#Three Ways to Make a Good First Impression

[cheriecoke]

˚₊‧꒰ა GIRL'S NIGHT OUT ! — bucky barnes

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎. you go out for a girls night with yelena and ava, drink more than you can handle, and remember how much love you have in your life.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈. f!reader, avenger!reader, takes place between thunderbolts and post credit scene, new avengers, found family, tower fic adjacent let’s goooo, established relationship, references to depression, reader is the same age as yelena, very light moments of angst but mostly fluff, pet names (baby, sweetheart), alcohol, non-descriptive scene of vomiting, drunk!reader who is kind of a lightweight lol, bucky (+ the others hehe) take care of her, honestly idk what this is it’s kind of silly goofy — 8.3k words

𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒. making my official comeback to the mcu after a few years, i am a bit rusty pls be nice to me <3 reader is based off my self-insert/oc, who was taken in by tony when she was a teenager and he’s like her older brother. so there are mentions of that, as well as being in the og avengers. also references to her having powers but feel free to imagine them as whatever you want :) also thank u to my lovely aimsies for reading over it for me mwah!! <33

You blinked down at your glass, feeling your vision already beginning to go in and out of focus, a camera trying to capture a moving image. But the longer you stared down at the alcohol, the more uncertain you became that the liquid was actually sloshing around the rim — the ice seemed rather stagnant. 

Perhaps it was just your head that spun.

You weren’t sure how you’d already drank enough to feel so disoriented. It was still early in the night. Moonbeams filtered through the few windows, but they were fresh, luminescent balls of light that had only just arrived. 

The club, wherever it was that Yelena had chosen to take the three of you, was obnoxiously loud, a heavy rhythm playing over the speakers. Although you’d never really minded the way music drowned out your own thoughts, the flashing, hazy lights made it difficult to focus on anything at all. 

A hand curled around your bicep, dragging your attention away from the drink below you, back towards the face of your friend. 

“Come on,” Yelena said, a laugh bubbling up out of her, choppy from the alcohol. Her accent sounded thicker, sticking harder to the syllables, as the words left her lips. “Don’t tell me you’re quitting already.” 

You made a face, but before Yelena could criticize your inability to hold your liquor any further, Ava had already interjected. 

“Right, so unlike you, the rest of us don’t consider Vodka to be our closest companion,” Ava snorted, rolling her eyes. Always getting a jab in, even though, half the time, she didn’t really mean the unkind words. She just couldn’t help herself. 

Yelena smiled, but there was sarcasm dripping from the corners of her lips, her eyes squinting with annoyance. She lifted her hand, flipping Ava off, as her rings reflected the neon lights of the interior. Then, without looking away, she took another shot. 

It made you laugh – the sound of your own humor was already beginning to grate at your ears, loud and off-putting. It said enough — you were tipsy, if not edging past it. 

Despite your strengths, of which there were many, you were not good at drinking. A talent that did not seem to improve upon with time, nor did it impress Yelena.

At the sound of your laughter, Yelena turned, and made a face, one that seemed dark and overdramatized in the blue tint of the club. “It wasn’t that funny,” she said, though it was without any surprise. “Bucky wasn’t kidding when he said you were a lightweight.” 

You pouted. “I’m not.” The objection was weak, even to you, and an exaggeration, at best, to the other two. “It’s just…” For a few, long seconds, you tried to think up an excuse, but nothing came. Straightening, you sobered your face, and took the shot in front of you. “Forget it.” 

“Okay,” Yelena snorted, drawing out the first syllable. “You’re a wonderful liar. Remind us to rely on you next time we’re in a bind.” 

The damn alcohol was already infecting your brain, and where you normally could muster up a witty remark, you felt slow, and horribly incompetent. “I’ve helped you out plenty of times,” you said, humming, “like…” 

You drummed your fingers against the counter, trying to think of a time where you’d actually needed to lie on a mission. Even before you’d become the New Avengers, your face was too recognizable, too famous, for you to be undercover in any capacity. 

“Give her some time. I’m sure she’ll think of something tomorrow,” Ava said, amused. “You two are already giving me a headache. I’m getting another drink.” 

“Is that it?” Yelena spared a quick glance at the glass in Ava’s hands, one which was only halfway empty. “Or are you going to go flirt with the bartender?” 

That sent you into another fit of giggles, to which Ava glared, her expression souring. “Well, we can’t all be lucky enough to be in happy, loving relationships, now can we?”

This was directed at you, and you only smiled in return, gesturing her away with the back of your palm. 

“Good luck!” Yelena called, smiling to herself. “Let us know if you need any help!” 

“I’ll manage,” Ava said, mouth in a thin line, before she disappeared into the crowd, a few people out of your line of sight. 

“Wonderful. I’m sure we’ll have to break up a fight soon.” Yelena’s face fell into resignation, as she sighed. “As usual. I don’t know why we ever invite Ava, anyway.” 

Ava’s attempts at flirting were usually laced with the undertone of sarcasm and cruelty, and though you had learned to see the fondness wrought within her words, it wasn’t something many accepted easily. 

Most people – men, in particular – reacted to it with a shade of aggression, one Ava never seemed to like. Nights like this often ended with you and Yelena intervening in tense interactions, gently reminding Ava that she was now a public figure, whether she liked it or not. 

“Well, we are your only friends,” you said, softly teasing Yelena as you leaned against her, already starting to become clingy in your intoxicated state. 

You weren’t sure why the alcohol brought that out of you – normally, you held everyone at a distance, awkward with physical contact.

Maybe what you really wanted was to be closer to them all, you just let yourself when you were drunk. 

“Besides, I think Ava invites herself half of the time. Better than hanging out with John and Alexei.” 

Yelena eyebrows raised, like she hadn’t considered the alternative. “You’re right. I wouldn’t wish that upon anyone,” she said, suddenly serious. “Come on, we should go dance.” 

You laughed, and stumbled after her, grabbing her wrist, in an attempt not to lose her in the crowd. 

The music, paired with the alcohol in your bloodstream, made you feel lighter, like you were walking on a cloud. It infected every ounce of your being, rattling your brain, energizing you in a way so different from the adrenaline you normally felt on missions. 

There’d been a point, in recent years, where fun had been a foreign word to you, perhaps, as it had, with Yelena. But, being friends with her, even for a short while, had brightened some part of you that had dimmed. 

In other ways, before, you’d been fulfilled; whole, even. You loved Bucky, loved him more than you’d ever thought you’d be capable of loving anyone. You loved your job, most of the time. You loved yourself, on occasion. 

That was more than you could’ve asked for, after everything with Thanos had happened. 

Yet, you’d lost most of your friends, some of the people you’d called family, and that had left a gaping hole inside of you that you had ignored, for months. 

Pepper, who had always been there for you, tried her best. But she was a grieving wife, and a mother to a child who would never see her father again — she couldn’t be what you needed anymore, and you didn’t want to bother her, even if you had lost Tony, too. 

So, perhaps it was because Yelena understood, that had caused you to form a fast friendship. She’d lost someone who wasn’t quite her family, but was the only family she’d ever had. 

Whether you’d known it or not, you both had needed your friendship more than anything.

For a while, the two of you danced, letting your worries drift away, catch on the wind and leave the club behind. 

The air was smoky, the scent stagnant in the air, along with the smell of sweat that continued to accumulate. A song played, then another, and after a few more, you’d begun to feel more sober, no longer as light on your feet as you’d once been. 

“I’m going to get another drink!” you yelled to Yelena, over the music, and she gave you a thumbs up, glancing over at you for just a moment. A song she liked was on, and she was in her own world. 

You smiled, and pushed your way through people, hoping Yelena wouldn’t drift too far from where she was. It might be impossible to find her later, if she let the crowd carry her deeper into the dancefloor. 

As you made your way to the bar, you couldn’t tell if you were stumbling, or if people were just that clumsy, as you knocked into one after the other. A young woman nearly spilled her drink on you, apologizing profusely. 

You laughed it off and righted her carefully, before reaching the bar, and ordering the first thing you could think of. 

The bartender gave you a look — she recognized you, but couldn’t quite place you. But she didn’t comment on it, instead, turning back around to the bottles. 

As you waited, chin tucked into your palm, you felt someone come up beside you, far too close for comfort. The cologne on his collar was heavy, curling around you in a suppressive cloud, nearly making you cough. 

You did your best to ignore him, and it worked, for a few moments. Until a hand crept up on your back, gently brushing your shoulder, and you jerked away, shooting your gaze over to the man, a mix of surprise and disgust. 

“Woah,” he said, hands held up in surrender, though he looked anything but guilty. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I was trying to get your attention, but I guess you didn’t hear me.” 

He was older — much older than the majority of people here. His beard was grey, trimmed nicely, but there was something unkempt about him. The clothes he wore were expensive, but they fit poorly, and his watch was far too flashy for the rest of his attire. His smile was bright, teeth all the color of a shiny pearl, but he reeked of sharp whiskey and the overabundance of aftershave.

You held your tongue; as much as you would’ve loved to tell him you’d been ignoring him on purpose, he didn’t seem like the type of person who would take that very kindly. You didn’t feel like getting in a fight, tonight. 

“I guess not,” you said, coldly, instead. “Can I help you?” 

The bartender came over, placing the drink in front of you, before sliding her eyes between you and the man beside you. 

Gently, you smiled, assuring her you had everything under control. She really must not have recognized you, if she thought he would be an actual threat to you.

The man looked at your drink, voice going lower. “I just wanted to talk. Buy you a drink. You looked lonely over here.” 

“My friend is waiting for me,” you smiled, tightly, though a hint of poisoned sweetness seeped through. Although Yelena had a tab running, and you weren’t planning on leaving soon, you slid a card out of your wallet, wanting to make a point. “I’ll take care of the drink. Thanks for the offer.” 

You turned to the bartender, beginning to hand your card over to her. “You can close out the tab–” you said, but the stranger stopped you, a large, hot hand curling around your wrist tightly. 

It burned where he touched you, the grip tight and possessive, even though he had no claim on you. A sour taste swelled up in your mouth, anger flashing hot in your chest. 

“Come on, I insist. A beautiful woman like you shouldn’t have to pay for her own drinks.” 

Your jaw tightened, and you yanked your hand away, eyes cold. Although you’d been content to play nice, he wasn’t making things easy for you. “I’m not,” you said. “It’s my fiancé’s card.”

While your connection to Tony Stark meant you had, and would always have, more money than probably everyone in the club, you thought pulling the fiancé card might deter the man. Instead, he seemed to enjoy playing the game. His grin widened, like you were merely teasing him.

“Well, don’t you think your fiancé would appreciate having someone else take the bill off his hands?” The man placed his hand on top of your own, trapping the card beneath your palm, where you’d tried to slide it across the countertop.

Exhaling hot air through your nose, you looked up at him, narrowing your eyes.

“Hey, man, she’s not interested–” The bartender began, but quickly, you cut her off, not wanting the man to turn any anger onto an innocent employee, who was only trying to help. 

“I really don’t think he’ll mind,” you said, shrugging with indifference. “He used to be in Congress, up until recently. It was a whole mess. Not really his fault.” You stopped yourself before you could go any further, waxing poetry about your beloved. “Anyway. I’m sure he won’t even notice the charges.” 

With that, you gave him a satisfied smile, noticing that the comment ruffled his feathers, if only marginally. Men like that always hated when their material possessions did little to impress others. 

“Congress, huh?” He tried his best to remain unfazed, indifferent. “What’s his name?” 

You brightened. 

It was almost too easy, getting him to fall right where you wanted him. You supposed you could’ve gone the easy way, the I’m an Avenger way, the You know Tony Stark? way. But, you loved Bucky Barnes with every ounce of your being, and a part of you was always just waiting for the opportunity to bring him up 

“James Barnes – Bucky. Do you know him?” 

The man laughed, loud and exaggerated, a gut reaction without any thought. He pressed his hand to his stomach and shook his head, waiting for the punchline. “Hilarious. The Winter Soldier?” 

You tilted your head to the side, blinking up at him innocently. “What’s funny about that?” 

“Nothing. It’s just… That would mean–” Then, he squinted, regarding you carefully, eyes flitting from your irises to the curl of your lip, from ear to ear, down your body. Within a second, horror began to bloom in his dark eyes, even as he tried his best to subdue it. “Oh. Oh, shit–”

Maybe all those ridiculous superhero movies were right – putting someone in a baseball cap and glasses really could hide you from the world. You’d only done your makeup and hair differently this evening. It was hardly enough to look like a new person, but for some reason, people were finding it difficult to place you without your usual uniform. 

“Hey, is everything okay here?” Yelena came up behind you, eyebrows pinched together as she looked between the three of you. 

“Oh. Fuck. I’m– Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Shit.” The man was still rambling like a fool, before he looked at Yelena, then back at you, combing his hand through his hair. His cheeks were flushed, visible even in the dim light of the club. “I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you.” 

“Clearly,” you said, frowning as you leaned against the counter. “Lucky for you, I’m not in a bad mood tonight. I’ll let it slide.” 

You thought it would be enough to encourage him away, but for a moment longer, he stood where he was, chewing the inside of his cheek. 

Yelena, beside you, looked annoyed with the entire ordeal. It wasn’t the first time you’d been forcefully hit on, and it usually went something like this. 

“You’re not gonna– you’re not gonna send someone after me, are you?” 

You frowned. “Why would I do that? You think I can’t pick my own battles?”

“Oh, here we go,” Yelena said, under her breath. 

“No!” He said quickly, his voice growing louder. “I didn’t mean that. I just… You know…” The man stuttered through the words, afraid to say what you knew he was thinking. 

You narrowed your eyes. The pull of your powers swirled in your chest as you stared into the frightened gaze of the stranger. Fear curled around him, a chill sliding up his spine as he remained frozen in place, gaze locked onto yours. 

“First of all, I would never send someone else to do my dirty work,” you said, pointing a finger square into his chest. “The only person you should be worried about coming after you, is me.”

He nodded, his hands up in surrender, lips sealed together; a promise that he would leave you alone, after all this. It didn’t give you as much satisfaction as you would’ve liked.

Sighing, you deflated, a frown taking over your features. “Secondly,” you said, feeling fiercely protective, “Bucky doesn’t do that. I wouldn’t ask him to do that.” 

No matter how many years passed, no matter how many things changed, there would always be people who still hated Bucky for the things he could not control. Maybe he had accepted that, acknowledged that he couldn’t change everyone’s opinion, but you never would. 

“I-I know. Of course not. I’m sorry.”

“You are now,” you said, huffing. “Not that it matters.” 

The man opened his mouth, jaw going slack as he fumbled for something more to say. But you’d already grown bored of the conversation, and Yelena could tell. 

Swiftly, she cut in, patting the man on the shoulder, ushering him away with a few quick, steely words. 

Finally, he was gone.

“So dramatic,” Yelena said, rolling her eyes. “Can we be normal anywhere we go? You could’ve just punched him and been done with it.” 

Ignoring her, you slid the card back into your wallet, exhaling wearily. “You don’t actually have to close the tab,” you said to the bartender, apologetically. “Sorry for the trouble. I might need something stronger than what I ordered, though.” 

The bartender laughed. “Don’t apologize. I’ll get you something else – on the house. Not because you’re an Avenger, by the way, but that is pretty cool that you came here.” 

“Thank you.” 

You smiled as she turned away, but it was small, sad, as it formed on your lips. 

Still being an Avenger, using that title – it’d never felt right, not with half of your original team dead or gone. How many times would you see The Avengers rise and fall? How many people would die, and you’d still be alive? 

Yelena called your name, snapping you out of your haze, and you glanced over, right into her knowing eyes. She was like your reflection, sometimes. All the loved ones you’d lost, all the emotions you shared, all right in the glass of her dark eyes, shining back onto you. 

You shook your head, putting the smile back onto your face. “I’m okay,” you promised, squeezing her hand. “Come on, let’s dance.” 

It was hard to pinpoint the moment you went from being tipsy, to nearly throwing-up on the dance floor. 

You’d never been good at drinking in moderation, nor were you good at pacing yourself. You weren’t good at a lot of things which included alcohol, if you were being honest with yourself, and yet, you were too stupid to stay away from the stuff. 

Yelena, unlike you, had noticed when a queasy look had begun to form on your face, and had taken you outside before you could spill your dinner down the front of her shirt.

“Alright, we’re done,” she said, pushing you towards the door. “Time to go home.”

“I don’t wanna leave,” you complained, whining softly, but Yelena ignored you, too busy searching for something on her phone. You stumbled along with her outside, unwilling, and yet, complacent, as she sat you down on the curb. 

“Stay right there,” she said, a finger outstretched, like she was scolding a child. 

You frowned, but couldn’t think of the right words to say, and gave up. 

Yelena’s voice was hushed as she spoke into the phone, taking a few steps further down the sidewalk, to peek back inside the club. Aimlessly, you stared across to the other side, where a few people kept to themselves, blowing smoke out their lips. They paid you no attention. 

It felt like only moments you’d sat there, when Ava emerged from the doors, and Yelena said. “Finally. Bob’s here.” She shoved her phone back in her pocket, squinting down the street. “That was fast.” 

“Too fast,” Ava said, flatly. “I almost would’ve rather you called John. At least he could get us back in one piece.” 

“Well, I could’ve called Alexei.” Yelena’s voice grew closer as she bent over, grabbing one of your arms and throwing it over her shoulder. “None of our options are great.” 

You’d been zoning in and out, until she lifted you, pulling you to your feet. The conversation, though muddled, slowly but surely reached your ears, as you leaned against Yelena, letting her take most of your weight.

“You could’ve called Bucky,” you said, slurring your words together.

“Hmm,” Yelena said, huffing, as she practically carried you down the street. “He’s not home.” 

“Really?” you frowned, blinking heavy eyelids at her. That was news to you. “Where did he go? He didn’t tell me.”

“Emergency,” Ava said, waving it off. “Pointless meeting. Don’t worry about it.”

It didn’t make sense, but nothing really made sense then, with your brain so blissfully empty. You were certain that you’d talked to Bucky just minutes ago, sending him a mess of letters that probably spelled nothing, but neither of them seemed concerned about it, so you decided you wouldn’t be either. 

“Okay,” you shrugged, walking alongside the two of them, lazily. “I’m tired. I want to go home.”

“You just said you wanted to stay.” 

“I don’t anymore.” 

Yelena gave you an appraising look. “Well, trust me. We’re going home.” A pair of headlights blinked. “See, there’s Bob. Let’s go.”

You followed her and Ava, finally pushing off of Yelena to walk on your own, even if it was mostly stumbling. She remained just inches away, in case you tripped over your own feet. Which it took all of fifteen seconds to do. 

Another loud laugh escaped you as you grabbed Ava’s wrist, catching your fall. The two of them had both jumped for you, arms outstretched, which was even more ridiculous, considering you had powers. 

You didn’t need their help, even if you had almost landed face-first.

“Please don’t crack your head open,” Yelena said, lips pursed. “That would be such a mess.”

“Like Humpty Dumpty,” you said, pointing to your head with a wide, lazy grin. 

Yelena just blinked at you, preparing a response, though whatever she was planning on saying fell away, as Bob pulled up to the curb, idling beside the three of you. 

“Hi Bob!” you shouted, waving enthusiastically at him, your voice much louder than you’d meant it to be. “Look, it’s Bob, Yelena!” 

She shushed you, even though there was no one else on the street, and pushed you forward, towards the car. 

“Very observant,” Yelena’s words were full of sarcasm that you missed completely.

Stupidly unaware, you smiled back, proud of yourself. 

Bob stuck his head out the window, dark waves of hair falling onto his cheeks. “Hi,” he said, watching as you waved again, with even more enthusiasm. A few, slurred phrases of nonsense left your lips, and Bob’s eyebrows raised, eyes wider. “Oh, wow. How much did you drink?” 

“Not as much as you’d think,” Yelena answered for you. “Come on, in you go.”

Ava opened the back door, and the two of them practically pushed you into the car, causing you to land on the seat, flat on your face. It was cold, and the leather was rough against your skin, but you still laughed, rubbing your cheek as you righted yourself. 

Another loud sigh came from Ava, as she climbed in next to you. 

“You made it look easy,” you said, blinking at her as you slumped down, resting your head on her shoulder. The hint of a soft, sweet perfume still lingered on Ava’s skin, even under all the layers of sweat and grime from the club.

Ava stiffened, but then relaxed, humming to herself. “What, getting in the car?” 

You nodded, slowly, your cheek pressed into her shoulder.

“Well, it’s not exactly rocket science.” 

Yelena slammed the door behind you, shocking you back to attention. You watched as she made her way around the front of the car, into the passenger seat next to Bob. 

“Okay,” Bob said, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white. “Does everyone have their seatbelts on?” 

“Just drive, Robert,” Ava said, rolling her eyes. 

Bob hesitated as he looked at you through the mirror, concern flashing through his eyes. “Are you sure she’s okay? She looks like she might be sick.” 

“She’s fine,” Ava snapped, exhaustion becoming evident in her voice. “And if she throws up, it’ll be all over me. Just drive.” 

“No need to be so rude. Bob came to pick us up out of the kindness of his heart,” Yelena said, fumbling with the music, intent on picking the perfect song, even for such a short distance. 

Outside, New York became a blur as you began to move, and you returned your attention to the front of the car, watching Bob focus on each turn and stoplight.

“That’s so nice, Bob,” you said, each syllable being drawn out carefully, slowly. “You’re such a good friend.” 

The words hung in the air. It made you emotional, all of the sudden. A wave of sadness washed over you, dousing you in an ice bath that brought you back to a semblance of sobriety. There was a time, once, when it would have been Tony’s shoulder you rested on, Natasha adjusting the radio, Steve driving you home. 

Now, they’re all dead. 

An ache, like a blade piercing straight through your chest, carved out that empty, lonely part of your heart. You’d offered it to the other three, not a replacement for your old friends, but something new, something different. A risk, to be so vulnerable, but not one without the greatest reward.

“Oh,” Yelena said, and it was the softness of her voice, her eyes pinned on you with understanding, that made you realize tears were streaming down your cheeks, coating Ava’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?” 

“You’re all good friends,” you wailed, rubbing your eyes. “It’s nice… to have friends again.” The words hung there, before you were bursting into tears, profusely scraping at them like a child, apologizing over and over again. 

Ava put a soft hand on your forehead, brushing the stray hairs away from your face, sticking to your skin from your tears. As hard as she was on the outside, there was kindness, underneath it all, cased in the armor that had been crafted by a hurt girl who hadn’t had the chance to love. 

“You’re a good friend too,” Yelena promised, leaning over the backseat to squeeze your hand. “It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize.” 

She was understanding like that, so caring and warm, even when she thought she wasn’t. It only made you cry more, which made you feel more guilty, and had you curling in on yourself, shrinking away from the others. 

Drinking was always fine, until it wasn’t. Bucky would have never swayed you from doing anything you wanted to do, but he had reminded you, gently, that all the emotions you tended to bottle up were released when you mixed them with alcohol.

You probably should’ve listened to him. After all, he knew you better than anyone. 

“It’s stupid. I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m sorry. I’m ruining everything.” The optimistic evening had been lit on fire, burning into a pile of ash that wouldn’t die out with your tears, which only kept flowing, even as you tried your best to suppress them. 

“It’s okay,” Bob said, looking at you through the rearview mirror. He offered a self-deprecating smile, face wrinkling at the edges. “Remember when I had a bad day and made half of New York disappear? That was ruining the evening.” 

Despite yourself, you laughed through your tears, a hiccup erupting from your chest. Ava squeezed your arm, the most affectionate embrace she could offer you. 

“But now we’re all–” you choked through your own tears, “friends.” 

“Exactly.” 

You thought there was a message in there, somewhere, hidden beneath the letters strung together to make the word. But exhaustion was wearing on you, and your sadness had drained you, leaving you a mopey mess to seek comfort in Ava’s subtle embrace.

“Hey, Bob?”

“Hmm?” 

“Where’s Bucky? Ava said he had a–” you pinched your face together, trying to remember what she had said. Something… about a, “meeting. When will he be home?” 

“What? Bucky’s not–” Bob began, confused, before Yelena slapped him on the bicep, effectively shutting him up. They shared a glance, one you didn’t understand, before he exhaled, and continued. “Oh. A meeting. Right. I’m sure he’ll be back. It’s late now, anyway.” 

“Okay,” you said, satisfied. At some point, you’d stopped crying. What a relief. “I miss him.”

“You saw him, like, three hours ago.” Yelena wore a barely-contained grin. 

“Well. It feels like a long time,” you frowned, dramatically, your lips pulling down in a curve. “Maybe I can call him. Do you think he’ll answer?” You started to pull out your phone, though it was caught, somewhere in between you and Ava, wedged far enough into the seat that you quickly gave up. “I can’t reach my phone.” 

“We’ll get it when we get out,” Ava promised. 

“But I want to call Bucky,” you said, trying again for your phone. “Tell him I love him.”

“I think he knows, darling.” 

“What if he doesn’t? What if he thinks I went to the bar to find someone else.” A burst of panic sprouted in your chest, matched with an endless sadness that alcohol seemed to free in you. “What if he hates me?” you said, squeezing Ava’s arm, nails forming small, crescent indents. “What if–”

“Oh, for god’s sake, Bucky would rather die than leave you. You don’t need to worry about that,” Ava grabbed your hand, the one digging between the seats, almost stuck, as you searched for your phone. “Just – close your eyes.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Of course I am. I’m always right.”

For a moment, you considered arguing more, but she was so stern in her words that the fight died out of you quickly. “Okay, fine. I believe you.”

You weren’t sure when Ava, of all people, had gotten so soft, but she seemed to have something in her heart that had latched onto you, in the way Yelena had with Bob. 

“You know, I love all of you too,” you mumbled, quietly. For not sharing an ounce of blood with Tony, you sure shared the Stark gene of being unable to effectively shut up. “You’re like my family, now. My best friends.” 

None of them replied, but you could feel the heavy blanket of emotion that settled over the car, a gift that came with the knowledge that they were loved.

You did, in fact, fall asleep on the ride back to the tower, and when you awoke, you were groggy and disoriented, all of the past few minutes a blur. All you wanted was your bed, yet it felt so far and out of reach.

“Alright. Here we go,” Yelena groaned, yanking you out of the car with all her strength. 

Bob helped her haul you up, the three of them lugging you into the tower. 

“Maybe you should stop her earlier, next time,” Bob mumbled, as your head lolled against his bicep, feet clumsily going in a jagged line. 

A small crowd of guards watched the four of you, but didn’t move a muscle as Yelena glared daggers at them, daring them to comment on your drunken state. 

Finally, the elevator stopped at your level, and you climbed into it, taking the ride to the top floor. 

Within seconds, the elevator dinged, and you were graced with a view of Manhattan glittering beneath you. You stumbled out, doing your best to hold up your own weight. With the three of them hovering around you, though, it was hard to move at all. 

It was still bright on the floor, but the lights had been dimmed, leaving an atmospheric glow to the room. John was sitting in front of the television, the images casting shadows on his face when he paused it, causing the room to go quiet.

Amused, he watched the three of you return home in a miserable state. “Jesus,” John said, laughing loudly as he leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. “Did you drink the whole bar? You look like shit.” 

Of course, the shit in question was you, but you were too dazed to realize who he was talking to. 

“Shut up, Walker,” Ava scowled. “You can thank Yelena for that.” 

That, for some reason, resonated in your brain. You looked up, smiling, before saying in a quick, clipped succession, “Thanks, Yelena.” Another fit of laughter erupted from your chest.

John’s eyebrows lifted. “That was rhetorical, genius.” 

“Rhetorical…” you frowned, trying to sound out the syllables. “That’s a long word.”

“Is it? I never noticed.” 

“Fuck off, Walker. If you’re not going to be useful, I’ll start a fire under your ass to make you evacuate the room.” Ava guided you to the couch, pushing you down into the cushion, right as John stood, regarding you with a thinly veiled uncertainty.

“Always resorting to violence.” John tucked his phone into his pocket, watching you move to lay down on the cushions, still warm from where he’d been sitting. “I’ll go get the lover boy. Surprised he wasn’t waiting by the door.” 

You perked up. “Bucky’s here?” 

John snorted. “Yeah, he’s been here all night.” He ignored Ava and Yelena’s gestures at him to stop. “They didn’t call him because they didn’t want to get in a crash – which would happen because you try to make out with him, in front of us, every time you’re drunk.”

“I don’t.” 

“Yes, you do.”

You frowned, but you were too relieved at the prospect of your fiancé being home that you forgot to be mad at your friends for lying. “Hm. I’ll go with you.” 

As you started to stand, the blood rushed to your head, and you took one step forward, knocking into the coffee table, before you nearly fell onto it, catching yourself.

“I think you should stay right there,” John said, amused, as a small smirk pulled at his lips. 

“But–” you knocked something off the table, then something else, glass shattering by your feet. “Oh no. I’m sorry,” your frown deepened, the frustrated tears rising to the surface again. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t move,” Bob screeched, grabbing your wrist before you could reach for the glass. “It’s okay. It’s just water. Not a big deal.” 

“I’m sorry, Bob,” you frowned. “I’m–”

“It’s okay,” he promised again, trying to force you back onto the couch. “We’ll clean it up.” Bob turned to the other three, his smile helpless. “Can one of you just go get–”

The elevator dinged again. 

“Hey, Walker, have you heard from–” Bucky stepped off the elevator, dressed in casual clothes, a pair of dark sweatpants and a regular t-shirt. He was freshly washed from a shower, wet strands pushed out of his face, falling around his jaw. There were a few damp spots around the neck of his shirt, droplets dripping from his hair. “Oh.” 

He looked at the floor, the mess of water and glass, then back up to your tear-streaked face, hazy eyes. 

“Jesus. Yelena, I told you.”

“Hey, it isn’t my fault!” Yelena said, defensively, hands raised. “She bought her own drinks.” 

“I’m sorry,” your lip stuck out, eyes blinking back the tears. “It was an accident. Are you mad?”

“What?” Bucky stared back, confused, before he realized you were talking about the glass – or maybe the state of your intoxication, and shook his head quickly, beside you in a second. “No, of course not, baby. It’s fine. Just a glass. Are you okay?” 

You nodded, slowly, as he came around the side of the couch, guiding you away from the mess of glass and into his arm. The scent of his body wash, still lingering from the recent shower, relaxed you immediately, evaporating your tears as you fell against him. 

“I’m okay. Tired,” you mumbled into his chest. “Love you. Did you know that?” You tilted your head, making to kiss him, but you missed his lips completely, landing somewhere between his cheek and his chin. “I wanted to tell you on the phone, but Ava said that was stupid, because you already know.” 

Bucky laughed, his eyes so soft as he smiled at you. How lucky you were, to still have the brilliant smile that took over his face, even after everything he’d suffered through. 

He took your head in his hands, thumbs gently caressing your cheekbones. One warm against your skin, the other, cool metal. “I do know. Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna hear it again.”

“Okay. I love you,” you drawled out, extenuating the letters, satisfied by his reaction. 

You stood tall to kiss him again, but that time, he dodged it on purpose, kissing your forehead instead as he pulled you back into him.

“Gross,” Yelena said behind you, but you could hear the affection in her voice, happy to see the two of you so in love.

Bucky laughed again, a small one this time, as he took your hand and kissed it. “Come on, pretty. You can barely stand up.”

“I’m fine,” you slurred, but you let him lift you anyway, one arm under your knees, the other against your back. “I can walk.” 

“I’m sure you can,” he agreed, but made no move to put you down. 

Bucky kissed the top of your head again, unable to keep his lips from pecking you gently, with a warmth that spread across your body. He said a few more words to Yelena, something about cleaning up the glass, but she promised she didn’t mind, and sent the two of you away, back down to the floor you shared. 

Technically, Bucky had his own floor – a product of Valentina’s ridiculous idea to discourage the two of you from acting like a normal couple. 

The Watchtower might have been your workplace, but it was also your home. It had been before, when it was Stark Tower, Avengers Tower, and now it was again, after it’d been renamed and renamed. 

Despite the challenges that never stopped coming, you weren’t going to keep yourself away from the man you’d loved for years, just because Valentina thought it would cause problems.

“Maybe I should buy the tower back,” you said, not to anyone in particular. “Tony would want that.” 

“Do you want that?” Bucky seemed unsurprised by the question. You’d mentioned it in passing, a few times, when Valentina had tried to enforce rules you didn’t approve of, paired with frustrated remarks of, “How could Tony sell it to her?” 

You’d already made a few deals with Valentina, all but forcing her to let you take over renovations, return some of the suites to exactly how they’d been before. You couldn’t bring Tony back, but you wouldn’t forget about him, any of them, just because it hurt.

“Yeah. I think so.”

At first, you’d wanted to stay far from the tower and the memories that haunted these walls, darkened by the lives that had been lost. Now, though, there were new ones, and it didn’t seem so scary to live in a place that had always, really, belonged to you. 

Bucky hummed, thoughtful. “How about we talk about it when you’re sober?” 

“Okay.” You made a face, uncertain if he was just humoring you. “I’m not kidding. I’m being serious.”

He smiled. “Oh, I know. I’m not going to try and talk you out of it.”

You searched his face for any hint of a lie, and when you found none, you relaxed back against him, satisfied. A peaceful calm began to wash over you, and you closed your eyes, the edges of rest reaching for you.

“Anyone hit on you at the bar?” Bucky asked, an effort to keep you from falling asleep in his arms. 

You opened your eyes, processing the question, before thinking hard on your answer. It had just been a couple hours ago, but it felt like a long time. “Just one person. An old man–”

“Hmm. Older than me?”

You laughed again, girlishly, as your grip around his neck tightened. “No one’s older than you.” A kiss landed on his cheek – somehow, some of your lipstick still remained, and it smeared on his skin. “I told him I was getting married. He didn’t care.” You yawned. “I scared him away, though.”

“I can imagine.” You’d never been good at accepting criticism of your relationship, or your lover, from anyone. Bucky had never thought he was worth all the trouble, but time was beginning to convince him otherwise. “You sure you still wanna marry me? I’m sure he’d forgive you if you called him, let him know you dumped your boyfriend.”

“You’re not funny, Bucky.” 

“No? I think I’m a little funny.” 

You hadn’t noticed that you’d gotten into your apartment until Bucky was sitting you down on the sink, kissing your forehead one more time. “I’ll be right back. Stay there, okay?” 

“Why?” You said, stumbling after him, rubbing your eyes. “I’m tired.” 

“Because you’re going to kill me tomorrow if I let you pass out like this.” Bucky lifted you back onto the counter, pushing you forward until you rested against the mirror. His eyes narrowed, serious. “Will you please listen? I’ll be right back.”

You glared at him, but felt too lazy to move, letting your head drop against the mirror. “Fine,” you relented, without much of a fight at all. Then, feeling stupidly childish, you stuck your tongue out at him.

Bucky rolled his eyes, before turning back around, leaving you. 

Exhausted, your eyes closed once you rested against the mirror. For a moment, you waited, attention fading in and out, before the room started to feel a little tilted, and your stomach lurched. 

You stumbled off the sink, suddenly feeling awful, before you covered your mouth quickly and took the two, quick steps to the toilet. It was only a moment before you were spilling the contents of your stomach, all the alcohol you’d drank, out into the toilet, head bent over your forearm as you heaved. 

A hand roamed over your back, pulling your hair away from your face as you waited a few more seconds, before you vomited again, tears pricking at your eyes from the taste. 

“Sorry,” you said, perhaps for the last time, the word tasting familiar on your tongue. “This is gross.”

“Sweetheart, I’ve seen a lot of gross things — this is nothing. I’m impressed you made it to the toilet,” Bucky’s expression was completely neutral, unfazed, when you tilted your head to look at him. “Feel better?” 

You nodded, a small movement, with wide, sparkling eyes, despite the disgust lingering from your actions. Every day, you thought it was impossible to love him any more, and yet, here you were, falling for him all over again. 

Bucky took a few squares of toilet paper, wiping your mouth before he flushed the toilet. When he stood, your head fell onto his thigh, the muscle hard against your cheek. 

“Come on,” he said, dragging you to your feet. “Back to the sink.” 

This time, you let him pull you along wherever, his hands gentle against your hips, as he settled you back down on the countertop. The granite was cool against your skin, a nice feeling after the hot flash that had come from spilling your insides. 

You slumped down, running on fumes of energy as you watched Bucky squeeze toothpaste onto a toothbrush, before attempting to poke it between your lips. 

Your eyes widened, and you swatted him away, groaning, even as he insisted. “I don’t want to,” you said, falling forward, in an attempt to sneak past him. 

But Bucky was stronger than you, and you were barely able to hold yourself up. He blocked your movements easily, releasing a heavy sigh. “Would you just let me help you?” 

“I’m not a baby,” you started to say, but the minute you’d opened your mouth, he’d stuck the bristles against your teeth, scrubbing quickly, worried you might reject the movements altogether.  

“I know you’re not, but you’ll feel better in the morning,” he promised, focusing on his task as he placed a thumb on your chin, gently forcing your mouth open a little wider. Reluctant, you let him, and he smiled, caressing your jaw affectionately. “Thank you.” 

You endured the toothbrush in your mouth for a solid thirty seconds, before you finally swatted him away, spitting in the sink next to you. Amused, Bucky handed you a glass of water, which you also fought, but managed to swallow down a few sips. 

“You were supposed to–” He stopped himself, giving up. “You know what, never mind. Drink the rest of it.” 

Bucky rinsed off the toothbrush and the sink, before reaching over to a drawer and pulling a singular wipe from a violet-covered package. He dragged it against your skin, careful not to scrub too hard, but made sure he got as much makeup off as possible. 

“Are you done now?” you asked, blinking at him, feeling dizzy and off-kilter. 

Your fiancé threw the cloth away, assessing your appearance before he yielded to your requests. “Alright. Come on.” 

Finally, you thought, as you hopped off the counter, practically falling into him as you staggered on your feet.  

Bucky let you rest against him as he slid a cool, metal hand down your back, unzipping your dress. It fell around your ankles in a pool of dark, burgundy tones, one he helped you step right out of. With a look of endless adoration, he pressed his lips to your shoulder, dipping around your collarbone, before slipping a soft, black t-shirt over your head, one that was warm and smelled like him.

“There,” Bucky said, kissing you, for the first time all evening, on the mouth. “All done.” 

You chased after his lips, but he didn’t indulge you as he dragged you to the bedroom, making a comment about how you were far too gone to do anything more than sleep. The sheets had already been pulled down, the pillows organized exactly how you wanted them.

Without another thought, you fell on the mattress, eyes closing as soon as your head hit the pillow.

The bed dipped beside you. Bucky slipped off both your heels, his lips lingering around your ankle. “My gorgeous girl,” he said against your leg, the words tickling your skin.

You hummed softly to yourself, feeling like you were floating on a cloud as he squeezed your calf, before retreating back into the bathroom.

Bucky was only gone for a few minutes, organizing the mess you’d left behind, before the lights went out, and he was back in the bed beside you, pulling you into his chest. You went easily, tucking your head under his chin, one arm draped across his stomach. 

Although sleep called for you, you were kept awake by a lingering regret that you’d spoiled the evening by being such a mess. You tilted your head, propping your chin up on his chest, before whispering his name in the darkened room.

Bucky made a small sound, barely an acknowledgement. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry.” 

This time, he cracked open his eyes, sharply blue in the moonlight, before sighing. “What can you possibly be sorry about now?” 

“I feel bad.” It was difficult to form the right words for the horrible ache that struck your chest at that moment.

Bucky shifted, a warm palm resting on your cheek as he turned his head to face you. The tip of your nose brushed his own. “Why?”

“I’m… stupid.” 

His eyebrows raised, and then he laughed, hot breath ghosting the bridge of your nose. “Well you’re not stupid, you’re just drunk, and no one gives a shit about that. Pretty sure they all just think it’s funny.” 

Somehow, that calmed you. It must have been exactly what you needed to hear, the words soothing over that anxious knot in your mind. “And you?” 

Bucky’s face softened, knowingly, like this wasn’t the first time you’d had this conversation. “Yeah, it’s funny, but I also think it’s nice that you trust me so much – and them.” He squeezed your hand that was lodged between the two of you. “Besides, we’ve been through a lot worse than this, and I still asked you to marry me, didn’t I?”

“I guess,” you said, mumbling, but you were running out of arguments that he couldn’t refute.

Your stomach was beginning to ache, a weird feeling in your gut, paired with a growing headache that was a mixture of exhaustion and the effects of intoxication. A few more incoherent words left your lips, and Bucky listened for a while longer, blinking back in exhausted confusion, before he finally pressed one last kiss between your brows.

“Go to sleep, baby,” he said, closing his eyes wearily. “You can tell me in the morning.” 

Despite another anecdote on your tongue, you gave into the wave of exhaustion that rolled over you, your mind finally beginning to still. You let the heavy wave of rest curl around you, a blissful comfort, before, at last, you were asleep.

thank you so much for reading! please consider leaving a or reblog if you enjoyed it ❤︎ feedback is greatly appreciated!!!

[lush-escape]

This is Me Trying

pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

synopsis: your friend takes you out to a street race to meet her boyfriend and his brothers

a/n: street racing Jason Todd won't leave my brain. I'm going to do my best to keep reader as ambiguous as possible. Updates will probably be slow between work but I will also be posting this to my AO3 which i will link here. I hope you enjoy ♡

next: part 2

“I just don't see the entertainment in it, is all.” You try to explain to your friend. She had finally, finally, dragged you to one of her boyfriend's street races. You could see the appeal to them. Hot people racing dangerously and illegally in cars or on motorcycles, what's not to like? Aside from the fact that you only get to see them take off and then they're gone. A whole ten seconds of oggling.

“It's not just the race,” your friend smiles as she drags you along the sidewalk. It's dark out, almost midnight already, groups of people walking alongside you to the meet up.

“Its also the after party. You will have fun. I promise. Maybe you'll meet someone.” She shrugs, you roll your eyes. And yet you follow along like a puppy dog to humor her all the same.

It's crowded, almost overly so. Suffocating in a way. But your friend finds her boyfriend easily like she has a GPS radar on him. He's handsome, because of course he is. Dark hair and beautiful blue eyes, dark brown skin. Dick, she said his name was. This is your first official time meeting him.

He's friendly and polite and his smile was bright enough to power up Superman if he really put his mind to it. You doubt it would be hard for him. You stand off to the side a bit awkwardly as the two talk for a second, catching up. You hear him mention his brothers.

There's more of him?

You can hear your friend and Dick talking quietly to each other before you catch;

“Yeah, I mean.. Jay's here tonight. I could introduce them.” Dick mumbles with a smile and you notice him burying his face into the side of your friend's hair. Ugh.

“Jason?” A younger voice pipes up, you turn your head to take in the newcomers. “If you hate your friend you could just say that, there is no need for torture.” Dick laughs before introducing his younger brother, Damian.

He says they're adopted but you find that hard to believe when they look almost identical. Aside from the fact Damian has green eyes instead of blue. Both black hair and dark skinned. Damian speaks more properly, you notice, with a hint of an accent you can't quite place.

“I dunno man,” another speaks. Tim, you find out his name is. “Jason's been in a pissy mood all day. I wouldn't-”

“It's fine, it's fine! It'll be good for him. He needs to make new friends.” Dick insists.

They're talking about you as if you're not even there - not giving you a chance to speak for yourself on if you want to meet this Jason person or not. Your friend laughs. You glare.

Damian and Tim share a look before shaking their heads and that doesn't look promising at all. You're regretting your agreement to come along but your friend places a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

“I've met Jason before, he's nice.” But you know what her definition of “nice” is. It's far different than your own.

“Yeah, mhm.” You respond with a half hearted smile.

But the group walks further into the crowd. More cars and motorcycles come into view. You learn that Dick races with a 1979 trans am, one that he rebuilt with his brothers. The five of you walk by it and it's impressive. You find out that Tim is, apparently, still hesitant on racing while Damian claims he's too young - Dick teased him for being scared which earns him a chop to his throat.

‘If Jason is like these three then he can't be so bad.’ you think to yourself.

Until you see him. The small group stands in front of a heavily modded black and red Honda CBR600RR. It's nice. Clean. You stare at the bike until a gruff voice cuts you out of your thoughts.

“What, Dick?” Jason's expression is one of pure irritation as he tunes his bike.

He's tall and built like a brick shit house. Your mouth almost goes dry. Black hair with a white tuft in the front with a broad chest, beefy biceps, and piercing blue eyes. Oh boy.

“Just showing the angel around,” Dick slings an arm around your friend's shoulder. “And her friend.” Dick gestures to you. Tim and Damian step aside, a parting of the sea. You stand silently, almost dumbfounded, until you find your voice again.

“Uh, hey-” You try.

“No. I don't want to talk to people.” He cuts you off.

Oh.

“Told you,” Damian snickers quietly to Tim with a crooked smirk who shakes his head with a snort of laughter that he tries to cover with his hand. Your friend gives you a sympathetic look.

Great.

“C'mon, Jay. Don't be rude, I was trying to introduce- ” Dick tries again.

“Ain't got time. Race starts soon.” Jason grunts as he stands to his full height and holy shit is he intimidating. “Sorry, little birdie.” He comments as his gaze sizes you up. But he turns away before you can even get a word in.

‘Nice my ass.’ You think to yourself with an eye roll off to the side. Dick shoots you a sympathetic smile before he leads you and your friend away from Jason back towards his trans am.

“Worry not. That was him being polite.” Damian turns his smirk to you. Lovely.

It's a warm night in Gotham already and the crowd of people definitely doesn't help. “So it's always like this?” You ask your friend as you watch groups of people walk by laughing and talking. She nods in response.

“It's fun! I didn't think the racing scene in Gotham was this big but it kinda makes sense I guess.”

“I never even knew there was a ‘racing scene’.” You comment in response which gets a small laugh from Dick.

“Oh yeah, the scene’s huge here. It's fun and illegal, two things that every Gothamite loves.” He jokes.

“So, do you race for fun or.. is there a pool involved?” You ask Dick. The most knowledge you had about street racing was from the Fast and the Furious movies.

“For fun!” Dick beams. “Okay, well- winning the pot is nice, obviously. But personally? I do it for fun.” The answer makes sense to you. Dick gives off the vibes of an adrenaline junkie with the energy of a golden retriever.

“And Jason?” You ask, pretending to simply be curious. Dick stops for a second before he smiles at you. He looks at you like he knows something you don't.

“He races-...” Dick cuts himself off, his eyes roam off to the side as he chooses his words.

“Jason races to forget.” Tim finished for Dick who simply nods in response.

“Cliche.” You respond.

“Very.” Damian agrees. He looks less than impressed. “For him racing is simply a way to focus solely on the rush. Nothing else.”

[changingplumbob]

Second Round - Day Three (Gonk) 3 of 3

@sleepyselkiesims, @sanitysims, @bakersimmer, @invisiblequeen, @abbysimsfun, @fallin4fiction

Arista: I really hope no one accuses me of using my mermaid song powers to cheat!

Nicola: Well you won't hear that criticism from me

Arista: I just genuinely had a fun time! And I'm glad you won to. Hopefully Evie can win the next one

Nicola: *sing-song voice to the tune of Finally by Cece Peniston...almost* Finally, it's happened to me, me and De on a date, my feelings can't describe it...

Arista: It looks pretty stormy still... I hope you didn't pick the beach

Nicola: I did not! I hope the park has shelter

Arista chose to visit a cafe for her solo date. The sky may be cloudy but that doesn't matter if the company is good.

Deanna: Question... Do you think you're mostly lucky or unlucky?

Arista: Honestly, neither

Deanna: Really? I suppose that's a healthy attitude. You've never had a bunch of good or bad luck?

Arista: Nothing particularly terrible has ever happened to be, but neither has anything particularly great. Coming in last for round one is easily the unluckiest thing that's ever happened to me!

Deanna: Yikes, I'm sorry

Arista: It was just the first round, I can improve

Deanna: Can we get deep for a bit? 

Arista: Going out of the shallows huh? I'm open

Deanna: My family believe in the watcher but I know not everyone does. Do you believe in fate, you know, destiny? Or do you think we're all at the mercy of some watcher?

Arista: Oh absolutely

Deanna: Can I ask what makes you believe that?

Arista: I found the coding for it. And I know my family line was pre-destined, it's literally the classic fairytale. But I like to think whatever is watching us out there likes to give us some measure of control over our own actions

Deanna: You found code? That's impressive! Joey will love to hear how

Deanna: Say you can live anywhere. Where would you live?

Arista: When I moved out I decided to try out the city, mostly because it was as different from my childhood cottagey life as I could get

Deanna: That makes sense

Arista: But there's so many places I haven't been, I'd want to visit as many places as possible before finally deciding.

Deanna: I have to say I like being in Tartosa because it's close to my family

Arista: Family is important, and Tartosa is beautiful! I can definitely understand why you would want to stay close

Deanna: I could be persuaded to move if it was to somewhere stable

Arista: I think an eventual home base sounds good but I'd have to check out places before picking

Nicola has chosen to go to the park for her solo date this round.

Deanna: Do you think you're mostly lucky or unlucky?

Nicola: I don't want to get philosophical or anything, but neither

Deanna: Oh? Not had luck either way?

Nicola: My life is good, but bad things happen. I also can't win a challenge to save my life it seems. But that doesn't mean I'm unlucky. It just means it wasn't my day. But I'm here with you right now, and this is the luckiest I've felt in a long time.

Deanna: Can we get deep for a bit? My family believe in the watcher but I know not everyone does.Do you believe in fate, you know, destiny? Or do you think we're all at the mercy of some watcher?

Nicola: This is definitely deeper than anything I get to talk about with my students! 

Deanna: Sorry, I swear it's not an exam

Nicola: Watchers who leave autonomy on high like to believe in fate and destiny, don't they? I've never met the Watcher, so I don't know what's true. Is it a person, a corporation, a robotic algorithm? It's all so much to think about that I sometimes feel like living in the moment, doing whatever you feel like doing right now, is the only life worth living. I've been told that's childish, that plans and designs are part of life, but the best laid plans sometimes lead to divorce, so..

Deanna: I'm sorry you had to go through that. For what it's worth I think signing up for something like this after that makes you brave

Deanna: Say you can live anywhere. Where would you live?

Nicola: My family in Henford is so important to me. I don't have any news from home in here, but before I left, my brother Dominic was looking for engagement rings for his girlfriend, Anika. I would love to live in Henford for the clean air and my family, and my students, but Tartosa's beaches are growing on me. For the right person, I'd live anywhere.

Deanna: I have to say I like being in Tartosa because it's close to my family. I could be persuaded to move if it was to somewhere stable...

Nicola: We could spend the school year in Henford and summers in Tartosa

Deanna: Tartosa summers are lovely

Nicola: The best of both worlds. I think your family would like Henford, too - Artemisia would like the wily foxes, I think!

Deanna: Oh they could definitely be her spirit animal

With the dates concluded it's skill time back at the villa. The contestants get four hours today to focus on a skill of their choice. Evelyn chooses to play it safe by studying the broader discipline of fitness, while Kristina and Nicola have opted to narrow down their study to rock climbing. Nephinae, Arista and Yasmine all think alike and choose to work on their charisma.

While Deanna is prepping food for everyone I catch up with her about the dates.

Devin: Nicola and Arista, first dates for both of them

Deanna: Good point! Maybe that's why they weren't mind blowing, we're still getting to know each other

Devin: I thought you had a little crush on Nicola

Deanna: For sure, she's cute! But it didn't seem to help the date get gold. I was glad of the opportunity to talk to each of them though

Devin: Any sentiments at all?

Deanna: I mean I do feel closer to Arista after chatting, she's such a lovely and interesting person

Deanna fixed everyone dinner. At this point autonomy is set to full again. Deanna will not start conversations, it's up to contestants. Deanna is locked out of all bedrooms but the rest will have access to beds for sleeping and computer distractions.

This group seems eager to start talking!

Evelyn: I really like your shirt Nephinae

Nephinae: Aww, thanks Evie

Yasmine: Where did you get it? Or did you fabricate it?

Nephinae: Oh I found it thrift shopping! There's so many treasures out there

Arista: I like the sleeves, very princess coded

Nicola: Lots of my students would love it

Kristina: Is that everyone's dishes?

Deanna: Oh I can do that

Kristina: I got it... but if you're free I could use a hug

Deanna: *laughs* Okay

Nicola: I think we got a pretty good group this time

Nephinae: You say that now, wait till I wake up grumpy

Arista: *laughs* Dwarves reference

Nephinae: Coffee?

Nicola: You need coffee?

Nephinae: Maybe? I'm tired

Evelyn: But if you have coffee now, how will you get any sleep?

Arista: You could just... sleep

Nephinae: *sighs*

To Kristina's shock Nephinae decided to nap on the same couch she napped on last round. Maybe they do have stuff in common after all. Yasmine went to go swim laps still full of energy while Arista went to sleep in a bed. Evelyn, Nicola and Kristina kept talking to Deanna until time was called on the day.

Cafe venue by @sleepyselkiesims Park venue by @ethicaltreatmentofcowplants Villa renovation by @paracosmic-sims

[naughtyneganjdm]

Threads of Desire - Chapter 10

Summary: Still upset about the things that went down with Daryl the night before, Y/N heads into work early and has a conversation with Guy who tries to help her understand her feelings. A confrontation with Maggie opens a whole new can of worms in terms of her future.

Characters: Negan Smith, the reader (OC), Maggie, Guy, Jordyn, Michonne, etc.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61111030/chapters/172058590

Warnings: Swearing, Angst, etc.

Notes: This chapter was originally 31 pages so I cut it in half. I'll put the second chapter up in two days. Thanks to those that still read this story. I'm doing my best to finish it! If you want to read the other chapters since it has been so long, be sure to check them out here.

What started out as a pretty good night, ended very poorly. When Y/N had gotten home, she texted both Negan and Daryl to let them know she did. The only one that seemed to care? Negan. Daryl had left her on read. To say she was surprised with that would be a lie. Sadly, most of her nights lately had ended rough after the last week or so.

After that conversation with Daryl? Y/N didn’t get much sleep because she couldn’t put her mind to rest. To keep her mind off things, she texted back and forth with Negan who was very flirty and outgoing, but it didn’t stop her from feeling bad about the way things went down with Daryl. Guilt ate away at her with the way that Daryl made her feel. When she was with Negan, she was happy, but when Daryl put things out in front of her, it made her wonder if she really was making a mistake with Negan.

She couldn’t get a wink of sleep all night because of it. So? Instead she started working on finishing the project that Guy had asked of her. Today was Friday, which meant it was her last day of work this week. When the sun started to rise, she got ready for work and came in early.

Not surprisingly, she was the first person there which meant she turned everything on for the office. After that, she got seated at her place at the table in Guy’s office to continue working on what she had left. Which honestly? Wasn’t much. Looking to her phone, she realized that Daryl hadn’t texted her. She didn’t know why she expected him to in the first place. He had no qualms showing her that he was pissed at her when they separated yesterday. It just wasn’t like Daryl to be like this. Right now? She felt like she was being swept back to the short amount of time where they were actually dating and he was incredibly angry with her all the time.

Through the silence that had surrounded her for quite some time, there was a rustling behind her and she looked over her shoulder to see that Guy was pushing open the door to his office. In his mouth, he had a bag that he was carrying from a coffee shop. There was a carrier in his hand with two coffees and in his other arm was all of his belongings. When their eyes connected, he paused with his head tipping to the side confused.

Attempting to say something only made his words muffled since he had the paper bag in his mouth and it made her smile. Rolling his brown eyes, he motioned her to wait as he headed over toward his desk. Setting things down, he pulled the bag from his mouth and smacked his lips together. Placing his hand over the top of the desk, he leaned against it and gave her a weak smile, “You’re early. What are you doing here so early?”

“Well, this isn’t exactly early. By now? When I was working with Maggie, I would have probably already been here three or four hours. This isn’t exactly early either,” she responded, pointing back over her shoulder toward the clock that was on the wall. After he looked, she then gestured to have him look at the other people that were already in the office working. “It’s early for you though! That’s impressive. What are you doing here this early?”

“I uh…” he held his hand out toward his desk where the drinks and the bag that he was originally holding in his mouth were. “I was trying to get us some breakfast, well, I guess more so like brunch by now. But it looks like you’ve already been here a while and had a coffee.”

“I won’t turn down more caffeine,” she commented with a weak smile, leaning back in her chair after pushing slightly away from the table. Grabbing the items he brought with him, Guy headed in her direction with a kick to his step. Setting everything down, he took the seat at the end of the table along the side of her. Tipping his head to the side, his dark eyes gazed out upon the design that she had been working on for him. Sliding his hand out, he grabbed a hold of it and pulled it toward him to get a better look. “I’m sorry if it’s not very good, I haven’t slept well the last few days.”

“No, it’s great, but this is a lot more than you had done yesterday. How long have you actually been here?” Guy wondered, his nose wrinkling the longer he gazed upon it, surprised with how much was actually done.

“A few hours?” she shrugged her shoulders, smirking when he reached for the coffee he had gotten for her. Sliding it out toward her made her smile and she accepted it. “Thank you.”

“Why aren’t you sleeping? You’re not getting lack of sleep because of work. Maybe on the first day I offered you the job because of excitement, but not this long after the offer. So I’m assuming it is something to do with Negan or Daryl? Or maybe both. Or Maggie is an option,” he listed off all the things he thought would be the cause of her troubles and she frowned. “So which is it? You had dinner with Negan last night. Are you feeling guilty because you slept with him? I’m going to guess not though because if you slept with him, you probably wouldn’t be here at work.”

“You are way too invested in my personal life,” she declared, watching him get comfortable at the table, resting his elbows on top of it. “You’re unfortunately the only person that I could probably talk to about things, but it feels…wrong? Since you’re my boss and you wanted to have sex with me not that long ago.”

“So?” he blurt out biting down on his bottom lip and dramatically bobbing his head about.

“So it’s weird. Plus, I feel like you might be biased based on any discussion that I have with you,” she thought aloud knowing that he already seemed to have a liking for Negan. “Between Negan and Daryl…”

“Then make them nameless. Call one of them A and the other B,” he suggested, waving his hand about in the air. “I might be annoying, but I’m actually pretty good at this relationship stuff.”

“How many serious relationships have you had in your life?” she wondered, taking a sip of her coffee doubting that he really would be any good at advice considering she knew he was someone that slept around and he slept around a lot. After a minute of thinking about the question, a cheeky smile tugged at his features with his dark eyes narrowing. “None, right?”

“I don’t know what you consider serious. Would I say I ever found the love of my life? No,” he rambled on, taking a moment to think about things. “But I have been with a lot of people. So I assume that gives me some kind of knowledge in the matter.”

“I’ll talk to you, but only under one condition. If I open up to you, you have to open up to me. I ask you some questions, you give me answers and then I will talk to you about my personal life,” she offered up causing his eyes to narrow. Nodding his head, he leaned back in the chair and threw his hands up in the air. “What is it about Maggie that drew you to her? Why did you want to sleep with her?”

“I was horny, she was hot and she was willing,” he blurted out with a rumble in his tone, sucking on his bottom lip before speaking up again. “Sometimes, the people I have sex with are out of convenience. Not because they are people I want to be hooking up with. Although, Maggie is hot. Just not someone I’d like to be with in a relationship.”

“And you didn’t care that she was dating someone?” she inquired, her throat tensing up with Guy growling out and dramatically rolling his eyes. “I’m just curious.”

“No, it’s not my responsibility to care. If people want to have sex with me, they have the opportunity to say no. Whether they are married or dating or not, it’s not on me,” he placed his hand in over the center of his chest, a muscle in his jaw flexing and by the expression in his dark eyes she knew that he wasn’t lying. “I don’t care either. Because if the person is cheating with me, it means there is something already going on at home that was broken. Everyone knows that when they hook up with me, they aren’t getting a relationship. They are just getting sex. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“So you don’t feel guilty that you may have been the reason that a relationship was ruined?” she confirmed with him provoking the tiniest of smirks to tug at his lips.

“I know where this is going,” he snapped his fingers and pointed out at Y/N who seemed to get uncomfortable. “You have a guilty conscience and you are trying to understand why I don’t. You’re trying to understand if you’re wrong or right for feeling guilty. And if that is what is on your mind with Negan and Maggie, I’m telling you, you shouldn’t feel guilty. You know that I heard your whole conversation with Maggie that night. I know the shit Maggie did to you. And it seems like she was purposely keeping you and Negan apart to be a bitch. I know Maggie was a bitch to you. So don’t feel bad.”

“It’s easier said than done,” she countered, tipping her head to the side and exhaling loudly. “I couldn’t even do this whole A and B thing with you because you already know my history with Negan.”

“Then tell me about your history with Daryl and use only A or B when you don’t want me to be biased,” he blurt out and she laughed realizing that this was stupid to even open up to him.

“I need something to make sure that things stay between us,” she shook her head not wanting the whole office to know everything about her personal life. “I need to know that I can trust you. Give me something to prove that.”

“Other than my beautiful face and puppy dog eyes?” he gave her a cheesy smile that only got him a glare in return. Scoffing, he rolled his eyes and huffed out loudly. “Fine, but if I find out you tell anyone what I’m about to tell you, well, then I’m going to have to kill you.”

“Fair enough,” she smirked noticing the color that flooded into Guy’s face when he dropped his stare down to his lap.

“My name wasn’t originally Guy Vixen,” he confessed, lifting his head to see that she didn’t seem very impressed with that information. “I had it legally changed when I got to a certain age and I’ve done a really good job at keeping it hidden.”

“Well no shit,” she commented, chuckling before taking another sip of the coffee that he had gotten her. “I figured your name was Guy and you changed your last name to stand out when you became a model. Most people do that.”

“No, it’s all fake,” he alerted her with a bounce of his eyebrows causing her to chuckle. “I mean, everything about me is real, but the name. My real name is actually Richard. But I hated it. Richard is the name of a lawyer, not a model or a fashion designer. And none of the nicknames fit me either. Rick, Richy, Rich…”

“Dick,” she added to the list to tease him which only rewarded her with a glare that had her bursting out in laughter. “I just had to do it.”

“And that’s why I changed my name,” he circled his finger in her direction which led to a curious expression. “My name was Richard Holden Johnson.”

“Oh come on,” she snorted finding herself amused with the name he had just given her. Laughter followed, but the way his face grew red with embarrassment she could tell that he was being honest with her. “You’re fucking serious.”

“I am,” he grumbled, waving his hand about trying to dismiss it. “Now you see why I changed my name. I told you I hated my mother. And obviously she hated me since she both abandoned me and gave me the worst fucking name in the world.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh,” she apologized with Guy shrugging his shoulders and lowering down in the seat. “I promise you I won’t tell a soul. I’ll take that one to the grave with me.”

“Yeah,” he grumbled to himself, clearing his throat uneasily. With him being embarrassed, it only thickened his accent. “Only my family and very old friends know my name, so yeah. Welcome to the club of knowing.”

“Strange club to be in, but fine,” she recognized that he gave her something in order for her to trust him and she sighed. “I’m not going to talk about this for hours, but I have had a crush on Negan since the first year of college. He was my teacher, he walked in and I was hooked. The only thing was? He was married for the first two years. I guess that wasn’t really a problem. I liked his wife, but she ended up passing away.”

It surprised her with how she seemed to have Guy’s full attention while she spoke, “Negan went into a very dark depression that I helped him through. That’s how I got close to Jordyn. I took care of both Negan and Jordyn when he couldn’t. The two of us were very, very close. I was pathetically head over heels in love with him. When I wasn’t in my classes, I would be spending time with him. We’d lay in bed talking all night.”

“And you never slept together?” he seemed surprised when she shook her head with his eyebrows bouncing up. “How is that possible?”

“Something happened once when he was married, but it was with his wife too and it wasn’t extensive,” she rambled on, knowing that she was probably saying too much because his face scrunched up and he seemed impressed to hear that. “But no, we never had sex.”

“So you’re…” Guy licked his lips, folding his arms in front of his chest. Awestruck to hear what she said, he cracked a smile. “You’re bi? So have you and Maggie like…”

“Knock it off,” she warned him before he even got started with her circling her finger in his direction. “My sexuality is not important at the moment.”

“Well, maybe not at the moment, but it might help later tonight,” he thought aloud only to have her playfully smack at his shoulder drawing out a laugh from him. “Okay, just continue your story. Why didn’t the two of you fuck?”

“I don’t really know. He says that he didn’t sleep with me because he was my professor and it would have been wrong for him to sleep with a student,” she explained to Guy what Negan had told her causing Guy to roll his eyes. “Then again, I never really fully told him how I felt about him. I kept it to myself because I didn’t know how he felt. He swears that if I would have told him, it would have happened.”

“Maybe,” Guy contemplated what she said, tipping his head from side to side. “Sometimes you have to put it on the table for men. But what I don’t understand is how he ended up with Maggie for four years if you were already…like that.”

“It’s complicated,” she confessed, releasing a long sigh when she realized she was reliving her past a lot more than she cared to. “It was the last year of college. I was his student teacher. Maggie came in to drop something off for me and I didn’t think much of it. She was my best friend, she knew how much I loved him.”

“I heard this part,” Guy interrupted her, tipping his head from side to side. Sighing loudly, she didn’t like talking this out with someone she barely knew that well, but he did hear her fighting with Maggie that one night after the event at the college, so he was already aware of what had happened. “So Negan is with Maggie for four years and nothing. What made him suddenly realize that he was an absolute puppy dog for you?”

“The truth? I guess? I got drunk that night I stood in for Maggie at the event and I kind of unloaded on him. When I started college, I considered going between film and fashion design. He had built me up so much that I really thought I could have been a big shit like he was. Instead I became…” she lifted her eyes wondering if she should really say what she thought about her job. “Well, I was Maggie’s slave.”

“Fair enough,” he didn’t fight her on that, his dark eyes narrowing when he sucked faintly at his bottom lip. “I get the appeal of film. Hollywood and all that, but the behind-the-scenes stuff? It’s really not that glorious. Unless of course, you get to mix the fashion design with the film. I don’t think you would have liked film.”

“Regardless, once he got with Maggie, I just kind of lost everything. My dream to work here. His promising me the world. So I ran my mouth off at the and he heard everything I was feeling. And then I asked him why he never made a move on me,” she explained to Guy making his right eyebrow arch up while he got more comfortable in the seat he was in. “I think he realized my feelings which he had so blatantly ignored and then Maggie ran her mouth off after he asked…”

“Okay, so he saw the light because it was spelled out for him,” he noted, spinning somewhat side to side as he gathered the information. “Now this Daryl guy. Tell me about him.”

“I’ve known him for about as long as I’ve known Negan,” she responded, her chest tightening when Daryl came to mind. “Daryl is older than me too. He had graduated from the campus and he had a job there. We met at a party and we were both in the corner somewhere avoiding people. I guess we clicked. Him and Maggie always despised each other. Big time. They always fought, but they were both my best friends so…I tried. The unfortunate thing is that I started to realize that Daryl had strong feelings for me, but…”

“You were in love with Negan,” he filled in the blanks drawing out a huff from her with the way he kept finishing her sentences.

“I tried really hard to just keep us as friends and for the most part we were. Until Maggie and Negan got together. I showed up at his house blasted drunk and we ended up sleeping together,” she informed him, watching his face scrunch up. His lips parted and he went to say something, but it was obvious he didn’t know if he should or not. “What?”

“I don’t want to sound like a dick, but you put off sleeping with this guy for four years because you didn’t have feelings for him. Or maybe you did, I don’t know, but Negan was the one you loved. I know I’m an asshole, but if you showed up at my door drunk out of your mind and sad because the person you loved broke your heart, I’m not going to fuck you,” he blurt out, shuddering at the thought having her release a long exhale. “It gives me the ick just thinking about it.”

“I feel like I threw myself on him,” she thought aloud, but it was clear that Guy still didn’t agree with what she was saying. “We were friends, I was feeling bad and I thought it would make me feel better.”

“But it didn’t,” he assumed, frowning at the idea of what she was telling him. “Sex feels nice when you’re emotional, but drunk sex? Yeah, that doesn’t help. I have a feeling you are going to defend Daryl here though, so just move onto the next part so we don’t get stuck here.”

“Okay,” she half laughed, not sure how to take his attitude about the subject. “After that? The two of us decided to date. With how good he was with me as my friend and how supportive he was? I thought it was a smart move, but when we started dating al he wanted to do was stay at home. He wanted to have sex, work on his paintings and have me stay in his apartment with him. Obviously, I couldn’t do that. When we were dating, he got jealous and angry. He’d get upset with me for working here. He would get upset with all the time I spent with Jordyn and I know it’s because of Negan, but it wasn’t working out. We were fighting all the time. It wasn’t the Daryl that I had grown to know as my friend. That relationship and bond we had when we were just friends? It was gone.”

“And that’s why I hate relationships. That ownership the other person holds over someone. Even if people don’t mean to, they become jealous and controlling,” he commented with her frowning and looking down toward her lap. “But you have feelings for this Daryl?”

“Yeah, of course I do,” she swallowed down hard, a lump developing in her throat when she thought about him being angry with her. “Daryl saw me when no one else did. What took Negan eight years to feel about me took Daryl one night. Beyond Jordyn, Daryl is the most important person in my life.”

“I see,” there was a conflicted expression over Guy’s features as he brushed his fingers through his dark hair and leaned back further into his chair. “And I assume it was a mutual break up when you finally did break up?”

“It was. It didn’t last long. We were fighting all the time because I wasn’t going to choose between my dreams, Jordyn and Daryl,” she explained, her mind going back to the conversation she had with Daryl last night. “My mistake was still sleeping with Daryl. I knew he still had feelings for me and I still had feelings for him. For a long time, it’s only been Daryl that I’ve been sleeping with. Yesterday, he got furious with me because I accepted the job with you and he wants me to take a job elsewhere with someone he knows. He also made it pretty clear that he doesn’t approve of me being in Jordyn’s life.”

“Are you the only woman he’s been sleeping with since you two broke up?” Guy questioned, amused with the expression she had made showing that was something she had never thought about. “I think that’s an important thing to know because if you’re the only woman he has been sleeping with he still thinks you guys are in an exclusive relationship. That would explain why he is getting possessive because you are doing the things he does want and we both know you’ve fooled around with Negan.”

“I guess I never thought to ask because I didn’t think it was any of my business,” she responded, taking a moment to think about the question. “I’ve never really seen Daryl with anyone else. So I don’t think so, but I don’t know?”

“Can you explain to me why you are so conflicted between the two of them? Just so I don’t fuck up perspective here,” Guy asked of her, folding his arms in front of his chest with him bobbing his head about.

“Because I don’t know what to do. Negan wants me to start a relationship with him. He’s already told his parents and his daughter that he wants to be with me, but he hasn’t broken up with Maggie. I condemned Maggie for cheating on Negan with you, but then I’m doing it myself and that makes me a cheater. Negan supports me working here and living my dream, but at the same time, I can’t help but think about how it took him eight years to realize how I felt about him. Instead of picking me, he picked my best friend and broke my heart,” she rambled on about Negan, her chest aching at the thought and then she shrugged her shoulders. “And then with Daryl? I told him yesterday that if he could accept me for who I am, meaning this job and loving Jordyn, I would get with him. I’d choose him. And he didn’t like that. He took off on me and left me in the middle of the street alone when he was walking me home.”

“Yeah, okay…” he exhaled loudly, dragging his hand down in over his face releasing a grunt when he thought about what she told him. “I don’t like either option when I think about it.”

“Guy,” she grunted, rolling her eyes when he threw his hands up in the air.

“Hear me out before you get angry with me,” he requested, holding his hand out in the air to get her to silence her frustrations with him. “You deserve better than both of them. I think you truly believe that Daryl is the person you should pick. Not because you love him the most, but because you think he’s the one that’s been the best for you. He’s your best friend, he saw you when no one else did. You just told me that you said to him last night that you would be with him. That you would pick him over Negan as long as he allowed you to work here to live your dream and accepted that Jordyn was part of you. If the man was head over heels in love with you like I think you believe he is, he would have jumped at the offer. Because then you would be his. He would have your whole heart. But that’s not what he wants. He wants you to be the version of you that he wants you to be. He wants to own you. He wants you to be his under his stipulations. I don’t like that. That’s abusive and toxic. He doesn’t love you for who you are. He loves the idea of you.”

“I don’t…he isn’t…” she paused to consider what Guy was saying. Frowning, she hated to think that’s what it was like with Daryl. Hearing that said out loud actually elicited her heart to skip a beat and she felt a lump growing in her throat. “I think his feelings are just hurt.”

“No, it sounds like you gave him your heart and he turned you down because that wasn’t good enough. You have to change you in order to be with him,” he stressed to her, snapping his fingers and being dramatic in the way his body movements were. “And Negan? He accepts you as you are, but he picked Maggie first and now that he knows Maggie is not the better option, he’ll finally have you? Because he had to have his eyes pried open for him to see the truth?  Yeah, I don’t think either one deserves you.”

“I think they’re both better than I am,” she explained which only seemed to irritate Guy even further with him throwing both his hands up in the air in a frustrated manner. Muttering something under his breath, he rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I do.”

“That’s the low self-esteem talking that is there after years of letting people walk all fucking over you. It’s something that we’re going to have to work on if you are going to be working for me,” he snorted, pointing his finger out at her and circling it in her direction. “You’ve put up with Daryl trying to control you from the start thinking that it was pure love, when it’s not. You watched the man of your dreams fall into your best friend’s bed. And you allowed your best friend to steal the job of your dreams out from under your nose. Because you’re too damn nice and now that you’re starting to think about yourself for once instead of serving everyone else, you think you’re the bad guy. Well let me tell you honey, sometimes you have to be the bad guy. Because you don’t deserve to be shit on for the rest of your life.”

Wow, that was not something she was expecting from Guy, but he sure as hell delivered in the way he said that, “I’m sorry I added to the feeling of making you feel worthless and bad about yourself. I’m an asshole. I know that. And I ignore the world around me. I don’t care who I hurt. You see, there are two sides of the spectrum. People like me and people like you. You need to be somewhere in the middle. If your mind is set on either Daryl or Negan? Don’t pick who you think you have to pick. Genuinely do what is best for you. Pick what your heart wants. Not what your brain tells you to pick. Because both men have to do a whole lot of proving in my opinion in order for them to be good enough for you. You deserve someone that sees all of you and accepts you as you are. Even the things that they may perceive as negative. Because loving someone means you see all of them and you still want to be with them.”

“You’re not as awful as you think you are, you know?” she spoke up after a moment of silence causing Guy to release a disgusted breath. “I think Guy Vixen is the character you play, but deep down I think Richard Johnson is a very kind man.”

“Don’t ever say that again,” he warned her with an amused smile, pointing his finger directly at her as if it was a threat. They both laughed until the sound of the door being pushed open was heard. Lifting his stare, Guy noticed that Maggie was barging into his room. “Good morning Maggie, it’s wonderful to see you this morning.”

“What did you do?” Maggie snapped, ignoring Guy completely in order to step between him and Y/N to look down at her. “What happened at dinner last night with Negan’s parents?”

“We had dinner?” Y/N stammered, her eyes narrowing with Maggie’s hands settling in at her hips. “What are you expecting me to say here Maggie?”

“I got a text from Negan asking me to come and pick up my stuff from his place either today or on Sunday,” Maggie alerted Y/N who gave her a surprised expression. Sliding his chair back, Guy made sure that he could now see Y/N with an amused rumble escaping him. “Apparently, he feels like things just haven’t been working out for us over the last few weeks and he thinks we’d make better friends. I got dumped through a fucking text message.”

“To be fair Maggie, I’m pretty sure he was trying to dump you yesterday in your office, but you did everything to avoid it,” Guy piped in, getting her to look back over her shoulder at Guy. Truthfully? He didn’t give a fuck if she was irritated with him. So he gave her a shit eating grin that had her letting out an angered breath. “You’ve been avoiding him so much, he probably thinks it’s the only way that he can break up with you. With all the work meetings you’ve been having and everything.”

“You had something to do with this,” Maggie insinuated, continuing to ignore Guy as she stepped in close to Y/N making things extremely uncomfortable. Standing up from the table, Y/N try to put some distance between the two of them feeling her heart hammering inside of her chest. “I know you did. You’ve been fucking with things ever since that event at the college. Someone doesn’t suddenly decide after four fucking years that things aren’t working out. So what did you do? Did you tell him about me cheating? Is that your way of winning Negan? Are you that pathetic that you have to trick him into being with you?”

“First of all, I would never break up with someone through a text message. I’m very against the whole idea of that,” Y/N started, making that very clear. That was not something she ever suggested Negan do. In fact? She suggested the opposite. Breaking up through text was not something that she was okay with. “Second of all, I haven’t said shit about you cheating on Negan. Not with Guy. Not with the pizza delivery boy…”

“How did you know about that?” Maggie inquired with Y/N looking behind Maggie toward Guy who wiggled his fingers about giving her another arrogant smile. “He’s a man by the way. Not a boy. You’re making it sound disgusting.”

“Regardless, I’ve said nothing to Negan. I had no idea he was even breaking up with you,” she explained, placing her hand in over the center of her chest to defend herself. Realistically? She wished that Negan would have warned her about this.

“Bullshit. You’ve been a really awful friend, you know that? For someone who made a promise to my father to protect me, you’re doing a really shitty job,” Maggie spat causing a chill to run down Y/N’s spine as she dropped her head. Trying to count, she didn’t want to explode on Maggie especially at work. “You know Negan is just going to run back to me.”

“Not here Maggie. If you want to talk after work, we can do that, but at the beginning of our workday? It’s inappropriate and unprofessional,” Y/N tried to put some distance between her and Maggie to make sure that nothing happened. “I can understand you are emotional right now…”

“He won’t even answer his phone. I went to his house and…” Maggie went to vent with Y/N tipping her head from side to side. “What?”

“He had a meeting today with that film company,” Y/N stated remembering a conversation that she had with Negan and his parents yesterday at the dinner. “So of course he isn’t going to answer his phone or be at home. It wouldn’t hurt to know your boyfriend’s schedule sometimes.”

“Ex-boyfriend?” Guy interrupted causing Y/N to cringe. Truthfully? She wished he wouldn’t be interrupting to push Maggie’s buttons further.

“I’m working and I have something I have to finish,” Y/N pointed down toward the art that was somewhere between where she was sitting and where Guy was since they had gotten lost in discussion. “I’m very close to finishing, so if you will give me a minute…”

“No, see that doesn’t work for me. You actually work for me,” Maggie reminded Y/N folding her arms out in front of her chest with her voice growing angrier. “So I can tell you when you can and cannot work.”

“Actually, she’s been promoted, so she really doesn’t work for you anymore,” Guy piped in, this time making the color in Maggie’s face grow extraordinarily red. Shrugging his shoulders, Guy could tell that Y/N was upset that he told Maggie about it. “You’re going to have to find yourself another assistant because Y/N no longer has that job.”

“You are something else,” Maggie’s accent grew thicker with her arms folding in front of her chest when she finally gave Y/N her attention again. “After everything you promised daddy, I thought you’d be better than this.”

“Don’t you bring your father into this. I went above and beyond what Hershel asked of me,” Y/N defended herself releasing a frustrated breath. “There is only so much you can do to help someone before they have to stand on their own. I can’t perform miracles Maggie. At some point? You have to grow the fuck up and learn to be a big girl on your own.”

Without warning, Maggie swiftly threw out her fist leaving a loud smacking sound to fill the small office when it connected with Y/N’s face. It had caused her to stumble back, her hand covering her face when she felt a burning in it almost immediately. Pulling her hand away, Y/N saw blood at the center of her palm and she felt Guy inserting himself between the two of them.

“You know, you should really focus on Daryl instead of putting your efforts into Negan,” there was venom in Maggie’s voice when Y/N’s angry eyes finally met hers. Guy was actually doing what a boss was meant to do in the moment to keep them separated. “Daryl is way more in your league than Negan is and even if Negan gives you the time of day, he’s going to realize that about you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Y/N was almost offended for Daryl in the moment, less caring about the diss that was no doubt directed at her along with the fiery pain at the center of her face. “There is nothing wrong with Daryl and for you to even insist…”

“He’s trash Y/N,” Maggie stressed to Y/N just how she felt about Daryl in the moment along with Y/N. “You two work together because…well, don’t make me say it.”

“That was bitchy,” Guy piped in, giving his full attention to Maggie while he made sure to put some distance between the two of them with his hand placing in over Y/N’s shoulder to stop her from moving. “I’m keeping some distance between the two of you, but don’t make me put my hand down and let her at you.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Y/N stammered, wiping at her nose with the back of her hand realizing that it was still bleeding. Digging into his pocket, Guy tried to give her his handkerchief that went with the suit that he was wearing. Accepting, she placed it up to her face and let out an irritated breath. “You forget where your place was Maggie. You were just a farmer’s daughter when we first became friends. Remember your roots before you tell me that I’m trash.”

Even though she was doing her best to stop the bleeding, Y/N realized that there was a chance that Maggie may have broken her nose with that hit. Maggie was a lot of things, but one thing was for certain, she had a hell of a right hook on her, “I won’t hit you Maggie. Maybe because I’m crazy. Maybe because deep down I feel like I deserve this. But you listen to me Maggie. Part of me will always care about you because I’m a fool, but I’m done. I’m done being your punching bag. Physically, mentally. I’m done keeping your head above the water. I’m done lifting you up while I’m drowning because of a promise I made your father years ago. I love your family and I loved your father, but I shouldn’t have to suffer just to make your life better. You’re not my best friend. Maybe you never were. If you think I’m trash? Fine. Think it. I don’t give a fuck. But I’m done taking your abuse.”

A proud sound escaped Guy who was doing his hardest to keep it down, but he was doing a very poor job at that, “And as far as Daryl? You don’t even know him. You just have always snubbed your nose at him because he is the one person in the world that saw beyond your beauty and charm. He didn’t fall for it. And he’s a better friend than you could ever be. Daryl is the furthest thing from trash. But you would never know that because you never gave him a chance. And that’s a fucking shame because Daryl is one hell of a guy. One that you might have actually liked if you got to know him. And he would do anything for someone he cares about.”

Before Maggie had any chance of a response, Y/N heard the sound of her phone ringing and she sighed loudly. Reaching for it, she realized it was the number to one of the mothers that was one of Jordyn’s best friends. Nodding to her phone, she almost requested permission from Guy to answer it who gave her a nod. Heading over toward the corner of the room, she could hear Guy and Maggie bickering behind her, but she didn’t care. Was she furious? Yes. Was her natural reaction to tag Maggie back? It sure fucking was. But thankfully Guy was there to put distance between them so there wasn’t an all-out brawl in the office.

“Hello?” Y/N answered the phone, unsure of why the woman would be calling her at this time. 

“Is this Y/N?” the woman on the other end questioned, sounding a little nervous in the way that they asked. “I don’t know if you remember me, but we’ve gone to a few events together at the school along with parties for the children. My name is Michonne and I’m Judith’s mother. I know you’re Jordyn’s…well, you’re her…”

“I remember you Michonne,” Y/N interrupted her knowing that her title was something that wasn’t very clear for anyone, let alone herself. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes and no. Today Jordyn was having a play date with Judith and I think Jordyn caught a stomach bug. She threw up earlier and I’ve been trying to contact Negan, but I know he was supposed to be in an important meeting so maybe he has his phone silenced. I don’t think it’s anything awful, but she does have a low-grade fever and I think she just wants to go home to rest. I know we exchanged numbers in case of emergencies and…”

“Yeah, I’ll be right there,” Y/N didn’t need any further explanation. Hearing that Jordyn was sick was all she needed to get her to leave to go pick up Jordyn. “Just send me a text message with your address and I will be there as soon as I can be.”

Finishing up her conversation, she turned on her heel and saw that both Guy along with Maggie were waiting to hear what was going on, “Jordyn was at a friend’s house and she ended up getting sick. I need to go pick her up and take her home.”

Moving over toward her things, Y/N started to pack them up and she gave Guy her full attention, “I’ll take the work home and make sure to finish it over the weekend, okay? As soon as it is done, I will send it your way. I think I should have it done by Sunday for sure.”

“Yeah, of course,” Guy waved his hand about in the air showing that he didn’t mind having her leave early to go be with Jordyn. “Get it done when you get it done.”

“You’re just leaving…?” Maggie blurted out with Y/N clinging onto her things. “After everything, you’re just leaving?”

“Yes,” Y/N had nothing else to say to Maggie. Anything she had to say, she already did. 

Waving to Guy, he returned the gesture and Y/N was quick to leave the office. Out of the corner of her eye, Y/N could see that Guy and Maggie were deep in discussion and she didn’t care to know what it was even about at this point. She had enough of Maggie and her problems that seemed to arise.

Leaving work early was not her plan when she had a project to finish, but as she had already explained to Guy previously, Jordyn was more important to her than her job. And he seemed to understand that. 

It took a while to get to Michonne’s home, but by the time she arrived Jordyn was already waiting for her outside with Michonne and Judith. Thankfully Y/N’s nose had stopped bleeding by then, but she was pretty certain Michonne could tell that she had gotten hit. Michonne tried to ask questions to figure out what happened. And considering Y/N knew her husband was a police officer, Y/N really brushed those questions off. More than anything she just wanted to get Jordyn home.

Jordyn was eager to climb into Y/N’s arms in order to have Y/N carry her home. Thankfully, Negan’s home wasn’t too far away so the walk back wasn’t too hard. Jordyn didn’t say much, that’s how Y/N knew that Jordyn wasn’t feeling good. She just cuddled her head in against the side of Y/N’s neck and held tightly to her.

Getting into Negan’s home was a little rough, but she did have a key that Negan had given her a long time ago in case of emergencies. And this honestly felt like one. Kicking the door closed with her heel, Y/N carried Jordyn up to her room. Got her ready to be able to rest in bed and tucked her in. Just in case, Y/N grabbed her the things that Jordyn might need in case she got sick again.

When she had everything prepared for Jordyn, instead of leaving, Jordyn had begged her to crawl into bed with her so they could cuddle. Just having Y/N with her seemed to settle Jordyn. Only once had Jordyn thrown up again, but afterwards she seemed to just crash clinging to Y/N.

Stroking her fingers through Jordyn’s dark hair, Y/N cuddled her chin in closer to the top of Jordyn’s head. Even though this little girl wasn’t physically hers, she loved Jordyn in the way she felt like she would her own child. Nothing meant more to her than Jordyn. No one loved her as unconditionally as Jordyn did. How Negan’s daughter seemed to find comfort in her only proved that for Y/N.

For quite some time Y/N just laid there with Jordyn until the sound of the front door opening was heard. Rushing footsteps followed up the stairs and a moment later Jordyn’s bedroom door was being pushed open. Standing in the doorway, Negan looked panicked. First he looked to Jordyn who was out cold and then to Y/N. It didn’t take long for Negan to notice that Y/N had obviously been hit in the face too. Which only made Y/N consider how bad she must have looked. Both Michonne and Negan were quick to pick up on it. By the way Negan’s lips parted, she knew that Negan wanted to say something, but she hushed him and shook her head.

“We’re just resting,” she informed Negan who looked incredibly pale. What she assumed was that Negan was worried about Jordyn after opening his phone to all the alerts that he had missed during his meeting. Carefully pulling off his jacket, Negan revealed the white button down that he was wearing underneath. No doubt he was in that meeting because he was actually dressed up nicer than he usually was. Setting his jacket down on top of Jordyn’s dresser, Negan was cautious in the way he moved around Jordyn’s room. Crawling into bed with Y/N and Jordyn, he took his time lowering down at the opposite side of Jordyn. Cuddling his head into the pillow, he loosely wrapped his arm around Jordyn and Y/N.

Gradually, Jordyn adjusted beneath the weight. Yawning, her tired eyes came to a slow open with her looking over her shoulder to see that Negan was there, “Hey there. You doing okay?”

“Much better than earlier,” Jordyn whispered, getting more comfortable between both Y/N and Negan on her bed. Realizing that her father was there seemed to settle her even more when she did her best to cuddle into the both of them. “Y/N took care of me though.”

“Yeah?” Negan whispered, stroking his fingers through Jordyn’s dark hair in a calming manner. “She took good care of you?”

“Like any mom would,” Jordyn assured Negan, lowering her head back down to cuddle it in against Y/N’s chest. Yawning again, Jordyn clung tightly to Negan’s fingers. Pulling his arm closer, Jordyn made sure that she was comfortable before closing her eyes.  “I’m glad your home daddy. I love you.”

“I love you too baby girl,” Negan hummed, nuzzling his nose in against the back of her head. Pressing a lingering kiss there, Negan’s hazel eyes met Y/N’s and he gave her a small nod to thank her. Jordyn had easily fallen back asleep between the two of them. It was a while before either of them finally spoke up. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me,” Y/N claimed with a weak smile, resting her head in closer to Jordyn’s. “I didn’t even think twice when Michonne called me. I know where I belong and where I want to be when Jordyn isn’t feeling good. She means everything to me.”

“I can see that,” Negan commented, swallowing down hard with him squeezing his arm tighter around both of the women beside him. For what felt like a very long time they had laid together in Jordyn’s bed. By the time the sun was completely set, Negan suggested that they get up and let Jordyn get her rest. Which meant he was cautious in the way he tucked Jordyn back into bed. Truthfully, Jordyn was exhausted. Nothing would have woken her up in that moment. While Negan pulled her blankets up, Y/N checked her fever to make sure that it was gone. “Better?”

“No more fever,” Y/N answered, standing up and allowing Negan to press a kiss over Jordyn’s temple. Heading toward the door, Negan grabbed his jacket and motioned her to follow him back downstairs toward the living room area of his brownstone. Rubbing her hands together, Y/N turned on her heel and let out a nervous breath. “I gave her something to settle her stomach and gave her some children’s Tylenol to bring the fever down. As far as I know, she only threw up twice. Once while she was with me and once while she was at Judith’s place.”

“Thank you for taking care of her,” Negan repeated what he had done earlier, hanging up his jacket and then returning to Y/N with a thankful expression. “The one time that I silence my phone is the one time that I’m needed. I can’t believe I didn’t realize…”

“It’s okay, I had her,” she assured Negan with a shake of her head, rubbing her hands in over her own shoulders realizing that she was a little cold in the moment.

“Here, let me turn on the fireplace,” Negan motioned her to sit down on the couch while he worked to put the fireplace on after he noticed that she was cold. “Do you want me to make you something for dinner?”

“I’m not all that hungry,” she was honest with him, giving him a weak smile. “After dealing with throw up, it doesn’t really appeal to your hunger all that well. I think Jordyn may have thrown up a little on this shirt.”

“Oh?” Negan breathed out, his eyes gazing upon her after he got the fireplace started. Rubbing his hands off on his pants, Negan started to unbutton the buttons that were on his white, long-sleeved shirt. Pulling it from his body revealed the white tank top that was beneath. Motioning her to stand, Negan held the shirt out for her. “Take it off and I’ll put it in the wash.”

“You don’t have to…” she started only to have Negan give her a firm expression. Doing as she was told, she took a moment before carefully tugging the shirt up over her body. A broken breath escaped Negan’s throat with his eyes lowering to steal a look over her, whether purposeful or not. Licking his lips, Negan motioned her to turn so he could help her put on the shirt he had given her. Once it was up over her arms and shoulders, she started to button up some of the buttons. Handing out the shirt that she was wearing previously, Negan accepted it and then disappeared down one of the hallways. When he started to return, she sighed loudly and shook her head. “I can leave if you want to get some rest. You probably had a long day.”

“I’d really rather you would stay so we can just hang out for a few,” Negan stammered, his Adam’s apple bouncing in his throat when he gave her a small shrug. Outstretching his hand, his fingers brushed in over the side of her face and he sighed loudly. “So what the hell happened?”

“Does it look that bad?” she wondered with his fingers grasping tightly to her chin to get her to tip her head back toward the light. Wincing, she realized that it still hurt and Negan frowned. Leading her toward the kitchen, he motioned her to lean back against the counter. Getting something from the fridge, Negan handed her over an icepack and she huffed. “You know, you should have told me that you dumped Maggie through text message.”

“Maggie did that?” Negan blurt out, surprised to hear that Maggie was the culprit in terms of what happened to her face. “Fucking hell. Why did she hit you?”

“Well, she came in furious about you breaking up with her through text and then started fighting with me about everything else,” she hissed out with Negan grabbing the icepack to get a better look at her. After he did, he gently placed it back in place and held onto it for her. There was a frown over his lips and she could tell that he was upset. “After everything she just hit me out of nowhere.”

“Did you hit her back?” Negan inquired, biting down on his bottom lip with a long sigh releasing from his throat. Tipping her head to the side, Y/N motioned him to lower the icepack for a minute. By her reaction, he knew that she didn’t. “You should have at least got one hit in.”

“I fucked around with her boyfriend,” she grabbed the icepack from him and brought it back up to her face to place there. “I feel like the least I deserved was a good right hook. If I would have hit her back, I would have been no better than her.”

“Sometimes you don’t have to take the moral high ground,” Negan suggested, reaching out to brush her hair out of her face. Moving in beside her, Negan folded his arms in front of his chest and exhaled loudly. “So you getting hit is kind of my fault, isn’t it?”

“You didn’t hit me,” she corrected him, reaching out to playfully smack at the center of his chest. Disappointment flooded his features and she could tell that he was actually blaming himself. “Oh, knock it off. Maggie and I would have gotten into a fight at some point. It’s not your fault that I got hit. Don’t take credit for something that you didn’t do.”

Pausing to think about things, she tipped her head from side to side before bringing the ice back up to her face, “Although? I told you in the past that I really didn’t think you should break up with Maggie through text message. It’s kind of a dick move.”

“Yeah, well, I kept thinking about you. About us,” he started, the muscles in his neck flexing as he spoke. “And I realized, I didn’t want to keep holding off on the chance of being with you. With starting something here. I know how you make me feel and Maggie was just going to keep dragging out the inevitable. Breaking up with her through text was the only option I saw. It was the middle of the night and I just knew what I wanted. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me for that. It’s just not the way I would choose to break up with someone,” she responded, her heart skipping a beat at the idea that he broke up with Maggie for the very reasons he just told her. “I can see why I ended up with a broken nose.”

“You really think it’s broken?” he wondered, lifting his hand to place it in over hers. Getting her to lower the ice, he frowned at the discoloration over her face. “I never realized Maggie was capable of this. Fuck. Or everything she has done.”

“Yeah, she’s got layers,” she handed him over the icepack and he dragged his feet across the floor when he went to put it back into the freezer. “Maybe I should leave.”

“Please don’t,” he begged of her, his eyes narrowing as he turned on his heel to face her. “I was thinking about playing a video game. It’s been a while since I’ve gotten to and I would really like for us to spend some more time together. Without Maggie, without Daryl. Just the two of us.”

“Yeah okay. I guess I can stay for a few rounds of something,” she announced with a smirk as Negan clapped his hands together. Accepting his hand, she felt her heart skip a beat with how much he lit up at the idea of getting to spend time with her. It couldn’t be that bad, right?

----

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[theseventhdimension]

The Weight of Small Things

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Gn! Reader

Word count: 3.2k+

DNI: All are welcome!

Author's note: Hurt no comfort enjoy this guys xoxo :P Okay, NOW officially the longest fic i've ever written. This took me like 2 moths because i stopped half way through.

..Every single Morgan fic I've posted, AND the 3 I have in my drafts, AND the drabbles I'm working on, AND the thirsts I'm working on, AND the sentences starters I'm working on, all have some kind of angst in them.. it's like same face syndrome but for writers instead of artists.

As always all feedback is appreciated!! Hope you enjoy :))

Most mornings, you were the first one in the office.

Not because you were ambitious. Not because you were trying to impress anyone. But because the silence was easier to sit with than the weight of walking into a bullpen already humming with lives more competent than yours.

You’d log in, boot the computer, make a beeline for the printer... only to find the same jammed tray again. Page one stuck in the rollers. Toner light blinking like it was mocking you. It didn’t matter how many times you’d cleared the warning—every single day, it felt like something else wouldn’t work.

You were supposed to be good at this. Quick. Analytical. Calm under pressure. That’s why Hotch picked you straight out of college, why your professors wrote glowing letters, why Quantico accepted you so damn fast.

But lately? All you could see were the cracks.

Yesterday, you tried to contribute to a profile session.

Suggested a theory. A pattern.

Hotch didn’t dismiss it, but he didn’t nod either. Rossi raised an eyebrow. Reid corrected a detail. Morgan didn’t say anything at all, just leaned back in his chair and tapped his pen against his thigh.

You tried not to look at anyone after that.

You stopped speaking up during briefings.

The vending machine had eaten your money again.

Your favourite snack hung just barely by the foil — taunting you, caught behind the glass like it was dangling on purpose.

You banged the side with your palm. Twice. Harder than you should have. Someone down the hall turned their head. You forced a smile and walked away without it.

You didn’t really want to eat anymore anyway.

Lunch breaks blurred into white noise. You’d sit in the kitchenette or outside near the parking lot, phone in hand but not really looking at it.

No scrolling.

No texting.

Just staring.

You thought about the girl. The hostage.

The way her skin had already gone cold. How her fingers curled in like she’d tried to hold on to something that wasn’t there. The flecks of blood on her lip. The last location ping that came in too late. Your ping. Your lead.

She was dead, and all you could think was: I was too slow. Again.

Everyone said “you did your best.” But that sentence had started to feel like a polite eulogy. Like something people said when the job didn’t get done.

You couldn’t sleep anymore. At night, you’d sit on your couch in the dark with the TV off, watching the muted windows of other people’s apartments. People who weren’t calculating time of death. Who weren’t running through everything they should have done faster.

You’d re-read your field reports three times before submitting them. Always afraid of missing something. Of writing something wrong. Of one more mistake tipping the scale.

And the worst part? Spencer Reid. Fresh out of college too. A prodigy, sure. But sometimes it felt like a personal dagger every time you saw him slice through cases like they were puzzles made just for him.

“You’re a fresh-out-of-college graduate too,” you found yourself thinking bitterly more than once. “Why can’t you be like him?”

Because no matter how many nights you stayed late, how many times you tried to prove yourself, it felt like the bar was always just out of reach—sometimes held higher for you than for anyone else.

When your one-year anniversary came, no one remembered.

..Which was fair.

You didn’t either — not until Garcia asked how long you’d been “our shiny baby agent!” and you checked your watch and realized the date.

You nodded, smiled, said “Yeah, a year today.”

She beamed. JJ said “Wow, congrats!” Reid quoted some statistic about average retention. Morgan clapped your back.

But when you sat back at your desk, all you could hear was the way your heartbeat didn’t pick up. The way nothing felt different. The way your hands still shook when you tried to type up your findings.

You stared at the blinking cursor.

It blinked back at you.

So that night — long after the bullpen had emptied and the lights had dimmed and your badge felt heavier than the gun on your hip — you pulled out the letter.

You’d written it weeks ago. Changed it. Tore it up. Wrote it again.

This one you didn’t rip.

You just folded it.

Walked up the stairs.

Slipped it onto Hotch’s desk, right between the edge of his keyboard and that photo of Jack he always kept beside his monitor.

You didn’t linger.

You didn’t cry.

You just turned, walked back into the dark hallway, and told yourself this was you doing something right for once.

Leaving before you could fuck up again.

It wasn’t even 8 a.m. yet.

Morgan pushed open Hotch’s office door with the easy confidence of someone who’d done it a hundred times before — because he had. He just needed a stapler. His own desk one had jammed again, and Hotch always had that solid, no-nonsense industrial one tucked into his organizer tray.

He didn’t notice the envelope at first.

The office looked the same as always. Neat. Predictable. A photo of Jack smiling beside the monitor. A legal pad with notes from yesterday’s briefing. Nothing out of place, nothing screaming for attention.

Except...

There.

Centered perfectly on the blotter, right where Hotch’s hand would land when he sat down.

A plain white envelope. No decoration. No elaborate seal.

Just a name.

Aaron Hotchner written in neat, steady handwriting — your handwriting.

Morgan didn’t mean to touch it. Honestly.

He stood there, stapler in one hand, envelope in the other, as if one had accidentally replaced the other. His brow furrowed. Something in his gut pulled tight.

Personal? Maybe.

Private? Definitely.

But something felt off. Something about the way your name hadn’t come up that morning. How your desk was still cold. How you hadn’t answered the group text Reid had sent about new security badge protocols. How quiet everything felt.

He flipped the envelope open before he could stop himself.

Just one sheet inside.

Hotch, Thank you for taking a chance on me. I’m sorry I couldn’t live up to it. I tried. I swear I did. I thought this job would make me stronger. But it’s been a year, and I still can’t walk into a room without thinking about the ones I couldn’t save. I know I’m leaving things unfinished. I know it’s not the “professional” way to do this. But I don’t think I’d survive another case like this. Not emotionally. Maybe not even physically. Please tell Garcia I’m grateful for the playlists. Tell Reid I wish I could think like he does. Tell Morgan… never mind, it won't matter anyway when I'm gone. I’m sorry. I just can’t stay here any longer.

Morgan stood there for a long time.

The words didn’t change.

His eyes caught on that final line — “Tell Morgan…” — and he felt something slip in his chest. Something quiet. Something sick.

You’d looked him in the eye just hours ago with a smile on your face. You lied to him — but only because you thought it would be kinder.

And that was the worst part, wasn’t it?

You really believed your absence would hurt less than your failure.

He folded the letter once, then again, his jaw set hard enough to ache. Hotch hadn’t seen it yet — Morgan knew that. If he had, he'd be making calls already. Pulling favors. Sending someone to your apartment.

There was still time.

Morgan tucked the letter into his jacket pocket.

And then he turned on his heel, stormed out of the office, the forgotten stapler still sitting on Hotch’s desk.

He wasn’t going to let this end with a note.

Not if he could help it.

The locker room was quiet — dim overhead light humming faintly, rows of steel-gray doors reflecting shadows like ghosts. You didn’t expect anyone to be here, not at this hour. You just wanted to grab your spare go-bag before slipping out for good.

No goodbyes. No drawn-out awkwardness. No one trying to tell you this wasn’t what it looked like.

You turned the corner and froze.

Derek was already there.

Leaning against the row of lockers like a man built from stone and steam — arms crossed, one boot braced against the metal behind him, jaw set like it had been clenched for hours.

His eyes met yours, and they were not soft.

“You quit without saying a word?”

You didn’t answer at first. You just let the locker room door swing shut behind you, sealing the tension in like heat in a pressure cooker.

“I left a letter,” you muttered. “Didn’t realize I needed a performance.”

“That’s what you think this is?” Morgan’s voice cracked like a whip across the tile. “A performance?”

You set your jaw. “I didn’t think anyone would care.”

“Bullshit.”

The word echoed too loud. He stepped forward. Not threatening — just close. Big enough to block the light. Warm enough to drag the heat right out of your chest.

“I’ve been watching you, man. We all have. You think you’re invisible? You’ve got the instincts, the head, the heart — you’ve got everything we need.”

“Then why does it never feel like enough?” you snapped.

The words spilled out, unplanned, all cracked and sharp like broken glass beneath your tongue. “I found the hostage, but it was too late. I flagged the profile, but the victim still died. Every fucking time it’s just a second too late, or one piece short. And all I get are looks—sympathy, maybe. Pity. But never respect.”

You looked away. Shame swelled hot behind your eyes.

Morgan didn’t move for a moment. Then, slowly, he exhaled.

“First year I was here... I let a father walk back into his house. We thought it was clear. Unsub was still inside. Man bled out trying to protect his daughter. I heard it on the radio before I could get there.”

You looked at him — really looked — and saw it. A scar, old and buried, behind the steady force he always carried. The past lingering in his posture.

“You think you’re the first person who wanted to walk out after a loss?” he said, voice quieter now, low and rough. “You’re not. But you’re here. Still breathing. That means you’re still learning.”

You opened your mouth — maybe to argue, maybe to thank him — but nothing came.

Morgan stepped closer. Close enough now that you could feel his warmth, the real kind. The kind that pulls you back from the edge.

His hand rose, slow and steady, and settled on your shoulder.

“Don’t make the mistake of leaving before you figure out how good you are,” he said. “Because trust me... you are.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Just stood there, chest heavy, throat tight, everything you’d been carrying starting to come loose all at once. His hand stayed, solid and grounding. Not a weight — a tether.

You met his eyes. His gaze didn’t waver. Something passed between you — unspoken, but real. An understanding. A question.

Your silence lasted just a second too long.

Morgan’s hand lingered on your shoulder like a question, but you gave him the answer he needed to hear — the lie that felt kinder than the truth.

You nodded once. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll stay.”

Your voice was steady enough. Convincing enough. Morgan searched your face — those sharp profiler eyes scanning every twitch in your expression. But you held it together, just enough. Just long enough.

“Good,” he said, with a small nod of his own. “That’s good.”

He didn’t smile. Not quite. But the relief in his posture said enough — a subtle loosening in the line of his shoulders. Like something unspoken had been pulled back from the ledge.

He patted your arm before turning. Left you alone in the locker room.

Morgan’s hand stayed on your shoulder longer than it should’ve — like he was asking you to stay without saying it out loud, and god, you almost did. You could feel the heat of him even when he stepped back, the kind of warmth that made your chest tighten in ways you couldn’t explain.

The way he looked at you—like you were the only thing worth fighting for—made your breath catch, but your lips stayed sealed. Morgan didn’t have to say a word to let you know he wanted you here—wanted you—and you wanted to believe it, even if fear held your tongue hostage.

You traced the ghost of his touch on your skin, wishing it wasn’t just a fleeting promise but something you could hold onto. There was a softness in his eyes you’d never let yourself crave, a quiet invitation that made you want to break your own rules.

His presence lingered in the space behind you like a question begging for an answer you weren’t ready to give, yet.

And when the door swung shut behind him, you sank back against the metal lockers and let yourself breathe - once, shallow and burning.

You knew what you had to do.

The bullpen buzzed like it always did — phones ringing, keys clacking, background noise stitched together like the pulse of the building itself. But Morgan noticed it the second he arrived.

Your desk was too clean.

Not just tidied — emptied. Drawers cleared. Mug gone. No badge clipped to the lanyard on the monitor. No half-scribbled profile notes scattered across the tabletop.

He walked over slowly, brows pinched, a deep knot already forming in his gut.

Then he saw it.

Folded in half, resting perfectly square in the center of his desk blotter.

His name on the outside in your handwriting.

His throat tightened as he opened it. The paper was thin. The message shorter than he expected.

I’m sorry. I really am. But I can’t stay here any longer.

He stared at the words for a long time. They didn’t change.

There was no scene. No call. No confrontation. Just a ghost trail of someone who’d made up their mind long before he ever stepped into that locker room.

Morgan set the letter down, hands heavy on the wood.

No one else noticed — not yet. But they would. And when they asked, he’d have to lie, just like you did.

Tell them you were tired. That you needed a break. That the Bureau wasn’t a good fit.

He wouldn’t tell them about the moment in the locker room — about the way your voice cracked just before you said you’d stay. About the weight in your eyes you tried so damn hard to hide. He wouldn’t tell them how he’d let himself believe it. That maybe he’d gotten through.

But what he did do, quietly, without ceremony, was fold your note once more and slide it into the inner pocket of his jacket.

Not for evidence.

Just so he could carry the truth with him, even if no one else ever saw it.

It took Derek two days to decide. Two weeks to act.

Not because he didn’t care — but because he did. Too much. Enough to doubt whether showing up would make anything better, or just pour salt into a wound already halfway scabbed over.

But after your resignation hit HR officially, and Hotch read your name into the record like it was a fallen comrade, Morgan couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t shake the image of your face in that locker room — of how still you’d stood, like movement would shatter you. Couldn’t forget how your voice sounded when you said “Yeah. Okay. I’ll stay.” Like someone reciting the lines to a role they never wanted.

So when he knocked on your door, it wasn’t because the Bureau sent him. It was because he couldn’t not.

A cool breeze kicked up behind him. Late evening. Orange bleeding into indigo across the sky. Your apartment wasn’t far from Quantico — too close, probably, for someone trying to leave it all behind.

He knocked again, a little louder this time. Waited.

Then he heard it — soft footsteps inside. A pause.

You opened the door partway.

Didn’t chain it. Didn’t smile, either.

“…Morgan.”

“Hey,” he said. Voice quiet. Hands in his jacket pockets.

You leaned against the doorframe. Still in sweats. Hair messy. A line of exhaustion carved under your eyes like you hadn’t really slept since the day you left.

“You stalking me now?” you said. It wasn’t cruel, just flat.

He shook his head once. “Just checking in.”

“You don’t need to.”

“I know.”

You hesitated. Looked like you were about to close the door. Morgan stepped forward just enough to keep you frozen there.

“I read your file again. After you left,” he said. “Went back through all the cases you worked.”

You looked away.

“You’re not here to talk about stats.”

“No. I’m here because I made the mistake of believing you when you lied to my face. And I’m not making that mistake again.”

Something flinched behind your expression. A crack in the stillness.

“I get it,” he went on. “Every mistake feels like proof you’re not enough. You carry them like weight plates — notches in a record only you keep score of. But that scoreboard doesn’t exist outside your head, man. You do good work. You did good work.”

“I didn’t do it well enough,” you said, the words dragging like rusted nails. “I don’t want to wake up every day knowing I’m a step too late. I don’t want to keep surviving just to watch everyone else lose.”

Morgan stepped closer again. Close enough now for you to smell the faint woodsmoke of his cologne. His jaw tensed.

“Then don’t come back for the job. Come back for the people.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Come back for the ones who don’t die. Come back for the families that do go home. Come back for yourself, if you’ve got it in you. But if not… come back for us. For the team.”

He paused, gaze heavy but steady.

“Come back. For me.”

Your breath hitched. A small, ragged thing.

“I can’t,” you whispered. “I can’t go back in there pretending like I’m fine.”

“Then don’t pretend,” he said. “Come back broken. Come back scared. Come back pissed off and messy. We’ll take you however you are.”

His voice dropped, softer now.

“You don’t have to fix yourself before you come home.”

Silence. Deep and heavy. The wind tugged at the doorframe. Your hand trembled slightly against the edge of it.

“I thought leaving would stop me from drowning,” you murmured. “But it just made it quieter.”

Morgan’s face softened. He reached out, slowly — gave you time to move, to stop him — and rested a hand over yours on the door.

His thumb brushed your knuckle. Gentle. Anchoring.

“You’re not alone,” he said. “Even when you think you are."

He said you weren’t alone — but the second he was gone, you remembered how easy it was to lie to yourself. You didn’t have the heart to tell him you’d already packed the part of yourself that used to believe him.

[thatsbelievable]

[bmpmp3]

holy FUCK IA's voisona 2.0 is OUT

[inbabylontheywept]

the house i grew up in was a little bit of a fixer upper. for the first 19 years, my dad just sort of slowly fixed it, but pretty early on in college, he came into a large amount of cash and decided to just do the whole thing at once. so he rented a different house for like, 2 months that was just a block down from us, and then got a bunch of contractors to fix original house ASAP. it was kind of crazy, but it compressed many years of work into like, three months.

the sitting in a new house for three months was actually pretty fun. and i shouldnt really complain at all (staying at home while in college is a sweet deal)

but.

but. my parents are fairly hard of hearing, and their bedroom in the old house was in the furthest possible annex from everyone else. wheras in the rental it was just in the middle of the house. so without going into details, i was extremely aware that my parents were having sex like, eight times a day. my dad had just retired and i guess they were celebrating, which is great i guess, having parents that really like each other is way better than the alternative, but also, it did make me envy their deafness. i kept headphones on for so long that year i got literal ear calluses.

at the same time, the house my buddy from the shoe incident grew up in flooded. turbo flooded. they burst like, two pipes at once and the damage was so severe they had to redo all the flooring and all the drywall. his family actually had homeowners insurance, which is either incredible or suspicious for a family that used the drained pool in their backyard to store rusty scrap metal. so insurance was handling the work, but in the meantime, they were crammed into a very small hotel room space. we did the math on it then, it averaged about 80 square feet a person.

so one day i got home, and i was chilling, and then six rolled around, and apparently six o'clock was sex o'clock because my parents decided to flex their cardio. i grabbed my headphones and prayed that god would do for me what he did for beethoven, but that failed to work, and then seven rolled around and my parents were still at it, which again, very impressive, but was pushing me to swap out judas for mozart in those prayers. there's a definitive point where you stop praying to be deaf and instead pray that god could take you to a nice field and pop you like a gore-balloon.

i was about five minutes away from that point when my friend called me and basically said i have been stuck in a 500 square foot space with 6 people and i didn't have many marbles to start but what few i had are gone. please. if we are friends, if we were ever friends, take me out of here just for a moment.

and i was still pretty mad at him, but i had pity on the poor guy. also helped that i was desperate to leave the house. so i drove the chickenshitmobile to the hotel and i picked him up, and then we did our normal hangout activity, which was go to food city and buy produce. his normal house was, on a good day, nasty, and his backyard was, as i stated before, mostly used to store mosquito larvae and rusty metal, so what we'd always done before was just walk to the grocery store a half block away and leer at vegetables.

so we did that and it was like old times again. they had some radishes that were expired, so i could buy like, literally an entire grocery bag of them for about $5. so i did. i really like radishes. he got a coconut because he liked fruit and beating things with hammers.

which probably would've been great except we didn't have a hammer, so instead we spent about 30 minutes stomping itike it owed us money. when it finally cracked we cheered like we just got the winning touchball at the superdome and then he ate some of the flesh, and i ate some of the radishes, and we admired the black, starless sky of the city before i took him back to his hotel room.

and then we got pulled over.

i forgot to turn my lights on because the street all around the food city was ludicrously well lit. so it went from being pretty bright, to pretty bright and flashy, then i pulled into a parking lot and a cop came to ask us for IDs which is where everything went to shit:

i’d forgotten my license at home. 

the cop was was actually kind of chill about it - he said he could get by with just an address. except i did not know my address. i hadn't memorized the new one yet. so i told the cop, my house is getting remodeled, i don't know my address right now. and then he went to my friend, and my friend said the exact same thing. house getting remodeled, staying somewhere else, no address, sowwwwwwy.

now the cop genuinely didn't know what to do. he went back to his car, and i was stressed that i was about to get into HUGE trouble so i started eating the radishes and my buddy started eating more of his coconut, and we actually managed to eat like a quarter of both before the cop came back. we ate enough produce that he could smell something weird in the air, and he asked what the smell was, and i said radishes, and my buddy said coconut, and the cop said which, and then we produced a large bag of droopy radishes and an absolutely brutalized coconut, and the cop was just like

so my buddy tried explaining how he was sharing a 500 square foot apartment with 6 people and wanted a fruit he could fight with power tools, and i tried explaining how i'd actually tried buying my parents like, board games and puzzles and stuff but nothing worked - the only thing my parents seemed to like doing right now was each other, and we both went on long enough and pathetically enough that the cop eventually went:

ok. stop.

and we stopped.

and he said do you know why i pulled you over?

and i said, because of my headlights, and my friend (who is hispanic) and the cop both looked at me like like i was the dumbest person in the entire world. and then the cop said no. that's why i'm allowed to pull you over. i checked your car because this neighborhood has a terrible sex trafficking problem, and i pull over every car i can to make sure no one is buying or selling sex. and you two are obviously doing neither. now i could give you, like, four tickets right now, but that would do nothing to make this area safer, so just turn your lights on, go home, drive safe, and try to be less stupid in the future.

and i said okay but i was thinking, you know, damn, this is just how i live man, i don't have a hidden third gear i can shift into. people can't just get smarter because it would be convenient. it's always convenient to be smart. i am literally trying my best.

but i didn't say anything because i was, slowly, learning how to filter what i said. instead i nodded and the cop left then i dropped my buddy off, and the last thing he said was said he owed me for responding to his SOS. I said he owed me for a lot of things, and he agreed that was true. then i drove home with my lights on, 5 under the speed limit, and arrived to a peaceful quiet home. I could’ve wept with relief but instead I went to bed.

the relief was short lived. i was woken up at 6 am by my parents. i swore, and then i prayed, and when i did not explode, i swore again. then i got up to make breakfast before my first class.

[bratbby333]

satosugu & their favorite lady ♡ poly head cannons

`⭐︎ ˑ ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ bc who doesn't love when their two boyfriends are also bf + bf?

nsfw mdni; fem!reader, 3sum, anäl, dbl. penētration, oral, yaoi, use of pet names. banner fan art from pinterest

part two is here !

poor suguru, having to work overtime to keep the two of you in check—your unyielding energy bounces off of satoru's childlike enthusiasm, creating quite an unhinged environment. and of course geto switches into dad-mode when it comes to y'all, but he wouldn't have it any other way...not willing to give up what he has, loving how silly his lovers are.

satoru’s definitely the physical touch lover while suguru handles words of affirmation: they take turns showering you in praise in the form of soft touches and gentle kisses while they removing your clothes, two sets of hands running up and down your soft skin.

this dynamic also manifests in public, with satoru being your go-to for steamy dancing and drunken make-out sessions in the middle of the club, while suguru sits observantly at a table off to the side.

when he finally feels that it’s time to go, he’ll join the two of you on the dance floor, his chest pressed flush with your back as you continue to lock lips with satoru. you grind against him, assuming he's finally joining in on all the fun. but his hands pull at your hips before running up your body and cupping the underside of your jaw, quite literally having to peel your mouth away from satoru's. "hey...wha- i wasn't done," you grumble. suguru only chuckles in response. "let's get outta here, you two..." he mumbles. satoru attempts to reconnect his lips with yours before a stern "satoru," rumbles from suguru's chest. your blue-eyed lover pouts, of course, before reluctantly agreeing.

suguru loves hitting it from the back while you suck satoru off, the sloppy sounds of both your holes filling the heady air the room as the three of you chase your releases

and of course, satoru would get creative and suggest a challenge, a little competition to see who finishes first, just for funsies; "bet i'd last the longest". he'd be so fucking smug about it, too. and nine times out of ten, you and suguru would create an alliance and work together to literally break satoru; not only does he finish first but he cums over, and over, and over again. you and sugu take turns bringing him to his breaking point, and after his third orgasm, he's begging to switch so he can get one of you off instead. but you just can't stop. and why would you? he just looks so pretty as his hips buck off the bed, sweat glistening on his skin with his flustered cheeks and swollen lips, while his body trembles with every gasping breath. you swear he does this shit on purpose, plotting for this outcome because he's been feeling super needy lately.

they just love pleasing their precious girl

you're straddling suguru, your forearms resting against his chest as your nails dig into his skin. satoru is pounding into you from behind, his hands anchored on your hips. he tucks his chin into his clavicle to watch as your gushing cunt sucks him in so greedily. suguru pulls your head down, your cheek resting against his shoulder as his fingers reach under you to play with your clit, sultry words of praise leaving his lips and going straight to your listening ears, "feels good, doesn't it baby? uh uh, don't move. keep takin' him...y'doin so good." you whimper as toru’s impressive length reaches unimaginable depths inside you, the sweet squelches of your needy pussy spurring him on as he drives into you even harder. sugu’s fingers keep working at your throbbing clit while you bite and suck on his neck, interrupted by the symphony of soft ahh’s and ooo’s falling from your swollen lips. a few more rough thrusts and rapid circles against your clit and you’re falling apart on satoru’s cock, spraying all over the their thighs. you gasp and whine when you feel satoru pull out, only for suguru to lift you up and quickly take his place, sheathing himself in your pulsing walls. “you ready, baby?” you glance over you shoulder, watching as satoru sucks his fingers into his mouth, a cheeky smirk on his face, your cock drunk brain too dizzy to respond. you nod, groaning at the feeling of his long, slender digits playing with your ass, dipping in to the second knuckle. satoru works to stretch you out in preparation for you to take them both. your face contorts at the dull ache. "look at me...focus on me, princess," suguru rasps, redirecting your attention to him as he slowly pumps in and out of your gummy walls. your nails scratch down his chest as you rest your forehead against his, breathing deeply in an attempt to relax your body for the inevitable stretch. you already feel so full, your pussy absolutely drenched, your arousal dribbling out around sugu’s girth, but you grow even wetter in anticipation for your two boyfriends to take you at the same time

and if you thought it would be a peaceful transition into sleep after y'all finish fucking, you would be sorely mistaken...the three of you constantly fight for the middle spot in the bed. correction, you and satoru are the ones bickering. as the two of you argue, suguru finds his place and waits for y'all to follow suit, and more often than not, it's suguru in the middle, laying on his back, as you and satoru tuck yourselves under each of his arms and curling into his side, legs thrown over his waist.

it's a very balanced relationship. the three of y'all have your designated nights to cook dinner, your assigned spots on the couch (though you occasionally fight over what to watch), a copasetic routine for showering, going to work, running errands together. and when one of y'all is out of town for work, the two left over keep each other company. it's perfect, a home full of love and laughter.

y'all loooove having threesomes, but sometimes it's too much logistically. and that's totally fine...nothing wrong with some one on one action, whether it be you and toru or sugu and you or the two men having their fun alone.

you arrive home, expecting to be entrapped in a double bearhug by your two boyfriends, only to hear moans and grunts echoing down the hallway. you laugh to yourself as you make your way upstairs. opening the bedroom door, you're greeted by a smiling suguru being topped off by his blond counterpart. "hey baby, how was work?" he asks casually, not even acknowledging the fact that he's actively getting head. you smile softly, walking to the edge of the bed and placing a gentle peck on suguru's waiting lips. "mmm, it was a pretty rough shift...i'm gonna go take a long, hot shower," you reply, exhaustion evident in your voice. satoru sits up, continuing to jerk suguru off. with his free hand, he wipes the spit from his chin, grinning ear to ear as you lean in to kiss him, too. "you sure you don't wanna join us?" "not right now, toru, but i might when i get out," you smile as you walk to the dresser, grabbing a change of clothes before heading toward the master bathroom. you turn back around to face the two of them, giggling at the disappointed looks on their faces. when the door closes, the wet sounds and breathy moans fill the bedroom once more. but of course, not even five minutes into your peaceful shower, your back is pressed up against the tile wall as satoru's tongue laps at your throbbing clit. "this is the best way to decompress, baby," he says before his fingers dip into your core and his lips reattach to your sensitive bud. "f-fuck, toru...feels s'good..." as you surrender to the bliss, you hear the bathroom door open and close. seems like suguru was feeling left out. so much for your alone time, huh?

loneliness is no longer apart of the equation for you. after years of failed relationships and agonizing heartbreaks, you have finally found peace, your yin and yang. you have your boys, and they have you.

author notes: stsg has had me in a fuckin chokehold recently so i had to get this outta my head. i just rly rly want two boyfriends so so bad and i want my two boyfriends to also be boyfriends. ugh. is that too much to ask? ♡

©bratbby333 on tumblr. all rights reserved. please do not distribute. 2024.

[bi-writes]

an eye for an eye | knight!ghost x f!reader

your husband bends to your will. men must learn from difficult lessons how far that bending goes.

type: a continuation of a hand for a hand, but can be read stand-alone (11.6k), AO3

cw: 1600s au, dark!ghost, reader described as curvier/plus-sized, graphic depictions of war + violence, possessive!ghost, war-criminal!ghost, inaccurate historical settings probably, unprotected piv, cumplay, breeding kink, size kink, simon "i'd do anything for my wife no matter the devasting consequences" riley (18+)

Your husband has an insatiable appetite. Such a big man he is; he towers over you, so much so that you must tip your head back always to look up at him. You had to make many arrangements in your house to accommodate his hunger–a pantry stocked full of eggs and less fabric for your skirts.

Your house isn’t like others. Neither you nor Ghost have ever lived in luxury. When he showed you your home for the first time, you had shaken your head–you didn’t believe that such a large place was supposed to be yours, and even now, sometimes you feel like a stranger, out of place when the maids ask you what you want for supper or where you’d like to take your afternoon tea. You don’t like the fuss, the asking, the women that curtsy when you come near, concentrated over the creases in your skirts or the loose thread of your sleeve or the wispy hairs that fall out of your braids. You are told all the time that you must behave like a duchess, that you must poise yourself with your new title and your new money, and you must do the things that duchesses do–but no one says the same to your husband.

He is still allowed to sleep in the barracks. Lick the blood off his gauntlets. Polish his sword in the dirt. He’s still allowed to be everything that you cannot be anymore, he still lives the life he had before.

He still kills; and he is still very, very good at it.

Your queen told you in a letter that the king is very pleased. Ever since your union, Ghost has been quite the conqueror. Bloodthirsty and very determined, your husband has been taking his men across the water. He is not any less impressive off land. Not even the pirates have tried to negotiate; they bend the knee or taste the salt water. You breathe shakily when you read your queen’s letters—her praise for your husband’s conquests, how blessed your family will be and how valuable you are to the crown, how grateful she is that Ghost is no longer a fiend in court but rather a little more polite and a little quieter.

All for your sake. Ghost’s name is now your own, and he refuses to embarrass you now that you have it.

You won’t lie; the bodies that Ghost has stacked since you’ve been wed do not scare you. He’s doing it for you. He has never said it out loud, never told you so, but you know it. He wants to show you what kind man that he is, what kind of soldier—you know he’s trying to prove himself worthy. If he killed a thousand men to have you, how many will he slaughter to keep you?

He sends you letters of his own. Not many, but he does send letters, and while Ghost seems to be ineloquent and entirely too brutish, he has quite the voice when he writes.

To my wife,

The sun falls quicker here. I’d like to come home. Tell me of your day, and I will tell you of mine. There were a fleet of ships that came to meet us at dawn. When we sank three, they begged for us to spare the rest.

I have you to think about now. So I burned them.

Simon

A poet, your beloved.

He signs his real name in his letters. Your eyes skim over most of it–you don’t even blink when he tells you what he does to them. Sometimes he writes in great detail about the screams of a hundred souls, the way burning flesh smells, the taste of dirt in a new place when you know it is finally yours. He doesn’t like having secrets. He tells you all his thoughts, even if they might scare you, because you are his wife, and he has discovered quite quickly that you have been cut from the same cloth.

Even when he is home, and he tells you these things all over again, he can’t help the way his cock hardens when you merely blink and ask him if he has added any scars to his collection.

Ravenous, naughty little duchess, and you are all his. He knows he picked well–he knows, he knows he wasn’t wrong when he saw you across the throne room hiding behind his queen, he knows now that he was right about what he saw in your eyes.

You do hate when he’s away. You’re not used to the maids helping you dress, and you secretly abhor the help. That is why when you hear the shuffle of your house early in the morning, your heart thuds in your chest knowing he’s home.

The staff get antsy when Simon is around. He is very good at keeping an estate for someone that has never had to or ever been taught to, but he leaves the responsibilities with you and only you every time he goes. He doesn’t trust anyone else to do it, and every time he comes back, he makes you sit on one big thigh as he teaches you something new that you need to remember for when he goes away. He demands much of those he employs, and they are eager to please him. Whether it is because they respect him or are afraid of him, you aren’t sure.

Perhaps it’s both.

You sit up as the bedroom door opens. You smile, big and wide and sleepy as he steps into the room. He shuts the door with his boot, slipping his hood off, and you sigh as he grips the clasp of his mask and unhooks it. He tosses it onto the floor, bare-faced, and as he makes his way towards the bed, he sheds the rest of his clothes until he’s completely naked.

You cannot stop yourself from the shaky breath you take. He is all muscle and fat, strong and entirely too scary, but it’s hard to focus on what he really is when he stands before you like this. He has fat thighs, big shoulders, carved muscle of intense labor around his middle and along his biceps. He has large hands with calloused palms and split knuckles, and your eyes meet his own as he comes closer. He’s so gorgeous, even with a face like that. He has a long scar that stretches from one brow to his lower jaw, another that cuts his nose and splits his lip, but those eyes are dark and lovely, and you can’t help the warmth that comes over you when he catches you staring at him, closer, right to his cock that hangs heavy between his legs.

Just as he begins to lower himself onto the bed, you hold out a hand, giggling.

“Simon, if you think you are getting into this bed without a proper bath, you’re mistaken!” You laugh, and he raises a brow.

“Mmm…” He smacks his lips together. “Tha’ right, my lady?” He clicks his tongue. “This is my bed. ’s oll mine. Every blanket…every pillow…” He grips your ankle from under the covers and yanks you towards him. “And every part of you.”

You giggle again, shaking your head, “Please, Simon!” You push him away with your toes. “They only changed the sheets yesterday. You’ll dirty them…” You flutter your lashes. “Will you bathe if I join you?”

He grins wide, licking over his teeth.

“Can’t refuse an offer like tha’.”

You hold out your hand for him, and he takes it gently. You watch as he brings your knuckles towards his mouth, and you bite back a smile when he decides to kiss each one, slow. He tugs finally, pulling you up, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he hoists you up into his arms. You would worry about your weight normally, but Simon holds you so easily, barely even a grunt as he wraps your legs around his middle. You don’t waste another second, cupping his cheeks in your hands and kissing him softly.

It’s never just a kiss with Simon. He slides one of his hands up your back, into your hair, and you whine as he tips your head back just enough to slip his tongue into your mouth. Simon doesn’t just kiss, he consumes. What he did to get back to you, the things he endured, the places he has seen and the bodies he has buried and burned and scattered across the places he now calls country, it’s always to get back to this place.

To you.

“How’s my boy?” He asks when you pull away. He carries you to another room, to where the tub sits, and he rings a bell by the door to call the maids in. You snatch a robe off a hook and cover him with it as he sits with you, but all he does is put a few fingers under your chin and make you look at him again. “Oi. Asked ya question, luv.”

Your lip wobbles a little, and you look away.

“I…”  You wait until the maids have gone to fetch hot water to tell him. “I bled while you were gone. I…”  You smooth your hands over the robe, distracting yourself. “I’m…I’m sorry, Simon.”

You close your eyes as he leans close, resting his forehead against yours, and you shake a little as he lets out a warm breath against your lips. He moves a warm hand over your soft stomach, cupping you there, and you lean your head back a little at the tender touch.

“It will happen,” he says finally, and your mouth opens to respond, but he sticks his thumb between your lips to shut you up. He doesn’t want to hear you blame yourself. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his, for not being here with you, for not be able to take care of you. You give in, suckling on the salt of him, and he grits his teeth as he watches you. “I know. Seen it in m’dreams.”

Simon has dreams. Lots of dreams, but he tells you that they are not dreams, they are glimpses into something that has already happened. When you asked if he was some kind of seer, the kind that the king used to have at parties, Simon doesn’t laugh.

He says the dreams are why he knows he won’t die. Why he is never afraid, because he knows somewhere behind his eyes what’s to come even if he didn’t see the entire painting of it. It is why he knew he would marry you; it is why he paid you so much attention, why he knew he would win his battles, why he always knows whose blood it is in his mouth because he has tasted their death before and relishes in the knowing of it all, in the certainty.

It’s never I think, it is always I know, and Simon is nothing if he is not the most honest man that you know.

So if he says you will have his babe, it is as good as truth. As green as the grass grows beneath his feet, as blue as his sky, and as red as the blood that is caked underneath his nails.

When the tub is filled with water, you let Simon sink into it first. You kneel beside it, picking up a glass of oil, pouring it into your palms before sinking your hands into his hair. It’s gotten longer since he left, in need of a cut, but you smile when he leans his head back into your shoulder. You can feel his content as he relaxes into you, and you admire his physique as you use the warm water and scrub the mud and grime off of him.

“I missed you, husband,” you whisper, and he only lets you massage his hair for a few more moments before he grips you by the wrist and tugs you forward, right into the bath. “Simon!” you laugh, “my night dress—oh!—it’s ruined!”

“Too far away,” he mutters, practically ripping the silk off of you as he tosses it besides the bath. “Mmm…” He cups your breasts with two big hands, smoothing his thumbs over your nipples, and you whine a little as he pulls at them just enough to make them stiffen. “Y’should be naked when I come home,” he says lowly. “I’ll soil y’r bloody gown next time, m’lady.”

You giggle, and he smiles. A real smile. As real as he’ll ever give anyone, maybe the only one that anyone has ever even seen. He has never shown his face in court, and while it angers the women and irks the men, you revel in the fact that all of this is only for you.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

You kiss him softly. The water sloshes, warm and inviting, and sometimes you forget your life used to be anything but joy. A year ago, you would not believe that you would be here, titled, wealthy, in a stone room lit by candles bathing with a blood hungry ghost.

A year ago, you trembled whenever he looked at you. You cowered when you heard his footsteps. What a stupid little girl you had been. What a fool. She had no idea what she could have, the kinds of things she could hold in her hand.

Real power wasn’t being able to command a room with your words. Real power was being able to say anything and have it be believed as truth. Real power was making someone look in one direction and have them see what you see, even if what you see isn’t real.

He lays you down in your bed afterward and eats. Your wet hair soaks the sheets, but you can’t seem to be really bothered as he fits your legs over his shoulders and bends you at the waist, his mouth suctioned to your clit as he eats you slowly. One of his hands is spread out over your tummy, the other you can hear making a squelch as he fists his own cock. It’s slow and methodical, and he slides his tongue between your folds firm, catching what dribbles from you on the tip of his tongue before he swallows it and leans in for more.

He has eaten you in nearly every room in your house. Frightened the cooks tossing you onto the dining table, given a servant a scare as he ducked under your skirts in the library, had the gardeners fleeing as he dropped you onto the grass near the lake and disappeared with a frenzy to eat your cunt during sunrise. It’s maddening, the kind of need that Simon requires, but it’s hard to refuse when you feel so warm and bubbly and happy after he’s finished. A pampered princess you are, never lifting a finger, only awake long enough when he’s home to eat until you’re full and cum until you fall asleep again.

Maybe that’s why you’re not pregnant yet. Simon likes to be here, between your thighs, mouth fixed on your wet pussy until he’s practically exhausted himself with a sore jaw and lax tongue.

He kisses you sloppy after. Licking into your mouth, practically spitting onto your tongue, wanting you to taste—tastes so good, luvvie, don’t ya see, yeah?—wanting you to know why he’s so eager to be on his knees all the time.

You sniffle, a little dizzy, shaking your head.

“’s not what I really want,” is all you whimper, and he nods, because he knows, he always knows.

“I know, luv. I know wot ya really need.”

“I must be broken,” you sob, cradling his face in your hands, and he shakes his head.

“Not broken,” Simon assures you. He speaks so surely that it’s hard not to believe him. “It wasn’t time.”

“You can’t see the future, Simon! You don’t know!” You cry, and he snarls a little, shaking his head again.

“You listen t’me,” he growls. You shake a little as he grabs your face with one hand, fixing your jaw under his grip as he holds onto you firmly. “Wot I say goes. Y’r my wife, so listen t’me, and listen t’me good. Y’r not broken. Not time. Say it back t’me.”

Your lip trembles, and he rattles your head a little.

“Say it,” he snaps, and you hiccup.

“It’s not time,” you whisper, and he plants a fat kiss onto your tear-soaked lips.

“Just need my cock, luv,” he murmurs. “Tha’s oll. Just need me t’fuck it outta ya.”

You nod, pressing your face to his, and he tuts, reaching down and spreading your legs wide to accommodate him between them as he lays over you.

“’s oll y’need,” he repeats, and you nod again.

You have to take another bath in the same morning; and this time, you weren’t able to walk there.

You like when Simon is home because it’s quiet. The only one that dotes on you here is Simon. The maids do not dress you or do your hair or moisturize your skin. It’s always Simon.

You smile at him in the mirror as you sit at your vanity. He has a brush in one hand, and he’s using it delicately to detangle your hair how you like. His hands are practiced and gentle, and when he finishes, he leans over you as he starts to part your hair to braid it. He did not have sisters, but his mother had him always do her hair after she lost the use of her hands with age. You don’t know where his mother is, but you assume she is not here anymore, because he never invites you to meet her.

He oils your skin. He slips the robe off of you, revealing your damp skin from the bath, and he slathers oil in his hands before using it to soften your skin. He takes his time, smoothing those big hands over your shoulders, down your back, along your arms. You tilt your head back when he warms your breasts, squeezing and fondling your tits. He murmurs in your ear the entire time, and he has to fuck you with his fingers to quiet you when he stops because just his hands on your tits has you wet all over again.

He dresses you, too. Helps you slip into your undergarments, fastens the cage for your skirts over your hips. He ties them skillfully, and after he layers your skirts over the farthingale, he gets you into your corset. It’s intimate as he does this. Even with your wide skirt, he comes closer, over your shoulder, and he tugs at the laces at your back, pulling it tight with firm grunts. You sigh when he buries his face into the crook of your neck, his hand skimming over your breasts as they sit nice and perky between stiff fabric and whalebone.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, unnerving…the way ya look…”

You close your eyes, “S-Simon, please…I’m already dressed…”

He chuckles, “I know. I know.”

But when he has to leave again, you nearly come with him. You fasten his armor for him, help him slip each piece of leather on and click every piece of metal into place. You tie his cloak and slip his mask on, and you try and duck your head when you flip his hood up, but he catches you, tilting your chin up.

He huffs when he sees your face. Tears sliding down your cheeks, lips wet with them, eyes all glassy and red. He draws you up onto your toes, pressing his mouth to yours through the mask, and you hold onto him tightly, digging your nails into his chest armor and threatening to not let go.

“I want to go.“

“No.”

“Simon, let me go,” You gasp, begging, gripping his hood in firm fists and not caring that his armor is cutting into your front. “Let me go with you, I can’t do this anymore, I want to go, I can do it.”

You aren’t sure if Simon underestimates you. You think it’s more that he does not want you to see him in a place where he is most true. Where he wears the least of a disguise. He does not know he wears it the least with you, and that you have already seen his blood and how it curdles under his skin. You like it that way. You like him angry…and mean…and terrible. You like him when his sword is dirty and his armor needs polishing and his mind thinks of nothing else besides war. He should know this by now. He should know that you see him and see what he is even more than his king, more than his men.

He couldn’t scare you, even if he tried.

“War is not where women go,” Simon snaps. His tone is harsh, even for you, and you stiffen when he grips you by the jaw and rattles your head a little. “Especially not one like you, my love. War would eat ya, eat ya fuckin’ whole. Look at ya…” He huffs, deep, sliding that gloved hand down your throat to slip it beneath the neckline of your dress and fondle your breast with a firm grip. “Beautiful. Meant for my lips…for these dresses…meant to be held in my hands, not bleed from stray arrows, because tha’ is surely the least of wot they would do t’ya if they knew ya were my wife. Now ya will wipe these tears, ‘n see me off, and then ya will come back inside like a good girl, ‘n you will wait for me here until I come back.”

Your bottom lip trembles, and you scowl up at him. Not indifference, but frustration, and Simon doesn’t think it suits you.

“I’m sick of waiting for you, Simon,” you spit. “It’s all I ever do, wait. Wait for you to come back, alive or dead, I never know. And don’t say you do this for country, that is a lie.” You shove him backwards, but he barely budges when your hands touch his chest, a rigid wall that does not give. “You do it because you like it. You’re a bloodthirsty dog, and all you do is bend to our king’s will.”

A lie, but you tell it anyways, because you want something, and he will not give it to you.

“That is my duty.”

“Your duty is to me,” you snap. “Kings come and go, but I will not.” Simon stills. He glares down at you from behind his mask, and perhaps this might terrify his men, but that you are not. You are his wife, and you are protected by that title alone. The only man to ever lay a hand on you would not live to see another second, himself included. “Now you will let me join you, or so help me God, Simon, I will not be here when you return.”

You do not expect the full-bellied laugh that leaves him. His armor shakes with him, and you grind your teeth, narrowing your eyes. He uses his thumb to force his mask up, and then he cups the back of your head and draws you in for a sloppy kiss. You resist at first, but when he feeds you his tongue, you melt. You kiss him back, letting him draw you closer, and you sigh as he tangles his fingers into your hair and cradles you with those big hands.

There is nothing more to say. Simon neither confirms nor denies, but you taste it in his mouth, his devotion. Not wrong, not right, but just so–he has many responsibilities, but you are the only one that will remain the same. One day, his king will die, and he will serve another, but the space you have made beside him will never change. Even when you die, because he knows you will go before him, there will never be someone else to fill it. You and you only, the woman he found and made his, the one he demanded lest he kill his own country for it, it will always be you. Soft and sweet, you are, but the Lord knew Simon could only have one woman, and he made it be you; the one spitfire enough to defy her own king because she trusted his love enough for it.

Would you commit treason to save his life? Would you watch a king die if it meant your beloved lived? 

Would he?

He thinks about what you have said when he takes his fleet across the water. He runs his tongue over his teeth behind his mask, breathing deep when he thinks about your proclamations of duty. Of change. Of what remains when other things move, of the kind of life that waits for him when he comes and goes with a king’s order. He thinks about how easily he is taken away from you, and he knows there is truth in what you feel. It is not really Simon that sacrifices, it is what he leaves behind, and that is you.

It’s never angered him before. He had accepted the fact, as early as your wedding day, that he would leave and come back, then leave again. It has always been the way of his life, come desire or not, so it bothers him that of all the things that surprised him in his life, it would be missing someone that shocked him the most.

Missing his wife. Missing the serene perfection of one woman, and the perfect place between her soft thighs. Every day that he finds himself between them is the best day of his life, he reckons, so now he feels bitter about staring at a freezing ocean amongst his men because he will go weeks without her.

Her. Her. Her.

He is bitter, yes, until he is not.

It comes in a letter from a messenger on horseback. They have been stationed in a foreign land for weeks now, watching slowly as the stone walls of a castle at their front crumples day after day from the stones filled with powder that ignite what is wood and break what is rock. The letter is sealed with wax, with the motif of a snake. It is given directly to Simon, whose name is scribbled in the letter, and when he reads it, he tastes ichor and smoke.

So the great phantom has come to seal my fate. I am not in the business of letting what is mine be taken. Even if you have brought your all, it won’t be taken from me.

I heard you have a beautiful new wife. I heard you paid for her in blood.

I shall do the same. I will hang your sword above our marriage bed.

Ghost is not someone that bends to the threats from foe he cannot look in the eye. Words are so empty. It is nothing like when he stands just a few meters apart from them, eyes fixed against one another, as they decide whether today they want to live or they want to die. The letter means nothing, but he’s surprised by the heat that bubbles under his ribs at the mention of his bride. He meant it when he said you were not meant for war, and that meant in this regard, too–nobody was allowed to talk about you, not like this, not ever.

When his king orders him home, Ghost crumples the note and tosses it into embers. He watches it burn, and then he orders his men to set to flame the ground around the stone walls.

So men like him can be goaded, it seems. His resolve is not as strong as he thought.

The weeks make you anxious. All you do is sit and collect dues and tell the maids which dress you want to wear and which you do not. It is peaceful and boring, and you wish Simon was here to make your days more exciting, but he is not.

His letters are the only things that keep you occupied, truly. He writes to you about war and loneliness, and you write to him about the mundane of domesticity and the ache he leaves behind. Sometimes, his letters come folded with pressed flowers he finds along the way, and you start to collect them, putting them away in small boxes or using them as bookmarks as you go through Simon’s library.

He has many books. His most loved books are those of war, of history, and you smooth your fingers over the pages he has dogeared and find comfort in reading the same words that he once did. You learn, as well. While in your studies as a girl, they made you learn arithmetic and the flowery bits of history and art, here in Simon’s house, you learn of strategy and weaponry and military tactic. Sometimes you disagree, and you write about these disagreements to Simon, and he writes back, pleased with your observations. He told you once that if you were a man, he would want you in that tent with him, beside him, deciding on which formations to take and when to strike. You responded saying that you could be that for him anyway. What did your sex have anything to do with whether you were right or wrong?

Simon agreed.

But I would never invite you here, dear wife. You have to understand that.

When your queen asks for your audience for dinner, you oblige easily; finally, you have something to do rather than add up numbers or sign a document on Simon’s behalf or read another fucking book.

You don’t want to wear all the costume your maids insist on, but you appease them after they repeatedly explain to you what your title means. With a drawn face, you let them tie your corset and layer your skirts, and you watch in the mirror as they braid your hair and drape large, obnoxious jewels over you. You grimace at the tiara they fit into your hair, and your elderly handmaid pinches your cheeks and tells you to put on a fair countenance, Your Grace, lest you make the Duke look ungrateful.

You bite your tongue from snapping at her. She should know that Simon would say nothing about your countenance; all he would do is fix whatever was bothering you until you smiled again.

You arrive early enough to have tea. Your queen is so excited to see you; she gushes when you meet her in the throne room, pulling you up from your curtsy so she can hug you tight, squealing. When you try to address her with a curt “Your Majesty,” she shakes her head, pressing her hands to your cheeks and giggling, “No need for formalities now. Call me Victoria.”

You hide your displeasure with a small smile. Now that you are no longer her lady-in-waiting, she allows you her name. Is it because she sees you more as equals, or because now you’re allowed to be somewhat of friends?

You must be some kind of friend. She sizes you up like you are one. She wears England’s colors this afternoon. A fire red dress adorned with gold accents, a dragon pin holding her shawl. She wears magnificent red and gold jewelry, but she’s looking at your dress, and you can see the slight twitch of her eye. You are wearing French lace, and she doesn’t like it. Or maybe she doesn’t like the color, the accents of navy blue and silver that you wear.

The skull motif that is woven into your tiara and printed on your coat and sewn into your dress. Does it insult her? That all your life, you wore nothing but browns and beiges and grays, were invisible to her, and now you represent your house, visit her as your guest, and bear an honorable name?

You were no one when you served her. Just a girl, no close family, no friends, just a distant uncle who gave you to the crown that hoped you could be of service. That was to be your duty for all your life–to serve the king’s wife until she wanted you no more or until she was gone. To cater to her every need and every wish, no matter the time of day or night.

Now you sit across her, more noble. Refined. Wearing a dress she despises, perhaps because she likes it more than her own.

Over tea, she gossips about the other ladies she has visit. You’ve heard this before, but you’ve never been included in the conversation. She talks to you, and she wants to hear your opinion, and you find yourself uneasy as you try to think of what to say. She is your queen, and you want her to like you. When you worked for her, you earned her favor by always warming up her jewels before she put them on, by making sure she had her tea ready in the morning at her bedside, by always holding the fan she so loved for when she inevitably had a hot flash. Now, as her friend, you weren’t exactly sure what to do. You suck in a soft breath and look at her, and then you purse your lips.

You think it best to agree with her. To be on her side. You might not be her direct servant any longer, but you still must fall under her favor. A queen’s favor can be just as powerful, especially if she occasionally has the ear of her husband.

“Well, that’s not very kind of her,” you say finally, and she laughs.

“No! She’s such a prude. I think her husband doesn’t sleep in her bed enough, if you know what I mean,” she winks at you. You giggle at that. “Speaking of husbands–” She pops another cake in her mouth. “How is yours?”

You reach up and tug at your necklace a bit, smiling nervously.

“Oh, uh…” You clear your throat, “He’s doing very well. I hear his latest campaign is quite the success. His majesty is very smart, heading for the east that way, I’m sure they will be victorious soon enough.”

Victoria smiles at the thought of her husband. His intelligence. She always used to talk to you about how many hours he worked, how she hated when he was away, how she wished he was home more so he could give her a son because she was so, so lonely.

“Wise words from the duchess, aye, my love?”

You jump a bit at the low voice from behind, and when you turn, you gasp, immediately standing and falling into a delicate curtsy. John Price waves his hand, coming further into the room, shaking his head.

“It’s alright,” he tells you. “Please, sit. You’re here as my guest.”

You stand and lift your head, trying to relax. You take a seat, smiling nervously, and Victoria smiles giddily at her husband. When he bends to kiss her cheek, she fawns, reaching for his hand and squeezing it before taking another piece of tart and eating it. John hums before motioning for one of the staff to fill your cup again with tea. He eyes you curiously, taking in your appearance. You sit up at that, performatively brushing off over the skull pattern on your corset. John runs his tongue over his teeth, smoothing a big palm down his wife’s long coils of hair.

“Since you’re here, I’d like a word, if that’s alright,” John says to you. His tone carries a little more authority now, and Victoria sighs, whining a little.

“John, please, she’s my friend. Can’t it wait–”

“That wasn’t a question, Victoria,” John bites. Her face falls a little. She swallows and tucks her hands into her lap. You’re reminded as you look at the slight wobble of her lip that there is no one truly above John Price, not even her. You keep your face neutral, but if you were invisible, you’d pity her.

What a shame her husband sees her as less than. How embarrassing. Your Simon would never. Your Simon waits until you finish speaking before speaking himself. Your husband kneels to take off your shoes, your husband tears your skirts to get a taste of you, your husband used his teeth to sever a man’s throat just to have your hand.

What did John Price do to get his wife? Who did John Price kill to have her hand? How many bruises did he earn around his knees on their wedding night from eating her out? As many as Simon, whose knees were black and blue by morning?

No, you suppose not. How unfortunate. How pathetic.

Victoria picks up her skirt and stands, pasting a big smile on her face. It doesn’t reach her eyes, and you can see the way her hands shake a little as she scurries off. She scowls as soon as she turns away from John, clearly annoyed.

“I’ll go check on dinner,” she says, but it is soft and unenthusiastic.

When she goes, the room falls quiet. At the nod of John’s head, the staff leave, and you keep still in your seat as John sits across from you, picking up one of the cakes in front of him and breaking off a piece to busy himself. He keeps his eyes on his task of cutting up the cake in small pieces, focused on his hands and how they work. You watch him carefully, steeling yourself.

You anticipate a conversation between man and woman, not a king and his lesser.

“Simon’s been away for some time. I bet that’s difficult for you.”

You straighten your posture, realizing what this conversation will be. By his tone, John seems to think you a bored, stupid housewife, perhaps. Uneducated. A woman, no thoughts in her head. You let your face relax, and you fold your hands in your lap. Maybe now is the time John should learn who you are and who you are not.

What you have become and what you no longer are.

“I do just fine, Your Majesty,” you say finally. You pick up a spoon and drop a cube of sugar into your tea, and you stir, picking it up to take a long sip. John is curious by your content. You have a quick tongue. “I could say the same to you, couldn’t I?”

John laughs. He narrows his eyes a bit at your clever response, taking a large bite of the cake and running a cloth over his beard. His eyes sparkle a little.

“So you know.”

“Know what, Your Majesty?”

“You know I gave Simon orders. And you know he didn’t listen to me.”

You purse your lips, but he sees the shine in your eyes. The lack of surprise. His face twitches a bit, and you shake your head. You blink slow, and it irks him to see you so calm. He is your king, and Simon answers to him, and you are his wife, so you must answer, too.

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“I could have your husband’s head cut off for treason for that, you’re aware, aren’t you?”

You tilt your head to the side. What an odd thing for John to say. What an odd thing for John to contemplate, since it would never come to pass. “Don’t be daft, my king. You wouldn’t want to do that.”

John slams his fist on the table, making the plates and cups rattle with his frustration, but you do not even flinch. You blink, stone-faced, and it makes his nostrils flare. He recognizes that glare, he knows it well. He has seen it before, stared it down many times in rooms just like this. Only now, he is not fighting for land, he fights for control of the one man that he has always been able to rely on. Simon has followed him into battles outnumbered by a thousand men, and only now he ignores an order? Only now he chooses something different?

“Now, let’s be civil, Your Majesty,” you say softly. You smile at him, leaning your head in your hand. “Is there something that you need from me? I have a feeling you might have encouraged this dinner just so you could see me in passing, so why don’t you just ask me what you wanted to ask me?”

John lets out a deep breath, leaning his elbows on the table, lowering his voice. He leans towards you, and you admire how blue his eyes are. John is quite a handsome king, but he does not captivate you. It has been a long time since John has tasted blood, and he lacks the edge that you crave dearly.

“I need him back here, is what I need,” John murmurs.

“My king, I couldn’t get him back here any more than you could, even if I wanted to.”

“Now who’s being daft?”

You scoff, leaning back in your chair. John is not a stupid man. He created a beast of a man, and he is trying not to poke it too hard. You shift, brushing down your skirts, and you let out a low breath.

“Why did he refuse?” You ask finally.

“What?”

“Why does he ignore your order to come back?” You ask again. “I can’t think of a lot of reasons why he would stay. So why did he ignore you?”

John clicks his tongue, smoothing a few of his fingers over his beard. He averts his eyes, looking out the tall windows, frowning a little at the grim weather. The weather is always grim here, but it irks him at the moment, makes him scowl a little harder.

“I was…informed that there was some sort of letter,” John explains. “Some threat.”

“I don’t follow. He gets lots of threats. And terrible letters.”

“Was about you this time, Your Grace.”

You close your eyes at that, shaking your head. Simon would never be so foolish as to be baited by baseless threats. He barely bats an eye when someone even in front of him draws his sword. He is so comforted by his ability to win, by his dreams and his visions that have not yet happened.

“That’s absurd,” you breathe. “Simon wouldn’t…”

John chuckles, but there is no humor there. “Wouldn’t he?”

“I still don’t understand what you expect me to do,” you roll your eyes, looking away. “Simon is…he’s not…he doesn’t listen. It’s why he’s good at this, isn’t it? He doesn’t really take orders, he’s…I…”

John has never complained before about the way Simon chooses to lead. Oftentimes, it is an order ignored that has made it so that he delivered another crown at John’s feet. Simon asks for forgiveness, not permission, and John has barely batted at eye at it. He sees Simon as some kind of distant son, but this refusal bothers him so?

John leans forward. “You need to understand something here, Simon is a rabid dog,” he spits. “And sometimes I let him off his lead, but this isn’t like anything I’ve had to deal with. I need you to call him back here.” He scoots closer. “England needs you to call him back here. To me.”

You narrow your eyes a little. England needs you to call him back? What kind of sick sense of patriotism is he trying to instill in you? John is stupider than he looks, to think a woman like you would show loyalty to country. You are loyal to your husband, and nothing else, because what has king and country ever really done for a woman like you except for dispose of you?

You wear Simon’s colors, not John’s, and you will wear them to your deathbed.

“If I do this for you, my king, then you owe me,” you whisper. He laughs again, no humor, and he picks up a goblet and fills it to the brim with wine. He drinks half before slamming it down onto the table, spilling it over his hand.

“Kings do not owe their subjects.”

“Quite right, Your Majesty,” you agree, picking up your napkin and dropping it onto the table. You stand, giving him a polite curtsy. “But I am not doing this as your subject.”

“Everything you do is as my subject.”

“You put your entire right to the throne on the back of one man,” you say softly. You are not accusing him, you’re reminding him of a truth. “Simon is why…he’s why your counsel still listens to you. He’s why your people are free from famine, why…why your taxes get paid on time, why your kingdom is still standing, no thanks to your father who wasted this place’s fortune on women and liquor.” You shake your head. “You have an eye for conquest, Your Majesty, but you lack the execution of any plan you conjure.”

You are not wrong, and John knows this, and it’s why he hasn’t spoken up yet or interrupted you. The man before, his own father, was a drunkard who spent all their money. He drank himself into the grave, and the only reason John stands before you now is because of Simon. A man who he fought beside, who he commanded, who once John’s duty became reality took up the mantle and finished what his father never could.

John would be in the next history book you read because of Simon, and it’s Simon’s name that will never be written. They do not bestow legacy to men who serve other men.

“Where…Where did you learn to speak to men this way?” John scoffs. “I am your king.”

You must have hit a soft spot. John is defensive now, and men only deflect and insult when they are cornered with the truth. They don’t like being held in front of a mirror.

“You are king because my husband made it so,” you correct him gently. “And Simon is a loyal dog, and that is good for your sake, because if he had any desire for your seat, it would be his.” You come closer, your heels sounding, and John glares down at you; but you glare right back because you are protected by your name and what you can do with it. John knows this, and it angers him, but he seems to have difficulty facing the truths of his own making. “But he is not your dog anymore. He’s mine.”

Your pen on paper is aggressive. You can tell because the splotches of ink are deep, bleeding black sinking into white as you put angry word to parchment. Not even a fortnight later, you are playing cards with Victoria, and you see Simon’s silhouette standing in the doorway, hood shadowing his masked face as he observes. When you look over your shoulder where John sits, and you meet his eyes, he looks away from you with a grim understanding.

Simon answers your call. Always.

At dinner, John is in better spirits. He drinks with a big smile, eats more than one plate, and he picks Victoria up by the waist to make her dance with him when he asks for the music to be played louder. Simon sits, fidgety, gloved hands moving in and out of fists as he watches you cut into your food and eat it with a blank face. He huffs beside you, his armor stiffening as he sits up straight, and you let your fork clatter onto your plate as you turn to glare at him.

“You were thinking with your cock, Simon,” you spit. “That is how men like you get killed.”

“You ‘ave no idea how men like me get killed because there are no men like me,” Simon growls. You roll your eyes, standing, and he grips your wrist angrily, tugging you close until you fall into his lap. You sigh, shaking your head, putting your hands on his broad shoulders and making him look at you.

“Maybe,” you whisper. “But I’m not wrong. It is how you’ll lose. You know better than that, Simon. To fight someone because they taunted you in a letter, it’s playing the fool.” You cup his cheeks, keeping his eyes on yours. “You don’t need me to tell you that, and yet here we are.”

He breathes slow, closing his eyes for just a moment. He thinks he came for this, just a little. For clarity. Reason. It comes from you in waves, and it’s comforting to hear. It is something he knew, and yet it only makes sense now that you have said it.

“I know,” Simon mutters. “I know. Y’r right. I’m sorry, luv.”

You ask him to apologize when he undresses you. You ask him to apologize again when he sinks into a hot bath with you. You ask him a third time when he is in your bed, a heavy weight between your thighs as he licks and sucks at the soft skin of your tummy. He begs, lowly, let me ‘ave it, and you will, but he has to say he’s sorry again.

“‘m sorry,” he breathes, sucking on your inner thigh, and you close your thighs around his head, forcing his mouth against your cunt.

“Again, Simon,” you whisper. “I wanna hear it again.”

“‘m sorry,” he slides a rough tongue between your folds, breathing shakily when he tastes the oil that he smoothed over your skin only moments ago. You taste so good, you smell so lovely, coming off of you like fumes blinding his senses so that nothing else but you makes any sense at all. When you open your eyes, you think about where you are, and you nearly come thinking about what you have wrapped around your finger.

Not even your king tells your husband what to do. Not even your king commands his men, they won’t listen, he’s not who they turn to when things go belly-up, it’s your husband, and your husband answers to you.

You weren’t sure about it until today. Seeing him when you asked him to come, it flooded you with something that hurt. You could tell from even so far away that Simon was salivating under that mask. You knew the only thing separating his mouth from your cunt were the other people around him (and they were not privy to seeing you naked).

It is such a thing to observe. John needed a lead on Simon when he was his dog. You need no such mechanism. Simon never strays, not with you. He sits proper when you ask, and he speaks when spoken to. He tears at unwanted flesh, and he comes when you call.

John cannot give him all that he desires. Perhaps he thought what Simon truly wanted was fame and fortune. Legacy. But like most things men do, John does not observe. He takes in only what is right in front of him, and he makes assumptions. Simon is not like other men. Fame and fortune do not matter. He does not care about legacy. What matters to Simon is what he can hold in his hands. The ground under his feet. The steel in his hand. The woman underneath him, spreading her legs, inviting him in.

You love Simon. You love Simon more than anything in the entire world, but it would be a lie to say that you are not at some advantage here. Simon is all-consuming. He is the pinnacle of duty and honor and everything that a man is supposed to be, but Simon is also weak. There is something that he wanted more than anything in the world, and now that he has it, he will do anything to keep it, and that makes him vulnerable. Subject to all kinds of new things. Revenge. Retaliation. Pain.

Manipulation.

Maybe you should feel bad about it. Maybe you should feel guilty, but it’s hard to feel anything like it when there’s a big bear of a man between your thighs slobbering on your pussy like dessert. It’s hard to feel anything but bliss when he’s tracing the letters of his name into your cunt and making you see stars and fucking you into the silk sheets like it’s the last time he’ll ever have you.

It is men who govern your world, and if this is how you must move in it, then so be it. You will not feel bad. You will not be sorry for doing what anyone else would do. John thought he could keep his hand there, muzzle his mutt, but you like him this way, and you’re certain John doesn’t fuck the way you do.

He’s mine.

It isn’t John that commands an army, it’s you; or maybe your cunt, but that belongs to you, too, so it is you, isn’t it? You’re the one that lets him inside, that whispers in his ear, that tells him things you know he wants to hear to make things move in your favor, so it’s you, right?

Not John. Not Victoria. Not their counsel. You. They have stepped on you your entire life. They have made you small and inferior and sad for all of your existence, and they gave you something feral knowing it could eat you alive, and now you are the hand that feeds, and they are forgetting that if they bite too hard, you have something that will surely bite harder.

A collar would suit him, you think. He would look so pretty. He already is, the terrible beast, prettiest thing you’ve ever seen (the necklace your drape over him does just fine, a pendant with his motif that you hope reminds him of you). You don’t care if people would say his face is quite ugly. It is, very much so, but you never see him this way. Whenever that mask falls, your stomach flips. He takes your breath away. His intensity, his raw form of love, the look on his face–there is nothing else in the entire world that will love you the way he loves you.

“You came back for me?” You ask. You have a leg tangled between his, and his fingers are between your thighs, a shadow of a smirk on his face as he feels the mixture of your cum and his. He grunts a little, and you tilt your head to look up at him, your chin on his chest.

“‘f course,” Simon mutters, and you kiss his chest gently, keeping your eyes on his.

“But not for John.”

He turns his head, looking down at you more intently, and he scoffs. You know it’s true, but you want to hear it, anyways. You want to hear Simon admit, unknowingly, that you are the tether.

“John is afraid, and I don’t listen to ‘im when he’s afraid. Makes bad choices.”

It’s almost adorable that this is what Simon tells himself. That he comes back for his own sake, and not for yours, even though they are one and the same, intertwined and inseparable.

“Simon,” you say softly, and he sighs, his eyes closing briefly when you kiss him gently. “You have to listen to your king when he asks you to come back. Making a…rash decision about war strategy is one thing, but…” You cup his cheek gently. “Make things easier for me, husband. If he asks you to come back, you come back.”

This time, at least. Just this time.

Simon snarls a bit, but you swallow it when you kiss him. You maneuver yourself over him, straddling his hips, and he grunts as you sink down on him. He swells hard again very quickly, releasing a deep breath as you give a slow roll of your hips.

“Make things easy for me, my love,” you whisper, and he leans his head back, putting two big hands on your ass and moving you with ease. “Appease your king, yes? For me?”

“Can’t say no when y’r pussy squeezes me like tha’, sweet’eart,” Simon groans, and you giggle, planting your hands on his chest and starting to move a little faster. You lean your head back, your mouth falling open, and you gasp when you sink down completely, your ass touching his thick thighs as you tighten around him. “Fuckin’ Christ–”

“I hate when you go,” you whine, digging your nails into his chest. He hisses, planting his feet on the bed, and he fucks up into you with a renewed fervor. “Hate when you’re not here, Simon, I-I miss you, miss this–”

“Nghh…fuck, I know,” Simon pants. “Can feel it. Feel you.” You squeal when he grips you by the waist and turns you over. He makes it seem so easy, tossing your weight underneath him, and your arms circle around his neck as you draw him closer, hanging onto him. “Y’r so fuckin’ pretty…”

“Simon–”

He kisses to devour. His jaw hinges wide to kiss you sloppy, breathing in the moans that you can’t contain. Simon always fucks so well, stretching your thighs as wide as they will accommodate so he can make room for the goliath of himself that he is. He suffocates, in a good way, and his cock never fails to stretch you for all that you are worth. Simon holds your jaw in place as he grinds into you, relishing in the wet smack of his hips against yours. The fat of you satisfies him. It makes him growl with delight when he grabs onto wide hips, your fat arse, the body that you hold that tells him you are fed and warm and content. It draws his grin wider, and it makes him drool thinking about having you again and again and again, until you beg him for reprieve and his heir sits in your womb.

Simon fucks for sport. He wants to see how stupid he can make you. He wants to know how long you’ll cry for, how fat he can make your tears. He wants to know how loud you will cry, how many times he can make you cum before you’re incoherent, he wants to know the extent to which he can use you that you will still be awake enough to say his name just one more time. Simon is not satisfied until he pushes your limits.

It is what a Riley does. They endure, and they eat, and they consume, and they take pleasure in the all-encompassing indulgement of things they have never been allowed to have. You are a woman, so he knows this will come easy for you. So often, he knows, women are not allowed to indulge at all, so he wants you to. He wants you to cry and moan and eat, and he wants you to do it bearing his name so that no one will ever tell you no.

Simon says no to kings, and they placate, or they die. His wife will be offered the same respect, and he’ll stand behind her with a sword to make it law. When you bear his children, he will expect the same of them–to give their mother utter devotion, lest they answer to his hand. There is no one above you, not God, not country, and certainly not blood. They will know what their father did to have you, and they will spill the same amount of blood to keep it that way. They will do it for you, and then they will do it for their own lovers, and if they don’t have the same sentiments, that love is not true, and Simon will not give his blessing.

Everything else is trivial. He knows this, understands it, because history repeats itself. It is cyclical, and you are right. Kings come and go. Sons die to other sons, fathers make bad decisions, and crowns are passed to bastards and back again, until lineage is merely spectacle and power changes hands often enough to lose generational merit. There is one thing that remains, and it is what you do while you are on earth, while you are standing on the ground you were born on. Even faiths change; when men find it suitable, they change the rules, and then you worship a different God, so Simon sees no point in staying loyal to any of it.

Instead, he is true to what he knows. To what he can see and what he can feel. With John, he remembers being a young man, fighting alongside him. He follows John, to an extent, because he knows what it is like to share blood with him on a muddy hill and take an arrow for him.

With you, time stands still. He saw you in a room, and he had to have you, and he brought nations to ruin to make certain no one would bat an eye when he asked for your hand. He saw you in a dream, too–he saw you laying in his bed of furs, wearing nothing but a tiara of his making, wet between the thighs because that is how it’s meant to be. He recognized you when he saw you that first time, and he doesn’t know how, but saying no to you, really saying no, will change that vision, and he couldn’t bear that.

Your voice echoes. You’re moaning, overstimulated, but he doesn’t stop. The hair around his cock rubs your clit too many times, and when you come around him, you’re a shaking, withering thing, back bowed and nipples pebbled. Your toes curl as you cry from the starry-eyed, hot pleasure, but he keeps moving, chasing something in the distance that he can taste, so close.

Yes, Simon ignored his king. Yes, Simon did not ignore you. Yes, Simon admits, he came when you called, and he doesn’t feel bad about it, he doesn’t care how it seems. He would do it again if he had the chance. John could give him the same answer as you in every timeline, but he will only move if the command comes from you, and yes, Simon knows it makes him a liability, but crowns come with costs, and this is the one John must pay.

Simon will fight any of John’s enemies, but he won’t fight fate. He won’t fight what has already been seen, and he won’t fight what he already knows will happen.

With Simon’s cock in your mouth, you can make him deliver on promises. Sucking on the girth of him, you can make him an honest man. Taking inside of your mouth what you can swallow, you can make Simon do your bidding, and it is a hard lesson that John learns.

“Do this for me,” you slobber against the underside of his cock, and Simon relents.

“Make me happy,” you say, swirling your fingers against your puffy pussy, and Simon kneels with an open mouth.

“Just this once,” you whisper with his cum on your tongue, and Simon seals his choice with his hands on your tits and the taste of himself in his mouth.

When you make eyes with John across the low lights of the throne room, he can’t help the way he admires you. You stand beside Simon, looking the essence of nobility and reverence in another intricate silver and blue dress. The train of your skirt glitters with delicate jewels hand sewn into the fabric, and the headpiece you wear adorns a skull insignia. Your corset has been tied just right, thanks to Simon’s hand, and your own fingers are clasped between his. Your corset and jewels are of exquisite detail–one of the newest designs from Paris, structured and elegant and accentuating every curve of soft skin.

You glow in the room. His wife must be wearing a dress just as expensive, probably more, and yet his eyes (and everyone else’s) cannot help but follow you. Your own eyes won’t leave Simon; you flutter your lashes whenever he looks down at you, big smile on your face, and even when there are people curtsying and bowing to you and giving Simon their gratitude between bites of cake and glugs of wine, your attention never really strays. 

John feels inadequate in his own fortress; suddenly, red and gold sicken him, and England tastes sour in his mouth.

In a few generations, John’s house will likely fall. He will make heirs that will fail him, he knows this. In a few centuries, his family will not sit in the same place, but a Riley will remain right where they are supposed to be. Banners of blue and silver will always fly. If Simon does not make sure of that, then you will.

It’s what happens when you force women like you to their knees. When they grow up invisible, always in the shadows, forgotten and sold to the next man who will pay a higher price, it’s what you learned to do. It’s all you’ve ever known, to make the best out of something terrible.

Simon is the same, in that sense. You understand him in a way his king will never be able to. Simon has nothing, and neither do you, and Simon was stepped on and berated and tortured to the point of no return. It is why blood does not scare him and why death doesn’t come knocking. Time will be the only thing capable of killing him, and everyone that stands up to him learns that when they eat his blade.

In the quiet of the evening, Simon undresses you. He sits behind you on the bed, fingers pinching the bows at your back and unraveling them. He traces your corset, thumb circling over the skull pattern of the belt around the small of your waist, and he tastes something warm in his mouth at the sight of it. You look so beautiful–more beautiful than he’s ever seen you maybe, decorated in his colors and wearing his motif and sitting so pretty.

“You wanna know something…funny?” You ask quietly. Simon finds the ties of your skirts and starts to undo them. He grunts in reply; he might sound standoffish, but you know he’s listening. “John…John made it…he makes it seem like you don’t really listen to him. He implied that…in the face of adversity, you might only listen to me.” You put your hands on the front of your corset to keep it from falling. “Isn’t that funny?”

“Wot’s so funny?”

You swallow, looking down. Your hands fidget, and you take a closer look at the ring you wear, the delicate gold band he gave you not so long ago.

“I…”

“Mmm…might be right, innit?” Simon snickers after a moment. You feel him stand, and you look over your shoulder as he peels his mask off and grins down at you. He tilts his head to the side, and you smile back at him a little. “Do anythin’ for ya. Disobeying a king…” Simon cackles, tearing your corset off, tossing it onto the floor as he walks you backwards. “Ignoring one…” He shrugs, “Oll in a day, love.”

“He can hang you for it,” you whisper. “Cut off your head. Cut off mine.”

Simon lays you back on the bed, spreading you out, climbing over you. You blink up at him, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I would ‘ave seen it. I would know.”

He would have seen it in a dream. It would have come to him in a reflection in a pool of blood on the battlefield. It would have come to him, the voices in his head, he would have heard them amongst screaming, or perhaps in the void that he finds his mind in when he’s between your plush thighs.

You can’t help the smile that graces your face when Simon kisses the curve where your jaw meets your neck. It is fun, you suppose. Fun to control the tides that set the courses of history. It is fun and almost unbelievable that a king bends to the will of one man’s wife just because it solidifies his name.

You wrap your hand around the twine that dangles from Simon’s neck. It twirls around your fingers, easy, solid. Simon’s eyes are dark, and they are yours, and when you smile, so does he, because this is where you are meant to be, forever and always.

“What if I want more?” You ask. Simon hums, low from within his chest, and you run your tongue over your teeth. “Did you see that in your dreams, Simon? Hmm? Do you know what I’m asking for? What it is that I really want?”

Simon smiles. A dark one, with teeth, and you know he hears it. What more means for a duke and his duchess. What more means when you have all the money you could ever want, all the land you could ever need.

What more means when you have climbed your way to the top and still desire more. More, more, more. There are not many steps left to climb. There are not many places left to take, not much more of the world that can really be yours, but Simon looks ravenous, and Simon looks hungry, and if you fuck him now, you’ll have him right where you want him.

When you tug on what hangs around his neck, Simon bends. Simon follows.

[grotesquevi]

18+ mdni, collage au, use of marijuana, high sex, blink and you'll miss perv!vi, you smoke while she eats you (feral), spit, stoner!vi that got out of hand. fic directory, requests?

if you recognize this it may be because it's from my previous account aka @vicorices who got deleted out of nowhere, i'm trying to get all my work back up again cause i'm not losing three months of writing. bare with me pls love me back this was good soup back then.

dealer!vi who’s deep down a damn loser when it comes to you, an unmeasured crush that started out when you bought weed for the first time and she got your number under the premise of talking to you whenever she had good stash.

she stares for a good while at her phone after, trying to find out a reason to talk to you without sounding lame, the last time she was so afraid to talk to a girl she was what? sixteen? so fucking lame.

dealer!vi who leaves in the middle of a party cause you texted asking is she was up and well, it's her fault when she's spoiling you rotten, constantly selling to you her very best stuff at a stupid low price: she wants you to keep coming to her, so she makes sure of making an undeniable offer.

she's knocking at your door and it's way to late to be in the streets, standing with her hands shoved inside her jacket as she waits for you to open up.

dealer!vi who's impressed actually by your rolling skills cause how the fuck did you learn how to roll a joint like that? you have such a good technique she finds herself looking at it, fingers in perfect control as they swiftly pour the green from your purple grinder into king-sized pink rolling papers — is it indirect kissing when you're licking the paper and she can visibly see strings of your saliva? must be.

she looks at you when you light up the joint and the air is quickly filled with the intense smell of weed, a subtle fruity and citric aroma as you passed her the joint. indirect kissing. indirect kissing when vi's smoking from the very same spot you did, sitting close to you after selling you a good amount of weed and accepting a sudden invitation to stay for a while and smoke, make the journey at least a bit more worth it and not leave after five minutes with you.

it doesn't have to be just pure business.

you're oblivious to it, but her gaze lingers in your legs and the subtle way your shirt rides up showing more and more skin without you noticing, worried you'll find out she's right there high and dry in your sofa.

stoner!vi who laughs at your jokes, leaning forward when talking to you cause even high she just thinks about how beautiful you are, eyes red, half lidded, relaxed in the comfortable of your small apartment close to the uni.

and like a good stoner she forgets about she's holding the joint at some point, too busy with the conversation, your company and the atmosphere you’ve so easily created, the ashes falling to the ground now. she has sold you marijuana for months, yet she's not able to talk to you for more than explaining you what strain she's carrying to sell until well — now.

liking your photos, flirting but not at all, it's absurd the amounts of times you appear on her mind without even trying to, messy haircut, she's sure you have a tattoo hidden under the winter clothes cause she can be a proud stoner, but she pays attention, at least when she wants something, when it comes to you.

"are you ever going to make a move on me, vi? cause i'm getting tired of waiting for you to snap out of it."

and maybe it's the weed, that dizzy and nice sensation on her chest that makes her smile, cause she's sure you're pulling her closer even when she's the one moving on her own.

"a move, you want me to make a move on you?"

you're taking the joint from her fingers and she swears it's the hottest thing she's ever experienced, the way you were suddenly so close to her only to pull away after, letting the smoke linger in the air when you light it again: she has felt that very same thing before, the awful need of pulling you into a kiss.

"i thought it was obvious when i texted you in the middle of the night, but you don't seem to get it much" the music seems to drown her unsteady breathing, the loud guitars by the speaker in the table while your bratty attitude only seems to turn her on even further. "should i spell it out for you? send a formal invitation?"

stoner!vi who's really bad in controlling her force when high, cause her hand fist in the fabric of your shirt and she's finally erasing the distance she was once polite to keep, moving you without much effort across the cushions to pull you closer to her, make you lay on the sofa to pin you down beneath her.

her muscles flex on top on you and she's finally aware of the effect she has on you, when she's finally kissing you and you're responding to her even when she barely touches you — so maybe it's not as lame as she thought, cause her kisses travels down your throat, messy, sloppy open-mouthed kisses she places as she holds you there, still and where she wants you to, not lame at all when you cannot control yourself either, squirming, already asking for more.

and fuck it's good. she can smell the subtle smell of weed in your clothes, and swear could choke 'cause you're parting your legs for her, a silent invitation she just gets with no need to spell it out for her now.

"gonna smoke it all by yourself?" vi's messing with you at first, watching you take the joint you forgot in your fingers to place it over your lips — "or are you gonna share that with me?"

stoner!vi who fantasizes with the thought of spitting right over your parted lips when she's helping you smoke, lighting up the joint as she sits on top of you. she's slower, but her hips press down against yours just right, and trapped in between her thighs is a damn sight. her blushed cheeks match her cherry hair who's much longer now since the first time you meet her, and you, a demon as always, let your hand find the skin beneath her shirt, the pad of your fingers roaming against her hip bone, trailing it down her pants.

with two fingers, she places the joint over your lips. your breathing collides against her hand, and she can feel the softness in your lips for a moment before you're blowing the smoke in her direction, slightly and for nothing more than five seconds but enough to make her think about kissing you again, yearning when she's stealing kiss after kiss, taking away the joint to have you pay attention to her instead. needy.

the weed makes her like that she'd say, but in reality vi's going to pieces even before her eyes become glassy. shambles when the music on the speaker is not enough to muffle your gasps, the irregular sound of your breathing after she slowly begins to ask you for more — hungry even when she's full fed.

she's building you up, taking her time since she dreamed about this a lot, and she desperately wants it to make it last, savor it as long as she can have it, so vi's dragging your shirt upwards, enough so she can see the obvious lack of a bra, latching on the skin of your breast until it's bruised and sensitive, purple because of her.

you do have a hidden tattoo, only for her to see.

yet it's her name on your swollen lips what she enjoys the most, how she's there in your lungs inside you, the sound of your moans when you ask if she could keep going. your always perfect hair lays now messy, and god she just want to imprint the sight of you in her brain, how your skin shiver when she's kissing the expanses of your belly, that flirty look on your face she can see even when she's completely on her knees for you already.

"you forgot about the joint again, peach" vi mutters against your navel, her chin presses against your stomach and the mere contact makes your skin burn "you okay up there? 'cause last time i recall i was invited to smoke with you love, you're making me feel a little betrayed here."

stoner!vi who likes the fact you're smoking from her weed. may seem stupid but she damn prides on knowing you choose her every time even when uni is fucking plagued with providers all around: you praise about her quality, chanting about how good your high was, how she never disappoints.

the world seems to stop against your skin, the time dies between your thighs, the intense smell of your arousal clouds her with longing and her mouth waters at the compulsion to lean forward.

"it's not fair, making me feel so- fuck so-" the words die on her tongue, cause your panties are soaked through, clinging to your folds and she's already drunk on it, lost in the haze as she looks up to you, barely illuminated by the lights in the apartment, the ember of the joint lighting every once in a while.

"talk to me," your voice is rough as your hand reaches down to her hair, taking the long strands of the mullet between your fingers — "how do i make you feel, huh? tell me vi."

stoner!vi who's a chaotic eater. she whimpers at your praises as her tongue laps from over your slick underwear, drool escaping from the corners of her mouth as her nose rubs against your sensitive cunt and she doesn't really care if she stinks like pussy after, if you're gushing all over her cheeks as she's making your underwear to the side; she's surrendering entirely, spreading you with her fingers and sinking her face in your puffy, swollen lips already sticky with a sheen of arousal.

she cannot seem to have enough, one arm tangled around your leg as she's comfortable enough to gather a good amount of saliva on her mouth so she can let it fall against your already leaky pussy, scooping it with her fingers to use it as lube when her digits are forcing themselves against your entrance, opening you up for her as vi's mouth sucks greedy around your clit.

so you forgot about the joint laying between your fingers as you hold her face against your sex, moving your hips against her mouth until she's looking at you through half lidded eyes and you can see how her face seems to glisten thanks to you. vi seems to be hitting all the nice places when her fingers scissor inside you, rubbing on your walls as you become pliant in her touch, inviting as you seem to suck her in deeper.

stoner!vi who pays attention, cause she's fixated in your face when you fall apart, dissolving into pleasure, splintering in lust for a brief moment she prolongs as much as it's possible, slowly pumping her fingers inside your tight entrance to keep seeing that pretty face all constricted in need, babbling about how good she's eating you, how full you are when her fingers fuck you dumb like that.

stoner!vi who shoves her fingers in your mouth right after fucking you, using her thumb to trace them along the seam at first, coaxing you to open them for her, pushing down on your tongue as soon as she's granted permission.

it's her turn to smoke now.

[blasphemyandbackshots]

Can you do mha and How they would react to you squirting, TYSM, I love your writing༼⁠;⁠´⁠༎ຶ⁠ ⁠۝ ⁠༎ຶ⁠༽

Izuku Midoriya - He malfunctions. Like… his brain just freezes. One second he’s fingering you with focused intensity and murmuring praise. And the next, your thighs are shaking, your mouth is falling open and you soak the sheets. He pulls back in awe, hands still trembling. “Did I—did I do that? You… you squirted? Oh my god—are you okay? Did that feel good? That was—wow—should I take notes?!” Once you assured him it was amazing, he gets obsessed with recreating it. Makes it his new mission. Hero Analysis Notebook Vol. 69 is now heavily dedicated to your pleasure.

Katsuki Bakugo - You squirt? This man grins like a devil. He’s got two fingers deep in you, wrist pumping like he’s trying to make you cry and when it happens, he growls, “Oh fuck yes, baby. You fuckin’ made a mess, huh?” His face is flushed, eyes wild, voice rough with pride. He rubs your overstimulated pussy through it just to see if he can make you do it again. “Gonna get addicted to this. You better keep squirting for me, princess.”You’re not walking tomorrow and you both know it.

Shouta Aizawa - Calm and collected? Not when this happens. You’re riding his face, quiet moans slipping out and suddenly you drench his mouth. His lashes flutter and he blinks up at you like he just got blessed by a goddess. He doesn’t stop. He licks through it with reverent, lazy strokes until you’re trembling. “…That was beautiful,” he murmurs. “I want to see it again. And again.” Aftercare king. Changes the sheets, wraps you in his arms and whispers about how beautiful you are.

Denki Kaminari - Short circuits. Like literally. He stares at the wet patch on the bed like it owes him money. “Holy shiiiiiit, did I just—did you just—? Babe. That was so hot I think I actually fried something.” He’s a little stunned, a lot smug and incredibly horny. Tries to fist bump you about it after. Becomes your #1 hype man. “My girl’s a squirter. I knew she had it in her.” No peace after that. Denki wants to make it happen every single time.

Eijiro Kirishima - At first he pauses, concerned. “Was that—did I hurt you?” You assure him no, it felt amazing, and then he glows. Practically beams with pride. “You’re so amazing, babe. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Wanna make you feel like that again.” Will not shut up about how beautiful you looked while you came. Tells you it’s manly as hell to lose control with someone you trust. Next round he tries to make you do it on his abs. For science.

Hanta Sero - “Whoa, whoa, what—did you just—holy fuck, that was hot.” Hanta is a chaotic blend of turned on and impressed. He kisses you hard, groaning into your mouth as he thrusts through your overstimulated slickness. “Damn, babe. I didn’t know you could do that. You’re full of surprises.” 100% teases you about it later but in the sweetest way. “Need me to mop the floor first or you gonna flood it again?”

Hitoshi Shinsou - He plays it cool, but his eyes are blazing. Watches the way your body jerks, the wetness gushing over his fingers and murmurs, “You’ve been holding out on me.” Takes his fingers out slowly, deliberately, licking them clean like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “You liked that? Want to do it again?” Baby, you do it again. And again. He finds the rhythm that makes you gush and uses it like a secret weapon.

Keigo Takami - Smirks the second he feels you squirt. “Damn, sweet bird. You just soaked my thighs. Should I be proud or concerned?” His wings are trembling, he’s so turned on he can barely keep his composure. Immediately leans down, tongue flicking over your clit to keep it going.“Gotta say, you’ve outdone yourself. Didn’t know my girl had that in her.” Won’t shut up about it for days. Brags to himself like you just won him a trophy.

Dabi - “Holy fuck.” That’s all he says when it happens the first time, right after three fingers pump into your cunt and your body arches, a flood soaking his lap. You think he’ll mock you. But instead, he licks his lips slowly and stares at you like you’re prey. “Do it again,” he growls. “Don’t care if you scream. I wanna see that pretty pussy gush ‘til you’re crying.” Unholy obsession unlocked. You’re not leaving that room dry again.

Tomura Shigaraki - Twitches. Pauses. Looks down. “You… what the fuck was that?” You’re panting, trembling, barely able to respond and that does something to him. He stares at the mess between your legs, smirking like he’s just discovered a new level of corruption. “Gross,” he murmurs, but his hand returns, rougher now. “Do it again. I wanna ruin this mattress.” You’re ruined instead. He becomes addicted to the power of making your body fall apart.

[mostly-imagines]

The Alchemy vol. II

jason todd x fem!reader

aka the progression of your relationship with the red hood

part one

warnings: depictions of blood and injury, standard gotham violence, jason doesn't know how to have feelings, reader is angry, threats against readers life, implied concern of sexual assault

It might be a matter of deficiency in self-preservation skills, how the sound of your window sliding open does nothing to phase you. You don’t know if that’s your fault or his.

“How’s it goin’ down there?” You mumble, not sitting up from your position on the couch.

He pushes the window shut in his wake, huffing. “I am up here for a reason,” he says factually.

You crane your head back just in time to see him tug the red helmet off his head, setting it down on your side table. He has on his under-mask that covers the lower half of his face. You don’t like that one.

He glances around your apartment as he approaches with slow steps. “Why are all the lights off?”

“Forgot to turn ‘em on,” you tell him simply.

He frowns at you, confusion evident.

You pay him no mind though, taking an exaggerated breath and pushing yourself up off the couch before trotting over to the kitchen. You open the fridge and scrummage for a water bottle. Jason thinks it’s odd how long it takes you to find one in your own fridge. 

Once it's (eventually) in your hands, you chug down several gulps and toss the half empty bottle towards the counter where it lands with a sloppy thump and rolls.

When you return, he’s leant against the armrest of your chair, watching you. You stop in the middle of the room, a contemplating stare on the floor. He tilts his head at you, wondering what you could possibly be thinking so hard about.

You take a deep breath before plopping down to lay on the carpet all in one go. 

He peers down at you, barely trying to hide his amusement. “You’re drunk.”

You shake your head, “I’m not sober.”

“That’s—yeah.” He stands all the way, coming to lay down on the floor next to you, using significantly more coordination than you had.

He lays in between you and the couch, though it doesn’t seem you’d left him much room. If he minds, it doesn’t show. “What’d you do?”

“I jus’ went out with my friend,” you tell him, closing your eyes. “She moves pretty fast..”

It occurs to him that you might be laying on the ground because you got nauseous. He turns to look at you, scanning you over. “You good?”

“I feel great,” you keen. “I feel…swooshy.”

He gives you a bemused look. “Dizzy?”

You shake your head with a great deal of consideration on your face, “No, not even dizzy, just…swoosh.” You throw out a hand with a theatrical flick.

“Mhm.”

You pucker your lips to the side. “You come here a lot,” you comment, clearly working up to some greater observation.

“You’re in my neighborhood,” he shrugs. 

Your head tilts, “You live here?”

He pauses before correcting himself, “My territory.”

You hum, “Still. There has to be other people around here you know. ‘Specially if you’re passing out on balconies on the reg.”

He frowns, “I try not to make a habit out of it.”

You continue on, “Why do you always go to my apartment? There’s—”

“I don’t always come to your apartment—”

You deadpan, “You’re here like three nights a week. And I don’t even help you that much anymore, you’ve used up my whole first aid kit.”

You can literally feel the eyeroll like you have a sixth sense for it. “That thing wasn’t exactly impressive to start with..”

“Did enough for you, didn’t it? Anyways, my point is: I think you like me,” you say with a nod.

That has him going absolutely rigid, “What?”

“I’ve heard you’re an asshole.”

“What?”

You nod, “Like, people that run into you. They say you’re kind of a dick. You help ‘em ‘n everything, but also while being a dick. Sometimes.”

“Okay...”

“But you’re nice to me. Sort of,” you squint. “I think you like me.”

He hasn’t felt this straggled in a conversation in a while. “I—well I’m not here because you’re a world-class medic.”

You scoff, “There’s no world-class medics..” But then your tone switches up, into something lighter. “We’re friends aren’t we? I think we’re friends.” 

He shakes his head, staring up blankly. “Sure, we’re friends.”

“We’re friends and you like me,” you reiterate.

He really wishes you’d stop saying that. “Okay.”

“I like you too. Even though you’re kinda sketchy.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

You hum into the silence, looking up at the ceiling. “J…James, Jack, John…”

He smiles, gaze dancing across the egg-whitened popcorn texture of the ceiling. “I’m not going to tell you.”

You ignore him, “Jake, Jaden, Jason, Josh, Joe, Jesse…”

You’re about three shots too drunk to notice the way he briefly stiffens. 

“Juuhhh…” you lull your head to the side, the letter fading out slowly as you look into his eyes. If you focus, you think you can make out a few of those little specks of green again.

He seems to already be running his own study on your irises, his eyes now softer than you can remember seeing them before. 

His next words are whispered, the sounds barely escaping. “You’re pretty.”

What?

“What?”

“What?” He seems taken aback by his own words, like he also wasn’t expecting them to climb out of his mouth.

You can literally feel sobriety seeping back into your blood. “I’m…pretty?”

He blinks a few times, apparently trying hard to decide on what position he’s going to take here. “I—well…yeah.”

You blink once, relaxing. “I think…I think you’re pretty too.”

“What?”

“We can’t do this again.”

He breaks eye contact, looking almost dejected.

You turn your head down to where his hand thrums against the carpet. “I mean, I know I haven’t seen your whole face in one go, but I see the top half now and the bottom before, so I…maybe I shouldn’t be saying this.” You reset with a shallow breath, “I don’t know what your whole face looks like.”

“That was,” he blinks, eyebrows raised. “Fascinating.”

“Thanks,” you say flatly. You close your eyes again, though this time you remain facing him.

He feels a slight pang of guilt for the way he continues to ogle at you, eyes tracing over every detail of your face. But that ounce of guilt does nothing to outweigh the reward of gazing upon you. He didn’t mean to say it but he definitely meant it: you’re really fucking pretty.

Your eyelashes flutter for a moment before stilling, a display of peace washing over your features. It’s when your breathing steadies over and your face relaxes completely is when he starts to feel like a creep. It takes a lot of strength for him to force his eyes shut, depriving himself of the view.

And he doesn’t do it on purpose, but after a few moments his inhales and exhales take to the same rhythm of yours. The thin layer of the rug isn’t doing much to protect his back from the hardwood below and he’s pretty confident later he’ll curse himself for lying like this for so long. 

But as he lays, he doesn’t find himself focused on the dark red-gray of his eyelids like usual, so much as the warmth from the proximity of your bodies. He’s usually so concentrated on whatever the hell is going on in his head and it prevents him from really truly resting, but now, the only thing taking up his attention is physical sensations.

He feels this warmth in his heart that if he didn’t know any better, he’d call burning. His hands feel numb and he can distinctly feel the beat of his own heart in his chest, thrumming away.

He presses his lips to your forehead with a feather light touch, slow to pull away. He doesn’t make it all the way back to his original position before his movement lulls and his body relaxes again, joining you gladly in unconsciousness.

Gotham City has a particular gift for inconveniencing you at the worst possible moment and doing it multiple times a week.

Tonight's round of problems resulted in an entire city district getting shut down, the district which is regrettably right between your job and your apartment.

So on top of having to hole up into your work for two hours longer than you were supposed to, it took you an extra 45 minutes getting home while trying to maneuver around every other person in the same situation. And just to cement the quality of this night, the door to your apartment building slams nice and hard against your side and the light in the hallway is out.

You groan when you fail to get your key the lock the right way for the third time, lodging it in a final time and shoving the door open. You flick on the kitchen light and dump your bag onto the counter, kicking the door shut behind you.

You take a deep breath, eyes closed, as you lean your head back against the wall. The second you crack your eyes open again, a pile of red mass on the floor behind your couch catches your attention and startles some energy right back into your chest.

“Oh, shit,” you scurry over towards the window, crumbling down onto your knees in front of him. Your eyes dart across the red helmet, trying to makeout any signs of consciousness. “Hood?” 

There’s no response from him, no movement. You tug his helmet off, finding him eyes-closed with blood running down the side of his head. You push a hand down on his chest armor, shaking him. “J? J!”

His eyes flutter open slowly under his domino mask, adjusting to the light. With the disorientation on his face he looks younger, more his age. His hair is tousled up and you can make out some distinct curls in it when it's undone like this. 

He grimaces, gloved hand coming up to his head. He looks wearily at the blood on his fingers, before plopping his hand back down and blinking up at you. “Hey..”

You sit back on your heels with a sigh, “What the fuck?”

He makes a strained effort to sit up on his own so you try to heave him up by his forearm. As he comes up all the way you glance behind his back at a bag crumpled discarded on the floor. You can barely see some sort of fabric poking out the top. “What is that?”

“Huh?” He throws back a tired glance, “Oh. They're..curtains.”

“Explain.”

He looks at you blankly, “You don’t have any curtains.”

You blink. “Explain.”

“It’s dangerous for people to just be able to look in and see you. So. Curtains.” For a guy who reads Dostoevsky, he’s not much of a wordsmith. Though that could be the concussion. 

You reach around him and pull some of the fabric out of the bag, inspecting the linen. They match the theme of your living room.

You set it back down, blinking. “Thanks.”

He only gives a half-hearted shrug.

You look back at him, “How bad is the…?” You gesture to the side of your head.

He feels at the blood again, “It’s mostly just a cut. Shoulda stopped bleeding by now.”

You nod, “I’ll, uh—I’ll clean it up.”

He looks at you, shaking his head. “You don’t need to. Your kit’s almost empty anyways.”

“I restocked it,” you tell him, rising to stand. He lets you go retrieve your aid box without protest, listening blankly to the faucet run in the bathroom while you’re gone.

You return momentarily, damp rag in one hand, kit in the other. “Here, sit on the couch,” you tell him, nodding him up. 

He lugs himself up off the hardwood and onto the cushion with a groan. You position yourself on the cushion next to him, leaning over to inspect the cut. You brush through his hair as gently as you can, though you have to suspect he wouldn’t have minded either way—if only based on the pain threshold you know him to have.

As much as you are completely in his space, you’re having trouble getting all the access you need to fix him up right. You turn and adjust your angle this way and that but none of it works. 

You huff, sitting back. “I can’t..”

He nods his permission at you without delay, and you shift yourself over to sit fully on his lap, straddling him on the sofa. You put your focus into cleaning his wound, but you have to notice how deep he’s breathing and how he’s seemingly trying very hard to avoid eye contact. You’re sure your own breath is uneven and telling, and frankly you’re kind of hoping he has a concussion just so he might not notice it.

An unexpected sting has him flinching and grabbing your hips on instinct, a certain heaviness lingering in the air after contact. His hand tenses and he’s about to remove them from you completely when you manage to catch his gaze, and the few moments of silent eye contact are enough to convince him to stay. He forces his hands to relax against your waist, his fix on your face wavering before fizzling away completely.

You go back to dabbing at the blood and it’s clear that his thoughts get the better of him quickly. “You should move.”

“But then where would you go?”

He makes a rumbling noise from the back of his throat at that, saying nothing more.

You continue to wipe away at the blood until you can’t see it anymore, beyond the slice of the cut. You misjudge your own spatial awareness as you pull back from him, and the tips of your noses graze. Though the contact surprises you, you don’t move away from it. You become very acutely aware of his touch on your waist, how warm it feels atop your shirt. 

His head leans forward just barely before stopping. He retreats slightly and his body ultimately decides to come closer. He doesn’t stop until his lips, slightly parted, skim across yours.

Your breath catches as he looms nearer, lips touching against yours softly. He tests that pressure out for a moment, before moving to kissing you with more intent. You kiss him back, and though there’s an increasing resolve on both of your parts, the connection itself remains gentle, reposeful.

The last slight movement of his lips gradually slips away as he rests his forehead against yours.

A long beat passes before he’s tightening his grip on your waist and pulling you up to stand. You aren’t given the time to process the shift as he’s moving straight past you, head down. He pauses only when he gets to the window, back turned to you.

“Sorry—I’m…” his shoulders drop, “Sorry.” 

He climbs out and scales the fire escape in total silence until he’s gone completely.

You stand frozen in position, staring at the window with incredulity burning across your face.

What the fuck?

Two weeks pass of voided midnight visits. 

You’re not sure what to make of that. He kissed you, not the other way around. You couldn’t possibly have done something to upset him or throw him off since he’s the only one who did anything. All in all, it’s a little disappointing.

There had been tension there and it wasn’t shocking for you to learn that he wanted to kiss you. It was a bit of a surprise for him to actually do it, though not a bad one. But you were thrown for a grand fucking loop when he immediately bailed out.

Maybe you can’t read him as well as you think because you’d expected him to at least say something about it. It was a borderline given that he would come back and there would be a bonus surplus of tension but then there would be a resolution. Because he wouldn’t kiss you and then never come back. Nobody would do that, it doesn’t make sense.

It’s a little more than embarrassing to admit that you’ve been purposefully staying home in the hope that he’ll drop in. After fifteen nights of disappointment, you decided to put your focus elsewhere.

You’d asked a friend of yours to go out with you tonight, and never one to decline a night out, she agreed happily. 

The bell above the door jingles as you crack it open, peaking your head in. You find Chloe quickly, stood behind the bar with bottles in hand.

“Hey gorgeous,” she smiles at you, waving you in.

You step in, air conditioning hitting you hard. The sparkles on her cocktail dress catch your eye as she turns this way and that, trying to find the right spot for the whiskey. 

Chloe hums to herself as she searches, honestly taking a bit longer than she should. “You been cool?”

You nod, “Yeah, just—you know…” She doesn’t. Your affiliation with the Red Hood is something you’ve kept to yourself, though you don’t know why. It would be safer, more responsible to let someone else know about these drop-ins, but something about it feels personal. A strange feeling to tack onto it, you think. A regrettable one, at least. 

You take a deep breath, “You’ve been busy. Jessie call out again?”

She laughs dryly, “Oh yeah, of course. But it's fine, I love staying over an hour after close.” She sighs, “I’m almost done anyway.”

You circle around the bar, looking over the several yet-to-be-sorted bottles. “You need help?”

“No, there’s—” she cuts herself off as she looks over at the front door, face dropping. “Oh, shit. Duck.”

“Wha—” she yanks you down to the floor to crouch awkwardly behind the counter.

You hear the bell ring as the door swings open, followed by several pairs of footsteps and low voices.

“—Christ, if she forgets to lock the door one more fucking time I’m gonna kill her.”

You look at Chloe through furrowed eyebrows, her grip on you still tight. She shakes her head and puts a finger to her lips.

A second man mutters something you can’t make out.

The first voice continues, “Go around back and lug the crates in, we gotta start packing that shit.” 

Another voice, “The crates? They’re not here..”

There’s a heavy beat before the first voice speaks, “What the fuck do you mean they’re not here? She needs them now.”

“Well…the first shipments will be in later this week. The next batch’ll take until the end of the month, probably.”

A sigh, “Dumbass…”

The first voice huffs, “The end of the month? Are you fucking kidding me? I told you to get that shit ready weeks ago and you’ve got it coming in at the end of the month?” 

“I’ll…I’ll see what I can do to get it sooner.”

“Yeah, you do that,” he grumbles. “Motherfucker. I need a drink. Get a bottle of something.”

One of the men rounds the counter, tracks falling short at the sight of you and Chloe huddled against the counter.

“What the fuck?”

You and Chloe are wide-eyed and frozen as he sneers down at you. Still, he looks like he’s trying to be tougher than he is, compensating for size that he does not have, with an attitude that doesn’t match up with the way he sped around the counter to get the other man a drink.

Another guy comes around and you quickly recognize him as the man in charge. He frowns at Chloe, sighing, “You’re not supposed to be here still, Chloe.”

She shifts her weight, “I was just…finishing inventory…”

The bossman’s eyes move to you, laced with nothing but inconvenience. “Oh and you brought a friend. Great.” 

“Mr. Murray, we were just ab—”

He’s quick to cut her off with a hand, “Chloe. Stop talking.”

Her face falls flat and her words die off without hesitation.

“Get up.”

She’s pushing herself off the ground instantly while you’re still on the floor catching up with what the hell’s going on. As she moves out from behind the bar, you scurry to follow her. Your arm bumps against hers as you fiddle with the seams at the bottom of your outfit.

You dressed to go out with your friend on a Friday night, not to meet three mobsters in a closed bar with no witnesses. That’s to say, you’re feeling a little exposed.

You stand in the center of the bar, the three men looking various degrees of annoyed looks across their faces. Though the oldest looking of the bunch has something else in his eyes as he looks you up and down, in no rush to hide his engrossment in your bare legs.

“How old are you, honey?” Even without the blatant ogling, that’s never a good question to hear from a fifty year old man.

Your eyes avert to the floor, lips pursing. 

“Hey, don’t be rude. I asked you a question.” He nudges your chin up a bit rougher than necessary, forcing you to look him in the eyes. 

Somehow, you feel like there’s no answer here that would help you. 

The man at the bar serves as an unexpected saving grace of sorts, muttering, “We don’t have time for this.”

Your pursuer shakes his head, looking you over in a way that makes you feel very small. “I think we got plenty of time.”

“I disagree.”

All heads whip to the doorway where the Red Hood leans against the frame, checking his phone. A never invited but always welcome addition to the party. At least for you.

The man in front of you instantly steps back, putting some distance between the two of you. Hands across the room instinctively fly to holsters only to begrudgingly relax at their sides, probably figuring drawing on Red Hood isn’t in their best interest. Though your focus lies on the bell above his head that didn’t make a peep whenever he came in.

Hood shuts his phone off and puts it away with a quiet sigh before glancing up at the tension-filled room. He literally double takes when his helmet scans past you. You somehow feel more in trouble now than you did two minutes ago. 

“Hood..” the bossman says measuredly. “What are you doing here?”

He stares at you for a second longer before tearing his gaze away. “Just thought I’d check up on you, Murray. Make sure you’re not causing trouble in light of our agreement.” He makes a point of looking back at you and Chloe at that last part before looking to Murray expectantly.

He waves that off easily, “This is nothing. Just two late-shift employees.”

Hood takes a piqued breath. “You picked a bad time to lie to me,” he says flatly.

Murray shakes his head, “Look, we’re just cleaning up a mess. No harm.”

“Really?”

“This clean up benefits you too, they heard too much. The one girl—Chloe, get out. She’s fine, she’s not talking.”

Chloe wastes no time exiting hastily. Bye Chloe.

He continues, “We only need to kill one of them.” He says it like this is an ideal compromise. You’re feeling differently.

Hood huffs, pulling out a gun from his holster. “I’m thinking it’s implied that killing innocent people is a form of causing trouble. Which is in direct violation of our agreement.” He cocks the gun, pointing it at Murray’s head.

Murray steps back dramatically, throwing his hands up. “Hey, an alliance is an alliance!”

Hood wavers his head to the side, “Alliance is a strong word. Temporary tolerance maybe…”

The short man pipes up, “Okay, calm down, calm down. Nobody needs to get killed. We can cooperate.”

“That’s the spirit,” Hood quips, lowering his gun.

The older one shakes his head, “We don’t have anything on her, she’ll talk.”

The short man demurs, “We don’t know that—”

“She saw too much, we can’t have her walking around with that information,” Murray says, moving towards you. 

Hood puts his hands up like some kind of mediator, “Nobody’s killing anybody.”

Murray scoffs, “You were gonna kill me!”

Hood's hands drop as he stands in full, “And I still might!”

Boldly, Murray steps up to him.

But Hood looks down at him, easily a full head taller than him and at least twice his muscle mass. “Let's weigh out your odds here, Murray. Is that a fight you’re winning?”

The look on Murray’s face tells you it’s not and he struggles to maintain this chest to chest confrontation.

It only takes him a moment of wavering to decide to back off, though he sure as hell doesn’t look happy about it. 

Hood pushes past him, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you towards him. 

Murray splutters, watching you go. “You can’t—I-I know people.”

“I am people,” Hood grumbles, steering you towards the door.

Though you can be sure they have them, no one voices any objections aa he pulls you outside.

His stride doesn’t even falter as he marches you down the sidewalk in the direction of your apartment. Aside from the sound of the breeze wisping past your ears, it’s silent between you.

After two blocks you get the strong impression that this muted exchange of energy is just going to keep on, so you force yourself to find something to rattle off about. “That uh, that seems like something he’s gonna be mad about.”

He huffs, “Yeah, well he can get over it or die so I guess it’s a personal choice.”

You frown at his tone, “What’s your problem?”

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say as his head snaps in your direction. “Why the hell are you out here?”

His sharp attitude has you stumbling a bit. “Why are you out here? You have a concussion.”

“I don’t have a concussion,” he grumbles. “And I just saved your life so maybe complaining about it isn’t your best move right now.”

You try to stop and face him but he doesn’t let you, keeping you moving along with him. “That’s what we’re doing? Really?” 

Are these about the social skills that you had expected from him based on your first meeting? Yeah. But that first meeting was months ago. He’s proven again and again that he has half a brain and the ability to read a room so you’re really not fucking sure what the hell his problem is. He won’t acknowledge that he kissed you and all but jumped out your living room window, but he will snap at you for asking about his concussion that there’s no way he doesn’t have. Especially if he’s acting like this. 

He ignores your comment, blatantly at that. “Did they say anything about a drug shipment?”

This is what we’re talking about? Sure. Fine. At least you’re talking. 

You open your mouth briefly before closing it again, eyes narrowed. “I don’t know.”

He tries again, “What about Nocturna? Did you hear that name?”

“I…I don’t know.” You weren’t exactly taking notes behind the bar counter. 

His head drops down heavily, “Okay, I think I’m seeing a trend for how this conversation’s gonna go...”

You gawk at him, astonished that he thinks it’s you who’s handling this discussion poorly. “You cannot be serious right now.”

He sighs, slowing as you approach the steps to your building, “Just—why’d they let Chloe go?”

You blink a few times, “I mean, she has a drug problem…” You guess that might be where she’s getting them from…

He nods solemnly, “Okay.”

You huff, turning to walk up the steps, shoulders heavy. You hope he’ll come up with you and maybe, just maybe, address the elephant in the room. 

“Are you—” you turn around to face him again, met with nothing but vacant air. 

A deep, tense, breath from you before calling out, “Really?”

One month. One month. And he decides to show up tonight like it’s no time lost. But there was some fucking time lost.

Count ‘em up, that’s one period, two paychecks, three grocery trips, four laundry days, and thirteen showers. And that stupid fucking vigilante ransacked your head during every single one.

You went through the five stages of grief for this bizarre, undefinable relationship and then discovered about six more while you were at it. 

So when you walk out from the bathroom, you’re a little pissed to see him sitting there on your living room floor, helping himself to a glass of water. 

Maybe it’s his domino mask that gives his expression the illusion of neutrality. Or maybe he really has no idea how insane it is that he would occupy your apartment like this after skipping out on you for an entire lunar cycle.

He leans against your armchair, inspecting a scratch on his lower arm. You enter silently, watching him the whole time as you make your way over to the far end of the couch.

He doesn’t look up at you though, not until after a minute or two of silence. 

“You got any bandages left?” he asks, throwing a glance over his shoulder. 

You stare at him incredulously. 

After ten seconds with no response from you, he turns around fully, frowning. “What?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I—” he squints, eyes flickering across your face. “No?”

You continue to gawk at him, not trying for any words.

He stares back, eyes wide. “I don’t know what you want me to say...”

You tear your gaze from him, preferring to stare at the wall. “You know what, I think I know what your problem is.”

He gives a laugh with little life to it. “I only have one?”

You bite down on your lip, “You only have one I’m ready to kill you over.”

He sits with that for a minute. A long minute, before asking softly, “What is it?”

You shake your head, glaring at an unoccupied nail in the wall. “That you’re an idiot,” you mutter. You start to walk away before turning around again after a few steps. “Where the hell have you been?”

He blinks, “Uh, there’s just been a lot of—”

“Bullshit.”

He’s about to argue his point, but quickly decides to concede, “Yeah.” He takes a deep breath, sitting back. “I…wasn’t prepared for this conversation,” he says carefully.

You scoff with a nod, “Yeah, neither was I, but it’s happening. I m—what did you think was going to happen here? I—you kissed me, you kissed me!”

“No I—” he huffs, “I shouldn’t have done that, okay?”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

He sighs, throwing his hands up at his sides. “What do you want me to say?”

You shrug without genuinity, “Anything that could possibly rationalize that sequence of decisions. You kiss me, run away, ghost me for a fucking month, and then show up again like nothing happened.”

He shuts his eyes, shaking his head. “I know, I know, I’m sorry!”

“I’m not asking you to be sorry, I’m asking you to pick a fucking lane and stick to it!”

He falls silent at that, eyes on the floor. It’s quiet for long enough that you start to think he’ll accept the silence as his cue to leave. You’re not sure if you want him to or not.

You take a deep breath, eyes closed. “I need you to start being straight with me. Now.”

He doesn’t look up, taking his time to find his words. “I am sorry,” he tells you. “I…I’m not good at this. I’m not good with words so I shouldn’t have fucking done it.”

Honestly you weren’t expecting him to actually come up with a reason, so you’re not prepared to weigh out whether or not it’s a good one.

“I like you...a lot. And I didn’t know—I don’t know—what to do about it so I kissed you and I didn’t think it through, and…I guess I panicked.”

That’s more than enough for you to warrant looking back over at him. It doesn’t take long for your gaze to start shifting around awkwardly while you scratch at your neck. “I would’ve taken you for more of a fight over flight kinda guy.”

He nods to himself. “Jus’ depends..” he says quietly.

And then it seems neither of you have anything else to say. You’ve run out of angry words to spit and he’s run out of apologies and excuses. But neither of you feel like you’re done.

The quiet lingers on for a painful amount of time. Your annoyance dissipates into something else, something more uncomfortable, but you couldn’t find a name for it. It’s got your thoughts going faster though and your chest feeling more hollow. Maybe not hollow…maybe just softer. 

He cuts through your thoughts before you can, “Are you mad that I kissed you?”

You shake your head, “No. I’m mad about what happened after.” You’re just mad about what happened after. Should’ve said just.

He thinks about that for a moment. 

“I can be honest with you,” he tells you. The way he says it, it’s somewhere between a peace offering and an assurance to himself.

You look at him again. He reads oddly vulnerable for a man his size with his reputation. You believe him. 

He goes on, “I trust you, you know? I want you to trust me too, if you can.”

You blink a few times, processing. “I…I don’t know anything about you.”

He nods, an anxious aura radiating around him. He leaves you hanging for longer than a few moments, getting you convinced that the conversation is just going to end there.

It doesn’t though, and after a few minutes, he sits up and reaches up to his mask.

It has you sitting up too, like he just pulled out a gun. Your hands fly up instinctually, as though this is completely uncalled for, as if he’s crazy for doing it.

He pauses his movements for a moment, making eye contact with you. His eyes reaffirm his words. He trusts you and he wants you to trust him.

You allow your hands to relax onto your lap and he continues on, taking his mask off.

You’re not revealed to much more of his face than you’d already seen before, but entirely in view like this, he’s a sight. You try not to stare but there’s little reward to removing him from your sight whereas the alternative…

All together like this you can see how his features balance his face out so nicely and make for a warm countenance, if not rough.

He takes a deep breath, setting his mask to the side. “My name is J…” he says with assurance. “Todd,” he tacks on.

You don’t mean to, really, but you’re sure the frown on your face is evident as puzzle pieces start forming and connecting in your mind. 

J…Todd…J…Jay…Todd…Jason…Todd…

Your mouth hangs open, “You’re Jason Todd. You’re de—” Well a couple things are starting to add up. “How are you…how are you not—”

He waves that away, tiredly. “It's a long story. Not particularly happy, either.”

Autopsy scar. Fuck. 

“I mean, I’ll…” he hesitates, “I’ll tell you if you want me to.”

He says it, but discomfort is painted across his face. You’re quick to shake your head, “It’s okay.”

He nods, likely relieved.

You stand up from your seat, crossing the room to sit down next to him. You’d half-expected him to tense up, but his body relaxes when you lean back against the chair.

You close your eyes before asking, “Who’s Nocturna?”

“She’s just this woman that’s been causing trouble for us.”

You don’t say anything and he continues on, shaking his head. “She’s more annoying than anything.”

You open your eyes, looking over. “Yeah?”

He shrugs, “Just trying to take over the underworld, the usual stuff. Nothing you need to worry about.”

You give a laugh that’s barely more than an exhale, relaxing your body completely..

There’s the slightest lull in activity before he sets his hand down on the floor, right on top of yours. The sounds of your breathing are the only thing that fill the room for a few minutes, save for the occasional car horn.

He glances at the clock on the wall, nearing midnight. “I have to go...” He says reluctantly.

You try not to let the disappointment show through your body language. “Go where?”

He pauses before telling you,  “A cemetery.”

You nod vacantly, “Oh. Just for fun, or…?”

He gives a dry laugh, “Just meeting an associate. They’re a bit dramatic, so.”

“Yeah, I’d say.”

“I’ll come back—I’m going to come back,” he mutters against your hairline.

You don’t respond, but you both know he’s good for his promise.

He looks around your apartment for a second before seemingly getting an idea. He pushes himself up off the ground and heads for your kitchen. You watch as he rips a sticky note off the deck on your fridge and scribbles something down on it. 

He returns to you, kneeling down and pushing the square of paper into your hand. “Here,” he says, looking you in the eye. “If you need anything. Anything.”

You engulf the note in your palm, nodding sincerely. His eyes flicker across your face, like he’s thinking about something. He hesitates for a moment, turning towards you, away from you, then towards you again. He holds the back of your head tenderly before pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead.

You look at each other up close for a second with nothing short of starry eyes before he turns away and ducks out the window.

You open up your palm and look down at the paper, at the ten digits scrawled across it.

Huh.

Must be official. 

🧨 reblog or die (this is a threat) 🧨

[reidrum]

doctor, doctor

A/N: the things i have planned for them.............

summary: in which the doctor meets the doctor, a doctor meetcute if you will

cw: doctor!reader, fluff, flirting, hospital mentions, set during season 5x01 (spoilers ig)

wc: 1.07k

Spencer hates hospitals.

He’s not really sure who could like being in one of them, but it’s definitely not him. The hospital brings bad memories, near death experiences, a reminder of his impending mortality—things he already has enough of at work.

Yet work is mainly the reason he finds himself laid out on a hospital bed from time to time, waiting to find out how much of the unsub’s agenda is about to be scarred on his body forever. It’s how he finds himself right now, twiddling his thumbs as he waits for the doctor to come give him an update. Today’s incident, ironically, was him getting caught in the crossfire of a vengeful father out to kill the surgeon who couldn’t operate on his son. It was only his leg that suffered, but he knows the recovery for it is about to be a long and boring journey.

Spencer’s ears perk up at a group of voices most likely a few doors down, outwardly sighing knowing the doctor and their team are about to round on his case next. He just wants to go home. Emily had been texting him updates about Hotch who hadn’t shown up for the case earlier that day, and it only spiraled further when Penelope found out he had been dropped off at the ER on the other side of town with Derek’s stolen credentials. No one’s been able to give him an update since and all he can do is sit in this stupid bed while he suffers in agony.

A knock pulls him out of his head, “Good morning Mr. Reid, mind if I come in?”

He nods aimlessly without looking up just yet, adjusting his body on the bed so he can at least look respectful while sitting up to talk to the doctor.

“How are you feeling today?” you say as you click through his chart on the monitor next to him.

Spencer sighs, “I’ve been better. Oh, I’ve been having these chest pains and I was thinking it’s probably a side effect of the Dilitiazem. Maybe it might be better to switch to—“

The rest of the sentence falls flat on his tongue, because that’s when he finally gets a look at his doctor.

You’re not what he’s expecting out of a doctor, and he swears he means it in the least misogynistic way he can think of. Quite the opposite really, as he thinks he’s definitely discovered the living definition of brains and beauty. You’ve been in the room for all of two minutes, all you’re wearing is scrubs, and yet he’s enticed by every inch of you—by the way your fingers type quickly on the keyboard, your brows furrowed whilst deep in thought, how your lips move when you talk.

Wait, your lips are moving.

“Mr. Reid? Everything okay?” you wave a hand in front of his face, “Your chart didn’t say anything about a head injury, are you feeling dizzy?”

“Uh—Um, d–doctor.” he stutters.

You tilt your head in adorable confusion, his heart squeezes in love at first sight, “Yes, I’m the doctor…are you sure you’re okay?

Smooth, Reid.

“N—No, I um, I’m a doctor too.” he winces out.

“I see, good to know,” you smile, “what kind of doctor are you?”

“Oh, I’m not that kind of doctor,” He should have never learned how to speak. “I have three PhDs.”

“Three? Holy shit, that’s impressive.”

He blushes profusely, thankful the heart rate monitor hasn’t picked up his tell.

“What are they in?” you ask with a genuine interest sparkling in your eyes.

Spencer goes bashful, “I have PhDs in math, engineering, and chemistry. Also two bachelors in sociology and psychology…and I’m working on my philosophy degree right now.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, “Are you like a genius or something?”

“Or something. I have an eidetic memory.” he smiles sheepishly.

“Now that would be useful in medical school, surprised that’s not something you picked up while shopping around for those degrees.”

His face reddens deeper. You’re making jokes, and he’s thinking chapel versus courthouse.

“Just wasn’t interested in it, plus I’m sure the medical world is better off with people like you.”

You grin slowly, “Like me? You just met me.”

“I’m a profiler for the FBI, the behavioral analysis unit?” he says it like a question.

“Oh, I’ve heard of you guys! We see you on the news all the time.” you say excitedly, “What’s your verdict on me then?”

He takes a breath, “I think…you’re very good at what you do. The time it took you to get from the previous patient to my room was longer than average which tells me you’re well liked and respected. And I think I’d be more inclined to lie in a hospital bed if I knew you’d be my doctor.”

“Dr. Reid, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you might be flirting with me.” you say cheekily.

“Is it working?”

“Verdict’s still out.” You wink at him, he nearly flatlines, “So, you think the Dilitiazem isn’t working? What do you think we should switch to?”

“Um…Amlodipine?”

You grin, softly chuckling, “Good call, doctor.” You turn back to the monitor to put the prescription in and close out the chart. “Can I just check your lungs really quick?”

He nods and instantly regrets it when you step closer, the waft of gourmand overwhelming his senses. You unravel your stethoscope and lean down to press the face to his chest, “Deep breath.”

Spencer inhales as best he cans but he knows he’s about to be outed the longer you stand so close to him like this.

“Your lungs sound fine, but your heart's beating really fast.” you giggle as you stand up straight again.

“It does that.” Around really, really, pretty girls.

“Not sure if the Amlodipine alone will help that.”

“No I don’t think so either,” he shuffles awkwardly on the bed, “but…your number might?”

“My number? That’s awfully forward, Dr. Reid,” you beam, “but, if in your educated opinion you find it vital to your recovery and well being…” You scribble your name and number on a post it note, sticking it to the flower vase on the side of his bed. Clicking your pen and sliding it back into your pocket, you head towards the door.

“It was very nice to meet you, doctor.” you turn to him, “See you soon?”

He couldn’t hide his grin if he tried. “See you soon, doctor.”

[wirewitchviolet]

Sudokuvania: Digits of Despair is one of the most impressive works of pure game design I have ever seen.

Before I say anything else, I am going to be talking about a game that is VERY new and has pretty terrible search optimization, so in case this blog post somehow came up near the top of results for someone, here is the as-of-this-writing-current 1.02 release, and for good measure, here is the official FAQ page with the full version history, any future patches, and an FAQ for some of the more confusingly worded stuff that crops up later into the game. Now on with the praise-heaping!

So... Sudokuvania pretty much exactly what the name implies. It's a -vania, that is, a Metroidvania, and specifically one styled after one of the ones that's actually in the latter Castlevania series so that naming convention actually makes sense. Exploring a big castle, fighting bosses, getting various items letting you explore more areas, maybe breaking out of the borders of the map to find cool secrets here and there.

Also, it's a variant of sudoku. And I don't mean someone sat down with some videogame designing toolkit and made a videogame where some of the gameplay is solving logic puzzles on a grid you fill with numbers (I mean, I guess technically I do). I mean that link to the game I posted takes you to a website with a little built in standard app for solving sudoku puzzles and weird variations thereof, and the particular puzzle it's pointing to, somehow, manages to have a big map to explore, boss fights, special items that give you new powers, NPCs, and for good measure, fog of war. It is, again, an absolutely amazing hacky thing and I'm flabbergasted at how well executed it is. Now you're probably wondering how that even works, and that's why I'm writing this big gushy blog post. Here's what you see when you first load it up:

You're going to notice there is some absurdly small and kind of important text you can't possibly read, and that's because again, this is kind of a hacky thing this site so was not designed for. So it's kind of annoying but if you access this through the proper introduction page, it'll explain that the first thing you need to do is click the little gear icon in the floating tool palette, toggle on Visuals: Draw arrows above lines and Disable emoji replacement, then scroll all the way down to Experimental and turn on Test Large Puzzle UI. That enables you to zoom in and out with the scroll wheel, and right-click drag to pan around. It's... a little clunky because again, this website was NOT built for this, but tada, now you can zoom in, read the text, and start solving at a reasonable size. Then there's a couple gameplay concepts it does its best to explain, but... most people I've shown it to myself included needed extra explanation of a couple important early concepts. So let me just do a little color coding here to make this easier to get...

The map is not, in fact, one great big grid. It's 9 squares (and one rectangle that's not quite square over on the east side). Each of these is its own 9x9 Sudoku grid (well, the starting one is 6x6 and has those mutant 2x3 cells instead of the usual 3x3, and there's that weird eastern mutant). If you're solving stuff in one square, you completely ignore everything outside that square, except for where they overlap, in which case the numbers you're placing have to fit for both puzzles. So if we look at the light grey/green intersection on the left, those three overlap cells respectively can't be 4 6 or 5 (and whatever use you deduce in the grey box, but the pure green cells completely ignore all that, you're just focusing on the green 9x9 (which is going to have the overlap as a starting point, naturally).

The next bit that through me off a ton is the way fog of war works. Let me reasonably zoom in and do a little solving here. One second...

Here's the whole starting area all marked up to hell like you do when you're kinda bad at Sudoku and don't know how to spot a starting point. Penciling in little numbers in the corners. You'll also notice a that... most of the map is covered in this dark grey fog of war. A lot of in-game stuff mentions that you shouldn't go clicking out into the fog of war, because it'll show you names of later areas and preview certain special rules and all, but that's talking about clicking WAY off from what you can see. You are 100% allowed to solve stuff out in the fog of war, and it's pretty stingy about de-fogging. Don't go blindly guessing because then you can maybe end up sequence breaking but... yeah. Sorry I'm spoiling the Front Gate, it's basically the tutorial though. Anyway, first move is obvious, only one place we can put that 6, and suddenly...

Tada, important space so it rewarded us with a little fog clearing. You can also see that this will handily point out stuff in your pencil notes that can't be true, but only if A- it's untrue for standard sudoku reasons not special stuff, and B- it's not in the fog of war (or on the other side of some. You also maybe noticed that weird green thing under that first hint 6? That's something we need a tool for, you don't worry about it until you have that tool. Solving this out some more...

Little more de-fogging, both of the puzzle area and the margins where we're getting new information on playing the game in general. Now right here if you're observant, you'll see that bottom right corner has to be a 6. It's out in the fog of war, but you can mark it if you know what it is. And...

I was cropping it out before but the big purple number pad is always floating off to the side there, and the green text box over it, which among other things has an area name and flavor text for whatever grid you're in. This won't ALWAYS happen when you place numbers in fog of war, but there was a trigger on this 6 to load in a little piece of the first real area, and oh hey, we unlocked "Guide THERMO!" That's our first tool, and it's described up in the upper left.

So tada, from here out in addition to standard sudoku stuff, you've got these "bronze Guide THERMOs" that show up here and there and have this extra rule. You basically never get free numbers in the grid past the Front Gate, it's all slow-marching into new areas using what you're bringing in plus some easy starting examples of how your new tools work, plowing on from there. The fog of war is pretty stingy but it keeps you focused. You'll also notice the rules here mention bosses, all the 9x9 ones have one. It's clearly marked, and you should PROBABLY expose it from the fog first, but any time you're in the area really you, if you scroll around in that green text box or hit the rules button when in a grid, there's a link you can click to go fight it. The boss fights are all separate puzzles (site's good about auto-saving so don't freak out if it takes over your tab and you have to hit back after). These are very themey, sometimes VERY evil (especially boss #1, feels a bit overtuned) self-contained 9x9 puzzles, probably using the same tools their area is themed around, and I don't think there's a single pre-placed number in any of them. Beat the boss puzzle, it gives you some flavor text and a number to place in its cell back in the main castle puzzle, plug that in and you're always going to unlock something cool. Usually a new item, sometimes other weird stuff, and it just goes on like that.

Don't expect to be able to fully solve a given grid in one go. It's a Metroidvania, backtracking is expected. Even if you've fully de-fogged a grid, later stuff might reward you by straight up adding new symbols you couldn't see before or doing weird stuff with fog. It IS all solvable with pure logic... but there ARE a few places that do that thing I hate in tougher sudokus where you just kinda have to pencil in in a different faction and explore 2 possible futures for a bit to see which eventually contradicts itself. And of course the last couple of grids do some really evil mind-bendy stuff.

But yeah aside from a couple gripes where the way a tool works could maybe be a lot more grammatically clear, that first boss being a lot to deal with as you're first getting your feet wet, and a particularly cruel twist later on, I don't really have any complaints. Well, it might need a cool soundtrack. Maybe play some Castlevania music. Maybe switch it up for some real proper boss music when you're nearing victory.

Again I am just completely blown away that someone made something so meaty in a standard sudoku site's normal UI, and really managed to make it feel so much like playing a DS Castlevania. Some real proof of game design being an art form here. And now you too can just completely lose a day or two to it!

[cressidagrey]

Home Sweet Home

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

Summary:  Oscar Piastri is just happy to be home with his girls. Lando Norris meets Felicity and Bee Piastri.   

Notes: Part 3 of The mysterious Mrs. Piastri verse...

Warnings: one mention of a past eating disorder, also mention of toxic parents.

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Oscar had made a terrible mistake.

Somewhere between takeoff and now—now being hour six of their flight home—he had underestimated just how relentless Lando Norris could be.

Six hours into the flight, and he was still in shock. Staring at Oscar like he had personally committed the greatest act of deception known to man.

“A wife,” Lando said for what had to be the hundredth time. “A WHOLE WIFE.”

Oscar exhaled slowly. “Yes, Lando.”

“And a child,” Lando continued, voice rising. “A WHOLE ACTUAL HUMAN CHILD.”

“Yes, Lando.”

Lando sat back in his seat, shaking his head. “I—I just—I don’t even know you, mate. You’re a stranger to me.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Oh my god.”

“All this time—all this time—I thought we were friends, Oscar,” Lando went on, pressing a hand to his chest like he was delivering a monologue. “I thought we were bros.”

Oscar stared at him. “We are friends.”

“Oh, are we?” Lando scoffed. “Because usually, friends tell each other when they have a wife and a child.”

Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t not tell you on purpose.”

“That’s even worse!” Lando cried. “You just forgot to mention it? Oh yeah, by the way, I have a whole family—DO YOU HEAR HOW INSANE THAT SOUNDS?”

Oscar sighed. “I wasn’t hiding them, Lando.”

“YOU WERE OMITTING THEM.”

Oscar turned to him, unimpressed. “Would you like an apology?”

“Yes,” Lando said immediately. “Yes, I would.”

Oscar deadpanned. “I’m sorry.”

Lando gaped. “You are the worst.”

Oscar just shrugged, unbothered.

Lando groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Alright, you know what? You owe me now. I get to meet them.”

Oscar blinked. “What?”

“Felicity and Bee,” Lando said firmly. “I get to meet them. You owe me that.”

Oscar tilted his head, considering. “…Fine.”

Lando froze. “Wait, really?”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah. Come over for dinner.”

Lando gasped. “Oh my god, this is HUGE. Okay, wait—what do I bring? Do I bring Bee a gift? What do kids even like? What does Felicity like? Should I bring—”

Oscar sighed, closing his eyes. This was going to be the longest flight of his life.

Lando was still talking.

Oscar was certain he hadn’t taken a single breath in the last five minutes.

“Okay, okay, do they like chocolate?” Lando mused, half to himself. “Or—oh! Maybe I should get Bee one of those cool toy cars? Like, you know, start ‘em young and all that.”

Oscar cracked one eye open. “She’s three, Lando.”

Lando scoffed. “So? Max probably had a go-kart before he could walk.”

Oscar sighed. “Yeah, well, Bee’s not Max.”

Lando waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Okay, but—Felicity. What does she like? Should I bring wine? Is she a wine person?”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Lando, you’re coming over for dinner, not a royal banquet.”

“But I need to make a good first impression!” Lando insisted. “I need her to like me, Oscar.”

Oscar snorted. “Felicity is going to like you just fine.”

Lando narrowed his eyes. “You say that, but what if she thinks I’m an idiot?”

“Well,” Oscar said, sipping his water, “she’d be correct.”

Lando smacked him on the arm.

Oscar just chuckled, shaking his head. “Seriously, Lando, you don’t need to overthink this. Just bring yourself. Felicity isn’t going to grill you like a job interview.”

Lando still didn’t look convinced. “I just—I wanna be cool Uncle Lando, you know? I feel like I’m already behind since you didn’t even tell me about Bee—”

Oscar sighed. “Are we still on this?”

“Yes, obviously,” Lando shot back. “I am traumatized by the betrayal, Oscar. I am scarred. I am—”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Oh my god.”

“—I am a victim of your deception,” Lando finished dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest.

Oscar just stared at him, unimpressed.

Lando huffed. “Fine. But I will win over your wife and kid.”

Oscar smirked. “We’ll see.”

***

Grid Group Chat

Lando: EVERYONE SHUT UP. IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT.

Charles: Oh no.

Pierre: This can’t be good.

George: If this is another meme, I swear—

Lando: I AM MEETING OSCAR’S WIFE AND DAUGHTER FIRST. ME. BEFORE ALL OF YOU.

Carlos: WHAT???

Pierre: NOOOOOOOOOO.

Charles: HOW??

Max: Bold of you to assume I care.

Lando: DON’T LIE, MAX, YOU CARE.

George: But HOW did you manage this???

Lando: I annoyed him into submission.

Daniel: That is both impressive and unsurprising.

Carlos: I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS.

Lando: You should have seen him on the plane. He was suffering. He had to agree to get me to shut up.

Pierre: I AM SO JEALOUS RIGHT NOW.

Lewis: Lando, if you don’t report back with every single detail, we will never forgive you.

Lando: Oh, don’t worry. I will have a full debrief ready.

Charles: If you get to meet them before us, you have to ask all the questions.

Lando: Already planned.

Oscar: …I hate all of you.

Lando: Love you too, mate. Can’t wait for dinner!

***

The house was quiet when Oscar finally stepped inside. The kind of deep, settled quiet that only came when the entire world was asleep.

He toed off his shoes by the door, rolling his shoulders, exhaustion dragging at his limbs. But instead of heading straight for bed, he turned toward Bee’s room.

Oscar moved through the dark house quietly, socked feet barely making a sound on the wooden floor. 

He was exhausted—jet lag weighing heavy on his limbs, the long day of interviews and racing chaos still ringing in his ears—but none of it mattered now. He was home.

And he wanted his daughter.

Bee was curled up in her bed, one arm flung over her stuffed koala, her hair a messy halo of dark waves against the pillow. She looked so peaceful, so content, that Oscar hesitated for a moment, feeling guilty for disturbing her. But then she stirred, smacking her lips in her sleep, and his heart clenched. He needed this.

Gently, he scooped her up, her tiny body warm and pliant against his chest. She barely reacted, only making a sleepy little noise before burrowing into him. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, inhaling the familiar scent of her apple shampoo.

“Missed you, Bumblebee,” he whispered, holding her close as he made his way back to the bedroom.

Felicity was curled up on her side, the blankets tangled around her. She stirred as Oscar climbed into bed, blinking blearily at him. “You stole our child,” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

Oscar huffed out a quiet laugh as he gently settled Bee between them. “Missed my girls.” 

Felicity let out a quiet huff, but her gaze softened as she reached out to brush a strand of hair from Bee’s forehead. “You okay?” she murmured, eyes flicking up to his.

Oscar let out a breath, sinking into the pillows. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Just… tired.”

Felicity studied him for a moment before shifting closer, her hand finding his under the blankets. “Long day?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Kind of a life-changing one.”

Felicity smirked. “Yeah, well, you did let the entire world know about me.”

Oscar winced. “Sorry.”

She squeezed his hand. “I’m not mad.”

His gaze flicked to her, surprised.

Felicity smiled, small and a little tired. “I mean, I wouldn’t have minded a bit more warning, but…” She exhaled. “I guess it was bound to happen eventually.”

Oscar nodded, his thumb brushing absent circles against her palm. “Yeah.”

They lay in silence for a while, the weight of the day settling between them. Then Felicity shifted, resting her chin on his shoulder. “So… how bad was it?”

Oscar let out a quiet chuckle. “Lando is deeply betrayed. Charles nearly had an aneurysm. Daniel screamed.”

Felicity snorted. “Sounds about right.”

Oscar hummed. “They’re all asking about you.”

Felicity sighed. “I bet.”

He turned his head to look at her. “Lando’s coming over for dinner.”

She groaned, burying her face against his arm. “Oscar.”

He grinned. “Too late now.”

Felicity muttered something against his skin that sounded suspiciously like a curse. But she didn’t pull away.

Instead, she just sighed, pressing a sleepy kiss to his shoulder. “Fine,” she murmured. “But if he starts asking about the chickens, you’re handling it.”

Oscar smirked, his hand tightening around hers. “Deal.”

Bee stirred between them, letting out a tiny sigh before settling again. Oscar closed his eyes, exhaling slowly as Felicity’s fingers curled against his palm.

***

Oscar woke up to something warm and small sprawled across his chest, a weight that shifted every few seconds as tiny fingers poked at his face. He groaned, cracking an eye open to find Bee hovering over him, her dark curls a wild mess and her face barely an inch from his.

“Papa,” she whispered dramatically, her eyes wide with delight.

Oscar hummed sleepily. “Mmm.”

“You’re home,” she declared, as if it had just hit her all over again.

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “I am.”

Bee gasped, like this was the most shocking revelation of her tiny life. “I missed you.”

Oscar reached up, ruffling her curls. “Missed you too, Bumblebee.”

Bee, clearly not satisfied, wiggled up onto his chest and threw her little arms around his neck, squeezing him as tight as her small limbs allowed. “SO much,” she emphasized, snuggling into him like she was afraid he’d disappear again.

Oscar chuckled, wrapping his arms around her. “That much, huh?”

Bee nodded against his shoulder before pulling back slightly. “Did you bring me something?”

Oscar huffed a laugh, brushing a hand over her wild curls. “I did, actually.”

Bee gasped, eyes wide with excitement. “Really?”

Oscar nodded. “It’s in my bag, but you have to let me wake up first.”

Bee considered this for a moment, then grabbed his face with both hands, squishing his cheeks together. “You are awake.”

Oscar let out a muffled laugh as Felicity snorted into her pillow.

“Okay, okay,” he relented, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll get up.”

Bee grinned triumphantly and immediately wriggled under the covers, snuggling into his side. “Not yet. Cuddles first.”

Oscar didn’t even hesitate. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close as she tucked her head against his chest. Felicity, still half-asleep, sighed and shifted closer, draping an arm over both of them.

Oscar let his eyes slip shut again, exhaling slowly. He was home. And nothing in the world—no podium, no trophy, no race win—could compare to this.

***

Lando had seen a lot of things in his life. He’d seen Max Verstappen get emotional about a cat. He’d seen Daniel Ricciardo take out an entire row of people with a space hopper. He had, unfortunately, witnessed Pierre Gasly getting far too competitive over a game of Uno.

But he had never seen anything like that. 

This was insane.

He had thought he knew Oscar. That he had at least an inkling of what made his teammate tick. 

And instead…instead…

“This can’t be right,” he muttered, checking the address again. 

It was right.

When Oscar invited him over for dinner, Lando had assumed it would be at some sleek, modern place in the city—something minimalist, maybe a bit boring, like Oscar himself. But instead, his GPS had led him here: A farmhouse.

Not just any farmhouse—a whole-ass, fully refurbished, picturesque countryside dream, complete with a long gravel driveway, stables, and, unless Lando was hallucinating, actual chickens. And a long stretch of land that looked like it belonged in a movie about a grumpy farmer learning to love again…

Lando was still hung up on the chickens.

Chickens.

Lando sat in his car for a full minute, just staring.

Then he exhaled sharply and dragged a hand down his face. 

The front door swung open at that moment, and Oscar appeared, looking far too casual for someone who had just been exposed as a secret farmer.

Lando took that as his sign to get out of his car.

“Hey,” Oscar said, like this wasn’t a completely insane situation.

Lando just gawked at him. Then at the house. Then at the literal barn behind it.

“What the fuck is this?”

Oscar blinked. “My house?”

“No, mate, this is a lifestyle,” Lando said, gesturing wildly. “This is—I don’t even know! When did you secretly become a farmer?”

Oscar looked vaguely amused. “I’m not a farmer.”

“You own a barn.”

“It’s just Felicity’s garage.”

Lando waved a hand wildly. “No. It’s a farm.”

Oscar shrugged. “It’s not a farm. We just have a bit of land.”

Lando gestured violently at the chickens. “THOSE ARE FARM ANIMALS.”

Oscar, ever unbothered, just nodded. 

Lando gestured wildly. “Why do you have chickens?”

Oscar sighed like he’d been waiting for this reaction. “Because they lay eggs, Lando.”

“Oh, brilliant, thanks for that. Why do you have them at all?”

Oscar shrugged. “Because they are cheaper than buying the amount of eggs my daughter eats,” he said drily. “And she likes chasing them.”

Lando turned back to the house. Then to the barn. Then to the fenced-in area where he could see a couple of chickens strutting around like they owned the place.

He squinted. “Oscar, is this a bit?”

Oscar frowned. “What?”

“This whole, like, farmer aesthetic—is this some Australian thing I don’t understand?”

Oscar just shrugged. “I just like it.”

Lando exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face. “I knew you were secretly an old man, but mate, this is—this is next-level. You bought a whole-ass farmhouse?”

Oscar nodded again, completely deadpan. “First McLaren paycheck.”

Lando’s mouth fell open. “You—what?”

Oscar just shrugged. “I bought the house with my first McLaren paycheck. It’s quiet, it has space, it made sense for us.”

Lando dragged a hand down his face. “Mate, I spent my first paycheck on a supercar. You spent yours on a farm.”

“I didn’t need a supercar,” Oscar said drily. “I needed a home for my family.” 

Lando opened his mouth, then closed it, because he had so many questions.

Before he could ask any of them, movement caught his eye inside the house. A woman stepped into view, and Lando faltered.

Felicity.

He had heard about her, of course.  What he hadn’t been prepared for was this.

Lando just… stared.

Felicity was tiny. Max had mentioned him. 

Still, it was something else to see her next to Oscar, when she didn’t even seem to reach his shoulder. 

She looked like she barely cleared five feet, and if she weighed more than one of his tires, he’d be shocked. But that wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst part was that she was startlingly pretty.

Like, really pretty.

Lando blinked, trying to reboot his brain. Felicity had long, dark hair that fell in soft waves down her back, sharp eyes that were both amused and assessing, and the kind of delicate features that made her look like she belonged in a historical drama—not standing in a farmhouse, wiping grease off her hands with a towel.

“Hi,” she said, smiling.

Lando blinked back to reality. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but all that came out was, “You’re so small.”

Felicity blinked at him, then tilted her head. “And you’re very loud.”

Oscar sighed. “Mate.”

Lando ignored him, still eyeing Felicity. “Like, I don’t understand how you exist. You look like you weigh less than my helmet.”

Felicity just smiled. “Nice to meet you too, Lando.”

Lando was about to respond when he spotted the little girl peeking out from behind Oscar’s leg. Bee.

A spitting image of her mother. But her expression was all Oscar —down to the blank stare and the slow, assessing blink. She was clinging to Oscar’s leg, half-hidden, watching Lando like he was some exotic zoo animal.

Lando blinked. “Oh my god. It’s real.”

Oscar sighed. “Lando—”

Bee clung even tighter, burying her face against Oscar’s leg.

Felicity snorted in amusement. “Bee, sweetheart, do you want to say hi?”

Bee shook her head without looking up.

Lando sighed. “Brutal.”

Felicity just smiled, reaching down to gently stroke Bee’s curls. “She’s just a little shy.”

Oscar patted Bee’s back absentmindedly. “It’s okay, bumblebee. Lando’s alright, I promise.”

Bee peeked up at him, whispering, “Are you sure?”

Lando gasped. “Hey!”

Bee clung tighter.

Oscar just looked at Lando, deadpan. “You’re not making a great first impression.”

Bee just blinked at him.

Then she tugged at Oscar’s sleeve and whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear, “He looks like a poodle.”

Oscar pressed his lips together like he was physically restraining himself.

Lando choked. “Excuse me?”

Bee studied Lando with her big brown eyes, then nodded, fully confident in her assessment. “Yeah. A poodle.”

Lando stared at her, then looked at Felicity, who had pressed her lips together just enough to suppress her laughter. He turned to Oscar, who coughed into his fist. “She’s very observant.”

“I do not look like a poodle.”

Bee peeked at him again, considering, then gave a tiny nod, like she had officially decided. “A fancy poodle.”

“Why do I look like a poodle?” Lando demanded

Bee just shrugged. 

Oscar hummed. “You do kind of have poodle energy.”

Lando glared at him. “I do not.”

Bee just looked at him with the same deadpan expression Oscar always had.

Lando stared.

Bee stared back.

Lando turned to Oscar, absolutely horrified.

“Oh my God,” he whispered. “She’s you. She’s literally just you, but small.”

Bee studied him for a second, then looked at Oscar. “He’s weird.”

Oscar sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

Lando threw his hands up. “You raised another version of yourself. How was I supposed to prepare for that?”

Felicity finally lost it, laughing into her sleeve.

“Why don’t you come in, before the chickens decide to follow along?” Felicity suggested brightly. 

Dinner at the Piastri household was not what Lando had expected.

For one, he had pictured something normal—maybe a modern house, a sleek kitchen, a normal dining table with normal chairs.

What he got instead was a massive wooden farmhouse table, slightly uneven floorboards, and a cozy, lived-in feel that made him wonder if he had stepped into some alternate universe version of Oscar’s life.

Bee had climbed into her seat, still watching Lando like she wasn’t sure if he was friend or foe. Felicity moved around the kitchen with easy familiarity, and Oscar—who was supposed to be a ruthless, calculating driver—was helping her like some kind of domesticated husband.

Lando still wasn’t over it.

He leaned over to Oscar. “I have so many questions.”

Oscar, barely looking up from where he was setting plates, said, “I’m sure you do.”

Lando pointed at him, then at the house. “You live in a farmhouse. You have chickens. And you’re out here—” he waved vaguely at the kitchen “—playing house?”

Oscar gave him a flat look. “What did you think I did when I wasn’t racing?”

“I don’t know!” Lando gestured wildly. “Not this!”

Oscar just smirked. “I like it here.”

Felicity came over then, setting down a dish, and Lando took the opportunity to direct his bewilderment at her. “How did this happen?”

She just smiled, sitting down next to Bee. “Well, Oscar bought the place after he signed with McLaren. We liked the space.”

Lando shook his head, still trying to process it. “You realize you’re both, like, 23 and living like retirees, right?”

Oscar hummed. “You say that, but I don’t see you leaving.”

Lando scowled, mostly because Oscar was right. The place was weirdly nice. Comfortable. Like it had a soul, which was more than he could say for some of the cold, modern houses drivers usually bought.

Dinner had barely started when Lando noticed Bee glancing toward the back door. He followed her gaze and frowned. “You—uh, you guys actually have chickens?”

Felicity hid a smile behind her glass of water. “Yes.”

Bee perked up. “I named them!”

Lando raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh yeah? What’d you name them?”

Bee took a dramatic breath, like she’d been waiting for someone to ask. Then, with the confidence of a small child who knew she was right, she began listing them off.

“There’s Verstappen, Hamilton, Rosberg, Vettel, Raikkonen, Alonso, Schumacher, Lauda, Mansell, Fangio and Senna!”

Lando blinked.

Oscar took a sip of his drink, unfazed. Felicity looked like she was biting back laughter.

“…I have questions,” Lando finally said.

Bee tilted her head at him. “Like what?”

Lando ran a hand down his face. “For one, they’re all girls.”

Bee nodded. “Yeah.”

Lando waited for an explanation, but Bee just stared at him like that was a perfectly normal response.

He turned to Oscar. “Are you hearing this?”

Oscar shrugged. “What do you want me to do? She likes F1.”

Lando gestured wildly. “Yeah, but she named a chicken after Senna.”

Bee frowned. “Senna is the best one.”

Oscar nodded seriously. “She is the fastest.”

Lando sighed, shaking his head as he picked at his food. “So, what—you just wake up in the morning and Senna’s out there setting purple sectors in the yard?”

Bee nodded solemnly. “She always gets to the food first.”

Oscar, deadpan, added, “She’s got a killer apex around the water trough.”

Lando pointed his fork at him. “I don’t know if I’m impressed or concerned.”

Felicity finally took mercy on him, resting her chin in her hand as she grinned. “Bee likes to time them when she throws out feed.”

Lando let out a weak laugh. “Of course she does.”

Oscar, entirely unbothered, patted Bee’s head. “You get used to it.”

Bee nodded in agreement, then picked up her fork and continued eating like she hadn’t just destroyed Lando Norris in five words or less.

Lando groaned, rubbing his temples. “This was supposed to be a normal dinner.”

Felicity snorted. “I don’t think we do normal here.”

Lando sighed. “No kidding. Do you have any more livestock around here? I don’t know, a herd of goats? Some cows? A donkey?”

“Nope, just the chickens,” Oscar assured him. 

“And the stables?” Lando asked him pointely. Better make sure to actually ask Oscar specific questions so that there wouldn’t be another secret wife or baby disaster. 

“That’s where we fix Mama’s cars!” Bee said brightly. 

Lando blinked. “You’re what?”

“We’re fixing Mama’s Mustang!” Bee repeated proudly. “We took the whole engine apart and put it back together.”

Lando turned to Felicity, expecting some sort of clarification—maybe Bee had helped pass a wrench or something.

Instead, Felicity just nodded. “It’s a ‘67 Fastback. Needed a lot of work.”

Lando squinted. “Wait, you actually know how to fix cars?”

Felicity tilted her head. “Yes?”

“But you’re so—” He gestured vaguely at her small frame. “—tiny.”

Oscar groaned. “Here we go.”

Felicity raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“I don’t know! You just—don’t seem like the type to be under a car with an oil rag.”

Bee looked deeply offended on her mother’s behalf. “She’s really smart,” she huffed. “She knows everything.”

Lando held up his hands. “Alright, alright, I believe you.”

“She has a degree,” Bee added, as if that sealed the deal.

Lando blinked. “A what?”

Felicity smirked. “Mechanical engineering.”

Lando stared. “I—what?”

Oscar just sighed, like this was all very normal.

“He gets confused a lot,” Bee said sagely, staring at her father. 

Lando threw his hands in the air. “Oh my god, she’s just like Oscar.”

Bee turned to Oscar, beaming, like that was the best compliment she’d ever received. “I am?”

Oscar, laughing, kissed the top of her head. “Of course you are, bumblebee.”

Lando was still reeling.

Oscar—quiet, unassuming, serious Oscar—was a dad. Not in some abstract way, like oh yeah, I have a kid somewhere, but in a fully involved, real-life, cut-up-her-food-for-her-and-check-if-her-drink-is-too-hot way.

And it was weird.

Bee had curled up against Oscar’s side, her tiny fingers absentmindedly twisting the fabric of his hoodie as she listened to the conversation. Every few minutes, Oscar would lean down and automatically adjust her position, like he was making sure she was comfortable without even thinking about it.

And that was the weirdest part.

Oscar wasn’t trying to be a dad. He just was.

Lando stared as Oscar reached for Bee’s fork and started cutting up the last few bites of food on her plate. Without looking, he held up a piece of carrot, and Bee, still focused on the conversation, just took it like this was a thing they did all the time.

Which, of course, it probably was.

Lando turned to Felicity, wide-eyed. “He’s a dad.”

Felicity blinked, unimpressed. “Yes, Lando, I know.”

“No, like—” Lando waved a hand wildly in Oscar’s direction. “Like, he’s a dad dad.”

Felicity arched a brow. “What, did you think he was pretending?”

“No, but like—” Lando leaned forward, whispering like it was a big secret. “He’s doing dad things.”

Oscar, still cutting up Bee’s food, glanced up. “What are you on about?”

Lando pointed at him. “That! That right there!”

Oscar frowned. “Cutting food?”

“Yes! Like a dad!”

Oscar blinked, unimpressed. “I am a dad.”

Lando groaned. “Yeah, I know, but like—I didn’t expect it to be this real.”

Oscar just shook his head, muttering, “Unbelievable,” before turning his attention back to Bee.

“Okay, bumblebee,” he said gently. “Three more bites, then you can be done.”

Bee, still curled up against him, yawned. “’M tired.”

Oscar kissed the top of her head. “I know, love. Just a few more, then it’s bedtime.”

And just like that, Bee nodded and obediently ate another bite.

Lando turned to Felicity. “You see this, right?”

Felicity smirked. “Yes, Lando, I see my husband being a father.”

Lando gestured wildly. “But like, he’s good at it! Since when is Oscar good at dad things?”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “I have been a dad for three years, mate.”

Lando huffed. “Yeah, but I didn’t see it happening. Like, I blinked, and suddenly you’re cutting food and saying bedtime voice things.”

Oscar raised a brow. “Bedtime voice things?”

Lando pointed at him. “Yeah! That thing you just did—‘Okay, bumblebee, three more bites, then bedtime.’” He mimicked, pitching his voice softer, gentler, so annoyingly dad-like.

Oscar sighed. “You’re actually insane.”

“I’m just saying, I thought I knew you!” Lando snapped. “And then I come over for dinner, and suddenly you’re a real-life father figure.”

Felicity snorted. “Did you think she raised herself?”

Lando threw his head back. “I don’t know! I thought maybe she just appeared one day fully formed, and Oscar just followed her around making sure she didn’t fall into a drain or something.”

Oscar gave him a flat look. “Lando.”

“What!?” Lando turned to Bee. “Bee, did you know your dad does dad things?”

Bee, very unimpressed, blinked up at him. “...Yes?”

Oscar, smug, just kissed the top of Bee’s head again. “Okay, sweetheart, last bite.”

Bee, still sleepy, opened her mouth without argument, letting Oscar feed her like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Lando stared.

And then, finally, slumped back in his chair with a dramatic sigh.

“I can’t believe it.” He shook his head, defeated. “You’re a dad dad.”

As Oscar stood from the table, Bee still clinging to his hoodie, he shot Felicity a small look. “I’ll get her settled,” he murmured.

Felicity nodded, watching as he carried their half-asleep daughter toward the hallway, murmuring something soft that neither she nor Lando could hear.

Lando stared after them, still looking like he’d been hit by a truck. “I can’t believe he’s an actual dad,” he muttered.

Felicity huffed a quiet laugh. “You’ve said that at least ten times in the last hour.”

“Well, yeah,” Lando gestured toward the hallway. “Because he is! Like, full-time, dedicated, knows-how-to-braid-hair dad.”

Felicity smirked. “He does know how to braid hair.”

Lando groaned. “See? That’s exactly what I mean!” He scrubbed a hand down his face, shaking his head. “Like, when did that happen?”

Felicity shrugged, reaching for her water glass. “Somewhere between marrying me and Bee showing up, I suppose.”

Lando let out a strangled noise. “Yeah, about that! You got married at eighteen!”

Felicity took a sip, unbothered. “Yes.”

“You married Oscar at eighteen.”

“Yes, Lando, I was there.”

“How does that even happen? How do you just wake up one day and decide to marry Oscar Piastri?”

Felicity let out a soft hum, glancing toward the hallway where Oscar had disappeared. “It’s a bit of a long story.”

Lando crossed his arms, leaning forward. “Well, I’ve got time.”

Felicity huffed a quiet laugh, setting her glass down. “Alright,” she said, folding her hands in front of her. “I guess it started when I met him.”

Lando perked up. “Which was…?”

Felicity exhaled, eyes distant. “When I was 15.”

Lando’s brows shot up. “So you were actually childhood sweethearts?”

Felicity smirked. “Not exactly. I was miserable back then.”

Lando’s expression sobered slightly. “Miserable?”

She nodded. “I was… one of those kids. You know, the ones who burn too bright, too fast. I did everything my parents wanted—ballet, violin, top of my class in school. I skipped grades, got sent to boarding school. I was gifted.” She said it like the word was a curse. “And by the time I was 15, I was burned out, miserable, and running on nothing but caffeine and the sheer force of expectations.” Her lips pressed together. “And I had an eating disorder I refused to acknowledge.”

Lando’s stomach twisted. “Oh.”

Felicity nodded. “Then I met Oscar.” A small smile played on her lips. “He was the new kid…and we were in the same math class. He stole my pen on accident,” she recounted with a smile. “And then suddenly…there was this boy who just—talked to me. Like I was a person, not just an academic achievement my parents could brag about.”

Lando swallowed. “Oscar did that?”

She nodded. “He was kind. Steady. The first person I ever met who made me feel like I wasn’t just a list of accomplishments. And, somehow, before I even knew what was happening, he became my best friend.”

Lando leaned back, blinking. “Wow.”

Felicity let out a quiet laugh. “Yes. And then, by the time we were eighteen, I think we both knew there was no one else we’d ever want.” She tilted her head. “So we got married.”

Lando just stared.

Felicity quirked a brow. “What?”

He let out a long exhale. “You married Oscar at eighteen.”

“Yes.”

“And two years later, you had Bee.”

“Yes.”

Lando rubbed his temples. “You’re twenty-three and you have a whole family.”

Felicity shrugged. “And?”

Lando groaned. “And I still forget to pay my electricity bill on time!”

Felicity snorted. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Lando threw his hands up. “I just—I can’t believe it! Like, I knew you and Oscar were… you know, married, but I didn’t realize it was this.”

Felicity tilted her head. “This?”

“You know!” Lando gestured vaguely toward the hallway. “This! You two, raising a kid, being all married and in sync and doing, like, real adult things.”

Felicity arched a brow. “Would you prefer if we were fake married and doing pretend adult things?”

Lando groaned. “You know what I mean!”

Felicity smirked. “Yes, but I like watching you struggle.”

Lando slumped against the table, groaning dramatically. “I need a moment to process this.”

Felicity just laughed, reaching for her water again. “Take your time, Lando.”

Lando sighed, staring at the ceiling.

Oscar Piastri. Married. A whole dad.

Yeah, he was gonna need a minute.

Lando was still staring at the ceiling when Oscar walked back into the room, his hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie.

“She’s asleep,” he said, then arched a brow at Lando. “What’s wrong with him?”

Felicity smirked. “Existential crisis.”

Oscar sighed, walking over to drop into his seat. “Because of what, exactly?”

Lando flailed a hand toward him. “Because you’re a dad, mate! A whole, full-time, actual dad!”

Oscar frowned. “Yes?”

Lando groaned. “I know that, logically! I know you have a wife and a kid, and I knew about Bee, but I didn’t really know until I saw you doing, like, dad things.” 

Oscar looked at Felicity, unimpressed. “Did you break Lando?”

She shrugged. “I don’t think it was very difficult.”

“Hey!” Lando huffed. “I just—mate, you’re married! And you’ve got this whole little family! And it’s weird because you’re Oscar Piastri.”

Oscar frowned. “What does that mean?”

“I mean,” Lando gestured wildly, “you’re so calm all the time. Like, completely unfazed, but then I come over for dinner and you’ve got a kid clinging to you, and your wife is explaining how she was some genius child prodigy who burned out at fifteen, and you married her at eighteen like it was no big deal—”

Oscar blinked. “It wasn’t.”

Lando groaned. “That’s exactly what I mean!”

Oscar just sighed. “Lando, it’s not that complicated.”

Lando gaped at him. “Not that—mate, you got married at eighteen!”

Oscar tilted his head, unbothered. “And?”

“And—!” Lando turned to Felicity for backup, but she was watching the conversation with obvious amusement. “And that’s not normal! That’s like, Hollywood teen drama levels of insane.”

Oscar just shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

“Of course you don’t.” Lando groaned, rubbing his hands over his face.

Felicity huffed a quiet laugh. “Do you need a moment?”

Lando threw his hands up. “Yes! Because apparently, I’ve been friends with a whole family man without even realizing it!” He turned to Oscar. “Like, how do you even do it? The whole ‘married with a kid’ thing while also being a full-time F1 driver?”

Oscar leaned back, thoughtful. “I just do.”

Lando groaned. “Why do I even ask?”

Oscar smirked. “I don’t know, mate. You seem to enjoy the pain.”

Lando sighed dramatically. “I think I need a drink.”

Felicity laughed. “We’ve got juice boxes.”

Lando groaned into his hands. “Unbelievable.”

Felicity smirked and got up, walking over to the fridge. She returned a moment later and slid a juice box across the table toward Lando.

“There you go.”

Lando looked down at it, then up at her, unimpressed. “You are messing with me.”

Oscar grinned. “Nah, mate, that’s prime juice right there.”

Felicity nodded seriously. “Apple juice. Bee’s favorite.”

Lando sighed, picking it up. “I hate both of you.”

Oscar just leaned back in his chair, completely relaxed, while Felicity looked thoroughly entertained. Lando stabbed the straw into the juice box and took a long sip, thinking.

Then he looked at Felicity. “Alright, tell me everything.”

She arched a brow. “About what?”

He gestured vaguely. “You. Oscar. How you met. How you ended up married at eighteen. Because no offense, mate,” he said, looking at Oscar, “you’re not exactly the whirlwind romance type.”

Oscar shrugged. “Yeah, well. It wasn’t exactly a whirlwind.”

Lando just stared at him.

“It wasn’t,” Oscar repeated. “We knew each other for three years by then. It was just logical.” 

Felicity shrugged. “It made sense to us.”

Lando looked at Oscar. “And you didn’t think this was insane?”

Oscar shook his head. “No.”

“Why?”

Oscar just looked at Felicity. “Because it was her.”

And the way he said that…like it answered everything. 

And Lando supposed…maybe it did. 

Lando blinked. He sat back in his chair, staring at them. “I—okay. Yeah. I get it now.”

Felicity smirked. “Good.”

Lando pointed at them. “But I reserve the right to be shocked for at least another month.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

Felicity grinned. “We’ll allow it.”

***

Grid Group Chat

Lando: BOYS. You are NOT going to believe what I just witnessed.

Carlos: Do tell.

George: If it’s about Oscar, I probably will believe it by now.

Lando: I met his wife and kid for the first time.

Charles: Oh???

Pierre: And?

Lando: First of all, Bee is terrifyingly smart and also called me a poodle.

Alex: …She’s right tho.

Lando: SHUT UP.

Lando: Second. OSCAR HAS CHICKENS.

George: …What.

Lando: Not just chickens. F1 THEMED CHICKENS.

Pierre: Explain.

Lando: They’re all named after F1 legends. He has a chicken named Senna.

Charles: SENNA???

Carlos: Wait wait wait. How many chickens does he HAVE???

Lando: Enough to fill a grid.

Lando: I met Senna, Prost, Schumacher, and Alonso.

Pierre: Please tell me they have beef.

Lando: Alonso the chicken literally chased me.

Fernando: As he should.

Lando: NOT THE POINT.

George: Where does he even keep all of them??

Lando: Oh. That’s the other thing.

Lando: Oscar lives on a farmhouse.

Alex: ???????

Lando: A FULLY REFURBISHED FARMHOUSE. WITH STABLES. AND CHICKENS.

Carlos: How have we never known this???

Lando: BECAUSE OSCAR IS SECRETLY 90 YEARS OLD.

Lando: Instead of using his first McLaren paycheck to buy something normal, he bought a FARM. 

Charles: You’re telling me that Oscar used his first McLaren paycheck to buy a FARM???

Oscar: It was a good investment.

Lando: OH LOOK WHO SHOWED UP.

Pierre: Explain the chickens.

Oscar: Bee likes them.

Lando: AND SHE NAMED THEM AFTER WORLD CHAMPIONS.

Oscar: She likes racing.

Carlos: But they’re chickens.

Oscar: Fastest pecking order in the yard.

Lando: I CAN’T DO THIS.

Pierre: No but seriously, are we not going to talk about the fact that Oscar has just been living on a farm this whole time like some secret old man???

Oscar: I like the peace and quiet.

Pierre: With a kid AND chickens??

Oscar: You get used to it.

Lando: No. No I will not get used to this.

Lando: You have an entire WORLD CHAMPION GRID OF CHICKENS.

Oscar: And?

Fernando: He’s just committed to the sport.

Lewis: Hold on. Do I have a chicken alter ego?

Oscar: Yes.

Lando: YOU DIDN’T EVEN HESITATE.

Lewis: …What’s my chicken like?

Oscar: She’s a silkie. Very fast. Very dramatic. Squawks whenever she doesn’t get her way.

George: So…accurate.

Lewis: I’m not sure if I should be honored or offended.

Pierre: Who else is on this… chicken grid?

Oscar: There’s a Verstappen.

Max: Oh no.

Charles: THERE’S A MAX CHICKEN?!?

Oscar: Yes, there is. We call her Vera. She’s quick, always charging ahead. If there’s a race between the chickens, she wants to take part every time. And she’s not afraid to take out anyone who gets in her way. Pure aggression, all the time.

Charles: Sounds right.

Carlos: I can’t believe this is real.

Max: …You call her VERA?!

Oscar: Would you prefer me to start screaming VERSTAPPEN on the top of my lungs every time she bullies poor Tiana?!

Fernando: This is the greatest thing I’ve ever heard.

Lewis: No but seriously. Who else is on this grid?

Oscar: There’s a Vettel, but we call her Tiana. Very chill, keeps everyone in check…She’s always making sure there’s enough space for the young ones. She’s got a bit of a soft spot for them.

Oscar: Hamilton, aka Millie, of course. 

Oscar: Raikkonen but we call her Kim. Stands in the corner and doesn’t interact with anyone. She’ll go about her business and only makes a sound when she absolutely has to.

Oscar: Alonso aka Allie…she squares off with Vera every day like it’s 2017 all over again.She’s got all the drama, the charisma, and the attitude. Always the center of attention, whether she wants to be or not.

Oscar: Mansell aka Mandy who has tried to escape the Chicken Coop more than once and also once nearly drowned herself on accient because she does not know fear. 

Oscar: Schumacher aka Minnie. She's quick, she’s determined, and when she’s in the mood, she’ll show you just how sharp she is. Has a bit of that “never back down” attitude.

Oscar: Lauda who we call Niki. She’s all about precision and order. Doesn't do unnecessary things, and she’s very methodical. She only acts when she knows it’ll get results.

Oscar: Then there’s Fangio, or Farah. She’s got that quiet elegance to her. No rush, no drama, just pure class. 

Oscar: Senna, fastest chicken in the yard. 

Oscar: And Rosberg aka Rosie. She’s…a lot.

George: I NEED TO SEE THIS.

Charles: Mate. Same.

Carlos: When are we invited to the farm?

Oscar: …Never?

Pierre: Don’t be selfish.

Max: Yeah, let us see the chickens.

Oscar: If I let you come over, you’ll try to start a championship battle in the backyard.

Max: …No, I won’t.

Oscar: You 100% will.

Lando: MAX, WE COULD HAVE A WHOLE CHICKEN GRAND PRIX.

Max: …Okay, I’m in.

Oscar: I regret everything.