and then have your way with her."

Spencer was in the middle of tugging your other stocking down your leg, the smooth fabric gliding under his fingers, and he paused, looking up to meet your gaze, an unamused but still playful look on his face. “Don’t give me any ideas.”

"I'm just saying, I'd be impressed," you said, shrugging before reaching out to smooth back damp curls from his forehead.

Spencer chuckled, leaning forward and pressing his lips to the side of your knee, his hands sliding up your leg, pushing the now discarded stocking out of the way. “Can’t a guy just be sweet sometimes?”

"Sure. But you're sweet all the time, which is suspicious," you replied, watching him.

“So, what? I have ulterior motives now?” His hands slid higher up your thighs, now completely discarding the stockings and moving to push up the hem of your dress, up your calf.

"I'd be a little disappointed if you didn't think about it at all," you said, your voice dipping lower as his hands drifted higher, still on his knees in front of you.

“Never said I didn’t think about it at all,” he said, fingers tracing over your skin, his gaze now lingering over your thighs. It was subtle, but he could feel his jeans getting a little tighter as he slowly pushed your skirt up further. “I’m only human, after all.”

You tutted playfully. "And here I thought you were a robot."

He let out a huff, shaking his head. “You’re so mean to me,” Spencer said with a small pout that you know is an invitation for you to kiss away. His lips are soft, if a little chapped, and cool against yours, your hands sliding over his jaw.

“Would it help if I told you that you look very good on your knees like this?” you asked softly and he hummed a little in response.

“Doesn’t hurt,” he whispered, kissing you again, hands firmly placed on your soft thighs, grunting a little against your lips as your hand threaded into his damp hair. His hands cupped the back of your knees, pulling you closer and your legs apart. His tongue broached your bottom lip, seeking permission for entry, and when you part your lips for him, his tongue sweeps over the roof of your mouth. The hand holding your knee comes up to cup your jaw, kissing you until his lungs ached for air. Even then, he can’t stop himself from pressing a few more soft brief kisses to your reddened lips. When his eyes meet yours, there’s a charged moment, as if debating internally whether it was too soon to take this inside.

He looked at you, his thumb tracing softly over your cheek. His breathing was a little ragged, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away just yet, his grip on your thighs still keeping you pinned exactly where he wanted you. His gaze was half-lidded, almost lost in you, but he snapped out of it when a shiver shot through your body, only realising that you were still in soaked clothes. He cleared his throat. “Jokes aside, you need to get out of those clothes.”

"Yeah," you murmured, still slightly dazed, either by the intensity of the kiss or by the lack of air to your brain, but you need a moment to come back to yourself. "Um... clothes?"

He chuckled again, the sound soft and low in his throat. “Yes, those.” He moved to help you up off of the couch, taking your hand in his. “I’ll lend you some of my clothes for now, and you can worry about yours later.” He pulled you along with him toward the bedroom.

You smiled, unable to help the playful tone in your voice, “I knew it, this was all just a ploy to get me alone.”

“You caught me.” His arm looped around your waist, his lips finding the juncture between your neck and shoulder to place a kiss there. “I’m just an evil mastermind, really.”

“Truly the worst,” you murmured, your hand running over his neck and cupping the back of it as he unzipped your dress, pressing soft kisses to your jaw and cheek. He can never seem to stop himself when it comes to you, years of repressed yearning from afar rushing out. But it’s new, this thing between you, and he never wants to push you too far, worried that the bleeding heart on his sleeve would scare you off.

“Want me to stop?” he asked softly, begging in his head for you to say no, relief settling in his chest when you shake your head and he can kiss you again, peeling off the wet fabric and Christ, you take his breath away, in more ways than one. He’s intimately aware that he’s wearing too many layers, rectifying the matter as quickly as he could while also guiding you to the bed and you have to stifle a giggle as his hand gets caught in his shirt trying to tug it off.

“Don’t laugh,” he whined, pouting a little.

“I’m trying,” you reply, defensive as you chase his lips, hands helping him work off the drenched shirt. He sighed into your mouth as he freed himself, hands returning to cup your face as he kissed you, slow and languid, taking his time. You shifted, sliding your hand over his side, shivering as his hand drifted down your neck as you lay back against the pillows. His thumb traced your clavicle, trailing his lips down your jaw again, warm and open-mouthed.

His touch is gentle, reverent, as his lips and tongue move over your skin. His hand on your side begins to trace over the smooth skin there, his thumb grazing the underside of your breast. His lips continue to move in a slow, torturous path down your neck and over your collarbone. As his fingers skim the underside of your breast, he feels you shiver beneath him and he pauses, pulling back just enough to look at you.

Your skin is flushed as you shift beneath him, your pupils slightly dilated. He watches your breath hitch as his gaze lingers over your face, and he feels his heart flutter as your lips part softly. He feels a little heady as he takes you in, the way your hair is splayed over the pillow behind your head, the way your hands cling to his forearms, the way your body is so perfectly molded to his, and he has to swallow before he speaks. “You’re gorgeous,” he murmured, voice soft and barely above a whisper.

"So are you," you murmured back, smiling at him. He returned the smile, his cheeks flushing a bit at the compliment. His hand moved in time with his mouth, skimming across the curve of your breast and down your stomach. He could feel your breath quickening, your body arching up into his touch, the way your eyes fluttered briefly and it sent a shiver down his spine. His fingers broached the border of your underwear, dipping under the lace, torturously slow.

His touch is slow and careful as his fingers trace over the lace of your underwear, the pads of his fingers grazing over the sensitive skin of your hip. He watches the way your body reacts to his touch, the gooseflesh that pricks up on your skin, the way your breathing becomes uneven, the way your hips shift up just the smallest amount as if asking for more. His fingers linger at the waistband of your underwear, hovering for a moment before tugging them down past your hips.

You shift your hips to help, swallowing as he settled between your legs, his hands pushing your thighs apart a little more. "Please," you murmured quietly, none of the prior teasing on your tongue. It's slightly embarrassing how badly you want him.

He was a little taken aback by the pleading note in your voice, but his hands gripped your legs and tugged you closer. “Christ,” he mumbled, his brain to mouth filter taking a backseat. “Begging already?”

"I take it back, you're awful," you said, but he cut your words off as he pressed his lips to your stomach. He laughed softly against your skin before he continued his path down your body, placing soft kisses over your stomach and thighs, drawing out every touch until you were squirming beneath him. He peppered kisses higher, higher, higher until he was finally right where he wanted to be. He looked up at you for a moment, taking in your ragged breathing, your flushed skin, the way your eyes were darkened and your lips were slightly parted, all because of him.

He lowered his head, lips grazing over your hip, and it felt like you might combust as his mouth traced your skin, closer, closer to where you want him. A small noise escaped you as your body writhed from anticipation, and he chuckled against your skin. “Impatient.”

“Tease,” you retorted, receiving a soft squeeze under your thigh before he dragged his tongue over your folds, guiding one leg over his shoulder, warm, wet pressure taking away any ability you had to form words. He flattens his tongue against you, lapping in long, slow strokes that make you squirm for more, his hands drifting from your thighs to your hips to hold you in place. He flicks his tongue over your clit, taking his time, wanting to hear the noises you make, the way your body moves against his face, desperate for release, and God, he could do this for hours. He can feel his own arousal building, hard against the mattress.

You can feel the way he grinds against the mattress, desperate for some friction, but he doesn’t break his rhythm, tongue still sliding over you, bringing you closer and closer to the edge, and he could feel how close you were, the way you were trembling beneath him, the way your hands clenched at his hair, and he knew that you were right there, just needing a little more, and he wanted to hear you say his name in that breathless tone, but he was also worried that it would make him combust right then and there.

“Spencer.” The name falls from your lips in a breathless, wanton moan, and it’s all he has to hear. He redoubles his efforts, his grip on you tighter than before, and it’s too much, too much, and finally, your body comes apart, your vision going white and blank, your chest heaving as you ride it out, his name still on your lips and if he wasn’t completely gone for you before, he is now.

You lay there, boneless and panting. He pulls away, shifting up and crawling over you, body hovering above yours as he stares down at you. His mouth and chin glistened with you, and if you weren’t already spent, the sight would have done it. His pupils are dilated, his hair a mess, the flush on his cheeks obvious as his breathing becomes a bit uneven. You can't help yourself, reaching up to wipe his chin away and pull him closer to kiss.

He went easily, leaning down to meet your lips in a brief but passionate kiss, groaning into your mouth as he settled his body over yous. One of his hands moved up to cup the back of your neck, fingers tangling into your hair as his hips rocked against you, desperate for any kind of friction as his jeans grew even tighter. Your hands drift to his jeans, popping the button and unzipping the rain-soaked denim for him, hand slipping underneath to palm his arousal.

He cursed into your mouth as your hand wrapped around him, and he has to break the kiss, his forehead resting against yours as his breathing becomes ragged and he rocks into your hand. He’s trying his best to hold back, but it’s hard when you feel so good, when he feels like he’s gonna explode the moment he touches you. His gaze locks onto yours as he tries to hold himself together. “Please,” he rasped. “Please, I need you.”

You did your best to tug his jeans down, Spencer doing the rest of the work. He kicked off his jeans, leaving him free to press his now bare body against yours, both of you groaning as the skin-to-skin contact sent sparks through your nerves. He’s pressed fully against you, his body flush against every inch of you, and it’s overwhelming in the best way, even more so when you shift beneath him, the contact making him swear. "I don't think I've ever heard you swear," you murmured, one hand caressing his side.

“Are you really gonna pick on me right now?” he mumbled huskily, his hands gripping your thighs and lifting them to wrap around his waist. The contact is too good and he can’t help the way his body rolls against yours, letting out a ragged gasp.

"Pretty much," you mutter.

His head dropped to the crook of your neck, nuzzling the sensitive skin there as he grumbled a little. He took a moment to compose himself before he lifted his head to glare down at you. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

"Yet, here you are, suffering," you retort, smiling at him in satisfaction.

He rolled his eyes, but there was no real annoyance in the gesture. He was too distracted by the way your body felt against his, the way your legs were wrapped around his waist, the way your hands were roaming over his sides, and he knew he was done for when you smirked up at him in smug satisfaction. “Yeah, whatever. Shut up.”

Despite his words, he shifted, lining himself up with your entrance, his gaze locked on your face to make sure you were still okay with this. He was so close to losing the last of his control, but he was willing to wait if you weren’t ready, but then you were nodding, and then he was pressing into you, and it was all at once intense and hot and overwhelming and he had to shut his eyes and drop his head onto your shoulder.

It took him a moment to adjust, every feeling heightened and overwhelming, and he had to take a deep breath before he could move, carefully pulling out and rolling his hips forward, slow and measured until he found a rhythm that made your head fall back against the pillow, a soft sigh escaping your lips. He leaned down to press a kiss to your jaw, your neck, any skin he could reach, wanting to memorize the way you sound and move and feel beneath him, wanting to brand the image into his mind, needing this to last for as long as possible.

He picked up the pace, his hands moving to grip your hips, pulling you even closer. His head is lowered, lips against your neck, your shoulder, his ragged breaths against your skin sending little chills through your body. You feel like you can’t catch your breath, like you’re drowning in the feel of him, the sounds he’s making, the way he surrounds you, and you desperately cling to him like a lifeline, anchoring yourself to him so you don’t drown.

His name is the only thing you can manage to moan and he is so gone, his heart pounding like a drum, breath ragged, and he feels like he’s gonna shatter into a million pieces, and it’s you, it's you, he needs you, and he can feel the way you’re clenching around him, close, so close. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you in place so he can give a hard thrust, and you cry out in pleasure, your hands clenching in the sheets, his name pouring from your lips like a prayer, and he’s right there.

He loses what bit of control he had left after that, a strangled moan escaping him as his rhythm falters, his body moving harder, faster, and he can’t think, can’t form words, he can’t do anything except feel. It’s too much in the best way, and he’s right on the edge, about to fall. “I’m so close,” he mutters, his voice ragged and breathless. “I just, I just need, god, I need you, so bad.”

"I’m right here, let go, angel," you murmured, clutching at him, one hand on his side, the other at his neck. He let out a ragged groan at the feeling of your hands on him, your touch on his skin and your voice in his ear, it’s the last straw, and suddenly, he’s tipping over the edge. His body clenches, his brain shutting everything off but you, all of his focus and attention on you as the orgasm rocks through him. He presses himself as close to you as he can, his arms wrapping around you tightly, his face buried in your neck as he trembles through the aftershocks.

He was shaking, breath ragged, but he couldn’t bring himself to move, he just held you close, his grip still tight as he tried to re-remember how to breathe, how to think. He stayed like that for a moment, before he finally lifted his head, looking down at you with an expression that was a mixture of awe and love and exhaustion, his hair mussed, sweat on his brow, and damn if he wasn’t beautiful.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," you breathed out, running a hand back through his hair.

His cheeks flushed, and he leaned into your touch, letting his eyes close for a moment before he looked at you. “Pot calling the kettle black,” he muttered lowly, his hand moving up to cup your face, thumb tracing your skin with a gentle touch. “That was… god, that was something else.”

You hummed in agreement, kissing him briefly. "You're something else." He returned the kiss, lingering for a moment before he settled beside you, tugging you close and nestling you against him. He was still catching his breath, trying to calm his racing heart, and he let out a deep exhale, his body finally starting to relax.

“I don’t think I can move,” he mumbled against your skin.

A chuckle rumbled through your chest, leaning on your elbow to look at him. "No?"

He gave you a tired look, eyes still a little glazed over. “No,” he affirmed, wrapping his arms around you and tugging you down into laying with him, not willing to release you just yet. “You’ve broken me. I have no motor functions.”

"Poor baby," you mocked.

“Hey now,” he grumbled, his tone more playful than annoyed. He pulled you a little closer, nuzzling his face into your neck. “I just did a lot of work. I deserve a break.”

"Yeah, you did," you murmured, sincerely this time. "Seriously, I would have asked you out a lot sooner if I'd known you were this good."

His cheeks flushed at your comment, a mix of pride and embarrassment on his face. “Don’t say that,” he protested weakly, trying to feign nonchalance, but your praise made him feel a little giddy. “I haven’t, y’know, done it in a while. I might be a little rusty.”

"Liar," you claimed. "No way you haven't practiced that."

He scowled at you, the expression falling flat due to his flushed cheeks. “I’m serious,” he insisted, his arms tightening around you. “And I wasn’t ‘practicing,’ that’s a weird term.”

"What would you call it?" you asked, raising a brow.

His brain sputtered for a moment, caught off guard by the question. What was the right answer to that? “Well… I just had… needs…” His explanation sounded stupid in his head, and his cheeks only grew hotter. “God, why do you make me say this stuff?” he muttered.

You can't help but laugh into his shoulder, your body shuddering against his. "You're so cute."

He let out a scoff, half-offended and half-embarrassed, but your giggles made the feeling vanish. He couldn’t stay annoyed when you laughed like that. “Just… stop teasing me,” he grumbled, even as he pressed a kiss to your hair.

"Never," you replied, looking at him again, bright eyes and fond features.

He feigned a look of annoyance, but couldn’t keep up the expression when faced with your gaze, and his irritation quickly softened. He let out a sigh, but a small smile was starting to form at the edges of his mouth. “You’re a menace,” he said, voice low and affectionate.

"M your menace," you murmured, kissing him gently.

His heart skipped a beat at that, and he felt warmth flood his chest as he returned the kiss, soft and tender this time. He held you close, his hand sliding up to gently cup the back of your head, his thumb tracing little patterns over your skin. “Yeah,” he murmured against your lips. “You’re mine.”

[nataliasquote]

Honesty pt. 9 | n romanoff

you can hear it in the silence

masterlist

summary: messy. that’s all :)

warnings: bad decisions, maybe a makeout session, natasha romanoff

pairings: enemies to… (natasha romanoff x o!c)

wc: 9.2k

note: so this is fun :) I hope you love all the drama and the wlw… :))

-⧗-

Natasha knew she was being almost unreasonably petty by adding another rehearsal into the schedule. And if her gut instinct wasn't enough, the sour look she received from Maria as she trudged downstairs was enough to confirm even the sneakiest of suspicions.

Her co-captain did nothing to hide her distain, her spoon clashing against the side of her cereal bowl the second Natasha waltzed through the door. Not a single word was spoken, but the focused side glare she received did not go unnoticed.

"What's up your ass?" Natasha asked, seemingly unbothered that she was basically poking a sleeping bear at this point. Maria didn't bother answering. She just continued to eat in the heavy silence, watching Natasha chop up fruit without a care in the world. "Why do you look like you want to set the kitchen on fire?"

Maria froze, spoon hovering somewhere between the bowl and her mouth. The audacity Natasha had sometimes was unheard of. "I had a date tonight," she spat out, lowering her spoon. "I had a date that I had to cancel all because you got your panties in a twist last night."

"Why are you suddenly so enthusiastic about my underwear?" A small smirk danced across Natasha's mouth as she chopped the stalks off her strawberries and tossed them into the blender.

"Is that really all you took from that sentence?"

Natasha shrugged, not seeming to care. Because she didn't. She was captain, she made the rules. As far as she was concerned, whatever was decided by Natasha Romanoff was what was going to happen. You could either like it or hate it, she didn't care.

"If you're looking for an apology, you're not going to get one."

"Then please explain to me why you took our free Friday night, which we agreed would never hold a rehearsal, and added a four hour session into it?" Maria let her cereal go soggy, the chocolate slowly flavouring the milk left in the bottom of the bowl. Natasha's answer was more interesting to her than breakfast now.

But the Russian - true to who she was - only shrugged, pressing the switch of the blender so the entire kitchen echoed with the harsh sound of blades grinding. Maria did love her best friend but often found herself wanting to smack her in the face with a fly swatter.

"Stella's gonna hate you for waking her up like this," she tried to yell over the blender, knowing full well Natasha could lip read anyway. But the redhead either had no respect for anyone, or she just chose to ignore Maria. Probably the latter.

Even with the jarring noise no longer rattling through their skulls, Nat still didn't comment. Not until provoked again, Maria's final straw.

"Because that team is a mess, and it's my job to fix them," was her simple answer.

"We've had this team for- not even a month!" Maria wiped her face with her hand in despair. "They're not going to get any better if you don't believe in them! That's like, rule one in any captain handbook!"

"If you think you can do a better job, then why don't you lead the session?"

"This is about last night, isn't it? With Kaia-"

"And that's none of your business." Natasha didn't wait around any longer, sweeping out of the room in a flash of red, smoothie in hand. Not ten seconds later did Maria hear the bedroom door slam shut and she slumped down with a sigh. Getting through to Natasha was like fighting a losing battle. It took so much of her energy with little to no result.

Upstairs, however, Natasha had pulled her laptop open and was carefully scrolling through Stella's list. She'd started selecting music for solos and assigned two individuals already, but with the events of last night hanging over her, her judgement was clouded.

Initially there was no way round giving Kaia a solo, which she'd begrudgingly done after numerous protests from Stella. A contemporary piece, one Natasha knew her old dance partner would excel at, was now staring back at her, the bold letters almost prising from the lit screen.

Quite frankly, Natasha didn't care what happened to Steve. She barely dated him anyway, just used him to get what she wanted. It wasn't what he did, but who he did it with. Seeing him with Kaia sparked something inside her, something she hated.

She quickly shut the lid and let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Solo selection had never felt this hard before, so why did it feel like everything was spinning around her head, just waiting for it to all come crashing down? Natasha hoped the rehearsal would go smoothly.

-⧗-

It did not go smoothly. Two dancers were off sick, Maria was holding her grudge and Kaia wouldn't even make eye contact with Natasha for the entire duration. The 'Work Song' routine was finished and polished, but Natasha's frustrations meant she nitpicked every tiny detail, working them into the ground until the alarm went off on her phone.

"I don't know what's wrong with you but you need to get your head out of your ass," Maria hissed the second the final dancer had left the studio. "What the hell was that?"

"What was what?"

Maria and Stella shared a look. "Dance team is supposed to be fun, Nat, not a fucking torture session. You're going to have people dropping out soon if you don't lighten the hell up."

Natasha stood with her back to her friends, arms folded as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her chest heaved as she thought, eyes darting to Maria's reflection behind her.

"Ok."

"Ok... ok what?" Natasha never gave in like this. Hearing an 'ok' was about as rare as a blue moon.

"I'll fix it." She grabbed her sports bag and had disappeared through the doors before Maria had even clocked what was going on. She stared at Stella in shock, her eyes widening as her brain scrambled to keep up.

"You know, one day I'm just gonna..." her hands made a choking motion and Stella stifled her laugh, ducking behind her laptop screen.

"Good luck with that."

Natasha stalked across campus, taking a shortcut between the library and the history building to reach the dorm block faster. Was this impulsive? Absolutely. If she stopped though, she'd never make it, the nagging part of her brain telling her to turn around.

But she was at dorm 201B before her wired brain could even process, a sharp knock on the door breaking through the silent corridor. It was only ten at night, basically noon for a college student.

After a few seconds, the door was hesitantly opened slightly, a familiar smile coming into view which quickly dropped in recognition of the unwelcome visitor.

"What do you want?"

Natasha adjusted her bag strap and rolled her shoulders. "Is Kaia in?"

"Why do you care?" Yelena narrowed eyes as she studied her sister, not trusting this interaction one bit.

"I need to talk to her."

"She's in the shower so you'll have to come back."

But Natasha was nothing if not stubborn. "I can wait."

Yelena stayed silent, hoping her sister would just leave her alone. But of course that didn't happen. What paranormal forces acted to make her open that door wider, Yelena had no idea, but somehow Natasha was now stood in the middle of her room, peering around at the decor choices. A lot of pink, she noticed.

The sound of the shower stopping made her head turn to the door and she could feel Yelena's eyes digging into the back of her head. The atmosphere was so thick it could have been sliced with a knife but Natasha stood her ground. Her bag was still on her shoulder but she hadn't even noticed.

"What do you want with her?" Yelena finally spoke up. "Why couldn't this have waited?"

"Because it couldn't. Now do you mind?"

They may not have been biological sisters, but the two girls certainly shared a lot of similar characteristics. Stubbornness and wit ran strong with both.

"Yes, I do mind actually." This made Natasha turn around, hands on her hips. "In case you haven't noticed, this is my room."

⧗ Kaia ⧗

Kaia's peaceful shower, mostly being used to soothe her sore muscles after Natasha's brutal class, was disrupted by the sound of Yelena's voice. The blonde Russian often sang aloud, but this didn't sound like any of the Taylor Swift songs she was currently hooked on. With her head tilted, Kaia switched off the shower for a moment and grabbed her towel, trying to listen out for voices. There was silence for a few moments before she heard it, and this was not singing.

The door handle was slippery with condensation but she managed to push it open anyway, towel tucked tightly around her body as she went to inspect her roommate's insanity levels.

"Lena, what-" if it wasn't tucked under her armpits, Kaia would have for sure lost grip on her towel as she saw the figure in the centre of the room. Her jaw dropped and eyes almost bulged out of her head as her body did a small factory reset.

Why Yelena didn't give her a warning to at least be dressed as she exited the bathroom, Kaia had no idea, but right now she wished she was anywhere else. A crocodile enclosure probably would have been more pleasant to her than being wrapped in a towel, still dripping from the shower, with her least favourite person stood three feet in front of her.

"What the hell!" She exclaimed, hands reaching to hold her towel closer to her body as she tried to backtrack into the bathroom, only to find the door had clicked shut behind her. "Why are you- what- Yelena?"

Natasha studied the girl in front of her, her eyes unable to be drawn away no matter how hard she tried. She scanned her, noticing things she'd never seen before. Kaia's hair looked almost black when wet, matching her eyelashes that were also thicker and darker from the water. Droplets rolled down her neck and collarbones before dipping below the towel to her chest. A silvery scar ran across her left shoulder, disappearing somewhere towards her back and several freckles were dotted lightly across her chest, whispers of colour against her otherwise pale skin.

"I don't know why you're here, but get the hell out!" Kaia had never felt so exposed before, and the hand that clutched her towel began to shake along with her bottom lip. "I mean it!"

"Kaia wait, I just-"

"Out, Natasha! Now!" Kaia was not an aggressive person by any means; she could barely squish flies. But in this moment even Natasha got slightly scared, scurrying towards the door like a kicked puppy, something Yelena had never seen before. She watched her sister leave in shock, blinking rapidly to try begin processing what the last sixty seconds had entailed.

But when she looked over at her best friend, she was not greeted with the soft smile she was used to. Kaia's glare was as stone cold as the landscape in their home country, blue eyes electric behind tears.

"What the fuck Yelena? You let her in here?" Kaia was still stood in the same place, water forming a small puddle on the stone floor under her feet.

"I- she wouldn't say what she needed but it seemed important. And she didn't take no for an answer."

"But you knew I was in the shower!" Kaia was both frustrated and incredibly embarrassed having been caught in a towel. She wasn't self conscious exactly, having worn some questionable costumes throughout her dance career. She knew her body was fine, but in her own dorm room was where she was vulnerable, not performing or playing a character. She let her guard down which sent her anxiety reeling.

"I thought you had clothes-"

"No, I told you I left my clothes out here! And you said it was fine." She gestured to a neatly folded pile of pyjamas on the end of her bed, staring at Yelena who looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her up. The surprise of Natasha at her door made Yelena forget, but she knew that wouldn't be an excuse.

"I'm sorry Ky, I really am." She hopped down from her bed and sidled up to her best friend, wrapping her arms around her damp body. Kaia didn't hug back and squirmed out of her arms. "I didn't think and I should have never let her in here. I don't know what went through my head."

"But that wasn't just anyone, Yelena. You had a fight with her yesterday, and now you're just letting her waltz in here with no issues?" Yelena went to protest but Kaia held up her hand. "Save it, I don't care. Whatever sisterly feud you've now got going on, keep it out of here. I don't want anything to do with it."

Kaia grabbed her pyjamas and turned back towards the bathroom, biting her lip to try and keep the tears at bay. Her anxiety was heightened when she was tired but she wouldn't let her tears fall. That was her promise to herself. Never cry over Natasha Romanoff.

"She was here for you."

You could hear a pin drop in the blanket of silence that fell across the dorm room. Kaia froze for the second time that evening, eyes fixated on a dark spot on the wooden door as she processed Yelena's words. Or at least tried to.

"What?"

"She wasn't here for me. I let her in because she asked to speak to you."

Kaia's body language gave no telltale signs to Yelena who stood behind her, the one person who could read her like a book. She was strangely still, the only movement coming from the droplets off her long hair.

"If I didn't trust you as much as I do, I'd call bullshit." She couldn't turn to face Yelena yet. "There's not one reason I can think of that would make her go out of her way to come and talk to me."

"Since when does Natasha ever do anything predictable?" Kaia hated that Yelena had a point. But she had started to shiver, whether that be from the cold or adrenaline, and wanted to get out of her wet towel quickly.

"Well she wouldn't come over her for fun. If she wants me that badly, she can find me tomorrow. I'm not dealing with this right now." With that, she slipped back into the bathroom, shutting the door with a bit more force than necessary.

And locked it.

Kaia never locked herself in.

Yelena was left to tend to her bruises herself, too scared to ask Kaia for help. But she couldn't help but pace as she applied the cream, hand flapping down by her side.

"I fucked up..."

-⧗-

⧗ Natasha ⧗

Sleep did not come easy to anyone that night. Kaia's mind was far too loud so she curled up facing the wall and stared aimlessly at the bricks until her eyes went fuzzy in the darkness. Yelena was on full alert, waiting and ready for any signs the girl across the room was upset. Guilt pressed down on her chest like a weight, pinning her to the mattress making it impossible to get comfortable.

And Natasha... she was also wide awake. But not with guilt or worry. No, she had one image in her mind and one image only.

Those goddamn freckles.

The way they wrapped around Kaia's left collarbone like a mini constellation, the way the colour seemed so stark against her milky skin. How delicate they were, almost as if they were hand placed by the lightest fingers.

Natasha turned in her bed for what felt like the millionth time, red numbers glowing '2:49' in her face angrily. That wasn't how it was supposed to go. That wasn't her 'fixing things'. In all honesty, the encounter only made her worse.

They were supposed to talk like adults, a two minute conversation at most to try and ease some of the iciness between them. But instead of having a steady mind, she was reeling like a teenage boy, unable to sleep after seeing a half naked girl.

It wasn't even that Kaia had been in a towel that bothered her. She'd seen plenty of people in less clothing than that, Natasha truly wasn't phased. It was almost as if she felt... bad? She couldn't figure it out. And, among other things, Natasha despised not knowing.

Swinging her legs out of bed, she headed down to the kitchen, not bothering to flick on the light. Darkness was comforting, less exposing, and she knew her house well enough to not trip over. There was a faint glow in the kitchen from the emergency lighting, a feature every student house had to have by law. But that was enough to help her retrieve the bottle, taking a swig straight from the neck.

Natasha welcomed the burn in her throat it slipped down, following one gulp with another. Vodka wasn't her drink of choice at a party, but it was her go-to during a night plagued by thoughts. It shut her brain up for a bit. Only dance had the same effect.

Her bare elbows pressed against the cold countertop as she leaned, her chin dropping onto her hands. She rarely dreaded anything, but Natasha dreaded the day to come. She knew what she had to do before Yelena came after her and despite not caring what her sister thought, that relationship was held dear to her heart and was not going to be ruined by a stupid slip up.

With the bottle in one hand and a cookie in the other, Natasha returned to her bed with a clearer mind. Until the crumbs that scattered across her bare thigh brought an image reeling back into her mind that made her want to smack herself around the head with a vodka bottle.

She took another swig for good measure and flicked off her lamp, forcing any distraction in her head that would help her sleep. Something worked, and she was out in minutes.

She had more clarity when she woke, thanking the universe it was finally the weekend. She immediately grabbed her phone and opened her messaging app, ignoring the multitude of instagram follows and dms she'd received overnight.

Her stomach clenched upon seeing the last message in their text chain, a compliment she didn't know how to take so just ignored.

After deliberating for what felt like hours over what to say, she hit send and placed her phone back down, combing her hands through her hair anxiously. Natasha didn't expect a reply straight away. Even if Kaia was on her phone, she'd ignore the message until curiosity got the better of her. But that could take hours.

Those hours ticked by like treacle, driving Natasha almost insane. She was an experienced multitasker, but she couldn't bring her mind to focus on anything else. Her toast burned, coffee was too bitter and even the weather wasn't playing to her favour. Gone was the blissful summer sun, now replaced with threatening dark clouds.

With her jersey tugged on over a pair of athletic leggings, she curled up on the couch to catch up on episodes of her guilty pleasure reality show. She loved them, knowing her life wasn't as petty or fake as the plastic blondes parading around on screen. The house was weirdly quiet, with Stella out with her boyfriend and Maria off to meet the date she had to cancel on last night. Great day to be single, really.

Her hand reached into the bag of popcorn on her lap periodically, but the sweet snack did nothing to ease her boredom. She hated waiting. No one made Natasha Romanoff wait.

Except Kaia.

Clearly.

It wasn't until gone twelve that a response vibrated on her phone and suddenly everything else was irrelevant. The screaming match on screen was immediately paused as the redhead reached for her phone, letting out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

But Natasha caught herself in the reflection of her screen. Since when did she care this much? Not even finals got her this stressed, and this was a simple message between... friends? No that wasn't the right word. Acquaintances? She'd know Kaia long enough to be past that stage, so labelling their relationship was somewhat of a mystery.

Shaking her head, she tapped on the message and bit her lip.

Coffee shop. 10 minutes.

Bossy. That was her first thought. Yet somehow the curt text did nothing to stop her from grabbing her shoes. Natasha ran over her words in her mind, trying to push last night's incident as far back as possible. The whole way over she rehearsed what she was going to say, gritting her teeth as she went against her nature. She was never one for apologies but coming into contact with Yelena's fists and knees again was not exactly on her agenda for the week.

Kaia was sat tucked away in a window seat, head down as she typed away on her phone. Her legs were crossed and Natasha could sense how closed off she was, even from the opposite side of the room. But that didn't deter her.

The red tank top and black leather jacket looked more like an outfit seen on the redheaded Russian, but she couldn't hide the fact that the brunette looked good. Her style was simple but effortless and the small stack of bracelets on her wrist only highlighted how put together she was.

"Hi."

The most minuscule greeting slipped out of Natasha's full lips as she sat down, nowhere near the confidence she intended to portray. Kaia's eyes flicked up, noticing with an unreadable expression who was sitting in front of her, and placed her phone face down on the table, arms crossing over her chest.

Her eyebrow twitched up, a clear invitation for Natasha to keep talking. She wasn't here for pleasantries and they both knew all too well that Yelena was the only reason Kaia was sitting here right now.

"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. For last night and everything before that." Her raspy voice sounded sincere which made Kaia's blue eyes flicker in surprise, those words having never been associated with the redhead before. "I've been a bitch, I know."

"Are you drunk?" Came Kaia's response after a few awkward moments of silence.

Natasha's face dropped in confusion. Did she sound slurred? "No?"

"Are you hearing yourself?

Natasha truly had no idea where this was going. "What?"

"You just said sorry. Natasha Romanoff just said sorry. To me." Kaia's lips tugged into a small smile, one she desperately tried to hide. "I should really be filming this for safekeeping."

"Ok don't make this harder than it has to be," Natasha said with an eye roll. This is exactly why she hated vulnerability. "Can we just start over? A clean slate, forgetting about everything that's happened since the start of the year."

The brunette was silent for a moment. "I just want to know why," she sighed. "Why now? You've hated me since we were twelve and fourteen years old. And to be honest, Natasha, I've accepted that. I didn't come to Pale Oak for you, or anyone else. I came here because I want to dance for the rest of my life, and you know as well as I do that this university has some of the best New York connections in the country." She looked down, fiddling with the ring on her right thumb. "Why does it matter to you what we think of each other?"

Natasha was slightly taken aback by her little outburst but she listened intently, trying to come up with an equally logical answer from the assortment of words flying around her brain. Her eyes flickered down to Kaia's collarbone before she hauled them back again, trying to keep her head.

"It's for the team." One of the lamest answers she could possibly give. "We'll work better if there's no tension between us. And I'm not asking you to suddenly act like we're best friends, not at all. I'll stay out of your way, you stay out of mine, but this coldness between us goes. Besides, both Stella and Maria will kill me if you quit."

Kaia chewed on her lip as she studied the wooden tabletop. "I would never quit."

"Even though I act like a bitch sometimes?"

"All the time," Kaia jumped back, almost daring Natasha to stop her. But the redhead didn't and she respected that. "And no, as I said, I'm used to it." Her tone was cold towards the end, something Natasha didn't miss.

A weird silence settled over the table but it wasn't as hostile as it had been when they first sat down. There was something intriguing about the brunette in front of her and Natasha couldn't work it out. She was one of the only people who never truly backed down and wasn't scared of her. Most people avoided eye contact with Natasha whenever they could, but not Kaia.

She had a fire inside her which pulled Natasha in, both angering her and exciting her simultaneously. Kaia may have an overactive mind that almost constantly lied to her, but she knew how to hold her ground and stand up for herself. And Natasha had never noticed it before, too blinded by jealousy and hatred for the girl to even attempt to see beyond that.

But a common theme would always get in her way: wherever Kaia was, Yelena wasn't far behind. And in this instance, the blonde had given them twenty minutes before she decided it was time to intervene. She still wanted both girls to be alive.

Her shadow crossed the table and a plastic iced coffee cup was placed in front of Kaia, her face lighting up almost immediately. Yelena sank down onto the plush seat beside her and winked before looking over at her sister.

But Natasha didn't acknowledge Yelena straight away. She was too busy watching the icy expression morph into a beautiful smile on Kaia's face at the sight of her best friend. Having spent two years away at university, she'd missed how the girls grew up during their final teenage years. Gone was the youthful roundness of Kaia's face, now replaced by high cheekbones and an angled jaw. Her Russian genes were strong.

A kick under the table brought her back to reality, the harsh glare from Yelena's green eyes boring into her forehead.

"What happened here? No one is crying, you both look unharmed and Nat, you're staring at Ky like she grew a second head." Yelena tried her hardest to read the room but no one was giving her anything.

"Your sister apologised."

A hand came flying at Kaia's forehead, slapping her a little too hard in an effort to check her temperature. Yelena did the same for Natasha, who leaned back to avoid getting smacked.

"You're not sick, so no one is hallucinating," she deduced, Natasha and Kaia sharing a look. "Did I really miss that much? You guys are friends now?"

"Definitely not friends."

"Frenemies?" Yelena offered with a smile, but Natasha rolled her eyes. "You guys are giving me nothing. I wanted gossip, drama, yelling, crying-"

"In a coffee shop on a Saturday?" Kaia deadpanned, not impressed at all.

"You're no fun."

"Look, I should go." Natasha looked over at Kaia and flashed a smile. "Again, I'm sorry about yesterday," she said, standing up and adjusting her jersey.

"It's ok."

A smirk graced her lips as she looked the brunette up and down. "You looked good, though." And she was gone, disappearing through a crowd of people, leaving Kaia frozen in her seat.

"Ew did she just flirt with you?" Yelena grimaced, sliding into her sister's seat. "That was gross."

"It's Natasha, you know how she is."

"Not with you though, never. That should never have happened. You're like my sister."

"Trust me, that's not the weirdest thing to happen today."

-⧗-

⧗ Kaia ⧗

Saturday night was party night, and Kaia and Yelena sure took their time to get glammed up. Yelena wasn't much of a 'dresses' girl, but her black wide jeans and dark green mesh top still looked striking, especially with her dark eyeliner. And where would she be without her combat boots?

Neither of them knew who was hosting this party but invites had been pushed under their door so it didn't bother them. One of the frat houses probably, but they all looked the same.

The strong stench of alcohol and weed hit them straight in the face as Kaia pushed the front door open, lights and music assaulting her senses along with the smell. She could barely see past the sea of bodies so reached behind her for Yelena's hand, locking their fingers tight. The blonde acted as her guard dog, and based on the looks she received from a few guys and girls alike on their way over, Kaia needed her guard dog.

A black, skin tight, silk dress adorned her body, stopping mid thigh with a daringly low neckline. Her curls were ironed flat so her hair hung in a sleek curtain past her shoulders, brushing on the corset back of her dress. Her usual converse had been swapped for a pair of strappy black heels, accentuating her long, toned legs. All in all, she was a sight for sore eyes.

Yelena took it upon herself to glare at every male she encountered as they headed towards what was assumed to be the kitchen. Or at least where the drinks were. She had a right mind to punch a couple straight in the balls as their eyes lingered on Kaia for a split second too long. Kaia was hers, so they could back off.

"Punch?"

"At least five so far-"

"I meant the drink Lena." Kaia held out a cup filled with red liquid to her blonde who was scowling over her shoulder. "You need to chill out, seriously."

"I'll do that when they stop ogling you like a fucking dog bone."

Kaia shrugged and took a sip, blue eyes darting around the room. There wasn't anyone she recognised here but she had Yelena which set her at ease. "You can react if they try anything. It's not our fault boys can't handle their hormones properly."

Yelena went to protest but felt Kaia give her arm a tug so she dropped it, blindly following her best friend into the main function room.

What once was probably a living room was now the centre of the party. Large speakers stood at either end and blasted music so loud the floor vibrated slightly. A mess of bodies 'danced' (Kaia could hardly call that dancing) together in the centre, chanting the lyrics and screaming as the beat drop hit.

A scream sounded far too close to Kaia's left ear and she winced, turning around to see Wanda stood there, a blonde boy hovering over her shoulder.

"You never told me you were coming!" The Sokovian yelled over the music, pulling her friend into a hug. Yelena got dragged into it too as she hadn't managed to detach herself from Kaia's arm in time.

"I didn't know you knew about it."

Wanda grinned and tugged the boy into her side, placing her hand on his arm. "Kaia, Yelena, this is Pietro! My-"

"Your brother? I thought you said you guys were twins!"

The Sokovians shared a knowing look. Kaia was right to be suspicious; they didn't look anything alike. "It's the hair. He's going through a bleach phase."

"It's not a phase" Pietro muttered, glaring slightly at his sister who was too buzzed to care.

"Sure, that's what you told Papa!"

He wasn't all that great around people, being the introvert out of the two. So after a small smile and nod of the head, Pietro wandered off in search of who knows what and Kaia took some time to down her drink. This party required alcohol, there was too much going on to even think about handling it sober.

"How long have you been here?" She asked Wanda, eyeing up a dodgy game of live action human buckaroo that some guys in the corner had started up. "The party, I mean."

Wanda shrugged. She was definitely feeling the alcohol more, but there was no telling how much she'd drank. Plus Kaia and Yelena had Russian blood, so it took them a little longer to start to feel the effects in their system.

"I have no idea. We just got ready and wandered over. Maybe an hour?" Kaia nodded and leaned back against the wall, her hands stabling herself. She preferred having a good view of her surroundings before moving forwards and having her bearings in an unfamiliar place came as an advantage.

"Another drink?" Yelena asked, her breath tickling her ear as she leaned close. "Shots?"

"Shots?" Kaia relayed the message to Wanda whose eyes lit up, so they all retreated back to the kitchen to find their poison of choice.

There was a bottle of tequila but Kaia had sworn that tonight was not a tequila night. Which left them with an odd selection of random spirits and a few familiar bottles.

"Who picks pineapple vodka over regular?" Yelena asked, her nose wrinkling in disgust. They all agreed it sounded disgusting and swiftly moved to the safest option they knew.

Two shots each. Downed back to back. Only Wanda pulled a face at the burn travelling down their throats. But it was enough to keep them going as they refilled their cups with punch and headed back into the main area which was now even more crowded than before.

A few familiar faces appeared from the last party they were at, but names escaped her. Kaia noticed a few of her dance teammates, including Cora and a couple of her friends before they disappeared into the crowd. But the music changed and the crowded gained energy, parting slightly to reveal its centre point from which everything else revolved.

Natasha.

Because clearly Kaia just could not escape that girl. She was dressed in a tight leopard print dress that would have looked tacky on anyone else but on her it was sexy. Her waist was accentuated by a thick belt which only guided eyes up towards her chest which sat perfectly in the moulded cups of the bodice. Smiling wide, arms raised above her head, she danced without a care in the world, singing along to the lyrics as she moved her hips.

She wasn't dancing with anyone in particular, just anybody that entered her own private bubble. It wasn't difficult to see why she loved dance so much; it made her a whole different person. This Natasha wasn't cold or calculated, she was free. And it was so refreshing to witness.

Kaia appreciated the female body, although she'd never strictly labelled herself in terms of her sexuality. Limitations like that set her anxiety off so she kept herself open, just going along with whatever presented itself in her path.

And right now she was so grateful for the spot she'd selected, giving her a clear view of Natasha on the dance floor as she moved. There was something so sensual yet energising in her fluid, carefree movements and Kaia felt herself stuck to the floor, unable to-

"Take a ticket! Take a ticket! Or you're kicked out! Do the dare or take the forfeit!" A harsh crash back to reality washed over her when a tall guy in... speedos? came into her eyeline, handing all three girls a small folded slip of colourful paper before running off to find his next victims. She'd seen far too much of that man than she wanted to, and judging by Yelena's face beside her, the blonde felt the same way.

"What is this?" Wanda asked aloud, double checking that Kaia and Yelena did indeed have one too. So did everyone else, confirmed by Kaia's quick scan of the room. Nearly every person was clutching a piece of paper, some looking more excited about it than others.

"I guess we open it and find out."

None of them knew what to expect on the inside of the mystery notes, but nothing could have prepared them for what they found.

"Lap dance?" Yelena exclaimed, her mouth turning into a pout as she was truly horrified. "Absolutely not, that is disgusting." Anything sexual made Yelena's skin crawl and she let the paper fall to the floor before stepping on it with her boot. What were they gonna do, force her to give someone a lap dance? Their noses would be broken before they even got the chance.

Kaia smiled softly at her best friend before turning to Wanda who looked a lot happier than the blonde did.

"Shotgun a stranger. Hell yeah."

Kaia's brows creased. "As in... smoking? Weed?"

Wanda smirked. "Absolutely." Clearly part of her was destined to be a stoner because the tall brunette was off, red dress swaying around her thighs as she headed out the back doors and into the smoking area. Her confidence was admirable to say the least.

"What does yours say?"

Kaia held up the red note with a slight grimace. "Make out with someone. Specifically not a significant other."

"Oh." Yelena couldn't offer much advice or support as the idea repulsed her but she knew Kaia would probably fulfil her dare as long as the right person came along.

They had all night to complete them but clearly those around them were getting right to it. As the duo moved through the house they passed several people making out and two girls doing body shots with each other. The alcohol had clearly been flowing long before the doors had opened.

Kaia could feel a light buzz in her head as she dragged Yelena on the dance floor, the alcohol finally hitting her enough where she didn't care anymore. The blonde wasn't thrilled at being made to dance but Kaia's happiness was always a priority to her, so she stuck it out and admittedly had more fun than she expected.

Halfway through, a couple of girls approached them, who turned out to be Yelena's soccer friends. She was glad for the excuse to leave and Kaia let her, the brunette heading into the kitchen for a much needed glass of water. She took a moment to herself as the icy liquid cooled her burning throat.

No one paid her any mind back here and she was grateful for it. Palms flush to the stone countertop, Kaia closed her eyes momentarily, trying to rid herself of the spinning sensation in her mind. It wasn't so much the alcohol than it was the pure madness of this party, the music and people leaving her totally disoriented.

Yelena was sat on some plush couches talking to some of her soccer friends when Kaia eventually found her again. She looked relaxed, feet propped up on the coffee table, fruit punch switched out for beer. Kaia wanted to drop onto the couch beside her but a sudden weight colliding straight into her chest sent her staggering backwards, whatever drink they had spilling all down her front. She could feel the sticky mess dripping on her skin and she grunted, yelling a few curse words in both English and Russian at the drunk guy who hadn't even acknowledged her.

Yelena stood up abruptly as it happened, her arms shooting out even though she had no chance of catching Kaia as she fell. Her jaw clenched as she locked eyes on the shorter blonde haired guy who clutched a now-empty solo cup, his eyes so distant is was clear he was high as a kite.

"I'm gonna go clean this up, I'll be back." Yelena offered to help but Kaia waved her off, leaving the angry blonde to deal with the sprawled guy on the floor. She hoped someone videoed the interaction. That would be worth paying for.

Kaia stumbled in the general direction of the bathroom, her heels not a great match for the now slightly sticky floor. She pressed down on the handle, not registering it was locked until her body went to walk forward and almost collided with the door.

A voice came from inside but what they said was unclear, so the brunette took to leaning against the wall opposite, just staring at her soaked skin and dress with a frown. The campus washers better do a good job of saving this dress because it was one of her favourites. Well, that was until it smelled and felt like a used children's lollipop.

The door creaked open and the occupant stepped out. "Sorry, the-"

Someone out there really hated Kaia. Was she being punished for her parent's wrongdoings? Was her shady family history now presenting itself in the worst form of karma she could possibly receive? There were over 100 people at this party and of course the one person who used the bathroom before her was Natasha fucking Romanoff.

Great.

Their eyes locked for a moment before green ones darted to Kaia's chest. Even in the dim hallway light, it was clear the mess was bigger than she thought. Natasha hesitated and pushed her better judgement down.

"Do you want some help with that?" If this was anyone else stood in front of her, she would have laughed at their misfortune and waltzed away with a flick of her hair, but Kaia wasn't just anyone. Something bubbled inside her, anger maybe, at the very thought of whoever did this. Spilling drinks at parties was not uncommon though, so Natasha clenched her jaw and regained her composure, a wall sliding in front of her emotions. "I didn't know that we were wearing our drinks now."

Kaia raised an eyebrow. "It's clearly not mine. But it's fine, I've got it." She gently pushed past Natasha and shut the door, sighing as she caught her reflection in the mirror. A moments peace was what she desperately needed.

The sugary liquid had well and truly soaked itself into the fabric and proved harder to get out than Kaia had intended. Granted, her tools were limited, hand soap and toilet paper a pathetic combination. And looking down the whole time was beginning to make her neck ache. Yelena would be better at this.

Muttering to herself, paper in hand, Kaia pulled the door open to go and find Yelena. But the green eyes she found staring back at her were not those of her best friend.

"Admit it, you need my help." A cocky smirk, arms folded across her chest, Natasha had a mischievous twinkle in her eye. Her gut instinct was right and Kaia clenched her jaw.

"What are you still doing here?"

"Say it."

Kaia rolled her eyes, done with Natasha's games. It wasn't the alcohol - the redhead never consumed enough to pass a light buzz for preference of actually being aware of her surroundings. No, it was just the irritating personality of Natasha Romanoff and her ability to wriggle her way under Kaia's skin easily.

"I'm going to get Yelena to help. Don't let me stop you from getting back to the party."

Natasha scoffed and pushed off the wall, taking a step forward. Her heels clicked against the wooden floorboards, breaking the silence between them. "I thought we were supposed to be friends. Friends help each other."

"We never said friends, Natasha. Now please, if you don't mind, move."

This was the wrong thing to say to Natasha, who didn't like to be bossed around by anyone. As Kaia moved to push past her, she grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with a bang.

"You're so stubborn it's annoying," the redhead growled, tugging Kaia over to the sink so she could work on her dress. The bathroom really wasn't that big and they were far too close for comfort, but both ignored their proximity.

"Excuse me for not exactly seeing you as someone who's willing to help." Natasha's eyes flicked up to Kaia's momentarily before they resumed the spot on her chest. Her skin was mostly clean now, but the fabric was proving to be the hardest. But Natasha had to keep her eyes firmly on the black silk before they started to wander. Not that it was anything she hadn't seen the night before.

"Why are you even here? Surely you've got people to get back to. Aren't they gonna ask questions?" Kaia let her mouth run, stupidly. But what else was she supposed to do except ramble excessively when Natasha's hands were all she could think about. Where they were, more specifically.

"Why do you care?"

"I don't," Kaia said defiantly. "Just don't want anyone to come looking for you."

Natasha placed her hand on the inside of Kaia's dress, the backs of her fingers grazing the top of her breasts. Kaia's breath hitched and a blush rose to her cheeks. Natasha heard that. She had to.

Trying to look anywhere but at the redhead at eye level, Kaia's eyes fell to a purple ticket on the sink. The ink was illegible due to the water, but it got her thinking about her own dare. How serious were they about the forfeit?

She hadn't realised Natasha had stepped away to get more paper which was slightly amusing for the redhead. She could read the internal panic on the younger girl's face and her lip caught itself between her teeth to stop her from laughing. It was adorable really, the way Kaia tried to be cool. But her red cheeks said otherwise.

"Is that yours?" Natasha asked, nodding in the direction of the soaked piece of paper that Kaia was staring at. The silence had become too awkward for her liking with only the hum of the automatic fan for company.

"Oh, no. I dropped mine."

Natasha hummed, squeezing out the tissue in her hand before turning back to Kaia. The dress was looking a lot better, she had to admit.

"What did yours say?"

"Kiss a girl," Natasha said casually, shrugging as if she was reporting on the weather. It was a boring one, really. She'd have much rather had body shots or lap dance date. Maybe Yelena was willing to donate. "You?"

"Make out with someone." The bright light made Kaia's head spin slightly, or maybe it was the alcohol? There were a lot of factors that could contribute to her sudden lightheadedness.

"And... have you?" Why did Natasha sound so interested in that?

"No. I'll probably just ignore it, hope they don't realise."

A smirk pulled at Natasha's lips as she stepped away, finally satisfied with her work. The dress wasn't perfect by any means, but it was significantly less sticky and would do until Kaia got home.

"They will. And trust me, you do not want that forfeit."

Kaia studied Natasha's side profile as the redhead turned back towards the sink to wash her hands. Even in the gross bathroom lighting her hair still managed to look like a fiery halo, tumbling over her shoulders in the most perfect waves.

"What is it?"

"A drink. But the stuff they put in it..." Natasha pulled a face and shuddered. She'd watched it being made and already wanted to throw up. The addition of pickle juice and sriracha was enough to set her stomach churning and that wasn't even the worst part.

Kaia stayed quiet, realising how screwed she was. A lot of guys would jump at the chance to make out with her, even if it was just for a dare, but that didn't appeal to her in the slightest. She needed to be more intoxicated than she was for that to happen.

Her eyes drifted down to the floor, lost in her head. Natasha's brain was also whirring away, her scarlet lips pressed together as she looked at the brunette girl beside her. Her lipstick smudged a bit at her movement but had yet to be completely ruined.

"Got your eye on anyone then? You don't exactly have long left."

Kaia kept her head down but looked up at Natasha with a furrowed brow. "That's none of your business. The question is, are you going to run out of time?"

A scoff fell from Natasha's lips at her question and she squared her shoulders confidently. "Trust me, I have absolutely no issues with finding a girl to kiss."

Kaia wasn't sure why that response made her heart clench. It wasn't exactly a secret nor was Natasha embarrassed of her track record. She appreciated women, why not demonstrate that when she could?

"Well, good for you."

The tension in the tiny bathroom could be sliced with a butter knife. Why Kaia hadn't left the second Natasha was finished, she had no idea. Something kept her feet rooted in her spot, unable to move even with the door right behind her.

Natasha straightened up as she dried her hands, her green eyes darkening slightly as they locked on Kaia's blue ones. The redhead couldn't help but glance down to her lips and back up again before she moved, impulse taking over and the rational part of her brain completely out the window.

In two strides, Natasha had backed Kaia into the door and crashed their lips together, her cool palm coming up to gently hold her head in place. Kaia froze momentarily, the alcohol in her system really not helping arrange her thoughts or coordinate her movements.

But an innate response took over as a low noise erupted from her throat and she slid her fingers into Natasha's hair, kissing her back harshly. She was definitely inexperienced so let Natasha take the lead, which she was more than happy to do.

Yet this kiss wasn't lust driven. It was messy, powerful and almost fuelled by hatred. Because, truthfully, Natasha did hate Kaia.

She hated how much of her brain the younger girl took up. How many times in the last few days she'd thought about her. The almost sleepless night she'd had purely because the image of Kaia was burned into the backs of her eyelids. Natasha hated her for it.

Yet here they were. Fulfilling a dare. Natasha's body pressed itself into Kaia more, fully trapping her against the cold wood. Their lips moved together and Natasha took her chance to slip her tongue out and push it into Kaia's mouth. The brunette put up next to no fight at this, allowing Natasha to completely take over. She felt a hand on her waist pulling her closer and she obliged, basically putty in Natasha's hands now. Kaia was gonna hate herself tomorrow.

The second Natasha's teeth gently tugged on her bottom lip was the moment Kaia knew she was gone. She was enjoying this far too much, her head swimming with the scent and feel of Natasha. Her signature perfume clouded her senses and if she wasn't a human sandwich between the hottest redhead on campus and the bathroom door, she would have crumpled into a heap on the floor.

After a few more seconds, they pulled away breathlessly and Kaia instantly missed the warmth her body brought. She felt exposed now, under the predatory gaze of Natasha. The redhead was panting softly as she reached her hand up to Kaia's face and gently wiped away her smeared lipstick from her bottom lip. One slow swipe of her thumb with heavy eye contact and Kaia felt as though there was no air left in the room.

She understood it now. The Natasha Romanoff charm. After years of rolling her eyes and pulling a face of disgust whenever she heard the name, she finally understood. Natasha was a drug. A toxic, poisonous one with an incredible high. But the fall came quick and sudden, dragging her back to reality like an ice bath.

A cocky quirk of a perfect eyebrow. Tongue running over her lips. Kaia hadn't even realised she'd stepped away from the door until Natasha pulled it open.

But her hand lingered on the handle momentarily. "You're welcome." She winked. Cocky shit. But she was gone before Kaia could even try to respond, a flash of red hair disappearing down the dark hallway.

Kaia praised the architects for putting several bathrooms in this house. No one had knocked or even tried to enter since she arrived and she was very glad. Her hair was a tousled mess as she studied her reflection in the smeared mirror. Swollen and stained lips, messy hair, she looked like hooker. And screw Natasha for wearing waterproof lipstick. That wasn't an easy fix. And she couldn't even splash water on her face to cool her burning cheeks either. Blame the alcohol, that was her only choice.

Combing through her hair with her fingers, Kaia pulled herself together and scurried back down the hall, suddenly conscious of how long she'd been missing for. She readjusted her dress just as she rounded the corner, thankfully spotting Yelena in the same position as she'd left her, chatting away with her beer bottle tucked between her thighs.

"What did you do, fall in the toilet?" Yelena asked when they reunited again, her eyes darting up and down her best friend's figure. "Wait, are you wearing lipstick?" She quizzed upon further inspection. Kaia had only come to the party with lipgloss and it definitely hadn't been as red as her lips currently were.

"I-"

Yelena's jaw dropped and amusement flashed behind her eyes as she smirked. "You completed your dare didn't you?"Kaia's lack of response only confirmed her suspicions. "Who was it? Tell me everything!" Despite her interest in relationships, Yelena was more than happy to hear about Kaia's own experiences.

"I didn't get her name." What a shit excuse.

"Seriously? You made out with a mystery girl and didn't even ask her name? Was she hot at least?"

Kaia hesitated. Natasha was hot, anyone could see that, but it would be wrong of her to admit that, wouldn't it? Especially to her sister.

"I guess. It was really dark so I didn't really see. She left with some guy though so.." her voice trailed off in fake regret, praying her acting skills pulled through enough that Yelena would stop with the questions. And the blonde either got the hint or was bored of the topic, because she pulled Kaia onto the dance floor as the opening harmonica of Timber vibrated around the room, earning cheers all around.

As she spun around and moved her body, Kaia began to forget about Natasha. Or more importantly her lips and wandering hands. The redhead was one of, if not the hottest girl on campus and had had her fair share of make outs and one night stands.

So the incident in the bathroom was nothing more than an alcohol induced dare... right?

part 10

Taglist: @ivyromanoff @natsaffection

[regressionschool]

Patience 

You kneel on the hardwood floor, feeling the squishy, damp embrace of your diaper pressing against your bum. Your day replays in your mind, a series of tender moments and comforting routines.

This morning seems so far away now. Daddy had woken you up gently, his strong hands lifting you from your crib. You remember the weight of your night-time nappy, so full and heavy, as he laid you on the changing table. The cool air felt nice on your skin as Daddy expertly cleaned and changed you, the thick, dry padding of a fresh diaper replacing the soggy one.

After breakfast—spoonfuls of mushy cereal that Daddy fed you with playful airplane sounds—he dropped you off at daycare. The day passed in a blur of playtime and giggles until naptime arrived. Waking up to the feeling of a wet diaper was becoming all too familiar. The regression school staff changed you into a clean nappy. You felt so fresh and new, ready to take on the rest of the day.

When you got home, the house was quiet, just like now. You spent the afternoon doing chores: folding laundry, sweeping the floor, and tidying up the living room. Each task was punctuated by the occasional warm, wet feeling as your diaper absorbed more and more. But you didn’t mind—it was comforting in a strange way.

Now, with all your chores done, you kneel patiently, waiting for Daddy to come home. The anticipation makes your tummy flutter, and you try to focus on anything but the growing urge. You shift slightly, the squishy diaper underneath you making a soft crinkling sound.

The front door creaks open, and you hear Daddy’s footsteps. You try to hold it, but the pressure in your tummy is too much. As Daddy steps into the room, a faint squelching sound fills the air. Daddy’s eyes soften with understanding. He walks over, kneeling beside you. “Did my little girl have a tough time waiting?” he asks, his voice gentle.

You nod, a small whimper escaping your lips. “I tried, Daddy.” He smiles, lifting you into his arms. “I know you did, sweetheart. Let’s get you cleaned up.” As Daddy carries you to the changing table, you rest your head on his shoulder, feeling safe and loved despite the mess. All is well in your little world.

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[the-californicationist]

Cali Cali bo-bali banana fana fo-fali me my mo mali! Cali!

I'm three Budweisers in and got an itch for alpha Price with a sudden need to breed (yay! Surprise rut!), and there's his sweet smelling omega neighbor who he's been keeping at arm's length because he's a professional dammit and has complete control of his urges, thank you very much.

Honestly, I just wanna see Mr. "I'm Married to My Job" lose it and show back up on base abashed and mated, and also ridiculously proud of his lil omega's claiming bite, because "she turned into a wildcat, lads. I couldn't stop her." *wink-wink*

Or not. I'm happy with any smutty Price fic you bestow on us, really. I'm just being weirdly specific because— alcohol = horny thots. 🍺😏🥴🫠

Drunken hugs 🫂 from Random Thot

RTG!! You are the most amazing person, and every time I see your pfp on AO3 or tumblr, I just get all gooey inside. Thank you for the ask! I wrote (and fully deleted) this fic three times because I wanted to get it right. I just pray that I could deliver. <3 <3 Hope this is what you were hoping for!!

MDNI/NSFW -- TW: damsel in distress, ABO dynamics, knotting, fuck-or-die scenarios, CNC, fluids, PIV sex, female OC

Glory, Glory

It was his last beer of the night, and he was ripping it apart. Curling, soggy shards of the torn label were stuck under his thumbnail, darkening the translucent edge and making it look dirty. They littered the sticky, lacquered bartop like ugly snow, falling in a tiny, chaotic mess. His hands were more than just dirty, the captain thought to himself as he used his wide thumb to itch at the glue-covered glass, rolling little, paper shards away from the smooth surface to reveal the amber liquid swirling within. The captain’s hands; they were covered in blood. Not innocent blood, but blood all the same. They’d never be clean again. 

But, that was the job, and he was good at it. His hands were a direct reflection of his hard work. Killing evil bastards kept the world safe. Some poor sob in a factory could clean out the glue-painting machine that pasted these fuckin’ labels on all of these bloody beer bottles because of one unshakable truth: John Price was good at killing evil bastards.

Unfortunately, the killing would need to wait until after the mandated leave window closed again. His argument with Kate still grated inside of his head. He could almost hear her harsh, Yank accent in his ears.

“What do you want me to tell payroll, John? You can’t be here. You’ve got too many days. Go home. See your mom.”

“I see her plenty, Katie. Let me run that ops gig with Keller. C���mon. I’ll do overwatch,” he tried his best to weasel his way back into a bit of active duty.

“You’d be the world’s most expensive overwatch. Hell no. Here’s your ticket,” she shoved an envelope in his hands, “...and your money,” another envelope, “Go the fuck home, Captain. That’s an order.”

An order. More like a toothless threat. 

But, alas, here he was, staring at a freshly shaved, buzzcut version of himself in a filthy pub mirror, undressing bottles left and right. 

“Another, mate?” The barkeep pointed to his almost-empty drink, making a slight grimace at the paper graveyard that was sprinkled across his bar.

“No,” John sighed, pulling out a few notes from his wallet, “I’m off.”

“Happy Christmas,” the barkeep took the bills and didn’t bother to look up again, setting himself to sweeping the torn strips off of the surface, preparing for the next paying customer. 

“You, too,” John muttered, tugging his black wool beanie over his ears before braving the classic cold, wet, and windy Liverpudlian night. 

He didn’t live far. John’s mum had kept up his loft down by the docks, but it certainly didn’t feel like home. Home wasn’t real. Not anymore. As he walked along the Mersey’s edge, he peered into the black water, wondering if he’d ever truly go home again. 

All of a sudden, he heard a shrill scream. Every sense that had been dulled by his lager was now as sharp as a blade and set on its edge. Again, a high-pitched shout pealed through the night air, beckoning him back to his heroism. That keening was the sound of some evil that needed stamping out, and he was hungry for it. 

He sprinted through the warehouse district, chasing the noise of scuffling, ducking behind alleys and abandoned garages, looking for the source. Finally, there was a flash of red that caught his eye, so he ran towards it, his mind making sense of the scene in front of him. 

Voices were jumbled and mashed up together, barely registering in his mind.

“Out here in a fuckin’ heat. Dumb bitch! C’mere.”

“She’s got a knife!”

“C’mere, you little slag. Get –”

In the middle of three huge, stinking Alphas, a tiny Omega was struggling, arm outstretched, brandishing her knife at them to keep them at bay. John came up behind the biggest one, some bald fuck with a dirty coat, and dropped him, cracking his spine in two places with well-placed fists, and breaking his jaw on his way down to the ground, leaving him groaning on the concrete. 

One of his mates, a older man with thick, black eyebrows, lunged at Price, a look of indignant surprise on his face. The Omega screamed, her red coat yanked back over her face by the third man, her knife clattering to her feet. Price focused on Mister Eyebrows, dodging a lazy haymaker before popping him twice in the nose, drawing out his blood and knocking out at least two of his front teeth. Then, John grabbed him by the collar, pulling his jaw into his raised knee and listening to the satisfying splash as he fell into a murky puddle. 

Finally, he set his sights on the last Alpha of the pack whose ropey arm was looped across the Omega’s neck, choking the air from her lungs. He growled at Price, his scent turning to rancid fear,

“Stay back! She’s mine, you big bastard.”

The captain had nothing to say. With a practiced ease, he side-stepped her assailant, breaking the elbow that controlled her throat, making him release her immediately. The evil bastard stumbled back, hand outstretched, bargaining for his life, 

“Wait, wait. I’ll share her with you, how’s that? I’ll even let you have first go!”

A deafening howl came out of his mouth as Price’s boot heel made contact with his kneecap, forcing it to snap at a terrible angle. John’s hand shot out and grabbed the man by the hair on the crown of his head, tugging cruelly at his scalp. Without mercy, John slammed his face into a nearby bollard, and the howling stopped.

It was quiet again aside from the Omega’s trembling breaths. She had recovered the knife and was now pointing it towards John with shaking hands and wide, determined eyes. 

“You alright, love?” Price asked, holding his hands up in a sign of peace, edging towards her in gentle, predictable steps. 

“Y-yeah… Stay! Stay right there,” her voice was bright and clear, and he could hear her strength laced through her words. He stopped in his tracks, respecting her wishes.

“What are you doin’ all the way out here, darlin’?”

“They dragged me over here from Baltic Fleet,” she straightened up, getting her bearings, wiping the blood from a small cut in her cheek, “Fuckin’ bastards. Thank you, by the way.”

“Jus’ doin’ my job,” Price shrugged, waiting for her to lower the knife even further before he continued his approach.

“Police?” She asked, a little confused. 

“Not exactly,” Price smiled, offering a hand out to her, “John Price, Captain of His Majesty’s RAF service.”

“Oh,” she studied him for a moment, and then her eyes fell to the hand, ready to bite but deciding to shake it instead. 

When he touched her skin, Price felt her fever. Shocked, he tightened his grip, not meaning to startle her but too surprised by her temperature to ignore it.

“Christ, love. You’re burnin’ up.”

As quick as a flash, she yanked her hand out of his grasp and retreated back towards the wall of the warehouse behind her, scooting her way towards the corner to get out of his range, ready to bolt. She didn’t respond, but John watched as she wiped her brow, dotted with sweat and covered in concern. 

“Hey,” he moved forward again protectively, “You can’t be out here alone. Not like this. At least let me walk with you. I’ll stay ten paces behind. It’s not safe.”

“I’m fine,” she said with more strength in her voice than what she was ready to produce.

“You’re not. You’re in a bloody heat. When did it start?” He watched as her knees began to tremble, and against her obvious wishes, he helped her sit on the warehouse deck, letting her keep the knife so she could feel safe. 

“Yesterday…” She closed her eyes, trying to shake it off, “It’s… I’m fine. It’s never this bad.”

Now that he was close to her, Price was smothered by the scent of her body. The Omegan glands in her neck smelled like thick, wild honey, and her heat was mixing with her aroma, turning an already sweet smell into a lucious, decadent gourmand, pulling him in like quicksand. 

“C’mon,” he helped her up, “Where’s your place? I’ll get you close.”

The clang of her knife made him glance up to see her eyes closed and her mouth slack. She was out, too weak to withstand the fever and the physical exertion. 

Price felt his body react to her need. He was filled with rage, white and hot, at her situation. Those goddamn monsters were trying to take advantage of her in this vulnerable state. She should be home in her nest, being taken care of by her Alpha, covered in soothing oils and cool compresses, her needy little cunt stuffed full of his knot, staving off these symptoms and enduring them for her. Instead, she’d been hunted, chased, made to fight for her dignity out here in the middle of the docks. Something else inside Price’s chest curled around his anger. 

Possession. 

He tried to shake it off, knowing it came from being unmarked, but it had been so many years as a lone Alpha that he knew how to control it. Or, at least he thought he did. 

Now, though, he found himself pulling at the neck of her coat as he held her in his arms, invading her privacy to check for a bite. He felt the shame wash over him as he covered her skin back up. He had no business searching for a mating bite. She was not his Omega, and he was not her Alpha. 

After a few minutes out in the chilled wind, he made it to his apartment. Thankfully, it was late enough that his neighbors weren’t outside to witness what looked like a literal kidnapping, and he shuffled her inside without much trouble. Price lay her down on his long, leather sofa, careful to rest her head on the soft arm. He went to the kitchen to retrieve a cold rag and pressed it to her forehead, hoping to hold back the fever for as long as he could.

“C’mon, pretty girl. Wake up,” he whispered, trying to gently shed her coat and sweater, peeling her layers off to bring her temperature down to a more manageable level. 

She moaned, her eyes wrenching shut even tighter, her face twisted in pain,

“My head…” She sighed, desperate for some relief. 

“I know, love. C’mon,” John propped her up a bit, moving the rag so that the coldest parts would be against her skin, “What’s your name? I can find an address. Do you have your purse?”

“They… took it? I don’t… I dunno…” She muttered, obviously having a hard time stringing her thoughts together, “I don’t feel so good.”

This was not ideal. Price knew what came next. A high fever, exhaustion, fatigue, nausea, increased heart rate, and then… 

“Alpha?” Her eyes were open, glassy and dark, the pupils fully blown, looking up at him with an outpouring of unfathomable need. Her scent rolled off of her in mind-altering waves, shoving Price’s carefully-built walls out of the way and sending shocks of desire straight to his heart and his fat, growing cock. 

“No, baby. I’m not your Alpha. Who is he? Can you give me a name?” John asked, checking her coat pockets in a rushed panic. He was running out of time. 

“Alpha, please… I need… Help me, please,” her shaking hands reached under his jacket and shirt, her knuckles rubbing against his furry belly, her strong fingers digging around for his belt buckle, getting right to the point. 

Price felt the room flex around him, and he tried to breathe in air that wasn’t saturated by her vanilla spice, searching in the deepest recesses of his mind for some semblance of his self control. 

“Easy, love. I can’t m–mmngh!” Her mouth slotted over his as he tried to protest, stopping his heart and his words at the same time. 

She was heaven. Her smell was making his skin tingle all over his body, down his arms and up his legs, rushing to his central, sacral core. And her taste was even better. His little cinnamon roll, so sweet and warm, burning for him like a flame, hot and ready to scar him for life. 

“Mngh… Love, mmm… Wait…” Price held her back, using more force than he thought he should need, surprised by her sudden power. 

“John…” He met her eyes and found a particular clarity within them. She was coming out of her haze. But, it wouldn’t last. This was his final chance to keep her from doing something she would regret. 

“Darlin’, I can’t. I’m not your Alpha.”

“You smell like you are,” she mewled, rubbing her wounded cheek across his engorged neck gland, spreading his scent all over herself. 

“I can’t,” he moved away from her, trying to hold her in his arms for comfort rather than to bask in her expressive heat, “My work… I can’t leave you here, pretty girl.”

She sobbed out, trying to hold back from writhing against his body, doing everything she could not to make it harder for him to turn her down. Her eyes were rimmed red and pink from exhaustion, and she was staring down at her own hands, vibrating with tremors, slurring her words,

“Just lock me in the bath. I’ll run cold water. I’ll be fine…”

Something ancient and feral snarled in Price’s mind. 

No.

“No,” he said, involuntarily, the voice in his head escaping from his throat. 

“Please… I can’t stop myself… I want your knot, Alpha. Lock me up before I do something to you… Something you don’t want…” She could barely put two words together. Every thought was a struggle. He was losing her again. 

He grabbed her and held her to his chest, clutching her like water in his palm, using all his strength to keep her with him,

“I want you, love. I want… Fuck, I need you.”

All of a sudden, the energy around their bodies stilled. That cracking, sparking electricity that bound them together was roiling just beyond John’s consciousness, ready to surge. But, he stayed perfectly still, waiting to see what she did next. She locked eyes with him and leaned in close, as if she would kiss him. But, she didn’t. She dipped her head down until she found his Alphic gland, swollen and bruised purple from him holding back his lust, nuzzling at it with the tip of her nose, rooting against him, testing his patience, checking to see if his temperament was true. Then, when he let her sniff him in his most potent spot, when she knew his soul was as pure as his scent, that he was true, she sucked his flesh between her lips, drawing his musk onto her tongue.

She’d accepted him. He reeled from it, unable to hold back a groan, his cock jerking against his zipper, thrashing to escape, flooding with hot blood and threatening to fill his knot before he’d even had a chance to taste her. 

John pulled her mouth off of him and stared at her eyes again, in awe of her beauty, his mind swirling and yet perfectly sharp, begging her darkly,

“Give me your neck, Omega.”

The ritual had begun, and as she swept her hair away from her shoulder, pulling it around her back, she bent for him, arching her head down in a submissive bow, revealing her Omegan mating line. It looked like a keloid scar, the raised skin swollen and painful, like a pounding vein that ran from below her earlobe down to the top of her shoulder, full of her hormones and thick with her magic. One bite, and he would be in her thrall, pliant to her every whim, beholden to her needs until her heat had run its course. 

Price had never given his bite to anyone. It had been easy to abstain. In fact, in his youth, he had a hard time understanding his mates’ commitments to their Omegas, scoffing at their lack of duty to their stations, doubting their commitment, and - moreover - doubting their loyalty. He remained a captain through and through, and he’d never made room for anyone or anything else. But, here he was, his teeth aching in his jaw, bigger and sharper than they should’ve been, his every sense heightened and taking her in like a drug, compelling him to punch through her delicate flesh and suck her nectar deep into his belly. 

The feeling of her skin against his lips was enough to send a chill through his body. He was cooling from the inside out, and his body needed her heat. She was forcing a rut to take hold in him, and he could feel himself changing for her. Then, he bit down as hard as he could, breaking the thin seal of her mating line with ease, feeling the searing mixture of her oil and her blood filling his mouth and throat like a ripe plum, wet and sweet, and promising pleasure if he chose to swallow her. 

He drank from her for as long as he dared, taking her in long, slurping gulps, letting her essence coat his throat, feeling the hot fluid burn inside of his chest and down into his stomach where it pooled and lingered, warming him up from the inside out. 

“Alpha…” She moaned, raising her hand to cup his cheek as he sucked her life into himself, rubbing her thumb so softly over his shut eyelashes that he barely felt it. 

John pulled away from her, his eyes fluttering open, her bright orange blood iridescent with her mating oil, making the red cells burn bright like a fresh-cracked yolk, gleaming, trapped between his teeth like gold. He watched it drip down her chest, staining her clothes, and he began to tear them off of her. She let him, limp and mute as he peeled her open, making her naked and pulling her into his arms. 

He carried her into his bedroom, kicking open the door and busting the bolt through the strike, splintering the wood and not giving a shit about the damage. John lay her in the middle of the mattress and set to surrounding her with whatever softness he could find; his shirts, his blankets, even his scarves. Anything warm and comfortable was added to the nest, giving her as much support as he could before standing back to admire his work. 

She eyed him from her recumbent throne, commanding him with her gaze. John stripped off his shirt for her, raking it up his back and over his shoulders, feeling as if he was moving his body for her and only for her. All of his motions, even his ragged breaths, were only escaping from his lungs because she wanted them to. His buckle clattered apart, and he popped open the button of his jeans, lowering the zipper in a sharp, metallic rip. 

Once free, his heavy prick flagged, leaping forward and pulsating for her, proudly showing her his gleaming head. He was drooling an unrelenting stream of iridescent precome, his balls tight and full of Alphic oil, ready to coat her warm insides with his shining sex. 

John climbed onto the bed, his face focused on her wet mound, admiring the plumpness of her, imagining her - in every delicious way - like a tender peach. He crawled to her, his mouth still stained neon orange from her gland, and he smeared her wet quim all over his lips and tongue. He wasn’t licking her so much as he was wearing her like warpaint, moving his nose and cheeks through her to ensure he was soaked in her heady slick, his body making wild, unbridled choices purely on instinct.  

“Yes, baby, please…” Her voice went straight through him like a bullet, tightening his cockhead to an uncomfortable degree, and it jerked against the mattress in protest. Her hands were in his hair, scratching through his scalp, encouraging him to sink his tongue deep inside of her hole. 

John obeyed, helpless to her desire, his mind wiping clean and being rewritten by her will. He was swimming in her scent, drenched in her slick, and gasping against her pussy, his eyes fixated on her form as it writhed above him. When she met his eyes, she bit the inside of her lip, crying out for him, rewarding him for his prostrated fealty. Then, she began to rock her hips against his jaw, fucking herself on his face, and he let her use him to her heart’s content, staying strong and sure, allowing his body to be used, objectified and glorified by it. 

When she began to come, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He followed his tongue inside of her with two of his thick fingers, pressing against her walls, pushing her over the edge. She bolted upright, wrapping her thighs around his face, smothering him with her body, trapping him breathless between her legs. Her whole being trembled for him. He could feel the shimmer of her very soul, rattling and writhing with her siren-like keening. And just when he started to see spots in his vision, needing air just a little less than he needed to please her, she lay open for him, blooming outward like a flower, releasing him from a limbo he longed to return to, oozing with a stream of rainbow-tinted come, the Omegan oil within her womb escaping to advertise its promises to her mate. 

Without knowing why, John found himself lapping it up from her pulsing hole like a hound, swallowing mouthful after mouthful and grunting with each pass of his broad tongue. 

“John, I need... Please, put your knot inside me. I’ll be good…” She begged, tears shining at the corners of her eyes from her come-drunk bliss, her hands plucking at her nipples and trying to soothe herself down from her high. 

“My pretty girl wants this knot, yeah?” John grinned devilishly, dipping his finger into her over and over and licking it clean like she was a jar of endless honey, “Wants me to breed this gorgeous cunt…”

At that comment, she spread her legs even wider for him, opening up for him like a blossom for the sun, ready to take whatever he had to give her. It was mesmerizing for John to see her like this. Everything about her was filled with intoxication and need. He was just a vessel for her pleasure, pouring himself into her to make her full again. Dizzy and drunk with adoration, he notched his girth at her entrance, struggling to fit even his cockhead within her. 

“Fuck… so bloody warm…”

Her body was burning him with every millimeter he sank into her, the heat of her tight sex in such high contrast with his cool rut. It felt like he was swimming in a roiling pot of sugary caramel, clinging and cloying and sticking to every part of him, and yet it was not enough. He needed more. His hips thrust forward, savage yet steady, reaching deep inside of her like an anchor, rushing to settle himself within her darkness. 

The way his Omega cried out this time was different, and it snapped him to her attention, his mind immediately sensing a new need. 

“Love, tell me what you need.” He purred, his mouth kissing her lips and her neck, lapping at the now-healing wound his own fangs had made, talking to her between long licks of his tongue, “Tell me, and it’s yours.”

“You’re so big. I’ve never…” She sounded ashamed. 

Price slowed to a creeping pace, focused fully on her face, 

“Never had a knot before?”

She shook her head, her eyes full of worry. John wrapped her up in his arms, dragging himself out of her slowly before filling her up again as carefully as he could.

“Tha’s alright, baby. You’re mine, and I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

“Feels like I’m burning alive,” she sighed, her brow furrowing with distress, “John, I need… I don’t know how…”

“Look at me, alright?” He helped her focus her eyes on his, “Don’t… Just stay with me, right here. You’re gonna come for me, and then… I’ll give you what you need.”

“Please,” she whimpered, her voice so small. 

Price set himself on a path with a purpose. He used his hand to rub small, rhythmic circles beside the rigid body of her clit, coaxing her pussy to drop even more slick around him, using every ounce of willpower he had left not to let his knot slip inside of her prematurely. His thrusts were jerky and restrained, but he felt her begin to rock back and forth with his hand’s movements, bringing her closer and closer to her glowing joy. 

“Good girl,” he praised her, watching her as she began to fall apart around him, “Tha’s my good little Omega. Come for your Alpha just like that. Just… mmf-fuck! Like that! Holy fuck.”

The feeling of her slick pussy clenching and twisting around his cock’s tugid body was enough to make him see stars. He felt almost sick with pleasure, his whole core lighting up like a roaring fire, spitting and aching to bury himself within her. 

At the end of her crescendo, he felt himself let go of the chain, and he rutted his knot inside of her, humping himself forward ruthlessly, his body contorting itself to fit her needs. His knot sealed him within her, and although he was not yet orgasming, he was filling her with his come, the creamy flow of it spilling out of his tip, filling her hole and coating his prick from inside of its hungry little sheath.

“Your come… I can feel it inside of me. Oh, my God,” she sighed with some sort of relief, her eyes rolling inside of her head, her arms losing their strength, and her back arching towards him, lifting up as if she would float right into Heaven. 

And just like that, her fever began to abate. With his knot stuffed inside of her, locking his seed within her hole, his Alphic oils could soothe her heat, bringing her back to the realm of consciousness and delivering her from her wild state. 

“John,” she lay back, her hand pressed to his cheek. 

He didn’t answer her. Instead, he bent forward on his elbows and kissed her mouth, chastely at first, and then languidly, exploring her taste. When he did finally pull away, she was awake and alert, sated and happy. He smiled down at her, 

“Hey, pretty girl,” he whispered, wiping her hair back from her face. 

“Hey,” she smiled back at him, wrapping her ankles around his back for comfort, not knowing that it was just enough to set his cock on edge again, his Alphic instinct rejoicing at the feeling of being trapped by his mate. 

“You alright?” John asked, a tinge of worry at the edge of his voice.

“I am now, thanks to you,” she sighed, tucking herself in beneath him, rubbing her hands along his ribs and the soft fur of his back and arms, feeling every bit of him as if she was seeing him with her touch, “You saved me, Alpha.”

“Aye,” he nudged her jaw with his nose, asking her wordlessly to give him the vulnerable softness of her neck. She obliged, and he spoke to her between sucking kisses, “All mine. My Omega. Innit that right, baby?”

She was practically lambent beneath the scrutiny of his possession, rolling in it like a wave in the sand, captured by it and surrendering to the riptide of his unbreakable grip. She nodded, humming her ascent, her expression turning a little rueful right at the end of his kisses. The sorrowful timbre of her voice broke his heart, 

“I’m grateful. But, I know this isn’t what you wanted, and I’m so sor–”

“No,” he kissed her words away, feeling his length throb inside of her, urging him to kiss her again, “No, love.”

“I won’t bite you,” she promised, her gaze still full of apology, “You won’t be stuck with me.”

“Bite me, Omega,” he bent his head and buried his face in her shoulder, giving her his gland in total surrender, “Go on. I’m yours.”

“John…” She hesitated, but he could feel her body flood her hole, excited beyond measure at the thought of binding him to her as her mated Alpha. 

“Go on,” he commanded in his smoky growl, holding her tighter and bracing for the ecstasy of her teeth.

He felt her lips first, and his balls tightened, ready to fling him into a messy orgasm as soon as he felt his gland shatter in her mouth. Her Omegan teeth wouldn’t break the skin, but he knew she was strong enough to crack the shell around his swollen node. The anticipation of her bite was wrecking his mind, and he was gasping for breath by the time he felt her jaw set itself against him. 

“Baby, please…” He whined in her ear, his hips thrusting in short, jerking thrusts, unable to move much with his knot still trapped up inside of her, holding his gushing come in her hole, pushing it into her womb from the sheer volume of it. 

Her teeth connected, and he could hear his unbroken shell give way beneath her strength, the hormones inside of it rushing through his system like wildfire, burning through his veins and making him scream for her. At the same time, John felt his core throw him into a raw orgasm, his whole body trembling above her, wringing himself from the inside out. 

“Alpha,” she sighed, licking his neck to comfort him, “My Alpha…”

“Yours, baby. All yours.”

— — — — — 

The new trainees filed out of the gym, sweaty, bloody, and eager to be out of the captain’s sight. Price had run them ragged, forcing them to spar with practice weapons, pitting them against each other in a strained, exhausting competition. Ghost and Soap sat with Gaz as they eyed their commander, their eyes glued to the fresh bite mark on his neck, shocked into a silent stupor. 

“I cannae believe it. Mated? To which lassie?” Soap asked, dumbfounded.

“I didn’t think he’d ever take a mate,” Gaz marvelled.

“I thought he was savin’ himself for marriage,” Ghost quipped, earning himself a scuff from Soap.

Price made his way across the mat, pulling his sweaty shirt off his back to trade it for a clean one. The red welts and nail-marks across his shoulders and down his belly made Gaz let out a low whistle. But, his commander’s glare stopped him mid-note. 

“Wha’s that, Garrick?”

“Nothin’, sir. Just… admirin’ your battle scars,” Gaz smiled, wishing his two teammates would stop snickering so loudly. 

“Looks like a hell’uva fight, Cap,” Ghost added, looking everywhere but into Price’s icy eyes. 

“Wha’s her name?” Soap asked outright, skipping over the double entendres and going right for the point. 

Their captain sighed, zipped up his gym bag, and stood in front of his three officers, glaring down at them with a look that was on the border of dead-seriousness,

“If I told you that, lads, I’d have to kill you.”

[monster-disaster]

I need more of the neighbors I love the storyyyy so muchhhh. The slice of life is 👌

Original: [monsters] Neighbors A Halloween one on my Patreon: [monsters] Neighbors +1

The rising sun barely scrapes the horizon. Its pale light sneaks through the gaps between the towering buildings and spills onto the empty streets in a soft, golden hue. The city is still asleep, save for a few cars that pass by while you walk down the sidewalk. Each tired click of your high heels on the pavement is a reminder of the long night behind you. Your toes are cramped in their pointed coffin, aching with every shift as you try to wiggle them for some relief. Every part of you is sore; your feet, your legs, your back. The remnants of the last several hours cling to you like the dull ache in your muscles. You danced until the floor felt like it was swaying beneath you, then left with a stranger, one whose name you will probably forget before the week is through. The memory of it is already slipping away, fading in the blur of flashing lights and the haze of alcohol. Now, all you crave is a hot shower, a big glass of water, and your own bed.

When you finally spot the familiar brick facade of your building, a wave of relief washes over you, only to be swiftly smothered by a sigh that catches painfully in your throat. There, already out and about, stands the goblin who lives in the first-floor apartment below yours. His figure is hunched over, gripping a rake that looks comically oversized next to him. The long handle is awkwardly angled as he sweeps the leaves into a pile. His scowl is unmistakable, etched into his sharp features, and as his eyes catch yours, you know that his mood is as foul as ever. It always is.

"I was almost worried when I didn’t hear you dragging the furniture across the floor all night," he grumbles as a greeting.

"I don’t drag furniture at night," you mutter, though your words quickly fade into a futile attempt. It doesn’t matter what you say, he finds something to complain about anyway.

"Well, good day," he grunts flatly. His tone is more of a dismissal than a farewell, and without another word, his attention is back on the soggy leaves that cover the small, green patch in front of the house.

With a suppressed sigh, you hurry up the stairs, eager to escape before the goblin can think of something else to grumble about, and just as you push the door open, you nearly collide with your upstairs neighbor. The burly orc woman you often meet for chitchat and coffee beams at you while holding onto her kids' tiny hands.

"Good morning," you greet them with a smile, your mood lifting at the sight of them.

The little girl’s eyes study you intently for a moment before she speaks up. Her voice is soft and innocent in its bluntness. "You look awful." Her words seem to hang in the cool morning air, thick with unfiltered honesty only the kids can have.

"Oh, god!" her mother exclaims. "We don’t say that!"

"We just think it!" the other toddler pipes up, his small chest puffing with pride as he tilts his head, clearly convinced he is the smartest of the bunch while his sister nods as if affirming his wisdom.

"Nah," you hear the goblin call out from behind. "We think it, and we say it."

The sound of his voice causes the toddlers to squeal in surprise, their wide eyes lighting up with excitement, and without missing a beat, they dash past you, eager to join the goblin. Soon, their chatter fills the quiet street while you and the orc woman stand there, stunned with disbelief.

"I still don’t understand how the kids like him," she says.

You shrug, a smirk tugging at your lips. "He’s much nicer to them."

You can hear the gentle tilt of the goblin’s voice as he says something to the toddlers. The contrast between how he interacts with them and how he treats the rest of the world is jarring, but you suppose it makes sense. You’re certain his change in attitude has something to do with the fact that he doesn’t have to listen to their rambunctious energy all night long unlike you.

"Anyway," the orc woman sighs, stepping aside to give you room. "Have a nice day, Y/N."

Lost in your own thoughts and planning for the day ahead, you don’t notice the soft footfalls following behind you, nor the subtle presence of someone drawing closer until you step into the elevator. Just as the doors begin to close, a hand shoots out, halting them with a faint ding.

"Oh," you gasp, startled, and look up to find a handsome minotaur smiling down at you. His broad frame seems to fill the space as he steps into the elevator beside you.

"Sorry."

"It’s fine," you reply quickly, pressing the button for your floor again, ready to settle into the quiet, but as the doors begin to close again, the male speaks up.

"Are you Y/N?"

For a moment, you blink in surprise. "Yes."

He smiles faintly. "My mother," he explains. "She talked about you."

Ah. Of course. The old minotaur lady lives across from you and made it her life's mission to match you with anyone in her family.

"And you are...?"

"The divorced son," he responds with a knowing look.

"Oh, right," you nod. "I’m sorry about that."

He shrugs. "It’s fine. I hope my mother doesn’t annoy you too much?"

You can’t help but laugh. "She gave me your number at least twice."

The minotaur sighs, his shoulders drooping slightly as he leans back against the elevator wall. "Great," he mutters under his breath.

When the elevator dings again, the doors slide open, and the minotaur gives you a nod before disappearing into his mother's apartment while you remain standing in front of your own door, fishing around in your black purse, the one that matches your dress, for your keys. The tiredness of the morning and the weight of the night make your every movement feel sluggish.

Then, a groan comes from your side, making you stiffen. "Ugh, you stink."

You turn sharply at the familiar voice of your wolf-shifter neighbor cutting through the quiet.

You can’t help but scoff, your patience is already at its limit. "I look awful, I stink! Anything else?"

The young man’s eyes widen in surprise at your sudden reaction. "I didn’t say you look awful," he defends quickly, his hands raised in mock surrender. "Though-"

"Don’t!" You interrupt.

"Okay, okay," he relents, taking a step back. But then, a teasing grin creeps onto his face. "But you could really use a shower. You smell like a man."

"A man?!" Your head snaps to the other side, where you spot your succubus neighbor standing with her arms crossed, glaring at you with exaggerated disgust. "But why, Y/N?" she asks, oozing with seduction. "You know you can come to me for anything." A slow, deliberate smile spreads across her dark red lips. The suggestion is clear in her eyes. "Why waste your time on men?"

Before you can respond, the wolf-shifter chimes in. "She’s right, you know? Why waste your time on human men?" His eyes twinkle as if he's enjoying this little back-and-forth far too much.

"I don’t have to explain myself to either of you!" you snap. The words hang in the air, and for a moment, the hallway falls into silence.

Then, you hear the familiar voice of the minotaur lady, muffled through the entrance door of her apartment. "Is it Y/N? Great! Let me introduce you to her."

The sound of her son’s voice follows, just as muffled but noticeably more panicked. "Ma, don’t!"

That’s it! You can't deal with this right now.

With a huff, you turn on your heel, your hand fumbling slightly as you search for the keys in your bag, the jingling sound a bit more frantic than usual. The door clicks open, and you barely spare another glance at the wolf-shifter and succubus watching with too much fun on their expressions.

"Good day!"

[fayes-fics]

The Wonderful Unexpected: Chapter 1

Masterpost PREV | NEXT

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, Modern AU (future chapters)

Chapter Summary: it’s Christmas, but it’s beginning to look a lot like a shitshow…

artwork by me

Warnings: None really... swearing and non-graphic character attack and injury.

Word Count: 1.9k

Author's Note: Welcome to Chapter 1 of my next multi-chapter! A modern rom-com based on While You Were Sleeping. This is really just getting the wheels in motion, where she encounters Anthony. Please see the masterpost for a synopsis. Thank you to @colettebronte for beta reading. Please enjoy! <3

The first time you see him, your heart almost stops.

It is a Monday morning, your first shift in your new job at a coffee shop on a dreary day in late October, when he sweeps in, a blur of athletic movement in a sharply tailored suit. 

Your boss, the store manager, Gen, starts to make his drink, double espresso, without him even having to say a word. And seemingly, just like that, he is gone again, you standing there, stupefied, awkwardly clutching the milk-frothing pitcher.

And thus, it begins. 

Every weekday between 8:01 and 8:15, Prince Charming glides in, grabs his cup and is gone—a beautiful mirage with amazing cheekbones and a watch that costs more than your annual rent. It's like your world goes into slow motion, and, to steal a phrase from your dearly departed Dad’s favourite song, birds suddenly appear every time he is near. 

Anyway, one random, soggy Thursday, the fates intervene, and it's your turn to serve him. As soon as you see him striding purposely towards the shop, you start his drink, butterflies in your stomach. The smile he bestows upon you is dazzling… even if his attention is slightly diverted by the call he is on. 

Sparks shoot up your arm and into your chest as your fingers brush his briefly as you hand over the small cup.

Surely, this is meant to be? 

He is perfect. Your husband (he just doesn't realise it yet).

All you need is a way to introduce yourself…

—

It's the end of your shift three days before Christmas when Gen sidles up to you, an odd expression on her face.

“I’d like to recommend you for Employee of the Month.” 

“Didn't know there was one,” you shrug, having no idea what that could mean. You suspect not a great deal. Barista is no one’s chosen career. This is very much what you hope is a pit stop on your way to better things. A way to pay the rent until you get your big break. Or get to go travelling.

“Oh yes, well, it's been a few weeks now, and really, you’re my best employee. You are never late, always reliable, never get an order wrong, and are friendly to all the customers…” She trails off, looking very sheepish. “And if you are willing to work Christmas Day… ”

“Christmas Day!? Why are we even open on Christmas Day anyway? It’ll be dead, even around here,” you frown, putting down the cloth you were wiping the counter with.

“Owner policy,” she shrugs. “It's only for four hours in the morning - 7 til 11. If you do, it’s quadruple pay...” she lilts, attempting to make it sound appealing.

You squirm uncomfortably, not wanting to let her down but also really not wanting to work on that day. You were looking forward to a duvet and Netflix day with the second most handsome creature in the world (and definitely the most loyal), Chairman Meow.

“Look,” Gen petitions softly. “Prue still has bronchitis. Edie can't switch because she's got some big trip to see her cousins, and l promised my kiddos that I'd be there for them this year… l know it isn't fair, and I can't force you to do it... but you mentioned you are single and your parents are gone. You're the only one…” she trails off, looking awkward.

“...Without family…” you supply glumly, already knowing you will capitulate. At least quadruple pay will come in handy.

—

You are struggling to haul your Aunt Hilda’s Christmas ‘gift’ - a frighteningly enormous box you can tell is choked full of ugly breakables - up the stairs after a long shift when he materialises as he always seems to, just when it is most inconvenient.

Not your prince. No. Sadly not.

Albion “Alby” Finch. 

Yep, quite the name. Not one anyone could live up to. But perhaps particularly not him. The well-meaning owner of the building who lives in the ground floor flat. Still adjusting to his status as a landlord since his father passed last year, he is boundlessly friendly in that untrained puppy way. Always wanting to help but always somehow ending up more of a hindrance than anything. 

“Oh y/n, that looks tricky; allow me!”

He pushes his glasses up his nose with a pointer finger, then immediately lunges forward and grabs the other side of the heavy box without asking first.

“No, wait….!” 

But it's too late.

You had the box precariously balanced, holding it strategically over the poorly taped seams. But his sudden interference has disturbed the contents. You watch as he realises he was wholly unprepared for its weight; his face fleetingly takes on a look of respect that you were handling such a burden.

Time slows like molasses as it slips from his grip, a horrible crunching sound as it hits the step, losing much of its structural integrity in the impact. Then, a calamitous symphony as it tumbles almost poetically down the whole flight, picking up speed as it goes. Yet again, the world is in slo-mo, but not in a good way this time, watching its barrelling path with increasing dread. Both of you wince as the inevitable happens: the spindly legs of the Alby’s heirloom table in the hallway snapping under the duress of poorly packaged terminal velocity porcelain. 

“I'm so, so sorry!” he starts, flustering like a bird. “It’s all my fault; I’ll pay for it,” he assures.

“Alby…” you sigh, head slumping back in resignation, staring at the ceiling. You can't be too mad; he has sort of done you a favour, saving you the inevitable trip to the charity shop.

“What can I do to make amends?” He presses on. “May I take you to dinner?”

You are almost shocked that he has finally summoned the courage to ask you out after two years. When you tilt your chin back down, you see the panic rising on his face as he belatedly realises what he did.

“You are my landlord. Probably not a good idea,” you return diplomatically, trying to let him down easily. He is a nice man, and his admiration for cheese is to be respected, but you know you could never see him as anything but a sweet, slightly clueless friend.

“Right-e-o,” he nods, cheeks reddened. “Of course. So rude. Please forgive me.”

You wave a dismissive hand, staring down at the pile of destruction below, dreading the thought of cleaning up.

“I’ll deal with all that up,” Alby gestures, tracking your line of sight.

And for once, rather than help as you inevitably always do, you agree, your feet throbbing after a long day where it seemed every teenager in zone 1 needed a matcha oat latte.

So, as you tumble into your flat, you sigh in relief, flinging off your shoes and pouring a glass of water for yourself and a saucer of cat milk. You may not have your Prince Charming (yet…?), but you have Chairman Meow, who always makes a genuinely excellent fluffy pillow for your favourite brainless binge-watch. 

—

It’s as if there is lead in your socks as you shuffle down the pavement and roll up the shutters. 

Christmas Day. 6:54am.

Still an hour until sunrise, it's misty and rainy, but then that's typical London, really.

What isn't typical London is the deserted streets. Hardly a soul to be seen, only the very occasional car. Most people are tucked up in bed or, if they are parents, blearily watching their kids tear wrapping paper asunder in pursuit of loud plastic.

When an hour has already passed without a single customer, you are entering a new level of boredom. Inventing new lyrics for the Christmas music playing, balancing stirring sticks into a pagoda-like structure of impressive resilience (it can hold a cup!), cursing the owner who even thought it was a good idea to be open today. It's all a recipe for a sort of irksome ennui.

So when you hear a commotion outside, you almost fall off the stool you have been idly twirling on. Springing from your perch, you run to the glass window, keen for any distraction.

But the sight that greets you has your heart in your throat.

There, in the street, surrounded by a gang of kids in oversized hoodies, is your man. Prince Charming. They are tussling with him, and you realise they are likely trying to mug him of his expensive watch. 

You observe helplessly, too scared to confront them, worried that doing so might exacerbate the situation. As you fumble in your apron pocket for your phone, the kids disperse, and to your horror, you see your man lying in the road, worryingly still. 

Before you are even conscious of it, instead of dialling 999, you are flinging open the shop door and sprinting towards him. 

“Sir! Sir!” 

Skidding to a halt and hovering over him, you can see an ugly bruise forming on his left temple already. They must have knocked him out.

“Sir! Please wake up!!”

But there is no response. 

You fall to your knees next to him, tapping his cheek lightly with the back of your hand, a sense of dread filling you with every passing millisecond.

Cmon universe! You can't do this! Why can't you take out the ugly ones?! Kidding... Sort of. 

As your completely inappropriate internal monologue rages, you grab his shoulders and shake him gently, needing him to get up. Get out of the road, at least.

“Sir! Please! You are lying in the road! Please get up!”

You know it's Christmas Day, so traffic is thankfully light. However, if a bus comes around this blind corner, it will hit you both before it sees you.

Again, nothing from him.

You bend down to place your ear next to his nose and mouth, heart pounding, to see if you can hear breathing, at least. 

“Fuck, you smell so good!”

It's out of your mouth before you can censor it, not that anyone is within earshot, this unconscious beauty aside. Your nostrils are filled with expensive, no doubt custom-blended aftershave, which literally makes your mouth water. You have to tamp the sudden urge to bury your face into his neck and inhale deeply.

But then you hear the hiss of air brakes and know a large vehicle is approaching—it could be a bus, could be a lorry. Either way, you are not exactly going to stay here to find out.

Without knowing quite what possesses you, you limpet yourself around his prone body and literally log-roll him out of the road. A blur of frantic tumbling movement that only ceases when your knees encounter the rough stipples of the pedestrian crossing section of the pavement. Shocking even yourself with the strength you are able to muster.

It's incredible what reserves of power you can summon when Prince Charming’s life is on the line, apparently.

As you lay straddled awkwardly on top of him, a street-sweeping lorry barrels around the corner, right over where he was lying. Sweeping up what you suspect was his mobile phone in the process before you could even grab it for him.

Heart racing at the closeness of the call, you collapse on top of him, breathing hard. Trying desperately to ignore the stirring of your traitorous libido at the sensation of muscular thighs clenched between your own. 

His eyes flutter open, and you murmur a breathless “hi,” almost losing yourself in their depthless, warm beauty. That is before they roll backwards, and his head slumps to the left.

Just great.

As Michael Buble might sing at this particular moment…  ♫ It's beginning to look a lot like a shitshow. ♫

masterlist • wips • taglist (must follow this blog to be tagged)

Taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @ferns-fics @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23

[evanhamato]

OK, I have a personal headcannon that the turtles are super tall- like- raph is 10f ish, Donnie 8ft, leo a little shorter, and Mikey is at LEAST 6ft.

So the turtles interacting with the world being tall mf's and as well as their s/o (like throwing them over their shoulder or air jailing them

Bounus points is S/O is short by normal standards.

THIS IS NOT MENT TO BE SMUT. At all. I request wholesome and Mischievous content.

Well wishes: SBF🐍

[ Ankle Biter ]

Future!ROTTMNT x GN!Reader who is short

A/N: i assume you meant the future turts? im so sorry if this is wrong! we're gonna assume the reader is between 5'0 - 5'3! thank you for requesting SBF!! <3

Relationship: Romantic

TW: Fluff, kisses, cuddling, slight panic (?), affectionate teasing.

Future Raph

He adores your short size.

Hug? You get a bear hug regardless of how gentle he is.

Cuddling? No, weighted blanket in the form of a humanoid turtle.

Kisses? He has to bend over or pick you up to do so.

He gets a little anxious in crowds.

Being so tall means you can see everyone so, you'll be easy to spot, right?

No, not when everyone blurs together.

He once lost you at a festival and...

It was not pretty for the other turtles.

Certainly. Not pretty.

Future Leo

One word.

Air jail.

Your crimes are condemned to punishment, being held like a soggy cat for 5 minutes.

You are also an arm extension.

Something (surprisingly) too high to grab?

Fetch it for him.

If you guys are hanging out with shared friends, he ALWAYS has to sweep you of your feet.

Show-off.

That is until you start to rebel.

When you start to rebel, the only thing Leo can do is pray.

Future Donnie

Height doesn't really affect you two.

Kisses are a little harder but, Donnie is flexible.

Plus, carrying all those junkyard scraps beefed him up a little.

Along with training and fighting.

However, he doesn't hesitate to bring up your height in banter.

"I'm not sure how your opinion matters when you still aren't fully grown. Oh wait, you are."

Simply uses his robotic arms to shove you away once he gets your temper going.

Aside from that, he thinks its a convivence that you are short.

He's making something for you? Less materials used compared to his brothers.

He's also more lenient on repairs or replacements when it comes to you for the same reasons.

Future Mikey

Lets be real, if anyone is gonna tease you the most, it's Mikey.

Backtalk? On top of the fridge you go.

"Are you sure you don't need a stool to see? Just making sure."

He is so smug about it.

Growing up the shortest, it's funny to see the tables turn on someone else.

But he makes sure to never go to far, no feelings will be wounded by Dr. Feelings himself.

He really likes you on his shoulders, a simple lean and it's easy to kiss you.

Nicknames. It's always the nicknames.

With the teasing also comes the politeness.

Doors opened for you, stuff moved out the way, he can't have the ankle biter themself getting hurt!

[mphoenix-7]

Bitter Allies [Soap x Reader]

Chapter 13: The Cabin: Day 5 (pt. 4)

Summary: Soap takes you to a special place he’s found during your five days at the Cabin. You sit, eat, and talk about your pasts a little bit. Soap opens up more than you expect, and you share some stuff about your past too.

Word Count: 6,511

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, swearing, strong language, mentions of death, slightly descriptive mentions of death, car accident, trauma, sweet moments

A/N: Time for a little bonding between you and Soap. More to follow ☺️😉 Also, a Taglist has been added! Please comment on if you’d like to be added to it! Thanks for reading 🫶🏻

Masterlist | <- Previous | Next ->

Bitter Allies • Part 13

The place Soap had in mind for lunch turned out to be absolutely beautiful. A small clearing opened up before you, with a crystal-clear stream winding through it. In one spot, the water pooled gently, forming a small, serene pond. Reeds and wildflowers grew in abundance around the water’s edge, their vibrant colors adding a touch of whimsy to the scene. Only a few trees dotted the clearing, allowing plenty of sunlight to stream through, casting a warm and inviting glow over the area.

The second you walk to the spot, you have to stop to really take it all in. As cliche as it sounded, the spot really was breathing taking. It makes you sad to think that it’s been here the whole time, and you’re just now finding out about this spot on day five.

“Wow…” You breathe, Soap stopping a few steps ahead of you to wait for you to finish taking it all in. “It’s so pretty. How on earth did find this place?” You ask, eyes still trained on the scene ahead as you resume your walking.

“It was the first day we got here. After our big blow up at each other, I went exploring to cool off and just happened to stumble upon it by chance.” He answers. “Come on, the best spot to sit is over here.”

You let him take the lead again, noticing the path you were following looked like it had been walked on before. A lot of the tall grasses and other shrubs were in disarray or broken.

It wouldn’t surprise you if Soap had frequented this place throughout the five days you’ve been here. There were a lot of opportunities for him to get angry and want to storm off somewhere to cool down. This was quite the place to cool down too. You wouldn’t blame him for wanting to come here.

The path Soap was following lead right up the stream. Once you’re right next to him at the edge of the water, Soap glances over at you. “We can cross here. Just be careful cause these rocks can get a little slippery. Especially that speckled one.”

“What? Why are we crossing? Can’t we just stay on this side?” You question him, looking back to the gentle stream. Although it’s not particularly wide or deep, you’d need to take a couple of steps through the water to get across. You notice a few rocks scattered across the stream that could serve as stepping stones, but the prospect of crossing seemed unnecessary.

Soap shrugs a bit. “I mean we could, but there’s a clearing that’s just tall grass right by the water on the other side.” He points out the space he was talking about. “It’s a nice spot. Just trust me.”

You hum softly in thought, debating on if it’s worth the risk of falling in. It wasn’t like the stream would sweep you away or you’d drown—it’d just make for a cold, soggy walk back to the cabin. Even then, it was quite warm out today, so there was a good chance you wouldn’t even be that cold.

You go back and forth in your mind for a little longer before just giving in and agreeing. “Alright.” You sigh. “Better be super worth it, cause I’m risking falling in for it.”

Soap huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “States, if a big muscular guy like me can cross without falling in, I’m sure someone as slim and nimble as you can make it without a problem.

You gasp and dramatically slap a hand over your chest. “Wow, slim and nimble? I think that’s the closest thing to a compliment you’ve ever given me.” You tease, making Soap roll his eyes.

“I’ve complimented you plenty of times.” He grumbles as he turns to face the stream. He begins to cross the stream, his step placement confident looking. You can tell that he’s done this a few times now. Either that or the rocks were that slippery.

“Saying shit like, ‘you didn’t suck as much today’ does not count.” You call after him, watching as he shifts his weight so that he’s standing on two rocks.

He looks back at you, his brows pinched slightly and an indignant look on his face. “That totally counts.” He insists.

“That’s a back handed compliment at best.” You argue back, folding your arms over your chest as you watch him.

He raises a brow at you, almost mockingly. “Still a compliment though. And besides, that’s how all of us compliment each other.”

You can’t deny that. The 141 boys did have a habit of tossing around quips more than actual praise. Gaz was the exception. He didn’t do it as often, but even he had his moments. Still, you’ve received genuine compliments from Price when it was just the two of you, and Gaz gave them to you quite a bit. Ghost hardly ever did, but that was just Ghost.

“I’ve gotten real compliments from the others before.” You counter, finally stepping forward to place your foot on the first rock.

“Even Ghost?” Soap retorts, holding out his hand to help you balance while you get your footing. You take it, wobbling a bit until you get your other foot placed. Once you have your balance, you let go of Soap’s hand.

“Ghost doesn’t count. You’d be lucky if he insulted you.”

“Alright, I’ll give you that.” Soap laughs a little bit, easily stepping across the remaining stones and getting to the other side without a problem. He didn’t even so much as wobble.

You follow after him, holding out your arms to the side a bit to help you balance. You managed to get across though without falling in. It wasn’t that difficult to cross; the rocks were flat enough and they really weren’t too wet. The second your feet hit the grass on the other side, Soap is giving you a slow clap.

“Good job. You crossed and didn’t fall in. Gold star. How’s that for a compliment?” He teases, getting an eye roll.

“Oh fuck off.” You groan, giving him a shove. Soap laughs as you push him away, his arms coming up to shield himself as he stumbles a little away from you. “Just go back to not complimenting me. I think it was better that way.”

“If you insist.” He laughs. “Just remember that you told me that the next time you start whining about how I never say anything nice.”

Soap starts to lead the way once more, walking you over to the spot he’d been so insistent on going to. True to his word, it’s right by the water, nestled on a tiny mound that offers a perfect view of the stream below. A small waterfall that feeds into the pond adds a soothing backdrop of sound. The tall grass around the area is flattened, clear evidence that Soap has visited this place at least once before.

When you get there, Soap steps into the center of where all the grass is flattened and begins to stomp a little more down more around the edges to make room for you to sit. Once he’s done, he steps over to one side and motions for you to get comfortable in the spot he’s just made.

“There we go. Have a seat.” He says, dropping the backpack from his shoulders and setting it down in the grass before sitting himself.

You sit down slowly, surprised by how soft the grass feels beneath you. Being so close to the water, it’s lush and cool, not dried out or prickly like you’d expected. You could honestly take a nap here.

“I still can’t get over how beautiful it is out here. So different from base and deployments.” You say once you’re settled in.

The military base you were currently stationed at, like most others, was dominated by neutral tones and dark green colors. It was a familiar sight—most bases you’d been to had a similar aesthetic. The ones in America were mostly concrete and equipment, with gray dominating the landscape. The base you're at now does have patches of grass, but they’re poorly maintained, with dirt paths worn into them from the constant foot traffic of soldiers.

Then of course when it came to your deployments, half the time you went to places where it was mostly desert. If you did go to a place with a lot of natural greenery, then it was normally so war torn, with uprooted trees, tank tracks, and pits that people dug or ones created by frags, that it wasn’t very enjoyable. The other scenario was you were in a beautiful place but couldn’t enjoy it because you were being shot at.

This was a rare treat. The sounds of nature, no war in sight, no needing to be on high alert for snipers. Just time to sit back and enjoy the beauty of the world you hardly got to see. Even if at first this unscheduled vacation seemed like a death sentence, you were learning to enjoy it. At the very least, you could take back snippets of moments like this.

“Yeah,” Soap hums softly from where he’s seated. “It reminds me a little of Scotland.”

You glance over at him, taking notice of the faint smile on his face as he looks around at the little grassy meadow. He was thinking about his motherland. His home. There’s a longing in his eyes that you’d have to be blind to miss.

“How so?” You venture, wanting to hear more about where he came from. You were sure that Soap, ever the proud Scotsman, would have no problem gushing about Scotland. And you were right. The second the question leaves your lips, he seems to light up.

“All this lush, rolling grass, the gentle breeze, the fresh air, and the sound of the stream—it reminds me of the Highlands and the woods by my childhood home. We lived right outside of town, and our house sat on a hill, giving us the best view of the open land. Behind us, there were miles and miles of woods, covered in moss, with a stream running through it. It was bigger than this one, but the feel of it… it’s the same.”

He pauses, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he continues. “I spent so much time out there when I was a wee laddie. From sunup to sundown, I was always outside. My friends and I would climb trees, play all sorts of game, build forts. In the stream, we would stack rocks to build dams and splash around when it was warm.”

You laugh softly, smiling at the thought of a young, rowdy John MacTavish playing in the woods. It was something you could easily picture. “No wonder you’re so knowledgeable about bears and stuff.”

Soap shrugs a little bit. “We don’t have bears in Scotland. The most dangerous animals out where I was were boars and red deer. I learned all that stuff about bears when I was deployed in Russia.”

“Well regardless, it sounds like you were quite the forest dweller as a child.”

Soap laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “Aye, I was. I went to the woods for everything. My favorite spot was that stream though. I’d go out there by myself and sit by the water, letting it wash away whatever was on my mind. It was always my go to place when I was sad, angry, or just needing to clear my head. It always made me feel better.”

Soap pauses a moment, a little huff of a laugh leaving him as he recalls some story on his mind. “Like the time I first learned I’d no longer be an only child. When my mum and dad told me I was gonna have a little sister, I was so pissed. Took off right out the back door and spent hours out there.”

You laugh softly, but your eyebrows are raised in surprise. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

His files made no mention of his family, though you suppose they wouldn’t have anyway. Information like that was kept almost as secure as launch codes. Still, you always pictured Soap as an only child.

“Yeah, fucking three of them.” He huffs, which surprises you even further. “Eilidh (AY-lee), Rowan, and Kirsten.”

“Damn, MacTavish. I never would have pictured you growing up with three girls.” You smirk, and he returns it, amused himself.

“That’s exactly what Gaz said too.” Soap muses, leaning back a little now and stretching his legs out in front of him. A much more relaxed posture. “So what about you, Stateside? You have any siblings growing up?”

A smile tugs at your lips as the faces of your brother and sister flash through your mind. “An older brother and a younger sister. My brother was adopted from South Korea, and his name is Kim and my sister’s name is Rozlin.”

It was Soap’s turn to be surprised now. “Huh, I always pictured you as the youngest, not a middle child.”

“And why is that?” You raise an eyebrow at him.

“I can’t say cause we said we’d be nice to each other.” He’s dodging the question, but he still answered your question without answering it.

“That’s such an older brother thing to say.”

Soap chuckles softly at your response, and the conversation pauses for a moment. There’s a few beats of silence, Soap seeming to be lost in his thoughts. He gazes back to you shortly though, changing the topic.

“You miss America and being home with them? It’s gotta hard being in a completely different country than the rest of your family.”

You hum softly, a slight frown on your face. It has been a while since you’ve seen your siblings— about a year now. You were sadly used to not seeing much of them anymore now though. Being in the military for a few years now, you didn’t get to be home often with them. You only really saw them on holidays or through FaceTime calls. The last time you’d seen them was through such a call before you’d transferred overseas. The last time in person had been for a sadder event you didn’t want to currently think about.

“Yeah…” You trail off, trying to find a way to explain your feelings to Soap’s question.

Soap frowns as you trail off, his expression going from light and playful to a touch more serious. “You don’t miss home?” He asks hesitantly.

“No,” you shake your head. “I do. I mean, America is my home, and I will always love my siblings. But this life changes you. I can never go back to being a civilian, and it’s like the life I had in America before the military is one I will never have again.”

Soap hums softly, his brows slightly furrowed as he listens. “I get it. A bit of a love-hate relationship.”

“Exactly.” You sigh, a slightly sad smile on your face. “It’s hard to get us all together anyway. Kim also joined the forces, I’m in special-ops now, and last I knew, Rozlin is thinking of joining too.”

“Wow, quite the military family.” Soap chuckles. “Your parents must be proud.”

There it was. The moment those words leave Soap’s lips, a sharp pang of loss hits you, squeezing your heart. You smile sadly at the thought of your parents, trying to push the emotions down. “They were.” You nod, trying to keep it short, but Soap’s curiosity was piqued.

“Were?” He asks slowly, making you sign. Gently, you start to pick at the blades of grass around you, trying to get the words out.

“My… My parents died like a year ago. I guess closer to a year and a half now.” You bite the inside of your cheek, continuing to pick at the grass, but also watching out of the corner of your eye as Soap sits up more.

“Oh God… States, I’m so sorry to hear that.” He says, frowning at you.

“It’s fine. Really. I mean, I’ve have time to process it.” You try to give him a smile to let him know you really were alright, but your eyes still held the sadness of losing someone you love.

The news of their death had been a complete shock to you. Your Sergeant at the time had called you into his office in the middle of a drill one morning to break the news to you. It didn’t sink in right away. You’d denied their death the entire flight back to your hometown. It was only when you entered the funeral hall, and your sister came running to you, her body trembling with sobs as she buried her face in your shoulder, that the weight of the loss finally hit you.

That was the last time you’d been under the same roof with both of your siblings. It was the last time you’d been to your childhood hometown. The last time you’d stepped foot in your childhood home.

“Can I asked what happened?” Soap asks softly, breaking you away from your thoughts.

“Car accident. Drunk driver. Going too fast and hit them head on.” You pick at a few more blades of grass, trying your hardest to fight back tears. God how much you still resented that other driver. The one who got to live.

Soap sighs, looking down and not saying anything for a moment as he takes in what you’ve just told him. “That’s horrible.” He finally says after a moment. “I… I know what’s it like. My uh… my mum also died in a car accident when I was young.” He says slowly, and you instantly look over at him.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through something like that.” You say gently, resting a hand on his knee. You can feel your heart breaking for him. “How did… what happened?” You ask gently, not wanting to dig too much if it was a hard topic for him.

“Don’t really know.” Soap says, looking down at your hand on his knee. “She went out for something in the next town over and never came back. The next morning, they found her car had swerved off road and smashed into a tree. She wasn’t speeding, she didn’t do drugs, wasn’t drinking. Probably alive after she hit the tree and bled out…”

He clears his throat, his eyes instantly becoming glossy. Growling a little, he sniffs and wipes at one of his eyes. “Still not over it.” He chuckles, trying to hide his hurt. “That day changed everything for me. My mum was the kindest and most incredible woman...”

He trails off again, his voice wavering near the end. He was clearly struggling. You give his knee a reassuring squeeze, but he doesn’t look back at you. He keeps his focus trained on the ground.

“Could you tell me about her?” You ask softly. A small smile flickers on Soap’s face, just barely noticeable. He pauses for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, then nods slowly. You can see him steady himself before he starts to speak.

“She was the most loving, understanding person you could ever meet,” Soap begins, his voice softening. “It’s hard to put into words who she was, but everything about her just… beautiful.” His eyes grow distant as he speaks, gaze drifting toward the stream once more. He’s caught up in some kind of memory, one you don’t wish to interrupt.

A moment later, he shifts his gaze back to you. “You remember that story I told you earlier? About how I ran into the woods when I found out I was getting a sister?”

You nod.

“Well, it was my mum who came and found me afterwards. She always knew exactly what to do to make me feel better. I remember she brought me some shorties, which were my absolute favorite. They still are, I love those things.” Soap chuckles softly before continuing with his story.

“We didn’t talk right away. She just sat with me, and we listened to the water together. Just the two of us. It’s funny, I don’t remember exactly what we talked about, but I remember we talked until the sun went down. And when we got home, she tucked in and told me, ‘John, no matter what, you’ll always be my boy. You’ll always have a place in this family, and no one can take that from you.’ She told me that having a sister wouldn’t change that, and that being a big brother meant having someone who’d look up to me, someone I could protect.”

His voice softens as he adds, “She taught me that love wasn’t something that got divided—it just grew. That stuck with me. Made me feel better about everything. Like I wasn’t losing anything but gaining something special.

Whenever I think about home, my home before my dad met Annette and remarried, or when I see something like this stream, I think of her. I’d give anything to sit and talk with her by the stream at home again. Just one more time.”

When he finishes, you’re left utterly speechless. His recollection about his mother is so touching, so sweet, and so heartfelt—nothing like the Soap you knew. You’ve never seen this side of him before, not even around the other members of the 141.

Your heart aches for him, the pain in his words is palpable, and you can see it in his eyes as he gazes longingly at the flowing water. You never imagined that you and Soap would share such a traumatic loss. In a strange way, it makes you feel closer to him. You’re touched that he would share something so personal with you. Something that made him vulnerable.

Without you even realizing it, a single tear slides down your cheek. You only notice it when Soap brushes it away. His touch pulls you back to the present, and you focus on his eyes, which hold tears of their own. He doesn’t say anything, his eyes expressing an understand.

His thumb lingers on your cheek for just a second longer, his touch gentle. When he finally pulls his hand back, the corners of his mouth twitch into a small, bittersweet smile. The silence between you feels heavy, but not uncomfortable—more like a shared space where words aren’t necessary.

You take a deep breath, looking back to the stream, able to image John and his mother sitting there. “Your mother sounds like she was a real treasure.” You feel like your words aren’t enough. There’s nothing you can say to tell Soap how saddened you are by hearing about the loss of this mother. How great she sounded.

It’s enough to bring a smile to Soap’s face though. The longing is still in his eyes, but you know it’s a look that will never fully go away. But there’s also something else there too—a glimmer of happiness. Pride that you think his mother is just an incredible as the way he’s described her.

“I’m sure your parents were just as loving and incredible as my mum was.” Soap says softly. “They raised one hell of daughter.”

His words hit you hard, much harder than you expected. You’re brought to tears once more, watching them quickly well up in your line of sight, and you need to bite your cheek to keep from breaking down. Soap’s words touched your heart. You can’t be more grateful for them, but are unable to express the true extent of their impact. All you can manage to a nod and choked out, “thank you…”

Soap’s smile is gentle, understanding. He reaches for your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. You squeeze back just as tightly, silently supporting each other as you listen to the slow rush of water from the stream.

Soap holds your hand the entire time you look out to the water together. A pleasant silence falls between you, but Soap eventually breaks it, letting go of your hand as he does.

“We should eat, huh?” He chuckles, his tone a tough lighter now. You’re almost relieved though to move on to something else. There was only so much you could take talking about death.

“Yeah, yeah, we should.” You agree, watching as Soap turns to grab the backpack. He unzips and starts to rifle through its contents. “What’s on the menu for today?” You ask, trying to peak over into the bag to see what he’s grabbed.

“Today, we have a fine selection of…” He pulls out two MREs. “Homestyle vegetables in sauce with noodles and chicken and homestyle vegetables in sauce with noodles and chicken.” He lists, pausing between pulling each one out and holding them up for you to see.

You make a face, wanting to gag at what was probably the most unappetizing MRE there is. To be fair, it wasn’t horrible. If you were in a pinch, starving out in the middle of nowhere, freezing while you huddled under a tent in the middle of a downpour, or had eaten the same thing for a week straight, it would taste incredible. But currently, not starving, dry, and having eaten nothing but bland foods for the past five days, it sounded horrible.

“We didn’t have anything else?” You ask, wondering why he’d grabbed what he most likely also thought was the most bland and boring MRE kit there was.

Soap gives you a small shrug. “We’ve gone through every other MRE except this one. We’ve got one beef ravioli and one jalapeño beef patty left, but those were the last of the decent ones. I thought we might want to save them for tomorrow, so we don’t have to eat this mush for the rest of our time here.” He explains, handing the unappealing, brown packaged meal over to you.

You scowl down at it. “I think I’d almost rather starve than eat this.” You admit, turning the package over and inspecting it in disdain.

“It’s better when you have hot sauce you can put on it.” Soap says, already tearing open his kit and dumping the contents out.

You reluctantly open yours, but not before giving him a look. “Hot sauce in what is essentially chicken noodle soup? That sounds disgusting.”

Soap shrugs. “It gives it something interesting besides just blandness.” He says matter-o-factly, pausing in tearing open his food to dig back through the backpack. He comes up with your canteens and hands you yours. You can heat up your food with it and make the broth.

“I’ll keep that it mind.” You really have no intention of trying the weird mixtures he’s suggesting though. Hopefully, though unrealistically, you’d never have to eat this MRE again.

Resigning yourself to the unappetizing lunch in front of you, you tear open the MRE with a resigned sigh, already dreading the bland taste you know is coming. As you work on opening the package and sorting all the different packets, you glance back at Soap. “So, when did you join the force?” you ask, genuinely interested in learning more about Soap’s past, but also eager for the distraction from the meal.

“I joined when I was eighteen. Tried to enlist before then by lying about my age, but they figured it out and rejected my application.” Soap says, which makes you giggle. It sounded like something he would do.

“Excited about joining I see.” You muse, watching as Soap carefully pours water into the heating pouch and slides the meal packet inside. He props it against the backpack to let it heat up.

“Yeah… something like that.” He mutters, his tone seeming to shift just the slightest bit. It was enough to make you pause, but he continues on. “But I got in at eighteen. I was selected for the 22nd Regiment.”

You nod a little bit, deciding to brush off his brief shift in tone for now. “So what did you do in the 22nd?” You ask, filling your own heating pouch to get your food warm. All you really knew about the 22nd Regiment was that it some British infantry group.

“I was a part of an elite squadron that specialized in stuff like covert reconnaissance, counter-terrorism, and hostage rescues.” He explains, watching as you filled the bag up and prep it. Once it’s ready, he motions for you to give it to him, and he sets it up against the backpack next to his. “I did eight years there and then when I was twenty-six, I was doing training in Hereford, and Price was the evaluator. He saw a lot of potential in me or something, pushed me in my training, and when selection came, I passed. Was in the SAS after that. Youngest candidate to ever pass selection.”

You knew that about him already. It’d been in his file. You remember reading his file on the plane ride over to their base and being so impressed. He hadn’t just scraped by either, he got the highest marks possible on each phase of the test.

“I remember reading that in your file on the flight over.” You smile. “Made it all the more intimidating to join the team. Had one guy who was youngest to join the SAS, one whose entire file was reacted due to the work he did, a highly decorated Sergeant, and a seasoned Captain.”

Soap laughs softly at that. “Yeah, still didn’t keep you away, though.” Soap teases, earning himself an eye roll and a gentle shove.

It makes him laugh even more, and it’s strange to hear him joke about something like that for once. Normally when he made comments about stuff like wanting you to leave or wishing you hadn’t joined, he meant it. This time he seemed like he was joking. There was no hidden edge to his words.

“I had to sign the contract before they let me read up about you guys.” You joke back, playing along. Though that was true, you really did have to sign a contract first. You weren’t allow much information about the team unless you agreed to go. The only thing they really informed you about was the basic role of the position you’d be taking.

“We got your file the second you signed up.” Soap says, checking on his food by touching the back of his hand to the bag. His food must have been warm enough cause he starts to take it out of the heating pack. “Didn’t even really know we were getting another person until Price dropped it all in front of us at a meeting. Had only a few days to get ready for you.”

That was new information to you. You figured the guys would have known they were getting someone new long before you signed on. At the same time though, it made sense. It was safer to keep information like that between only a few people, and with the enemies you knew your current Task Force has made over the years, it was probably good not to have word get out they were growing the team.

You’re pulled out of your thoughts when you notice Soap is handing you your meal bag. He mutters a, “here” and you take it from him.

“Oh, thanks.” You mumble back, touching the bag carefully to make sure it was warm enough. It felt decent enough to eat, so you pulled it out of the bag.

As you do that, Soap has already getting his open and is looking back to you. “So, where were you stationed before joining us? I know it was in your file somewhere, but I forgot.” Soap continues on in conversation, mixing his food a bit.

“The Green Berets.” You answer, pulling the rip-strip on the top of the food pouch. The smell of chicken hits you instantly, and the sight of the noodles is already unappealing. “Outside of basics and the platoon I was assigned to, I’ve been with them my whole career. Until now of course with transferring to a Task Force.”

Soap hums softly as he listens to you and takes his first bite of the chicken veggie noddle MRE. Watching him eat it makes you shutter, though he seemed unbothered.

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” Soap mutters through a mouthful of food, his words come out muffled as he chews. He doesn’t bother to finish chewing and swallowing before speaking again. “Did some training with them back in the day.”

You wrinkle your nose in distaste, watching as he continues to take another bite of the noodles. He hadn’t even finished his first bite before adding another one. You never really noticed the way he ate until now.

“You know, the chicken noodles are bad enough on their own. You really don’t need to make it worse by talking with your mouth full.” You frown.

Soap chuckles at you, though he at least swallows before speaking again. “At least I’m eating it. You haven’t even touched yours.” He points towards your untouched meal bag with his spoon.

You glance down at the bag of unappetizing noodles and sigh. “Can you blame me? This stuff is revolting.”

He laughs again, rolling his eyes as he takes another bite. “Come on, it’s not that bad. The faster you eat it, the sooner you’ll be done suffering.”

You can't argue with that logic. As much as you hate to admit it, Soap has a point. The faster you got the food down, the sooner it’d be over, and the less you would taste. It wasn’t like you weren’t capable of eating fast either. Back in bootcamp, you only had five minutes to eat sometimes. So you were more than capable of shoveling it down, you just preferred not to eat that way.

Sighing to yourself, shoulders sagging, you reluctantly scoop up a small bite and force it into your mouth. The taste isn’t terrible, just bland, but the texture is what gets you. A shudder runs through you as you chew, and you can’t help but gag slightly as the mushy noodles slide down your throat.

The whole time you struggle through the bite, Soap watches with wide eyes, his expression shifting between horror and concern. When you finally swallow and chase the taste with a swig of water, he shakes his head. “Steamin' Jesus, that was fucking painful to watch.” He mutters.

You shutter once more, the sensation of the food sliding down your throat lingering for a moment. “I’d rather eat a raw fish from the lake we bathe in than finish this.” You complain, scowling down at the still very full bag.

Soap lets out a small huff that resembles a laugh as he turns back to his soggy noodles. “We could probably go fishing and catch a few. Cook them over the fire instead of eating them raw like some deranged woodsperson.”

Your eyes widen, and you snap your head toward him so fast it nearly startles him. “Could we really do that?!” you ask, barely containing your excitement.

You have been eating MREs or bread for the past fives days for every meal. Cooking fish, real food, instead of eating the bland, processed, and sometimes unidentifiable sludge that somehow passes for a meal in those packets would be a welcome change.

Soap still looks a little shocked, blinking at you before nodding his head slowly. “Uh, yeah.. it’s really not that hard to go fishing.” He answers slowly, and his confirmation just makes you more excited.

“Why the hell haven’t we been fishing this entire time?! Can we go fishing? Please?”

“Well…” Soap hesitates. “I mean we’d have to take the time to make some spears, and then you need to descale them and take all the bones out, and-“

“We can do those things.” You argue, your voice hopeful.

“What are you gonna season the fish with? And what about this stuff?” He holds up his half-eaten MRE. “We just gonna waste it?”

You huff, sitting back slightly. “We can use salt, cause I know we have that back at the cabin. I saved some packets from a different MRE in case of emergency. And really? There is no way that you can look me in the eyes and tell me that you’d rather eat that disgusting shit instead of fresh fish. I know you’d have no problem with tossing that for real food.”

You both stare at each other, neither one of you moving or blinking. Soap is stubbornly holding his ground, but you know him well enough to know he hates what he’s eating too. He just toying with you.

When you raise an eyebrow at him expectantly, it breaks him. He lets out a huff, a smirk quickly forming on his face. “Yeah, alright. This is pretty fucking disgusting.” He agrees with a laugh. “I’m pretty sure my stomach was gonna reject it if I tried to take another bite.”

“Does this mean we’re gonna go fishing?” You ask, a grin quickly spreading across your face.

Soap looks at you, his expression softening in a way that sends a flutter through your chest. His lips curve into a relaxed smile, his shoulders loosening as the tension eases from his posture. His stunningly blue eyes, usually so guarded and intense, are soft and filled with a mix of warmth and something deeper—a tenderness that catches you off guard. Affection?

“Yeah, we can go fishing.” Soap laughs, his voice light with amusement, the gentle look in his eyes lingering.

Your excitement bubbles over, pushing aside any further analysis of his gaze. With a grin, you quickly seal up your MRE, stow your water bottle, and begin packing. “Oh God, it’s gonna taste so good. I can already smell it cooking.” You ramble on, earning a laugh from him as he starts to pack up as well.

After everything is packed away and the backpack is zipped, Soap stands and slings it onto his shoulder. By the time he’s fully upright, you’ve already taken off. He watches as you practically bound off towards the part of the stream where you crossed earlier. He watches you for a moment, a smile tugging at his lips, then shakes his head before hurrying to catch up.

@the-faceless-bride @venavanup @hotthankss @daemondoll

[prolix-yuy]

Olive Branch

Pairing: Francisco Morales x F!Reader

Summary: If Frankie doesn't like olives, then what does he like?

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: T, alcohol consumption, mention of drug use, incredibly tame for me, hints of spice. While this story is not explicit, my blog and the content shared on it is 18+ MINORS DNI.

Notes: I was challenged by @happypedrohours to write a story involving Frankie and olives, and what do you know, these are two of my favorite things! I was snickering to myself the entire time as the olive metaphor rolled out, but what the hell, we're gonna keep it in! Enjoy my friends, and Happy Pedro Hours!

Cross-posted on AO3

When it slides in front of you, you know it’s a good one. You watched the bartender make one at the end of the bar and it was just how you like it. Dry, cold, three olives on a hardy metal toothpick. You were practically salivating by the time you ordered your own and it slid in front of you, shining like the Holy Grail.

“Didn’t know you liked martinis.”

Head whipping around, you stutter out a laugh as Frankie slides in next to you. He perches an elbow on the bar, free shoulder coming close as the crowd tucks you into each other. Your eyes dart to his crinkled brown ones, then to your drink, and back again to distract from the proximity. His hand is tucked into his faded jeans, but it wouldn’t take much to cup your elbow or wrap around your waist. 

“On special occasions,” you quip, tossing your head at Will and Tatiana surrounded by your friends. She’s showing the girls the ring, the men clapping hands on Will’s back and making him laugh. The air holds the fresh taste of new beginnings.

“Never had much of a taste for ‘em. Just gasoline in a glass,” he replies. Your face must be ten levels of indigent with how quickly his eyebrows shoot up.

“Do I look like a car to you?” 

Frankie’s eyes twinkle, and it flips your stomach.

“Definitely a hot rod.”

You laugh it off, rolling your eyes. He’s never serious, after all. He likes to ply you with compliments just short of flirty and leave you high and dry at the end of the night. The first time it stung so hard you didn’t go out with the boys for weeks. 

“He’s just a little fucked in the head, don’t take it too personal,” Santi told you when he finally wrestled the reason for your absence out. “Can’t stop chasing anything messy with two legs. Last girlfriend was a cokehead, even worse before that. He likes ‘em pretty and crazy, and he bags ‘em left and right. They always leave him worse for wear.” Santi’s eyes narrowed over his knowing smirk. “So now you like him?”

“Fuck no,” you spat out, arms folded tight. “I don’t deal with boys who play games.”

Yet here you are, again, with Frankie, ready to roll the dice yet again. At least he doesn’t know you’ve still got a soft spot for him ready to land.

“I’ll ignore the fact that you called Hendricks gasoline,” you scold, sliding your gleaming prize closer on its soggy black napkin. “There’s also vermouth, and olives.” You take a sip, the warmth of the gin and sharp salt of the charcuterie mainstay sweeping across your tongue. Frankie’s eyes drifting down to your lips on the rim of the glass.

What a cocktease. At least most men who eyefuck you actually follow through.

“Shaken, not stirred?” he quips in a rough approximation of a Scottish accent. You snort, instantly regretting it as the burn of brine and alcohol decimates your sense of smell. Trying to hide it under a tiny cough, Frankie’s face turns to the bar.

“Not much of an olive guy either, so you're 0 for 3 on convincing me.” 

You don’t know why, but your stomach sinks briefly as you gingerly twist the glass stem between your fingers. 

“Perfect, more for me then,” you shoot back brightly, but he looks back a fraction too soon before the disappointment flits away. 

“C’mon, you know you were never gonna change my mind,” he teases, jostling you with his shoulder as he motions for the bartender. 

“Never said I was,” you add absentmindedly. 

Frankie will never be an option. He’s made it clear time and time again that he doesn’t choose you. But sometimes, when you let your mind drift, you think about how it could happen. Some dark room where he finally finds something he’s been looking for. The brushing of noses and near-misses before one of you finally acts and you’d know what his lips feel like. Then he would lick into your mouth and his flavor would dance with acidity and botanicals on your tongue and he’d moan at how good you taste.

But he doesn’t even like olives. Or you.

Frankie’s drink is a golden lager, malt rising to your nose. You like beer too. You like a lot of things. You could sit at this bar and talk about your favorite drinks for hours. You’re not just the martini girl. You’re so much more. 

You need some air. Your daydreams are getting in the way of enjoying the night and Frankie’s none the wiser, so best keep it that way.

“I’m gonna bring my gasoline olives back to the party,” you say, ducking out from Frankie’s body without waiting for a reply. Maybe catching a glimpse of surprise, you strut back to the girls. The warmth of their excitement and enthusiasm reinvigorate your tight throat. 

Your drink dwindles slowly, savoring the clean flavor and crushing the olives one by one between your teeth. One of the girls tries the dregs of your glass and wants one of her own, so you weave back to the bar so you can help her order. A holler rises from the boys around Will, and when you look you catch Frankie’s face again. He’s all beaming smiles, eyes barely visible from behind his crows feet and gleaming teeth. He catches your eye and his smile softens, and over the din of the bar he mouths “you good?”

You nod. Of course you are. What would Frankie know about that?

The drinks come, followed by cheers and hums of contentment. You will definitely be tipping well tonight. Before you can make it back to the group Benny cuts off your path, swooping one arm behind your back and your free hand into his. 

“No no no, Benny, I’ll spill!” you shriek, feeling the telltale wetness of a sloshed drink over your fingers. “Shit, I think I got it on the back of your shirt…”

“Ah, I’ve had worse,” Benny says, mock-dancing with you to the barely audible music. 

“How’s Will?” you ask, leaning over his shoulder to snag a healthy sip of the martini. Now a more manageable level, you let Benny lead you away from the bar.

“So in love it makes me sick.” You raise an eyebrow. “In a good way!” he adds, turning you so the man in question is visible. Tatiana’s tucked under his arm, and his mouth drifts to kiss the top of her head.

“You know what, I get it,” you agree, the both of you snickering as the tempo of the music changes. It might be a Hozier song? It’s hard to tell over the babble of voices.

“How are you?” he asks, feigned innocence a red flag flicked in front of your eyes.

“Peachy. Why?”

Benny’s hand squeezes yours in a soothing rhythm.

“Hey, don’t bite my head off. Fish mentioned you seemed down. Something about olives?”

The flash of heat rocketing to your face has to be combatted, so you choose comedy.

“Oh yeah, the fact that they never give me enough in my damn drink. Could drive a woman to tears!” Your put-on mid-atlantic accent doesn’t sell it. Benny chews on the inside of his cheek before leaning to bring his mouth to your ear.

“I know you’re gonna tell me to fuck off…”

“Then you don’t have to say anything.”

“...but you and I both know this ain’t about olives.”

You lean back, jaw set and eyes cool.

“You’re right. It’s about absolutely nothing.”

“Hey…”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Benny lets go and you down the rest of your drink. It burns and you hate yourself for it, but it feels good to let liquid frustration carve through the center of you. 

“It’s late, and bar snacks aren’t gonna soak up the hangover I’ll have tomorrow. I’m gonna say bye to Will and Tatiana, get a cheeseburger, and go home.” Benny puts his hands on his hips, blue eyes filled with a brotherly care you know better than to try and tamp down.

“And it’s not about olives?”

Plucking the toothpick full of metaphor out of the glass, you point it at him.

“It’s not about olives.”

Benny relents, and walks you over to the happy couple. Promises of more drinks and a bachelorette party are half shouted before you pick through the crowd and exit the front of the bar. 

The air is just starting to get cool, alcohol thrumming in your blood. You love the way a martini buzz feels, your mind crystal and your body sharp as glass. It’s different from the smoky haze of scotch or the sluggish thudding of beer. Martinis make you diamond.

Which is why you notice Frankie immediately upon his exit, even though you can tell he wanted to go unseen for a few moments longer. He fumbles his hands into his pockets, ambling up to stand beside you while you glare at the Uber app.

“Got a ride coming?” 

“Eventually.”

He nods and stares at the toes of his boots, which you observe surreptitiously. The progress bar keeps filling and emptying as the silence stretches. 

“I’m sorry for shitting on your drink.”

You can’t help but snap your face to him, eyebrows raised.

“I sure hope you didn’t shit on my drink.”

The poor choice of words quirks the corner of your mouth as Frankie tries to recover.

“Jesus Christ, I mean…you know what I mean! I didn’t mean to be a dick,” he says, now contemplating the sky with resignation. There's still a fight in you, but you try to meet halfway.

“S’all good, I shit on your terrible beers all the time. We’re even.” You glance back at the app and shut it out of frustration. You’ll try again in a minute. 

“I don’t hate olives, either,” he rushes out. You roll your eyes, shoulders slumping. God, could they just let this go? You’re embarrassed enough about it. Before you can make another joke, another deflection, he barrels on.

“To be honest, I’ve never tried…olives. I see them all the time - at parties, at the bar, at friend’s houses - and there always seems to be some reason not to try them. I’m always having something else, or just had something, and I don’t want to…I’m afraid if I try the olives, I’ll really like them. And I don’t know what I’ll do if that happens. And that’s been scaring me off from even trying.” 

Frankie looks up at you, mouth parted and brow furrowed, as realization rises slow and fizzy.

“Because I think I could really, really like them. Enough that I’d want them all the time. But I’ve never had anything like that before. And I don’t want to hurt the…olives.”

Your heart is thudding in your ears, lower lip close to a betraying tremble before you force it between your teeth..

“You don’t want to hurt…the olives,” you parrot back and Frankie sighs, lifting his cap enough to rake his fingers through his hair before resettling it. 

“Fuck it, you know what I mean, right? It’s not about…it’s not about the fucking olives,” he says, and one of his hands wraps around your shoulder. It’s hot and strong and your chest swells at the touch.

“If it’s not about the olives,” you say, tentative, voice dropping into a lower register. He’s closer, almost as close as in the bar, thumb worrying back and forth over your shirt. “Then why don’t you show me what it is about?”

You expected more hesitation, but with that permission he lunges for you, cupping your face with both hands as he crashes your lips together. It’s fast and messy, teeth pressed against your lips and his tongue slipping in to taste. He groans and your knees go weak, head spinning worse than any drink could hope to do. You clutch the lapels of his canvas jacket and pull him closer, sweeping strokes of your kiss filling your mouth with bitter hops. With a lurch he pulls back.

“M’sorry,” he mumbles against your lips, but he continues to clutch at you, arm banding around your waist to keep you snug against him. 

“For what?” you tease, sliding your nose along his proud profile. 

“Takin’ so fuckin’ long.” His teeth graze your jaw lightly, heat pooling in a place that’s demanding a more private location for proper penance.

“I think you owe me a lot more than one very good kiss, after everything you’ve put me through,” you contemplate, his grip tightening. 

“Still waiting for your ride?”

Your fingers wander to the nape of his neck, and his curls are just as soft as you imagined.

“No.”

A gentler kiss follows, broader, somehow still able to make your head spin.

“Good, you’re coming home with me so I can properly apologize.”

The next morning as Frankie opens his front door for his breakfast delivery, he finds a pristine jar of olives resting on his welcome mat. The scrawled note - better start getting a taste for these! - is clearly in Benny’s handwriting. The memory of your body, soft and sleeping in his bed, pulls him back inside. 

After everything that got him here, he could learn to like olives.

END

"This is where righteousness ends It’s a relief to wave this overdue white flag and My blind spots have tortured you enough How much salt could I pour in To think that I called myself a friend."

Alanis Morissette, Olive Branch

[rendy-a]

I llove your self aware twt au can I request for a part two of dorm magical? If it's okay to you!

There was never an idea so appealing to the cast of TWST as the idea of having a slumber party in the famed Ramshackle Dorm.  You’d get to actually sleep in that place blessed with so much of the Player’s attention.  When Crowley surprisingly agrees to allow it as a motivational tool for students, the cast rejoices!  Only, what sort of activities do you do at a slumber party in a magical dorm?

Choosing a bed

Everyone knows that there must be a room in Ramshackle that is THE BEST and everyone wants to choose that room.

Only, it isn’t quite clear what makes a room the best.  Clearly, they want the room the Player prefers but how can they determine which room that is?

Each student ends up in a different room.  Each choice is based on some trivial factor, like a board squeaking when they walked into the room, but that was clearly a sign from the Player to sleep there!  In the end, everyone is satisfied that they have secretly been chosen by the Player to stay in their FAVORITE room.

Azul hurries from room to room, understanding the need to quickly assess the value of each and make his choice ahead of the competition.  He goes quickly but still each other student he passes in the halls fills him with worry.  What if he doesn’t find the Player’s favorite room?  No one really understands what the great Player thinks, and you are unable to voice those thoughts directly. 

The anxiety blooms even deeper each time he hears a (hasty and negligent) student yell that they’ve claimed their room.  Why, Azul has barely been through half the rooms.  There is no way some slacker like Ace has been able to divine the Player’s preference faster than him after all his research into your Greatness!  “Give me a sign, please…” he mutters in desperation as he throws open the next door and enters a drafty room with a slight hole in the roof over the bed. 

It was damp and cold inside.  The bed was so waterlogged you might wonder if it was better to sleep on the floor.  Azul lets his eyes sweep over several dust-covered furniture pieces, searching for that hint of presence that would lead him to what he desires.  Suddenly a shutter on the broken window slams into the side of the house.  Azul jumps and tumbles into the soggy bed.  The chill and damp immediately surround him, but he is overjoyed by this turn of events.  “Ha ha!” he laughs joyfully, the anxiety leaving him, “You are so right, Player!  This is the perfect room for a mer from the Coral Sea.”  He flushes just a tiny bit as he mutters under his breath, “You know me so well…”  Then he shouts out to claim his room (the BEST ROOM)!

Making snacks

Everything tastes better when its burnt, right?  They want you to help so bad but you are a house and there isn’t really much you can do about it.  So maybe letting you be the one to decide when the popcorn was done wasn’t the best idea.

Strangely enough, everything does taste better when its been burnt…by the Player!  There are other snacks laid out, but everyone chooses one the Player ‘helped’ with.  It’s the taste of love?

The microwave dings and a cloud of black smoke comes rolling out when Trey opens it.  Riddle tentatively opens the bag of popcorn and pours it into the waiting bowl.  Or at least he tries too.  The burnt mass takes a little coaxing from the two Heartslabyul students to detach itself from its charred coffin.  A cabinet door swings open with a squeaky moan.  Riddle and Trey meet eyes and then Riddle nods.  “Right,” he says as he reaches into the bowl and pops a handful of charred popcorn into his mouth.

Riddle crunches the over-done popcorn in his mouth with a curious look on his face.  After a moment, having been unable to decipher the expression, Trey asks, “How does it taste?”  Instead of answering, Riddle passes Trey the bowl and the vice-dorm leader takes a sample of his own.  The same curious expression crosses his face, as though not exactly sure how the popcorn does taste.  After a silent moment where the crunching of popcorn is the only sound to be heard, Riddle swallows with some effort and gives a small cough into one gloved hand.  Then he offers slowly, “Like love?”  Trey chokes down his mouthful and nods in agreement, “I think you are onto something.  Great job, Player.”  Then he carefully sets a single kernel of burnt popcorn in the open cabinet (for the Player) before gently closing the cabinet door. 

Then they both went in for another mouthful.  It was actually good when you ignored the taste entirely and remembered it was made by the Player.  Quite good.

Games

Finding a game to plan can be a bit challenging.  No one is interested in playing any games that don’t include the Player…who is temporarily a house.  So all games must somehow include the dorm itself.

When Epel suggests 7 Minutes in Heaven, everyone is immediately onboard.  A search is put on to find just the right closet that has that “Player” feeling. 

When the bottle is spun, some lucky student then gets the privilege of sitting alone…in the closet.  But, it’s the Player’s closet!

Ruggie sits down carefully and gives Jack a thumbs up as the door closes, which earns him a deep frown from his junior.  “Keep it decent in there!” Jack admonishes as the darkness settles in.  “Sure thing, shishishishi!” Ruggie calls out.  Then his eyes narrow slowly, he was finally alone with the Player. 

He sits for a moment, unsure of how to continue.  Then, he decides a little conversation might be in order.  “So, you come here often?” he says before cringing.  “Of course you come here all the time.  It’s your house.  Forget I said that.”  When there is no mocking laughter in response, Ruggie sighs in relief.  “Thanks, Player, I knew you’d understand.”  Then he gently runs his hand over the dusty floorboards, feeling their cold smoothness.  Then he stills his hand, placing it possessively over a swirl in the woodgrain that catches his eye.  “Hey, Player,” he says quietly, “Mind if I tell you something a little secret?”  He rubs the floorboard softly, “I think you are pretty great.  I’ve always wanted to tell you that.”

The old floorboards squeak when he lays down, “Yeah, I feel it too.”  Then in a bit of a fluster he sputters, “Say, I don’t want to mess up the moment or anything but…oh damn, I don’t know how to say it but…can I…I mean…well, I’m going to kiss you now.”  When there is no objection from the closet, Ruggie flushes deep crimson and tips his head until his pursed lips make contact with the floor.  Then he smiles triumphantly and laughs in joy.  “That was perfect, Player.  So perfect,” he drapes an arm over his eyes but it does nothing to block out his enormous smile. 

A beep of an alarm is heard thought the muffled door and it is immediately thrown open by a disgruntled Sebek, “YOU THERE!  WHY ARE YOU MAKING THAT FACE?  I DEMAND TO KNOW WHAT YOU’VE BEEN UP TO IN THIS CLOSET!”

Hide and seek (until morning)

As the night goes on, it’s harder and harder to find games that include the Player.  Even though it is a childish game, the cast agrees to Hide and Seek just because it gives you time alone in the dorm to bond with the Player.

They draw lots to decide on who is “it” for the game.  Silver gets the short stick and ends up being the first “seeker.”

This proves to be a bad decision as Silver finds no one before succumbing to sleep. 

No one cares as each student is perfectly content to lay in their hiding spot thinking about the Player until sleep claims them too.

Malleus wanders quietly in the gardens below Ramshackle dorm.  He hadn’t been invited to the great sleepover (of course), but he didn’t truly care.  Wandering in the moonlight with the Ramshackle dorm (and the Player) looming over him was far more enjoyable anyway.  The wind blew wildly across the field creating a series of creaks and groans from the old dorm.  Malleus supposes this is some form of language you share only with him.  He can’t yet decode it, but he would wander alone for hours to hear you talk so sweetly. 

A single light illuminates the halls of Ramshackle.  Perhaps the students have gone to bed?  He’d certainly not have given up such a precious opportunity so easily.  Malleus stands in the night contemplating the dorm and finally, his curiosity gets the better of him.  He glides carefully to the illuminated window and peers inside.  The main room of Ramshackle stands empty, the signs of earlier activities scattered about haphazardly.  A flickering light draws the fae’s eyes.  Cater lays behind a sofa smiling happily in his dream as his phone continues to play a video where it has fallen, still gripped loosely in hand. 

But where are his retainers?  The thought crosses his mind and takes hold enough for him to choose to seek them out.  Levitating gently to the second story, Malleus peers into a window to see Silver slumped over on a bed.  Some sheets are still clutched in his hand as though he was in the act of pulling them back when he was overtaken by slumber.  Although not in any conventional sort of sleeping form, the way he was nestled on the bed seemed rather cozy.  Feeling a gaze upon him, Malleus lets his eyes drift up to where he can make out Lilia expertly perched on the beams of the ceiling.  Lilia gives him a sleepy smile and a little wave before closing his eyes again, seemingly content to remain where he is. 

One last dormmate for him to check on.  High up in the tower of Ramshackle, nestled in behind a rather regal gargoyle (if Malleus does say so himself) he finds Sebek.  He clutches the gargoyle and mutters in his sleep.  “…Player…hmmm…Malleus-sama!....mmm”  A curious dream, Malleus supposes.  He does understand though.  Being here, where the Player’s presence is strongest, it makes one give in to flights of fancy.  He smiles softly and caresses an old beam.  Goodnight Player, watching over them all.  Goodnight students, dreaming warm in the Player’s embrace.  Goodnight all.

[kokostarbits]

🌼🔮Stuck with the Soggy Cat🔮🌼

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

Part 6:

🌟🌧️Rainy Moments🌧️🌟

They were on a walk.

A walk that Meta Knight insisted on.

Despite Magolor’s reluctance and lazy demeanor, he was dragged out of his cozy spot on the couch by the promise of fresh air—though the sky didn’t seem to share their enthusiasm.

Dark clouds had gathered slowly, rolling in over the hills. Meta Knight noticed them first, his sharp eyes catching the shift in the atmosphere.

The trees rustled, carried by a wind that made it sound like they were whispering secrets. He glanced at Magolor, who was still poking a stick into a suspicious puddle, his brow furrowed in deep concentration.

"Storm's coming." Meta Knight murmured.

Magolor looked up, squinting at the sky, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Oooooh, dramatic. You think we'll make it back before it hits?"

A low rumble of thunder answered that question for them.

"G-Guess not!" Magolor muttered - he was still kind of scared of storms, but he felt safe as long as Meta Knight was near.

(Even though metal was a lightning magnet)

And then, as if on cue, the skies opened.

Rain poured down in thick sheets, drenching them in seconds. Meta Knight's cape clung to his armor, and Magolor’s hood sagged under the downpour. Water ran down the path, rushing past them like it was eager to sweep them away.

Meta Knight raised his arm slightly, preparing to shield Magolor from the worst of the rain, but before he could move, two warm hands grabbed his.

"What—"

"Come on!" Magolor shouted, grinning, his voice bubbling with excitement. "Let’s run for it!"

Before Meta Knight could even react, Magolor was already pulling him forward, laughing as he dashed through the rain, dragging Meta Knight along like an unstoppable force.

Meta Knight stumbled after him, heart racing—not from the sprinting, but from the feel of Magolor’s hand, warm and reassuring in his own. He couldn’t help but marvel at the steadiness in the grip—Magolor wasn’t just pulling him through the rain, he was pulling him closer, grounding him. Meta Knight found it... comforting.

Something he didn’t expect to feel in a storm.

“Y-You’re insane!” Meta Knight laughed, breathless, water splashing against his boots.

Magolor’s laughter rang out, pure joy in every note. “You love it!”

They ran until they reached a grove, the trees thick enough to offer shelter, but there was one problem: a massive puddle—muddy, deep, and deceptively slippery.

Magolor didn’t see it.

He dragged Meta Knight right through it, and then-

SLIP

They both went down in a heap. Meta Knight face-planted into the mud - Magolor following right behind him, hands still firmly clasped together.

Meta Knight slowly sat up, and Magolor burst out laughing under the growing seriousness in Meta Knight’s eyes, and his mask was covered in mud.

Magolor giggled, “Sorry about that, Meta Knight!"

Meta Knight didn't answer.

He was just... staring.

Magolor's smile faltered just a bit under the intensity of that gaze.

"...W-What?"

"You..." Meta Knight said softly, "You make everything feel... different."

Magolor froze. His heart skipped a beat.

Meta Knight looked up again, the rain dripping off his mask like tiny rivers, his gaze intense. “I spent so long being… guarded. Even after everything we went through, I never... I never thought I’d be capable of letting someone in. Letting you in, again.”

Magolor’s fingers twitched in his hand.

Meta Knight swallowed, his next words coming out slower, as if he were trying to piece something fragile together. “You still talk too much... and you’re reckless, and you flip pancakes like they're part of a magic ritual-"

"That's because they are-"

"-but you're kind..." he said, cutting in gently. "You're loud and messy and you light up every room you enter-"

Meta Knight’s voice broke for a moment, as if the weight of his words caught him off guard. “And I...don’t think I want to imagine my world without you anymore-!"

"-I love you!” Magolor interrupted...

The words tumbled out of his mouth, clumsy and bold.

Meta Knight froze. Time seemed to hang between them, the world suspended in that single moment. Magolor blinked, his face flushing a deep crimson as realization hit him.

“I mean—haha wait no—um—I meant like, y’know, friend love! Not—uh—wait, no—unless you—uh—because if you do—I mean I do—WAIT—”

“Magolor.”

The quiet sound of his name broke through the chaos, stopping Magolor’s nervous rambling instantly.

Meta Knight took his mask off slowly, and was looking at him with something far more vulnerable than Magolor had ever expected.

Something real.

Honest.

Magolor shut his mouth, his breath shaky.

Meta Knight reached up, his gloved hand trembling slightly, and he brushed his fingers gently against Magolor’s cheek. The touch was tender, reverent, as though it had been building up to this moment for years.

“Say it again… please.”

Magolor’s heart hammered.

“I…” He breathed. “I love you.”

Meta Knight’s eyes softened, his whole expression melting into something more than just words could convey. Then, after a pause that felt like a thousand heartbeats, Meta Knight’s voice was barely a whisper.

“I love you too.”

Magolor froze again. His entire body felt like it had turned to stone, and then his ears turned pink.

Then his cheeks.

Then his whole face.

Then he made a tiny noise... Kind of like a kettle trying not to whistle.

As if drawn by an invisible force, Magolor’s heart surged forward. With a soft, nervous exhale, he closed the distance between them in one fluid motion and kissed Meta Knight.

This time, there was nothing accidental about it.

It wasn't a flustered stumble or a spice-rack collision.

This kiss was slow, deliberate, the kind that spoke of all the words they’d never said before.

The rain pattered softly above them, as if the world was giving them space to just... be.

Magolor’s lips were soft, warm against his. Meta Knight's hands trembled as they gently cradled Magolor’s sides, as though afraid the moment would shatter if he held too tightly. He let his fingers trace over Magolor’s skin, grounding himself in the reality of the moment.

Magolor deepened the kiss very slightly, as his hands started curling into Meta Knight’s armor as if he wanted to pull them even closer.

The world faded away—the storm, the mud, the cold—it was all just background noise to the quiet intensity between them.

When they finally pulled apart, both were breathless, their faces flushed with emotion and warmth, eyes glazed with something deeper.

Magolor chuckled softly, breathless. “So… does this mean I can give you nicknames now... like... Mety?"

“No.” Meta Knight replied with a slight smile, his voice low, almost teasing.

Magolor grinned wide. “Too late, Mety.”

Meta Knight chuckled, the sound rich and genuine. “Fine... but only if you’re my Maggie.”

Magolor practically lunged into his arms.

“I KNEW IT!! You are soft under all that broody cape drama!”

Meta Knight hid his smile in Magolor’s chest, letting himself laugh for a moment. Then he lifted his head, gently resting his forehead against Magolor’s.

Their bodies still close, and their heartbeats syncing together. The rain fell softly around them, the storm now nothing more than a distant memory.

The rain didn't stop until evening.

By the time they made it home-damp, laughing, a little breathless-the air had gone quiet again, warm and still. Magolor shook the water out of his hood like a soggy puppy, leaving little wet spots on the floor. Meta Knight rolled his eyes but didn't say a word.

Instead, he walked past him and took a clean towel from the hallway cabinet, and gently tossed it over Magolor's head.

"You'll catch a cold."

"Aww, you do care~?"

Meta Knight chuckled a bit as he just reached out and started rubbing Magolor's fur dry through the towel with careful, slow circles.

Magolor melted like butter on a waffle.

"I love you..." he said from under the towel like it was just a casual fact.

Meta Knight stared at him, eyes soft. Like he still couldn't believe this was real.

"...You have no idea what that means to me..."

Magolor stepped closer and pressed his forehead against Meta Knight's chest. "I think I do."

That night, the house was quiet.

The only sound was the occasional rustle of wind outside and the soft clink of tea mugs as they were set down, side by side, on the nightstand.

Meta Knight was sitting in bed with a book. Magolor had claimed the space beside him without asking-just wriggled in under the covers like he'd been doing this for years.

They hadn't said much since the kiss.

They didn't need to.

It was there in the soft glances. In the way Meta Knight turned the pages slower than usual - more aware of the warm body leaning sleepily against him. In the way Magolor kept sneaking peeks at him when he thought Meta Knight wasn't looking.

Eventually, Magolor yawned. Loudly. Dramatically. He flopped over onto Meta Knight's side like a weighted blanket with opinions.

"M'tired.."

"Then go to sleep."

"I can't..." he whined, "...my pillow's too cold."

"You have a blanket."

"It's not the same."

Meta Knight sighed a little bit.

Then, with a quiet rustle of fabric, he closed the book and set it aside. He didn't say anything as he shifted to lie back fully. Didn't say anything when Magolor immediately curled up against his side, head resting on his chest, arms loosely wrapped around him, but his wings moved. Slowly. Instinctively. One curled around Magolor's back.

"...Comfy?" he murmured.

Magolor nodded, already half-asleep. "Yes..."

Meta Knight looked down at him. He brushed his fingers lightly across Magolor's fur, gaze unreadable.

"I used to think I was better off alone..." he said quietly. "That opening up would just lead to pain. That it was safer to keep my world small."

He paused.

"But you're the one thing... I never saw coming."

Magolor made a sleepy little sound in response and nuzzled in closer, sighing into his chest. "You're so sappy when you're horizontal..."

Meta Knight snorted, the tiniest bit of a smile tugging at his mouth.

Then, almost shyly, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the top of Magolor's head.

Magolor smiled-eyes still closed, and as the wind danced softly outside and the last of the storm drifted away, they fell asleep like that-tangled together, warm and safe, hearts finally at peace.💕🌷💖

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

🌷💖✨PART 6✨💖🌷

Tomorrow I'll be posting the last chapter 🥺 However - I definitely will be doing other stories every now and then - It's actually very fun! 🥹💕🌷💖

I get to express my love about Metalor in words, and nothing makes me more happier then to share it with you guys!!!🪐✨

I've got so many ideas with these too! (Maybe too many😅) And that includes drawing and writing!

Anyways - I hope you enjoyed part 6 of "Stuck with the Soggy Cat"! 🥹💕🌷✨💖

[royal-chandler]

got the flu, wrote a little firstprince+family friday ficlet ✨ 💫 ✨

--

“Daddy!” Bianca shouts after scrambling out the backseat of Alex’s car and that’s when Henry truly feels back at home. His lovely daughter streaks up their driveway to meet him where he's sat at the front steps.

Henry welcomes the collision when she bodily runs into him, bony knees in his front and the crooks of her elbows around his neck as he scoops her up. Into her afternoon-warmed hair, he fiercely tucks, “I missed you terribly.”

“I missed you, too,” Bianca returns, as though she’s sharing a special secret, tender and thoughtful. She hugs him tighter and kisses his cheek.

Mouth mostly stuffed with his heart, Henry whispers, “Thank you, darling.”

After another moment, Bianca peels away to ask, “What was London like?”

“Exceptionally grey. And very wet. It poured the entire time. I’ve got a suitcase full of soggy socks to show for it.”

“Yuck.”

“Indeed but those soggy socks took me to many shops. Where I may have picked up a few gifts for you and your brother.”

“Ooh,” Bianca sing-songs on a scheming slide, fingers steepled and giddily tapping together like the cutest cartoon villain there ever was. 

Henry gives her a smile back. “Would you look at that? You did your nails! They look gorgeous!”

“Thanks!” She showcases them proudly, neon colours fanned out and prancing again. “I did my left hand but Papi did my right for me since it gets messy when I do it.”

“You both did really well, wonderful jobs.”

In agreement, Bianca nods. “Papi said you couldn’t come back to them looking like monsters or he’d be in big trouble.”

Henry chuckles, reaching out to curl loose strands back behind her ear. He hums and replies, “Well, it’s the weekend. I would have gone easy on him.”

“Yeah right,” Alex says with a smirk, joining them. Bianca’s sequin bookbag hangs from one hand and the other is spread across the back of a napping Arturo, whose peaceful face is wrinkled into Alex’s shoulder. It’s a sight for sore eyes. Alex makes a show of unburdening himself of Bianca’s bag, commenting on how heavy it is. When she takes it from him with no trouble, he wonderfully compliments Bianca on her strength and makes her beam—effectively turning Henry into goo. “You wanna take it inside and then we can get going, mija?”

“We have to go to the grocery store,” Bianca says, breaking the news to Henry. Over-the-top, she despairs to Alex, “We always have to go to the grocery store.”

“We always eat,” Alex counters. “I think you’d be pretty upset if there wasn’t any food in the house. I mean, what’s a Friday night without mango ice-cream?”

“Uh oh. I’m not built for that.” Hurriedly, she smacks a kiss to Henry’s cheek again. And then she’s off, tossing back, “Gotta go, Daddy! Love you!”

“She’s not built for that?” Henry echoes. 

“New lingo sweeping through Hickory Elementary like the flu after a kid licks a doorknob.”

“That is not an actual thing, Alex.”

“I saw it!”

Henry rolls his eyes. 

“Her need for new shoes is becoming more apparent, Alex. Maybe we should stop by the mall as well.”

“Hah, good luck getting rid of them.”

“A hole is starting to tear through the front.”

“They’re her favorite pair. And most importantly, the toes stop the swings at recess the best,” Alex recites, clearly having heard the argument plenty. 

So has Henry. 

“I do not have the energy for that battle,” he sighs before standing. He collects Arturo from Alex gently, careful not to wake him. Pressing a soft hello to his son's forehead, he murmurs, “Hey, sweet kit."

"He's going to be so excited when he wakes up and sees you."

"I can't wait."

Alex's roving gaze is considerate, loving. "How was it?"

"It's to the point—," Henry continues after an inelegant swallow, a hot threat around the edge of his eyes, "the next visit will have to be all of us."

An apologetic noise leaves Alex and he draws Henry in close and holds him. His scent is familiar and comforting, makes breathing easier. Lips lingering against Henry's skin, Alex asks, "Do you wanna talk about it?"

"Yes," Henry admits, "but tomorrow. Just need this for now."

--

thanks for taking the time to read! 🤍