#Vendor Vulnerability | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

byhuenii · 4 days ago

Text

Wishlist

Pairing Bucky x Reader

Synopsis Spring in New York. A quiet love growing louder. One gift from the wishlist at a time. Featuring a soldier who’d fight the world to make you smile.

“Wishlist” by TXT (Tomorrow X Together) inspired

Word count 7k

Themes + Warnings slow burn , friends to lovers , fluff , avengers tower chaos , soft masculinity / vulnerability , everyday intimacy , wishlist as a metaphor for love , GRUMPY X SUNSHINE !!!! , Heavy pining / internal angst , soft!bucky (you’ll love it)

— Wishlist “Please tell me now! Time's up, give me your wishlist ” - TXT

M. list | Request (open) | stream ‘Wishlist’

Spring has finally started to settle into New York.

The city feels warmer, softer. Like it’s healing from something. Pink flower petals drift along the sidewalks. Vendors sell tulips from little carts. Couples sit on stoops with melting ice cream cones and matching smiles. It’s the kind of weather that makes people believe again.

And inside the Avengers compound, it’s doing something to you, too.

You hum when you walk. You leave your window open at night. You wear that sparkly lip gloss again — the one that glints like magic when you smile. Bucky notices every time.

He notices everything.

You’re out in the city with the team that afternoon — no mission, no briefing, just a group day off. Steve claims it’s for “team bonding.” Sam claims it’s because he caught Bucky almost growling at the coffee machine again. Either way, you’re all downtown, weaving through the streets in civilian clothes like it’s normal. Like you’re not the most recognizable team on the planet.

You keep stopping to take photos on your phone — old buildings, neon signs, pigeons fighting over a muffin.

“What do you even do with those?” Kate asks, sipping her iced latte.

“Nothing,” you shrug. “I just like remembering things. Little stuff.”

You snap a picture of a LEGO flower set in a toy store window. Your eyes light up.

Bucky lingers near the back of the group, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, watching. Not in a creepy way. Just like you’re something rare. Like he’s scared the wind will carry you off.

You don’t see the way Sam glances over at him. Or the smirk Steve’s fighting off.

Spring in New York is a love letter Bucky never expected to read again.

The wind is soft, the kind that tugs at coat hems and hair strands like a gentle tease. The streets are still loud, still fast, but the air smells like wet sidewalks and blooming lilacs. It’s the kind of weather that makes you believe in things again.

And he thinks — maybe that’s why you like it so much.

You’re sitting across from him at a table outside your favorite café multiple chairs pulled out for the rest who are off in line for more pastries. The one with the chipped pink chairs and floral tea cups that don’t match. You’re wearing lip gloss again — that shiny, sparkly one — and every time you laugh, he swears the light hits it just right to make you glow.

You’re talking about some movie you saw, animated, something about stars and soulmates and missed chances. You wave your hands while you talk, wide gestures like you’re trying to physically throw your love for it into the air.

“There’s this one line,” you say, sipping your lavender matcha, “where they say ‘people are like stars, they just need time to burn bright again.’ I don’t know, it just stuck with me.”

Bucky doesn’t say much. He’s never been great with words. But he watches. He listens.

Later that night, the compound is quieter. Dim lights. Everyone winding down.

You’ve long since retreated to your room — third floor, two doors down from his.

And Bucky’s sitting on the floor by his bed, cross-legged, the little notebook open in his lap. It’s not fancy. Just a black journal Peter gave him for Christmas with a note that said, “For your brain spaghetti.”

On a fresh page, he writes:

✦ likes stars / scared of bees, spiders, wasps

✦ hates tea too hot — “tastes like regret”

✦ wants that honey-vanilla-amber perfume — didn’t buy it, said “too indulgent”

✦ LEGO flower bouquet — “they don’t die. that’s sweet.”

✦ gold & silver earrings — expensive. keep an eye on that boutique.

✦ Sony CyberShot digital camera — black preferred. she’s been scammed. check eBay reviews.

✦ bracelet?? something personal. something hers.

✦ red star?

And, tucked in the margin:

✦ her voice softens when she says his name.

✦ he’s not sure he’ll survive hearing her say it in bedhead and morning breath.

Then, at the very bottom — written small, like it might disappear:

✦ you’re the best thing I’ve never been brave enough to ask for.

✦ I think I’m falling. No.

✦ I’ve already fallen.

The next morning the chaos is immediate.

Tony’s complaining about someone messing with the thermostat (“Why is it 72? Are we running a sauna??”), and Yelena is loudly trying to microwave four different types of Trader Joe’s frozen pasta in the common kitchen.

you find the first gift.

Wrapped in brown paper. Twine bow. Sitting neatly on your bed.

No tag. No note. Just… sitting there. Like it’s been waiting

But the second you unwrap it, the scent hits you — warm, honeyed vanilla with that soft amber undertone. that perfume. Warm honey, vanilla, a hint of amber. The one you stood outside the shop window staring at for two whole minutes last week. The one you said was “too pretty” and “too much” and walked away from like it hadn’t already lived in your mind for days.

You glance out into the hallway.

His door is open. He’s not there.

You touch the bottle like it might shatter. Like it might vanish if you admit how it makes you feel.

And there it is — You look around, heart ticking. Did someone hear you say that? Did someone remember?

Outside in the hallway, you spot Peter.

“Hey,” you ask, holding up the box. “This yours?”

He peers inside. “Oh no. That’s fancy. You’ve got a secret admirer.”

You roll your eyes, but when you walk downstairs, the teasing is already in full swing.

“Ooooh, mystery gift #1,” Kate sings, waggling her eyebrows.

“It’s always the quiet ones,” Natasha smirks, sipping her tea. “Bet it’s someone on the team.”

“Bet it’s the barista from that café near Bryant Park,” Yelena says. “She always gives you extra foam.”

You shake your head, laughing as you try to escape the room.

“Just admit you’re in your rom-com era!” Wanda calls after you.

That night, when the compound settles down, two people don’t sleep.

One of them is you — lying in bed, twisting the perfume bottle between your fingers, heart warm and unsure.

The other is Bucky — two floors up, sitting cross-legged in his room, face covered in a sheet mask you gave him as a joke (“good for stress lines, Buck”), laptop open in front of him.

Sam and Steve knock once and barge in anyway.

“Bro,” Sam deadpans, squinting. “Are you Googling digital cameras in a moisturizing mask?”

“And LEGO flowers,” Steve adds. “Don’t think we didn’t see that tab.”

Bucky doesn’t look up. “Shut up.”

“You’re so in love, it’s disgusting,” Sam mutters.

“Disgusting,” Steve agrees.

They flop on his bed like big brothers who definitely aren’t leaving anytime soon.

“You should just tell her,” Sam says after a beat.

“She’s not ready,” Bucky mutters.

“No, you’re not,” Steve says gently.

Bucky goes quiet.

He highlights a camera listing. Reads the reviews. Double-checks the seller location.

“She’s been scammed before,” he murmurs.

Steve and Sam exchange a glance — part pity, part this man is down BAD.

You wake up to birdsong.

And a note slipped under your door.

Not signed.

Just two words, scribbled in tight handwriting:

“For spring.”

You pick it up, press it to your chest, and wonder how long someone’s been watching you this closely. How long they’ve been loving you like this.

“How about romantic?

The feeling can’t be caught…”

— TXT, “Wishlist”

—

It starts with breakfast.

You walk into the compound kitchen with a dreamy little smile, still wearing your sleep shirt and fuzzy socks, hair wild from the night. Everyone’s half-awake, nursing mugs of coffee — Wanda curled up on the couch, Kate upside-down in a chair with a pastry on her stomach, and Tony flipping through some tech blueprint that might actually be a takeout menu.

“Morning,” you say brightly, heading to the fridge.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” Peter mutters, buried in a bowl of cereal he clearly doesn’t want to share.

You glance at the couch, cheeks warm. “I just… someone left me perfume yesterday.”

A pause.

You hold it up — you’d brought it down to show Wanda — and the scent drifts sweet and warm into the room like a memory. “It’s the exact one I wanted. The exact one.”

“Damn,” Kate says, biting into a croissant. “Whoever it is? They listen.”

From behind you, Bucky yawns.

You glance back and—

He’s standing in the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame, still in his sleep shirt, hair pushed back, expression… soft.

There’s no other word for it.

He looks warm and full and lit from the inside, like someone cracked his chest open and sunshine poured out.

You blink.

“Did you use that face mask I gave you?” you ask, stepping closer, chin tilted.

“No,” he says immediately. Too quickly.

“Liar,” Sam mutters behind his mug.

“He absolutely did,” Steve adds. “Twice.”

“We have photos,” Sam grins. “I added sparkles to one.”

Bucky groans, dragging a hand over his face. “I hate all of you.”

You catch the faintest pink in his cheeks. The kind of glow you don’t get from sheet masks.

You smile. “It looked good on you.”

His eyes flicker to yours.

“Thanks,” he says, voice just above a whisper.

And you wonder — not for the first time — what it would feel like to be the reason someone softens.

Peter looks up from his cereal like he just remembered something vital. “Wait. Did you check your laundry yet?”

You freeze mid-step.

“Why would I check my laundry, Parker?”

He shrugs, way too casual. “No reason.”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m never weird.”

“You literally wore Crocs into battle last week.”

“It was a stealth op!”

“You wore banana yellow Crocs.”

Peter waves a hand. “You’re avoiding the topic.”

Your voice gets flatter. “What topic.”

“The topic of how you’re clearly someone’s favorite person in the known universe.”

You turn away just as your cheeks flush. The perfume still sits on your desk upstairs. You’ve reapplied it three times since waking up. You keep smelling your wrist like you’re trying to memorize what love feels like.

“Don’t know what you mean,” you mutter.

Peter snorts into his bowl. “Yeah, okay, denial. Got it.”

Later, after you do check your laundry and nearly collapse over a tiny black box containing earrings too beautiful to be real, the teasing intensifies.

Peter finds you again before movie night and dramatically gasps when he spots the hoops dangling from your ears.

“OHHH it’s you,” he hisses. “You’re the main character.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

“No, no. You don’t understand. You’re in a cinematic universe of longing and secret gift drops. This is bigger than Endgame.”

“Peter.”

“There are probably sparkles following you when you walk. I swear I saw slow motion just now.”

“Goodbye.”

—

The team is sprawled across the common room couch and floor cushions when Tony walks in mid-movie.

“Alright, who finished my La Croix and left the can on top of the fridge like some sort of raccoon—”

He pauses mid-rant, eyes catching on your earrings.

“Huh,” he says, stepping closer. “These are… nice.”

“Thanks?” you blink.

“No, seriously. Good metal. Hand-hammered work, maybe local. Possibly vintage.” He squints. “Who’s your dealer?”

You open your mouth. Close it.

Peter doesn’t help.

“Mystery gifter,” he stage-whispers.

Tony pauses. Raises an eyebrow. Looks at you. Then —

He looks directly at Bucky, who is sitting stiffly in the corner of the couch pretending to be very invested in the movie credits.

Tony’s eyes narrow. His head tilts. The pieces click.

“Interesting,” he says slowly, like he’s discovered a secret engine blueprint.

But — to his credit — he doesn’t say anything else. Just pats you on the shoulder and walks away humming.

Bucky exhales only after the door slides shut.

After movie night ends, the chaos begins again.

You escape upstairs with Wanda and Kate, trying to downplay your smile the whole time. (Failing, for the record.)

Meanwhile, in Bucky’s room:

“Soooo,” Sam says, flopping backwards onto the bed, “jewelry now?”

“It’s not—”

“Yeah,” Steve cuts in, “because hand-selected artisan earrings placed on top of her laundry is totally something a stranger would do.”

Bucky groans and rubs his face.

“How do you even know she liked them?” Sam presses.

“She wore them,” Bucky mutters.

That’s all it takes.

Steve and Sam exchange twin looks of ohhh, he’s in it deep.

Then Nat leans into the doorway like she’s been waiting for her cue.

“So. Jewelry,” she deadpans, arms crossed.

“Not you too.”

“Come on, Barnes. You’re glowing.”

“I’m not glowing.”

“You literally are glowing. That’s a dewy finish.”

Sam snorts. “We told him. Sheet masks change lives.”

“Sam.”

“Bro. You spent twenty minutes tying that bow.”

“…shut up.”

Bucky sighs and sinks deeper into his hoodie.

“You’re all unbearable.”

“You’re the one playing secret admirer,” Nat teases. “At this point, you might as well start leaving riddles and roses.”

Steve laughs. “Oh god. Don’t give him ideas.”

Much later, after the teasing fades and the others clear out, Bucky is alone with his thoughts and the blue notebook in his lap.

He opens it, flips past the page with your tea preferences and your fear of bees, and adds:

✦ Earrings. Looked at them like they were magic. Like they made her feel known.

Then, underneath it:

✦ She asked about the mask again. Said it looked good.

✦ wears the gifts like armor. like hope.

✦ I think it’s just her. She makes everything look better.

✦ looks so happy in them. I’d do it all over again.

And on your end — when the compound is quiet and the lights are low — you sit cross-legged on your bed and stare down at the earrings in your hands.

You don’t say anything. Don’t need to.

But your heart is a little louder tonight. Beating with the rhythm of something growing.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to wonder what it would feel like if the gifts stopped being anonymous.

What it would feel like if the next one wasn’t a surprise.

But a confession.

“A cellphone filled with a wishlist…”

— TXT, Wishlist

—

You wake to birdsong and golden light filtering through the curtain slats.

It’s a peaceful morning — until you notice it.

Something on your windowsill.

You blink blearily, shuffle closer, and see a box. Pink paper. Slightly messy tape job. But the bow is soft, tied by hand.

Your heart skips.

You open it slowly. Inside: a LEGO flower bouquet.

You gasp — an actual, full bouquet of tiny LEGO flowers. Sunflowers. Roses. Poppies. Snapdragons.

Flowers that don’t die.

And then you see the note, folded underneath the stems. No name.

Just:

For your spring.

(with a tiny red star drawn next to it.)

You sit down hard on the edge of your bed.

Your fingers hover over the bouquet. Your lips tug into a smile so soft it makes your own chest ache.

He remembered.

Two weeks ago – Downtown Brooklyn

The sidewalk buzzed with warm spring life. Outdoor cafés. Bikers whizzing past. You, Bucky, and the others meandering through after grabbing pastries. You stopped in front of a toy shop window.

Inside: a LEGO flower bouquet display.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, hand pressed to the glass. “Look at these!”

“They’re plastic flowers,” Bucky had said, puzzled but curious.

“Exactly. They don’t die. And they’re beautiful.”

You looked back over your shoulder, smiling.

“Permanent hope,” you added quietly.

He had barely blinked at the words. You didn’t notice the way he looked at you afterward. Not then.

But now?

You’re holding the proof that he did.

You FaceTime Peter.

“What.”

“He left me LEGO flowers.”

“Oh my GOD.”

“And a note!”

“Was it a poem?!”

“No, but it said ‘For your spring’ and it had a red star!”

Peter literally puts a pillow over his face and screams into it.

“Parker.”

“HE’S FLIRTING IN SYMBOLISM.”

“It’s not flirting.”

“It’s a declaration of seasonal affection. It’s romantic. It’s war.”

“You are so dramatic—”

“You’re wearing soft pink pajamas and holding hand-built plastic flowers like they’re treasure—you’re dramatic.”

You can’t stop smiling. You bury your face into your hands.

Peter’s voice softens through the phone.

“…you like him, huh?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “But I think I’m starting to realize I’ve liked him for a while.”

Downstairs, Bucky is nursing a mug of coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His hoodie’s rumpled. His hair’s still damp. He hasn’t slept.

Because he spent three hours the night before building that bouquet with his metal hand — slowly, carefully, making sure none of the pieces were crooked. Then taping the box shut with shivering fingers and signing it with the tiniest, stupidest star.

He keeps replaying it all in his head like it’s a mission gone wrong.

“You look like you murdered someone,” Sam says, sliding into the seat across from him.

“I left a note.”

“You what.”

“She’s gonna know.”

“You signed it?”

“…with a star.”

Sam slaps the table.

“HE SIGNED IT WITH A STAR, STEVE.”

Steve walks in holding his protein shake like a weary parent.

“It’s fine. You’re doing fine.”

“I’m losing my mind.”

“You’ve already lost it.”

“It was supposed to be anonymous!”

“You built her LEGO flowers.”

“So?”

“So,” Nat says, appearing from literally nowhere like a shadow with good cheekbones, “you are so screwed.”

Bucky groans into his hands.

“I hate all of you.”

“Not as much as you love her,” Sam mutters with a grin.

That afternoon, you find a quiet moment to sneak away — rooftop, warm breeze, the LEGO bouquet in your hands.

You sit on the edge, legs dangling, camera in your lap, bouquet beside you. The city stretches wide beneath your feet. Spring in full bloom. A little golden, a little messy.

Just like the person you suspect built this bouquet for you.

You pull out your film camera — the one Bucky helped you fix last month when you jammed the shutter. You snap a photo of the bouquet with the skyline in the background. Then one of your hand holding a tiny flower piece.

You don’t even realize he’s watching.

From one level below — balcony shadows — Bucky watches you from a sliver in the curtains. You, sitting in the sun, smiling at something he gave you. The wind catching your hair.

And for a moment, he doesn’t feel like a weapon.

He feels like someone who could give joy.

Someone who does.

That night, he almost throws out the notebook.

Almost rips the “for your spring” page out and burns it in the sink.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he writes underneath it.

She smiled.

She sat with them for a whole hour.

She called them “hope.”

She’s never looked more like spring than she does now.

Later, as you head back to your room, Nat passes you in the hall and raises an eyebrow at the bouquet in your hands.

“Secret admirer still going hard?”

You smile. “Looks like it.”

“Mmm. You know, when Barnes was Hydra’s weapon, he never did romantic flower drops.”

You blink.

“…what?”

“Nothing,” she says, walking off. “Enjoy your LEGO love story.”

And maybe, as you fall asleep that night — the bouquet on your nightstand, note tucked in your pillowcase — you whisper into the dark:

“If it’s you… I think I already knew.”

“How about romantic? (Yeah)

The feeling can’t be caught (What’s the best present?)”

— TXT, Wishlist

—

It’s a rare quiet morning at the compound.

You shuffle into the common room, tea in hand, eyes still sleepy, hoodie halfway zipped. The sun is spilling across the hardwood floors like honey. May in New York has that soft buzz of warmth—the kind that makes you believe good things are waiting.

You almost don’t notice it at first.

Just a small matte black box on the couch. Unassuming. A soft breeze from the balcony flutters the Post-It on top.

Your name. Written in a slanted, unmistakably careful script.

Your heart skips.

You set the mug down slowly and kneel on the couch. You unwrap the box with almost trembling fingers.

Inside:

A Sony Cybershot DSC. Matte black. Brand new.

You gasp.

“No way—”

You blink down at it, barely breathing. Your throat is already getting tight. You know this model. It’s the model. The one you told Peter about. The one you tried to win off an auction site. The one you swore off because it kept getting stolen out of your shopping cart or from sketchy sellers.

And now it’s here. In your hands. Fully yours.

You power it on with shaking hands. The screen blinks awake.

Gallery: 10 photos.

You hesitate. Click in.

Photo 1: A side profile of you — nose scrunched, talking animatedly. Must’ve been dinner at the compound.

Photo 2: You and Peter, sitting on the balcony with empty bubble tea cups and a shared bag of chips, sun blazing behind you. You’re laughing, hair messy. It’s candid. The kind of shot you didn’t know anyone could capture so perfectly. The light makes you look soft. Like someone’s muse.

Photo 3: A book on your windowsill. Your annotated copy of The Secret History next to your favorite mug. A quiet detail only someone paying attention would know.

Photo 4: Your shadow and his. Leaning together on the balcony during sunset. You didn’t know he was there.

Photo 5: The LEGO bouquet—framed like fine art. On your shelf. On your shelf. Taken before you ever found it.

You feel your chest clench. Your fingers tighten on the camera. You sniff once, barely holding it back.

Photo 6: You asleep in the rec room. Hoodie half-off your shoulder. Your lips parted. A blanket tucked gently over you. Not yours.

Photo 7: A shot of your reflection in the café window. Your gaze distant. Your hand cupping your cheek. You look like a dream. His dream.

Photo 8: You again. Reading. A pencil tucked behind your ear. You’re chewing your lip in thought.

Photo 9: A close-up of your hands lacing Peter’s sneakers into a triple knot. He’s mid-whine. You’re grinning.

Photo 10: The note he left. The tiny “Your name” written in all caps. Sitting next to the camera box. The present before the reveal.

“Holy shit,” you whisper. “He’s in love with me.”

Then you scream.

A real scream.

Out of nowhere. Just emotion and surprise and disbelief colliding in your chest and bursting out of your lungs.

And exactly 1.2 seconds later—

CRASH.

“GET DOWN—!”

Webbing flies. A taser baton nearly clips your bookshelf.

Yelena and Peter burst in from opposite doors—combat mode activated, full chaos.

“WHO’S ATTACKING—?!”

“DID YOU TRIP THE SECURITY—?!”

“ARE YOU POSSESSED?!”

You’re still on the floor, gripping the camera like a lifeline, face damp with fresh, stunned tears.

“Oh my god,” you wheeze. “I’m fine!”

Peter looks around wildly. “You screamed!”

“It was a happy scream!”

Yelena’s brow furrows. “What the hell is a happy scream?!”

“Look!” you cry, holding up the camera. “He got it for me! He—he remembered!”

Peter walks closer and sees the display. His brows lift. “Whoa…”

Yelena peers over his shoulder.

“These are all photos of you.”

“You guys, they’re like—beautiful. Like… heartbreakingly beautiful.”

“Okay, now I believe he’s in love with you,” Peter adds. “This one literally looks like an indie movie poster.”

You sniff again, laugh-shaking. “I think I’m gonna die.”

Yelena: “You better not. I have money on when he confesses.”

Peter: “Wait, I do too.”

You glare through watery eyes. “How many of you are betting on my love life?”

Peter: “Everyone except Bruce and Thor. They’re too scared to jinx it.”

Meanwhile…

Across the World – Mid-Mission

Gunfire echoes in an abandoned warehouse.

Bucky, Sam, Steve, and Natasha are mid-fight. Punches flying. Adrenaline high.

And suddenly—

And Steve yells over the comms:

“Hey Bucky?”

“What?!”

“Y/N got the camera!”

“—What?!”

Sam, dodging a blast: “She screamed so loud Peter and Yelena kicked in a door.”

“She screamed?! Is she okay?!”

Nat, voice smug over the line: “She cried.”

Bucky freezes for half a second. A beat too long.

“Was it—was it a bad cry or a good cry—?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Nat says, “it was a ‘he’s the love of my life’ kind of cry.”

Sam: “You are so done, man.”

Steve: “She’s gonna kiss you into next week.”

Bucky hides his face behind his metal hand.

“I’m gonna throw myself into the Atlantic.”

Steve’s already grinning. “Peter said she screamed. Yelena thought she was under attack.”

“Is she okay?!”

Sam: “Oh, she’s great. Peter said she’s crying and smiling like she’s in a drama.”

Bucky ducks behind a crate and groans, face in his hands.

“She saw the photos?”

Nat: “All of them.”

Steve: “You took ten, man. That’s not ‘casual.’ That’s ‘wedding montage.’”

Sam: “You put in one of her asleep?! Bro. You’re gone.”

“I’m not gone,” Bucky mutters.

Nat: “You named the file folder ‘For Her Eyes Only.’”

“Okay, maybe I’m a little gone.”

Steve, grinning, lands a knockout punch. “She’s gonna kiss you so hard you forget your name.”

Bucky: “I’m never showing my face again.”

Sam: “Jokes on you—we got the whole thing on camera.”

Steve: “And guess what? When you get back—bracelet time.”

“Oh god.”

Nat: “You’re doing great, sweetheart.”

Later that night, Bucky stares out the Quinjet window as New York lights come back into view.

In his jacket pocket is the charm bracelet. With the red star.

He’s one gift away.

One breath from finally saying it.

From finally being the sixth wish.

Bucky had pulled out his notebook and add:

Camera went well. She smiled. She cried. I didn’t die from it. Progress.

She deserves better than my silence.

But god, she’s beautiful. I want to be the person who sees her like that every day.

And you—back at the Compound—are curled in bed with a camera against your chest, smiling like you already know.

“A cellphone filled with a wishlist…”

“Please tell me your secret.”

— TXT, Wishlist

—

You hear the front doors of the compound open late that night. It’s almost midnight.

Bucky’s back.

And somehow… you don’t go to him. Not yet. You’re still trying to stop the trembling in your hands from the gift he hasn’t given you.

Because the camera? The LEGO flowers? The perfume? The earrings?

Each one made your heart flutter.

But the bracelet?

The little box that you found on your bed after you returned from a late training session — simple and velvet, tied with a red ribbon — that one left you breathless.

You open it again.

The bracelet is delicate and silver, lightweight on your wrist. Five small charms already dangle on it — each one unmistakably chosen by him:

A tiny LEGO flower.

A glinting gold hoop earring.

A miniscule Sony camera.

A teacup — with steam etched into the metal.

And a bright red star.

He is the sixth wish. And he gave you the star from his heart before he gave you himself.

You press the heel of your hand to your chest and exhale shakily. You almost miss the thin piece of paper beneath the satin lining. A note. Folded three times.

It’s his handwriting.

Y/N,

I don’t know if you’ll understand how long I’ve been working on this. Not the bracelet.

Not the camera.

But this —

Remembering the small things. Noticing the details. It’s the only way I’ve known how to say:

You matter to me.

You’ve always mattered.

I’ve spent more of my life losing people than learning them. But you… you made me want to learn again.

I don’t have the words yet. But maybe these will help.

— Bucky

Tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them.

You don’t sob.

You don’t scream.

You just… sit in the quiet, overwhelmed, your heart trying to make space for a love that’s been there all along.

And then you see the notebook.

It’s half-tucked under the edge of your bed. A black journal with frayed corners. You know this cover.

This is Bucky’s.

He never leaves it out.

You hesitate, fingers trembling, then slowly open it to the first page.

Page One:

Y/N’s List — Important Things to Remember

• Hates tea too hot. Says it tastes like “regret.”

• Loves cherry lip gloss. Will fight Sam over the last one.

• Once said “I like stars because they remind me to breathe.”

• Scared of bees but will run straight into a fight with a HYDRA tank???

• Favorite matcha: the kind with oat milk, vanilla, and an extra scoop.

• Once fell asleep reading her book to the plants on the balcony.

• Asked Peter if ghosts can feel lonely.

• Laughed so hard once, she snorted tea out her nose. I haven’t stopped thinking about that sound.

You flip to a later page.

Page Thirteen:

*She was talking about earrings. Gold and silver mixed ones. Said they reminded her of sunlight and moonlight.

I’ve never seen someone so in love with things that sparkle. I hope she never finds out that nothing glows the way she does when she talks about things she loves.*

Another page.

Page Twenty-Two:

*I don’t know how to say it.

But I would give anything — anything — to be the reason she smiles after a long day.

I want to be her camera. Her flower bouquet. Her favorite song.

But mostly, I just want to be the thing she doesn’t give back.*

And there, tucked at the back of the notebook—

Final Entry:

*Red star. For the sixth wish.

She doesn’t know it yet.

But it’s me.*

BUCKY.

The moment the gift is dropped off, he panics.

He’s back in his room freshly showered, pacing, heart pounding like he’s under fire. His hands are shaking — not from fear, but from something far more dangerous.

Hope.

What the hell did he just do?

He gave her the bracelet.

The bracelet.

The final gift before he either loses his mind or tells her the truth.

He didn’t even stay to watch her open it. Coward.

But what if she hates it? What if it’s too much?

What if—

What if she doesn’t want me?

The thought guts him.

Bucky stares at the desk in his room — the wrapping paper scraps, the ink-stained fingers, the red ribbon he accidentally got tangled around his wrist earlier like some goddamn poetic joke.

He glances at his laptop, still open to the jewelry store’s confirmation page. A hundred tabs open. His Amazon cart is basically a shrine to her at this point. His notes are scattered like breadcrumbs.

And that journal — he left it in her room. He left the fucking journal.

He slams his hand on the desk, breath coming fast.

She’s going to read it.

She’s going to know.

She’s going to know everything.

And it’s not like a mission, where he knows what to do when the danger starts.

No.

This? This is scarier.

Because he doesn’t have a plan for heartbreak.

Because he’s in love with you.

He has been for months. Maybe longer. And he doesn’t even remember when it started — just that it never really ended. It grew quiet and steady. Like spring.

He learned the way you take your tea.

The lip gloss that leaves shimmer behind when you smile.

The look in your eyes when you talk about constellations and ghosts like they’re just neighbors.

How you make the compound feel like home just by walking into a room.

And now he might’ve ruined it. Over a bracelet.

Over a goddamn red star.

YOU.

You’re already on your feet before your brain catches up.

The notebook still in your hand. The bracelet clinks on your wrist with every step. The journal clutched in your hands.

You don’t think. You just go.

It’s late, the halls dim, but you don’t care.

You walk, no — run — toward the hallway. Past the common room. Past Peter and Yelena, who do a double take and high-five behind you.

When you see the soft kitchen light and the shadow moving inside, your heart leaps.

And there — in the kitchen — you find him.

You whisper, “Bucky?” and it’s not a question. It’s a confirmation. He’s here.

Bucky Barnes.

He turns at the sound of your voice.

He freezes.

Your eyes are glassy with tears — but you’re smiling. Glowing. And you’re wearing that damn lip gloss again, the one that catches the light when you laugh.

He barely hears himself whisper, “Shit,” before you crash into him like a comet of joy.

His hands catch you instinctively, arms around your waist as you bury your face in his shoulder. The journal thuds softly to the floor between you.

“Wait, wait—” he tries, but you’re already cupping his face, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye.

Hair still damp from a shower. Hoodie half-zipped. Barefoot. Soft. Startled when you crash into him.

“Whoa—Y/N?”

You’re crying. Laughing. Clutching his journal to your chest.

He looks like he’s about to pass out.

You don’t even give him a chance to speak.

You take his face in your hands. Tilt your forehead to his. Your voice barely a whisper:

“I found the star.”

He swears the earth tilts.

“What?”

You nod. “The sixth wish. It was you.”

Bucky swallows hard, blinking rapidly. “I was gonna… I had this whole—”

His voice breaks.

You kiss him.

It’s warm and unhurried. A promise, not a question. You taste like tears and flavored lip gloss — like honey.

And he’s gone.

He’s absolutely ruined now.

Because no serum, no war, no past life, has ever made him feel like this.

You pull back just a breath and whisper:

“I might as well confess… I like you.”

His whole face crumbles. Relief. Joy. Love.

He exhales like he hasn’t in months. Years, maybe.

His forehead rests against yours. He closes his eyes.

“Fuck,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You’re serious?”

You nod.

“I thought—” he laughs, but it cracks in the middle. “I thought I messed everything up.”

You shake your head quickly. “No. Bucky, this—this was everything. Every gift. Every note. That bracelet—”

“Has a red star,” he says quietly, like he’s giving you the truth for the first time. “Because you’re the only thing I ever really wanted to protect. The one thing I never wanted to lose.”

He says your name like it’s the first time he’s allowed to breathe it.

And then he kisses you again. And again.

The sixth wish.

Is him.

It’s always been him.

And now… you get to keep him.

FROM A DISTANCE…

Peter and Yelena peek into the kitchen from around the corner.

Peter whispers, “Do we… tell Sam?”

Yelena grins. “Oh, Sam already owes me fifty bucks.”

MEANWHILE…

Mission comms channel – earlier that night:

Sam: “Okay, so camera drop — successful?”

Nat: “Yeah, but he looked like he was gonna bolt to Wakanda.”

Steve: “Honestly, if she doesn’t kiss him tonight, I will.”

Sam: “Cap—”

Steve: “I’m just saying. Man’s been in love like it’s a classified operation.”

Nat: “Operation: Simp Soldier.”

Bucky (grumbling): “I can hear you.”

Steve: “And?”

Sam: “We hope you hear us.”

Nat: “By the way, you owe us a mission update and emotional clarity when you get home.”

Bucky: “I’m hanging up.”

Steve: “No, you’re not. We’re invested.”

Back in the compound, Bucky finally speaks, still holding you.

“I read once that the best kind of gift is something you never expected to want but suddenly can’t live without.”

You tilt your head, curious.

He lifts your hand, presses a kiss to the bracelet.

“That’s what you are. To me.”

You lean into him. “You should’ve just told me.”

He smirks faintly. “I was trying. With… flowers and jewelry and… LEGO bricks.”

You laugh — bright and startled.

And he kisses you again. Because now, he finally can.

“Please tell me now, Time's up, give me your wishlist ”

— TXT, Wishlist

—

Bucky Barnes has survived wars, brainwashing, and decades of solitude.

But none of it compared to the sheer hurricane that hit the Avengers Compound the morning after you kissed him.

You and Bucky are curled up on the kitchen couch, your legs over his lap, still in sleep clothes. He’s half-asleep with his arm around your waist, and you’ve got the charm bracelet glinting on your wrist as you sip your tea (not too hot, obviously).

Your head is resting on his shoulder. You haven’t stopped smiling since last night.

Then—

SLAM.

The kitchen door bursts open.

“WE TOLD YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!”

Sam, Steve, Peter, Nat, Yelena, all in full-blown chaos mode, cheering like you just won the Super Bowl.

Bucky literally flinches like he’s under attack.

“Why—why are you all awake right now?” he groans into your shoulder.

“Because we knew this was gonna happen!” Peter shouts. “I knew it! I said it! Sam said it. Natasha knew before anyone—”

“I told you he was pining,” Nat says smugly. “Called it six months ago.”

“I said three,” Sam argues.

“You said three because you wanted to win the pool,” Yelena smirks. “Speaking of—Tony? Pay up.”

Tony strolls in, coffee in hand, Pepper behind him. He glances at Bucky, who is flushed, lips bitten pink from where you kissed him thirty seconds ago.

“You cry yet, Barnes?” Tony asks with a smirk. “Fifty bucks says you’re the first to tear up.”

“He already did last night,” Steve says casually, eating a protein bar. “I was on the comms. There was sniffing.”

“I was not crying,” Bucky mutters, clearly lying.

Pepper leans against the counter, arms crossed. “This is what I wake up to?”

“This is what we’ve all been waking up to for the past year,” Wanda chimes in from the hallway. “This painfully slow descent into domestic longing.”

—

You pull out your little black digital camera — the one Bucky got you — and before he can protest, you snap a photo of the two of you right there.

“Wait—did I look okay?” he asks instantly.

You flip the screen toward him.

And he goes silent.

It’s… perfect. You’re both a little messy, sleepy, wrapped in morning light — and love.

You grin and say, “Lockscreen-worthy?”

He just nods, heart visibly softening.

You make it your lockscreen right there. And he literally melts.

That afternoon, after the chaos dies down (barely), you and Bucky sit on the floor of your shared living space at the compound with the LEGO bouquet spread out between you.

It’s quiet now. Just the two of you.

“You’re serious about this?” Bucky asks, turning the instruction booklet sideways.

“Dead serious,” you whisper, nudging his knee.

It’s slow and beautiful, both of you focused and laughing as you build. He fumbles the small pieces. You steal the yellow rose and claim it’s “your flower.”

And when it’s finally done, he sits back on his heels.

“I like the idea,” he murmurs. “Flowers that never die.”

You smile. “Like this feeling.”

You pull out your shared notebook — the one you once wrote your wishlist in.

Bucky taps his pen against the blank page.

You start writing in your messy, lovely scrawl:

“Things We Want To Do Together (Now That We Know)”

Bucky’s additions:

Go to that bookstore in the Village she always talks about

Make her favorite brownies from scratch

Stargaze on the roof without telling the others

Surprise trip to Coney Island

Let her kiss me every morning, just because

Write our own story

You add:

Keep wearing the earrings, perfume, bracelet

Let him keep taking pictures of me

Take pictures of him too

Let him hold my hand in front of everyone

Be the safe place he never had

Say “I love you” when I’m ready

Hear it from him first

You glance up at him.

He meets your eyes.

—

“You know,” Bucky says, his voice soft, fingers brushing your jaw, “that lip gloss you always wear? The sparkly one?”

You nod, surprised.

“I didn’t know it was flavored until you kissed me,” he admits, flushing. “Honey.”

You blink.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about it. It’s—you. Sweet and bright and familiar. And now when I smell honey, it’s you. When I taste it, it’s you.”

You don’t speak. You just lean forward and kiss him again.

This time it’s slow. Long. Perfect.

Later that night…

Peter corners Bucky by the fridge.

“Okay, listen, I’m cool with it. You’re cool. She’s cool. It’s cool.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Thanks?”

“But if you hurt her—like even accidentally—I will get May to give me permission to emotionally destroy you.”

Bucky smirks. “You’d have to get through Yelena and Natasha first.”

Peter thinks. “Okay fair, but I’d still try.”

Bucky claps him on the shoulder. “Noted.”

—

You crawl into bed beside him that night — soft sheets, his arm already reaching for you. Your charm bracelet jingles faintly as you settle in. The earrings glimmer in the moonlight.

“Hey,” you whisper, voice against his collarbone.

“Yeah?”

You lift your head to look him in the eyes.

“I love you.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“I love you, too.”

And outside the door?

Tony hands Yelena another fifty.

Sam high-fives Peter.

Nat records Bucky’s second happy cry of the week.

Steve just smiles.

Mission complete.

“A jewelry box with a star called you,

My heart overflows again…

I might as well confess… I like you.”

— Wishlist, Tomorrow X Together

(You’ve got mail!) WHAT DO YALL KNOW ABOUT THIS SONGGYGY. THIS IS MY SONG LIKE MY SONGGG MY SONG MY SONGGG. LIKE OUUUHHH THIS SONG HAS ME IN SUCH FEEELLLLSSSSSS. I’ve written tm angst Bucky and I feel like we need some happy slice of life soft solider James Buchanan Bucky Barnes. God that one txt oneshot popped off now here I am with my new improve TXT x Bucky Barnes branded one shots!!! YUP I LOVE THIS. I was geeking and gawking so badly when I was making this you don’t understand lmfaoooo.

Tag List (For Mr. James Buchanan Barnes is open!)

@bbsbrina @herejustforbuckybarnes @barnesandbouquets @winchestert101 @theycallmeanxiety @lovinqbella @starstruckfirecat

231 notes · View notes

nemo-writes · 8 months ago

Text

⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; torn by their obsession, the pack crumbles—now feral shadows of themselves. ghost, spiraling into hunger and rage, unleashes his fury.

⚠️ warnings; obsessive behaviour, unhealthy coping mechanisms, violence (sybil gets hurt!), blood and gore

★ previous ; next

☆ story masterlist

The Rose District was a place of shadows—where the dimly lit streets bled into the underworld, where the stench of decay lingered in the air, and whispers of trouble hid behind every corner. Ghost had never liked coming here, but tonight, he had a purpose.

You had been raving about some rare herb for the past few days, an ingredient you couldn’t find anywhere else. Ghost, seemingly indifferent to your ramblings, had made a mental note to find it for you.

He moved with silent efficiency, his half-wraith nature allowing him to blend easily into the darkness. His eyes scanned the corners for any signs of the itinerant vendor he knew to hang around the area. The herb was supposed to be rare—dangerously so—but he couldn’t bring himself to care beyond getting it and making you happy.

That was, until he heard a soft voice, muffled and frightened, cutting through the usual hum of the Rose District. It wasn’t the sound itself that drew him—plenty of people got into trouble here—but there was something in the air, a pull.

He stepped out of the shadows, his eyes narrowing as he saw the scene unfold a few feet away. A young woman—her honey-brown hair gleaming faintly in the dim light—stood cornered by a group of rough-looking men. They smirked, closing in, their intentions clear and unkind.

Ghost could have turned away. He didn’t know her, and getting involved in these kinds of situations wasn’t exactly his style. But something in him shifted, a tug in his chest that he couldn’t quite shake. He sighed, his usual apathy mixing with a sense of obligation he couldn’t place, and stepped forward.

“Leave her,” he said, his voice low, barely a whisper, but it carried an unmistakable weight. The men froze, eyes flicking up toward him. They were the type to recognize danger when it appeared, and Ghost—his towering frame half-hidden by his hood—was clearly not a figure to be trifled with.

One of the men sneered but backed off, motioning for the others to follow suit. “Not worth it,” he muttered under his breath, casting one last leer at the girl before disappearing into the shadows.

Ghost watched them retreat, then turned to the girl. She was trembling slightly, her brown eyes wide with fear and gratitude. This was routine for him, helping folk when he had to, stepping in only when necessary. He was about to turn and leave, to forget this ever happened, when she spoke.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice soft, vulnerable.

Something about it made him pause, just for a moment.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice rough, more out of habit than genuine concern.

She shook her head, a slight smile forming on her lips, but before she could respond, her hand brushed his arm.

It was nothing—just a fleeting touch, accidental. But in that instant, something shifted. Ghost pulled back slightly, confused by the sudden wave of emotion crashing over him. It was subtle, at first, just a faint whisper in the back of his mind, but the longer he looked at her, the louder it became.

He tried to shake it off, tried to remember why he had come to the Rose District in the first place—there was something he needed to find, something important.

A strange sensation crawled up his spine, sinking deep into his mind. He felt… tethered, as if something in him latched onto her presence, a root slowly winding its way into his thoughts, making her impossible to ignore. His apathy slipped away, replaced by a growing need to stay close, to keep her safe, to protect.

He found himself stepping closer instead of retreating, his usual detached composure slipping as he studied her. She didn’t seem aware of the effect she was having, of the slow, insidious way she was beginning to unravel everything inside him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice a little softer than before. The words felt automatic, like he was trying to regain control, but his mind was already clouded.

“I got lost,” she said, her eyes darting nervously toward the dark streets surrounding them. “I didn’t mean to—thank you, again. I’m Leah by the way.”

Ghost’s thoughts were hazy now, unfocused, as he repeated her name over and over again in his mind.

“We should go,” he muttered, gesturing for her to follow him. He couldn’t explain it, couldn’t understand why he felt this way, but he couldn’t leave her alone now. Not when the pull was so strong.

By the time they reached the edge of the district, the thought of the herb he was supposed to find for you had completely faded from his mind. All that mattered was Leah—and keeping her near.

. . .

Plates sat piled in the sink, crusted and acrid with the remnants of old meals. Dust had settled over every surface, thick and undisturbed. The smell of neglect filled every corner, the windows streaked with grime, letting in only the barest slivers of weak, muted light.

The pack's home lay in shambles, reflecting the twisted obsession that had taken root in their minds. Every room told the same story—untouched and uncared and ignored like everything else that wasn’t Leah.

John’s instincts as a hunter—the sharpness, the clarity of purpose—had dulled, eroded by worry and exhaustion. He barely left the house, even though he should’ve been out there, doing what he did best, leading them. His guns, his gear, lay untouched, gathering dust in the corner. The man who had always been their steady hand, their anchor in the storm, was unravelling, his focus split between trying to hold the pack together and his concern for the woman who had somehow become the centre of all their lives.

Gaz rarely touched his books now, his once-meticulous study routine had been discarded, left to gather dust along with the shelves sagging under the weight of broken trinkets and forgotten potions. The thought of casting a spell, of focusing on anything outside of Leah, seemed almost impossible now.

Soap, once the energetic heart of their pack, had become consumed by his inner beast. His werewolf side, once held in check by a fierce loyalty and steady self-control, had slipped its leash. The wildness in him had grown more pronounced, his pacing erratic, his growls more frequent. He snapped at the others, a low, rumbling threat in his throat whenever they got too close. His restlessness filled the air, his anxious energy like static that crackled between them all.

And then there was Ghost. Of them all, he was the worst.

He had stopped taking the tonics you prepared especially for him—those essential mixtures that kept his half-wraith nature in check. Without them, the feral part of him had completely taken over, spiralling out of control. His skin had taken on a pale, deathly hue, his eyes burning red with the hunger that gnawed at him from within.

Things eventually did break apart.

The air in the house was thick with tension as the four of them gathered around in the dim light of the living room, a fire crackling in the hearth but offering no warmth.

Leah, despite having her own space above Laswell’s bar, had made herself at home in their place. It seemed so natural at first, like she belonged there among them. For a while, she stood out in the chaos, pristine and pretty amid the disarray.

But then, a sudden illness settled over her.

She had stopped eating days ago, and with every shallow breath she took, each spiralled deeper into their own madness.

The tension was unbearable, each day blending into the next, an endless cycle of sleepless nights and anxious pacing. They had stopped caring for themselves and each other. Fights broke out over nothing, their frustrations boiling over with every glance, every word.

The house that had once been a home was no longer a sanctuary. It was a reflection of the decay in their hearts, a hollow shell of what it had once been, crumbling under the strain of their obsession love.

“She needs more than we can give her,” Gaz said quietly, his voice laced with frustration. He rubbed his temples, as if trying to ward off the pounding headache that had settled on his temple for days. “I’ve tried every spell I know. None of it’s working.”

“Spells?” Johnny scoffed, his pacing agitated. “Spells aren’t what’s gonna fix her. We need to get her out of here, take her to someone who knows what they’re doing.”

“And who, exactly, is that, Soap?” Price shot back, his voice rising. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his face shadowed with exhaustion. “You think there’s someone out there who can handle this? Someone we can trust with Leah?”

Soap growled low in his throat, his enlarged nails flexing at his sides. “Better than sitting here, watching her waste away while you all argue over nothing.”

“We don’t know even what’s wrong with her!” Gaz snapped, losing his temper.

“And sitting here debating it is helping how?” Soap shot back, his eyes flashing in the low light. “We’ve been going around in circles for days. She’s getting worse, and all we do is talk, talk, talk!”

Price stepped forward, his face dark with anger. “We can’t just run off blindly. You think you’ll make it two blocks without something worse happening? The moment we leave this house—”

“This house is a tomb!” Soap snarled, his voice cracking. “She’s dying in there, and you want to sit here, playing it safe? You’re the one losing it, Price. You’ve lost your edge. You’re not thinking straight.”

Price moved so quickly that Johnny barely had time to react. They were face to face in an instant, both of them bristling with raw anger, their tempers flaring. “You want to say that again?” Price growled, the hunter in him itching to lash out.

Gaz stood up abruptly, pushing them apart with a frustrated grunt. “Enough! This isn’t helping anyone, least of all Leah.” He turned to Ghost, who had been eerily silent throughout the argument. “Ghost, you’ve barely said a word. What do you think?”

Ghost, standing in the corner, his form barely visible in the shadows, seemed almost detached from the scene. His eyes, bloodshot and wild, flicked to Gaz, but there was no recognition there, only a raw, feral hunger. He hadn’t taken his tonic in days, and it showed—the half-wraith within him was clawing its way to the surface, gnawing at the last vestiges of control he had left.

“We’re wasting time,” Ghost finally muttered, his voice guttural, barely human. His muscles twitched with unspent energy, his body wound tight as if ready to explode. “She’s dying. And we’re doing nothing.”

“We know that,” Gaz said softly, trying to reach him. “But we can’t just—”

Ghost’s eyes flickered, a dark intensity flashing across his face. “Then stop talking. Do something. Or get out of my way.”

Before anyone could react, Ghost was gone. He moved with inhuman speed, disappearing through the door in a blur of shadow and cold air. They barely had time to process it before the chill of his absence settled into the room.

Price cursed under his breath, turning back to the others. “Damn it, he’s gone feral.”

Soap’s pacing resumed, even more agitated now. “We can’t keep him locked up forever. He was bound to snap.”

“And now what?” Gaz asked, his voice hoarse with worry.

But despite the renewed sense of urgency, the argument had changed nothing. Leah still lay feverish in the other room, her condition worsening by the hour. And with Ghost gone, it felt as if the last thread holding them together had finally snapped.

And outside, in the night, Ghost stalked the streets, driven by an insatiable thirst, slipping deeper into the feral haze that consumed him. The city, bathed in the cool autumn moonlight, was ripe for hunting.

. . .

That cool evening you strolled through the dim streets with Sybil at your side. It was a rare moment of quiet, a stolen breath of normalcy after weeks of carefully orchestrating your life away from the pack.

No contact, no messages, no nothing. You were trying to move on, and of course failing miserably.

You tugged your cloak tighter around your shoulders when something suddenly felt… wrong. An icy chill washed over you, setting your nerves on edge, like a storm creeping in from the horizon.

Then you saw him.

Ghost.

His eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, were bloodshot, wide with hunger, glowing faintly in the dark like a feral animal.

Then you noticed the blood. Fresh streaks ran down his arms and neck, his clothes stained and torn, his skin smeared with it. Clearly not his own. He had already hurt someone. Maybe worse.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

“Simon?” you called his name softly.

He didn’t answer. He just stared. Unblinking. And then, with terrifying speed, he lunged.

Panic surged through you, and without thinking, you ran—your only thought was to get back to the shop. Trusting wholly that Sybil was by your side, you sprinted through the streets, your breath coming in frantic bursts, the pounding of his feet behind you growing louder, faster.

You barely made it through the door, slamming it shut and locking it just in time. But there was no time to catch your breath. Ghost was right behind you, slamming into the door with such force that it cracked. Your heart was racing in your chest as the door gave way under the weight of his attack, splintering open.

He barged in, and the destruction began.

He tore through the shop like a whirlwind, knocking over everything in his path in his blind attempt to catch you. Shelves collapsed under his weight, glass bottles shattered, herbs spilled across the floor, the once-familiar scents mixing with the pungent stench of blood and sweat.

“Stop!” you screamed, but it was useless. He couldn’t hear you. Couldn’t stop.

He pounced at you again, and Sybil, ever fearless and faithful, intercepted him. She sank her teeth into his leg, snarling fiercely, and for a moment, it slowed him down. He roared in pain, staggering, his bloodshot eyes narrowing in fury. But with one hard swipe of his hand, he sent her flying across the room. She hit the wall with a pained whine, her body crumpling to the floor.

“Sybil!” you wailed, heart splintering at the sight of her.

He stumbled on his injured leg, collapsing like a rag doll. But he wasn’t done.

Before you could react, his hand shot out and latched onto your ankle, dragging you down with terrifying strength. You hit the floor hard, pain shooting up your leg as he pulled you toward him, his grip crushing, his nails digging into your skin, drawing blood.

You cried in pain, instinctively twisting your body and kicking him—hard and square in the jaw. The impact was brutal, and his head snapped back with a sickening crack. For a moment, his grip slackened, and you scrambled to your feet, gasping for breath.

But it still wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

You limped towards the cauldron over the hearth, the brew still bubbling inside, before latching fiercely into it and toppling it towards him. The boiling liquid splashed all across the floor and against Ghost. His howl of pain ripped through the air as steam rose as his skin sizzled and burned, blistering down to the bone where the unfinished position had hit him.

You were barely holding on as you manoeuvre yourself around him and the torrid concoction, your body trembling as you picked up Sybil and darted towards the stair, desperate to get away. Every step was agony, your ankle throbbing from where he’d grabbed you.

You managed to slam the door to your apartment shut, locking it with shaking hands, but it felt so fragile. Too fragile. The sounds of Ghost’s growls echoed below, followed by the scraping of claws on wood.

He was coming.

You fumbled for your phone, hands shaking uncontrollably as you dialled Laswell’s number. The line rang and rang, but there was no answer. Your heart sank, panic rising again. You tried over and over, but no response came.

The door shuddered as he reached it, his nails scratching and clawing at the wood, a relentless assault that made your heart pound painfully in your chest. You clutched Sybil tightly in your arms, her body trembling against yours. She was hurt, but alive. You pressed your face into her fur, tears streaming down your cheeks as the scratching continued, a reminder that he wasn’t going to stop. Not until he had you.

The weight of it all—Ghost’s betrayal, the destruction of your shop, Sybil—threatened to suffocate you.

All you could do was wait. Wait for the sun to rise, for the light to finally push back the nightmare.

But deep down, you feared that by then, it might be too late.

banner credit

454 notes · View notes

truerhearts · 20 days ago

Text

˗ˏˋ ★ ― MASK part 1 of 3

𖤝 astarion x fem!reader

𖤝 3rd person, 8.9k words

𖤝 summary: the gang is celebrating a victory in a tavern in rivington. you're not feeling too great because astarion is entertaining some woman and has left you to sulk in the dark. you end up confronting him about it, in turn piercing the mask he wears and exposing the vulnerability he hides beneath charm and cruelty

𖤝 warnings: toxic jealousy, weaponized sex talk, verbal abuse...? (idk he does get kinda mean at some parts... deflection, you know),

𖤝 rating: 18+: sexual themes (just talk, no outright sex) , mature subject matter, coarse language, reader discretion is advised ~

𖤝 masterlist | ao3 | requests

The cobblestones of Rivington shone slick beneath the lamplight, the rain having passed just an hour before, leaving the streets smelling of petrichor and something faintly sweet – sugar-roasted almonds from the vendor down the lane. The sky, bruised and dusky, held no stars tonight, only low clouds drifting like sated beasts overhead. The glow of lanterns fluttered outside shopfronts and taverns, golden and swaying in the breeze. Laugher echoed down alleys, warm and loose in a way that it hadn’t for days. Somewhere, a lute plucked a slow, meandering tune, drifting in and out of earshot like memory.

It was the first time in a long time that they had an evening to rest. They were triumphant in their endeavours that day, and that was cause for celebration. Instead of being holed up at camp, they all decided that they would celebrate in town, a nice change of pace. Lucky they were that they had a proper roof over their head when the rain came pouring down. Despite the weather, the ale was still poured, and the tunes were still hummed, something that they would have had to sacrifice if caught in the rain at camp.

(Y/N) was just outside the tavern, leaning against a wall, half-shadowed by the curve of the doorway, arms folded and shoulders damp where the roof’s runoff had missed the mark. Her cloak clung to her back, damp at the edges, the scent of wet wool and street smoke curling around her. She watched her friends through the open window: Karlach, already two mugs deep and trying to arm wrestle Minsc, who looked visibly torn about whether to win or to let her. Boo was by his ear, most likely whispering to him to never risk defeat. Wyll had sidled up beside Jaheira in conversation, offering some charming story that had her smiling in a rare, softened way. Gale was pontificating to Shadowheart, who looked more interested in her wine than his stars.

Near the end of the table, Lae’zel and Minthara were deep in what could only be described as a cold war in motion — voices hushed but clipped, eyes sharp, postures stiff with restraint. Minthara’s smile was a blade, all too ready to cut, while Lae’zel’s growl of a retort thrummed just beneath her breath. Each stood as if ready to lunge at the other with a word too far. Between them, Halsin sat, patient as stone, hands calm on the table and gaze steady. He spoke low and measured, attempting to pour reason like water between two flints. Whether it was working or merely delaying the inevitable, (Y/N) couldn’t tell.

Inside, the air was thick with warmth and stories, with camaraderie hard-won and fleeting peace. It was a rare thing. And for now, it was enough.

But… there was one missing from the table.

Astarion.

He was the reason she was currently outside in the cold.

He stood near the hearth, the tavern’s firelight gilding him in gold. His hair was perfectly in place with that maddening sort of carelessness only he could manage. Neat and effortless. Especially cruel, considering he couldn’t see his reflection. He looked relaxed in the way that only he could: chin tilted just so, eyes half-lidded, lips curled faintly around nothing in particular. A goblet of wine rested in his hand, untouched more often than not — more prop than pleasure.

He wasn’t alone

A woman stood near him, hands not quite touching, but close enough that the air between their fingers hummed. Her dress was a burnt red; all silk and lacing and purpose. Her smile was one of precision. (Y/n) had seen that sort of look before, on nobles and sycophants alike. She knew what it meant to covet such a glittering thing.

Astarion’s head was tilted slightly, the white of his shirt collar brushing his jaw like the whisper of a secret. He didn’t touch the woman, but his presence alone was intimate. A show, maybe. A game.

Or maybe it wasn’t.

(Y/n) felt the tight pull in her stomach, familiar as a wound pressed too soon. She told herself she wasn’t watching – but she was. And not just with her eyes. She was measuring the tilt of his posture, the way his mouth moved when he smiled, and that glimmer in his eyes that turned her like a moth towards flame.

Not tonight, though. While he was still the flame, the moth fluttering towards him was someone else.

(Y/n) felt rather stupid, needing to remove herself. It shouldn’t be affecting her like this, yet it did.

The woman laughed again, softly this time, almost conspiratorial, and leaned in to whisper something against the shell of his ear. Astarion didn’t flinch. He inclined his head slightly, amused, a phantom smirk touching his mouth. Whatever she said, it wasn’t clever enough to draw more than the mildest interest.

But he was playing along, as he always did. It was natural for him, years, decades… centuries of practice. It was practically etched in his soul, so much a part of him like the undead blood that ran through his veins.

Her fingers ghosted along the line of his sleeve, trailing down to the crook of his elbow. (Y/n) watched him allow it. Watched the slow blink of his eyes, the small shift in his weight that made him look just a little more like a man interested. He could look at anyone like they were the only one in the room, and right now, that spotlight was turned on someone who wasn’t her.

The woman retracted her hand from his sleeve almost as quickly as she graced it, simply… testing the waters.

A sparkle caught her eye. The fire and candlelight throughout the tavern lit up the girls’ earrings, twin ruby teardrops that winked in the lowlight. They matched his eyes. A coincidence, it must have been. (Y/n) couldn’t look away, not from the earrings, not from him. Her throat tightened.

The door creaked beside her, wind catching it like a breath, and she turned from her post just as Karlach stumbled out with a tankard in hand. Her cheeks were ruddy, expression flushed with joy and ale. “There you are!” She beamed. “We thought you’ve gone back to camp!”

(Y/n) didn’t say anything at first. Then she breathed. “I’m seriously considering it.”

Karlach noticed the tone in her friend’s voice. She quickly looked through the window and witnessed what was causing her so much grief. She turned back to (y/n). “Aw, c’mon. That’s nothing. What does she have that you don’t?”

“Less blood under her fingernails probably,” (Y/n) muttered with a wry half-smile, but her voice lacked venom.

Karlach followed her gaze again. Astarion and the girl were perfectly centered in the window. “He’s just being polite. You know he is. All the dramatics, all the charm. It’s his being, his essence. Hardly a promise.” Karlach said, trying to comfort her.

“Maybe,” (Y/n) said.

The warm light of the tavern spilled out onto the street as drunk couple pushed the door open wider, taking it from Karlach’s hand. They stumbled out and giggled up the street as they went.

From the tavern door, music filtered through a fiddle, a flute, a drum or two, the pulse of joy. And laugher again. His.

Astarion laughed in layers. The polite one, with closed lips and arched brows. The amused one, full-bodied and smooth like aged wine. Then the real one, which was rare and dangerous and beautiful.

She had heard that one only a handful of times, but not tonight. Not yet at least. And that was perhaps a good sign.

Karlach gave her a look of concern, eyebrows knitting together. “Come inside,” Karlach said, placing a strong hand on her shoulder. “If I’m going to lose at arm wrestling, I want you to be there to lie about how close it was.”

(Y/n) peeled her eyes away from the scene causing her grief and gazed up at her Tiefling friend. Despite all her fire and bluster, Karlach was always gentle when it counted. She never pushed, never pried, just stood solid beside her like a wall that wouldn’t give. (Y/n) had kept most things close to her chest, especially the messier parts of her heart, but Karlach had come to know them anyway.

Karlach warned her once, not to get tangled up in something like this. She’d seen the edges of it coming before (Y/n) let herself fall to desire. But even now, with her hurting and uncertain, Karlach never said “I told you so.” Never let judgement slip through. Just stayed beside her, doing what she could to help her hold the weight.

“It’s too cold out here anyways.” Karlach added.

(Y/n) gave the window one more apprehensive look before settling: “Alright,” She smiled, half heartedly, but it was a smile nonetheless. She followed Karlach inside, brushing the water that had collected on her sleeves. The tavern smelled of smoke and bread and something vanilla-sweet from someone’s perfume. The warmth hit her like a wall, the contrast of it from the cold outside was like a welcoming hug from an old friend. Her leather boots, the ones that had seen everything, thudded softly over the worn-out wooden floors as she moved past the bar, past the laughter, towards the edge of the hearth where Astarion stood, the woman leaning in just a little closer now, further testing the boundary.

He hadn’t noticed her. Or he had pretended not to. He was good at pretending.

(Y/n) paused near a column where she had a perfect view of both scenes: her friends and him. She tried to keep her focus on the laughter and banter happening at the table all her companions were at, but she couldn’t help but steal a glance at her midnight lover every now and again.

Astarion leaned slightly against the mantle, elbow cocked, fingers cradling his wine elegantly like he always did. The woman laughed again – sharp and syrupy. Her hand lingered near his forearm, not quite touching, but close enough to suggest familiarity, invitation. That was the trick with women like her: never overt. Always circling. Letting the moment stretch with tension.

And Astarion, ever the connoisseur of tension, let it stretch. He angled his body to her, nodding slightly as she spoke, smiling down at her. It was the smile that got under (Y/n)’s skin – not lascivious, not mocking, just… gentle. Gentle int the way he rarely was unless it meant something. Or maybe, she only thought that because she wanted it to mean something.

How cruel we are to ourselves sometimes - these self-inflicted wounds, assumptions being the knife that carves.

The woman pressed in again, just slightly, a lean of the hip, a flutter of lashes that had all the subtlety of a thrown blade.

He shifted his weight again, following the flow of their conversation, head tilted in mock contemplation. That smirk bloomed slowly, as if unfurling for her alone. He said something low, a murmur too quiet to catch, and the woman laughed again, her body swaying towards him. From her post, (Y/n) watched with her jaw set and her breath shallow in her chest.

Karlach, for all her good intentions, might’ve done her a disservice by dragging her back inside. In hindsight, staying out in the cold would’ve been kinder. Inside just gave her a better view: The scrape of the woman’s nails against her own glass. The tilt of Astarion’s mouth – something tight underneath the curve. The shift in his shoulders, too fluid to be natural. He was performing. He always was. But that didn’t make it easier to watch.

She tried to peel her eyes away, but she couldn’t, like witnessing a beacon tower fall, stones crashing, fire spilling down the hillside—dread rolling through you because its light once guided you home.

She heard a quiet voice in her ear: “Want me to set her dress on fire?” Shadowheart asked, voice pitched low, half-joking. Half. “I could just… drop a candle nearby.” She mimicked the movement as she walked to the other side of the pillar.

(Y/n) managed a breath of a laugh, bitter at the edges. “No. It’s silk. Probably expensive.”

Karlach soon approached as well, the three of them now watching the two with contempt, trying their best to be subtle.

“Hey,” Karlach said, nudging (Y/n) gently. “Stop sulking about. Come join the rest of us.” She tipped her mug towards her, and (y/n) graciously accepted it, taking a big swig before handing it back.

(Y/N) forced a breath through her nose, wincing at the bitter liquid. “I’m fine.” She forced out.

Karlach took the mug back. “You look like you’re out for blood.” She said, taking a swig herself.

She let the words hang for a moment before replying. “I’m not jealous.”

Karlach snorted. “Did I say jealous? Just ready to knock her teeth down her throat.” Karlach’s skin blazed. “Hey if it’s a fight we want I’m all for it!”

“I’m not—” (Y/N) sighed. “He can do what he wants. We’re not…”

“Together?” Shadowheart interjected.

“...Anything.”

Karlach gave her a long, skeptical look, then exchanged glances with Shadowheart then turned toward the hearth again. Her brows furrowed. “Right. So, you’re not ‘anything’ yet he just invites himself into your tent every night.”

The words slipped out sharper than she meant. There was heat behind them. She caught herself too late, jaw flexing as the fire in her chest sputtered.

Her breath came out in a low hiss as she reined herself back in. “Shit. Sorry.”

She looked over at (Y/N), searching her face, expecting anger—but found only a hollow kind of calm.

Karlach's shoulders sagged. The fight drained out of her just as quickly as it had flared. “I just hate seeing you like this, you know?”

(Y/N) said nothing. The woman by the fire said something low and throaty, tilting her head to whisper near Astarion’s ear. He didn’t lean away. Didn’t laugh, either. Just listened, his expression unreadable in profile. But his hands didn’t move. Didn’t reach. Didn’t reciprocate.

Still – he stayed.

“Still think he’s being polite?” (Y/N) asked, quieter now.

Karlach didn’t answer. Shadowheart, instead, let out a soft breath through her nose — not quite a sigh, not quite a scoff.

“Watching you two play these games is becoming… tiresome. I worry about you, you know.”

(Y/N) blinked, about to protest “I-”

“We worry about you because we love you. You kind of matter to us.” Karlach interjected.

Shadowheart shrugged a shoulder, watching the firelight flicker across Astarion’s face. “He’s not yours. Not really anyone’s for that matter. But if you want him to be…” she glanced sidelong, voice softening without losing its edge, “don’t expect him to read your mind. He’s clever when it suits him, but when it comes to himself? Blind as a bat in daylight.”

She took a slow sip from her goblet before continuing.

“He thinks he only has one thing to offer. Charm. That pretty face. A good time and a well-rehearsed laugh. That’s the shape of his worth, in his head. So maybe,” she paused, “he’s just waiting for someone to prove him wrong. To want the parts, he doesn’t perform.”

(Y/N) looked down at her hands. They felt empty. Useless. The kind of hands that longed to reach for something but didn’t know how. She wanted those parts of him. She had seen them. He had let her in, but he was still guarded.

Shadowheart continued one last time: “But you deserve someone who won’t play these games. Perhaps its… not your job to fix this one.” She sighed.

Astarion laughed again—an elegant sound, bright at the surface. It was dangerously close to sounding like the real one. But she knew that one. It was the one he shared with her when she said something stupid or told a horrible joke. Or that time a matriarch of the house handed her an “heirloom”:

She had pulled him aside, beaming with delight “That old matriarch just pressed something into my hand and said, ‘May your union be fruitful. This must be a good sign, right?’”

She opened her hand.

It was a dried fig.

A single, wrinkled fig.

“Perhaps it was passed down to her and now she’s given it to me!” She beamed.

Astarion managed to hold it in until they were alone under the arbor, and then let out such a deep, rich laugh that he nearly had to sit down.

(y/n) thought she’d go feral if she heard that laugh tonight.

The woman then took it upon herself to place a hand on his bicep. His hand caught her wrist, gently. He placed it back down to where it rested before, off of him. He smiled at her as he released it, fingers slow to fall away.

And then, he glanced sideways, just once, towards the pillar. Towards her.

His expression didn’t shift, but his gaze lingered half a heartbeat too long. A slip.

(Y/n) dropped her eyes.

Karlach noticed his glance. She understood what he was doing, her nose wrinkled at the thought. “You don’t have to do this,” Karlach said gently. “Stand here and watch him. Torture yourself.”

“It’s not torture.” (y/n) muttered.

But it was. And it wasn’t just jealousy. It was grief, maybe, for something almost real. For all the nights they’d spent alone after everyone else went to sleep, the lamplight between them, with quiet breaths and wordless looks and hands that sometimes hovered too long in passing. All those moments where something real could’ve happened. Should’ve. But didn’t.

Because neither of them asked for it. It was a simple arrangement, and it had been working.

But now here he was, letting himself be wanted by someone else, and it stung much more than she could have anticipated.

Shadowheart placed a hand on (Y/n)’s forearm, pulling gently. “C’mon, (y/n), there’s plenty of merriment to be had with the others. I’ll get Gale to enlighten you of the time he enchanted a bottle of wine to pour itself and nearly flooded Elminster’s study.”

But as Shadowheart spoke, (Y/n)’s gaze stayed locked on the scene unfolding across the room. She couldn’t help it Something root-deep kept her still, like her body was waiting for the scene to finish, for the punchline of a joke she didn’t find funny.

The woman was saying something now, playful and light. Astarion nodded, eyes never quite meeting hers. Then she reached again—this time toward his chest, to the lapel of his coat.

Her stomach twisted like it was going to be sick.

The woman’s hands landed, touching the lapel graciously.

He grabbed her hands in his, gently removing them and saying something to her, something the three weren’t able to catch. He was still smiling, but the woman’s smile began to melt off her face.

Whatever he said made the woman pause, blinking. Then she laughed again, but it didn’t sound quite as real. She nodded, waved a hand in mock dismissal, and turned away—vanishing into the crowd like spilled wine soaked up by thirsty floorboards.

And then he was walking toward her.

(Y/n) didn’t move. Didn’t breathe, not properly. The distance between them closed with the soft brush of boots over old floorboards. The tavern kept moving around them—drunken cheer, the slosh of ale, someone calling out for another song—but in that moment, she heard none of it.

And then there he was. Astarion stopped just short of her, the firelight catching in the angles of his face—cheekbones sharp and proud, his eyes gleamed like rubies, far prettier than those earrings. She was mesmerised.

“Ladies,” Astarion said smoothly, inclining his head ever so slightly. “Might I steal our dear friend, (Y/n), for a moment? Just the two of us—if you’d be so kind.”

His voice was velvet, each word dipped in civility, but there was a quiet edge beneath it, more personal than performance.

“I promise to return her… eventually.” He gave a half bow.

They both turned their heads to their friend, who was looking everywhere else. The floor, the ceiling, something interesting on the mantle of the fireplace. Shadowheart and Karlach then exchanged a quick glance, before reaching a mutual understanding.

“Alright,” Karlach was apprehensive. “We’ll be at the table whenever you’re done.” She said to (Y/n), giving her a firm, reassuring pat on the shoulder.

Shadowheart didn’t say anything. Her eyes widened for a split second, mouth tightening into a thin, uncertain line—then just as quickly, her face smoothed back into its usual calm, like nothing had happened. She sighed and gave (Y/n) a quick hand squeeze before departing.

Now it was just the two of them. The most alone two people could be in a bright, lively tavern.

He took a moment before speaking, letting the silence settle between them like dust in a sunbeam. His eyes lingered on her, tracing the way her hair fell, a little messy from the rain and humidity, curling at the edges, yet somehow falling just right. His gaze drifted to her clothes, worn at the seams, the fabric softened by time and travel and their many conquests together, but clean, carefully kept. It was no silk dress and ruby earrings, but she’d made the effort, and over the time they’d spent adventuring together, he had come to realize that he appreciated that more than flounce and luxury.

Finally, his eyes landed on her hands, where her fingers were picking nervously at the skin around her nails. He smiled, quiet, almost fond, and exhaled before speaking, dragging his eyes back up to hers.

“My, my,” he murmured, voice pitched for her alone. “You’ve been sulking in the shadows all evening. Planning your next dramatic monologue, or were you simply enjoying the view?”

He was teasing, but his voice carried an undercurrent. He wasn’t as amused as he pretended to be. His gaze dropped, just for a second, to her lips, and then back up with studied nonchalance. A dance, still. But one where the steps were starting to falter.

(Y/n) arched a brow. “I wasn’t hiding. I was giving you space to… mingle.”

“Oh, how generous.” His smile widened, flashing just a little too much fang. “And here I thought you were about to throw a dagger at that poor girls’ back.”

She sighed. “Would have been wasteful. Besides, you looked like you were enjoying yourself.

“Did I?” Astarion leaned slightly closer, voice dropping, the scent of him curling into her senses—amber, spice, and the faintest edge of copper. His gaze didn’t leave hers. “Tell me, what did I look like, exactly?”

The question landed between them with a quiet stillness that hadn’t been there before. No smirk, no veneer. Just naked curiosity, raw and bright beneath the practiced charm. For once, he didn’t know. And he wanted her to tell him. It was… unlike him.

She swallowed, not knowing how to approach this. Especially with the heat so obviously rising in her face. “You looked…” Her throat tightened. She looked away, not at the hearth or the people or the woman who was gone now, but at the line of his collar, the stretch of skin just beneath his jaw. “Like someone who knows they’re desired.” Her eyes turned back to his.

Astarion huffed a quiet breath, more amusement than laugh. “Well now- there’s a word. Desired. Is that what you were feeling, watching me with her? A touch of… jealousy, perhaps.” The words fell from his mouth mellifluously. Like honey laced with basilisk venom.

She looked back at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “Don’t flatter yourself.” She had fought many a battle, but none harder than the one right now, trying to keep her blush at bay.

“Oh, darling.” His grin curled. “I don’t need to; you just did it for me.” He was becoming more amused with every second that passed.

A moment went by. Then he said, low, “I suppose I was curious if it would make a difference to you.” His eyes scanned her face. “And well… I guess I have my answer.” His eyes were half lidded, smirking down at her.

Fuck. Him.

Her chest tightened, a bitter fire curling up from her ribs. How dare he toy with her like this – like she was some game, some prize to be tested and discarded at whim? She wanted to spit words sharp enough to wound, to tell him exactly what she though of his cruel little performance.

But her body betrayed her.

Her breath caught, uneven, and despite the anger blazing in her veins, her gaze didn’t look away. Instead, it moved to his lips, and then back to his eyes. Something was burning behind his dark gaze – a predatory gleam that made her stomach drop, and a treacherous heat bloom somewhere lower. The corner of his mouth twitched, barely containing triumph, and she knew with sickening clarity that every racing beat of her heart, every shallow breath, was exactly what he'd been waiting for.

She hated that.

Hated how every cruel smile and teasing glance still pulled her closer like gravity. Hated that she wanted him to mean what he said, to want her as badly as he made her feel.

Her hands clenched at her sides, nails biting into palms, trying her hardest to repress those feelings. He was playing with her. She shouldn’t stand for this. “You’re impossible,” she said, voice rough, edged with frustration.

Astarion’s smirk softened to a near-smile. “That’s what you like about me, isn’t it?”

Her jaw clenched, but her pulse thudded hard, betraying her resolve.

Then, almost too casually, he added “Besides, you seemed rather cozy yourself earlier – what’s his name, the one who kept calling himself your valiant shield or some other self-congratulatory nonsense?” He suddenly became very interested in his nails as he spoke, avoiding eye contact.

She pondered for a moment. Who exactly could he be talking about? Then, she blinked, startled. “You mean Corwin?”

“Ah, yes, Corwin,” Astarion echoed, deliberately flat, as if something distasteful sat on his tongue. “Funny for a man who introduced himself to me no fewer than five times throughout the course of the day he and his entourage ‘allied’ with us, I still can’t quite seem to care.”

“So that’s what this is about.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is this your idea of keeping score? And, for the record, he said our valiant shield, not just mine.”

He tilted his head. “Oh please, we know he meant your valiant shield.” He adjusted his footing. “Just an observation, dear. You looked awfully pleased when you were going over the battleplan together and looking at that… horrific mess of a map our favoured Wizard of Waterdeep threw together.”

She remembered then—earlier before the battle, when she'd been studying their crude map with growing frustration, trying to make sense of conflicting landmarks. The parchment was creased and smudged with ink; the notes layered in hasty corrections that only made it harder to follow.

Corwin had wandered over, drawn by either curiosity or the look on her face. “Trouble deciphering the cartography?” he asked lightly.

She huffed. “Something like that.” She turned the map in every direction, frowning. “Gale got a little overexcited with his plan. There are at least three different routes scribbled on here, half a dozen crossed-out annotations, and I’m pretty sure those lines in the corner are just a haiku about the terrain.” She slammed the map down on a table nearby with a sigh. “We don’t have time for this… we need to attack while we still have an advantage, where is he?”

“Mind if I have a look?” He stepped in beside her, close but not presumptuous, and gently tilted the map up with one hand. He examined it thoughtfully before speaking.

“I think Gale might’ve been having a very spirited conversation with a bottle of wine when he drew this.”

He pointed to a sprawling ink blot. “This bit here? It’s either a mountain range or the unfortunate result of a magical sneeze. Hard to say.”

She hadn’t meant to laugh, but it escaped her anyway, sudden and genuine, caught off guard by the absurdity of it. The kind of laugh that shook her shoulders and warmed her chest, if only for a moment.

Corwin smiled, then shifted to stand beside her more fully, one shoulder brushing against hers as he took the edge of the map to steady it between them. “Alright,” he murmured, tone dipping into something more focused, “let’s see if we can make any sense of this mess together.”

His hand moved along the lines, pointing out possible paths, and his arm occasionally nudged hers as they worked. When she turned to respond, she found him already looking at her—eyes intent, soft at the corners. Her heart fluttered when he didn’t look away.

Then, almost as soon as she made eye contact with him, there was a shift in the air. Not loud or obvious but present all the same. The way hairs on her neck stood up, the weight of someone’s focus settling over her like a shadow she hadn’t noticed stepping into.

She’d felt eyes on her, a glare that was sharp and assessing. She looked over the edge of the map. Astarion had been watching beneath the shadow of a tree, cleaning the blade of his dagger with slow and deliberate strokes. His eyes were piercing, and he stood with a particular posture he held when something had genuinely gotten under his skin. His usual performative charm had dissipated, replaced by something cooler and more distant. When their eyes met, he turned away, suddenly fascinated by the intricate carvings on his dagger hilt…

Now, as she stood in front of him, it was beginning to make sense. But though it made sense, it wasn’t right. Her actions weren’t intentional, his were.

She opened her mouth to retort but soon closed it.

Instead, she curiously let her gaze drift across the tavern, past the clusters of rowdy patrons and fluttering candlelight. She knew he was here tonight, and it didn't take long to find him. Corwin sat a few tables away, apart from his companions who were deep in their cups and louder stories. His tankard sat untouched before him; his broad frame hunched slightly as he leaned on his elbows. His dark waves were pulled half up lazily, letting loose strands fall around his rugged features.

He had been watching.

Their eyes met across the smoky air, and her breath caught. There was no pretense in his gaze, no calculated charm or layered meaning. Just honest want, patience… yearning.

A breath hitched in her throat.

Astarion’s eyes tracked hers with predatory precision, his posture shifting before a word was spoken. He saw Corwin too – saw the way he looked at her. He knew that look. It was a look Astarion knew intimately, had cultivated in countless victims over the centuries. The look of someone utterly, helplessly enamoured. And maybe that’s what did it. His posture changed, a small and precise shift.

Then, he stepped closer to her, possessively. His free hand found the curve of her waist, fingers resting just beneath her ribs, firm, but not forceful. A quiet claim. Her heart leapt at the contact.

She turned her head, found his face in profile. He wasn’t smirking now.

“Astarion,” she said, low.

He didn’t look at her right away. His eyes remained fixed ahead, sharp and unblinking. If they were daggers, Corwin would be nothing more than shredded skin and organs. “What?” He asked, quiet, almost flat. His thumb shifted slightly against her waist, a barely-there motion that betrayed the calm in his voice.

She hesitated, caught in the electricity of his touch. “You don’t get to do that.” She looked up at him with wide, confused eyes.

“Do what?” Now he turned, head tilting with feigned innocence. “Stand beside you? Surely even I’m allowed to do that.”

“You know what I mean.”

“So, I’m the villain now, hm?” he murmured, dry. “For touching what I clearly shouldn’t want. How predictable.” His gaze went down to her lips before settling back on her eyes. “If it’s bothering you so much,” His grip on her waist loosening a bit, “you’re free to step away.”

But she didn’t. Her feet stayed planted. He tightened his grip again, triumphantly.

He smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

“You’re twisting this,” she said, her voice taut, barely above a whisper. “You’re the one who brought her in. And now you’re – what?” Staking your claim because someone else dared to look at me?” She scoffed. “The… entitlement is just… truly something else entirely.”

His brows lifted slightly, like she’d suggested something outlandish. “Entitled, am I? How fascinating.”

She exhaled hard through her nose. “Don’t play stupid. You’re better at pretending to care than pretending you don’t.”

That landed. Not obviously—his expression didn’t crack—but something behind his eyes flinched.

He leaned in, so close his breath kissed her jaw. “You’re awfully upset for someone who insists they aren’t jealous.”

“Jealous?” she scoffed. “Please.”

“Oh, of course. You were just admiring the way she draped herself over me. Were you perhaps taking notes from her?” He tilted his head, faux-thoughtful. “What was it you said? ‘You looked like you were enjoying yourself.’”

Her jaw tensed. “You’re twisting this. Again.”

“You were the one sulking around the darkest parts of this tavern like I’d wronged you somehow,” he said, eyes dragging over her, not unkindly. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice you standing there, looking at me like I’d betrayed something that never belonged to you in the first place?”

She stepped back half a pace. The air was stifling.

He didn’t follow.

“You think you’re untouchable,” she said, quietly. “But you’re not. You just make yourself impossible to reach.”

“And yet,” he murmured, “here you are. Still trying. Still pining after me like a lovesick puppy.” He laughed in the most cruel way. “It’s rather cute, actually.”

That stung more than she wanted to admit.

Her eyes scanned his face, looking for any semblance of… something. Any cracks on the surface, just anything. But the mask was still on. Tight. The silence between them was pulled taut like a bowstring.

Then he glanced past her, and she knew without turning that he’d again found Corwin in the crowd.

His voice cooled. “Your knight is still watching.”

“He can watch all night if he likes, this reckoning isn’t for him.”

“And what am I being judged for now?”

And she stepped closer, barely an inch, not threatening, just closer. “Going for the throat whenever people try to get close.”

He went still, lashes low, like he’d blink too slow and reveal something he couldn’t take back. Then, dryly, “What? Is that a dig at me being a vampire?”

She was hurt, and he was about to feel it. “It’s tragic, really. You could have been loved. You were almost loved.” Her voice didn’t tremble, but it wasn’t steady either. “You turned yourself into the very thing he wanted you to be.”

Something in his eyes tightened. Quiet, but on the verge of collapsing.

“You keep pretending you’re the one in control, breaking hearts and pulling strings. But I’ve seen you. You twist every bit of tenderness into something ugly before it can stick. You twist and corrupt, just so you don’t have to wonder if it might’ve meant something.”

His jaw ticked but said nothing. She wasn’t done.

She tilted her head, softer now. Crueler for it.

“You don’t push people away because you don’t care. You do it because you care too much. And you think if they get too close, they’ll see the rot underneath.”

He didn’t move, didn’t breathe.

He scoffed, the mask slipping, but he gripped onto it tightly. “Rot, darling? You want to talk about rot?”

His voice hardened. “You, who told me I was the only thing you needed? Who said you think about me all the time — even when you wish you didn’t?” He stepped forward, slow and deliberate. “You’ve whispered things to me no one else has ever heard. Things you wouldn’t even write down. Things you’d never dream of telling anyone.”

He laughed lowly. “How being bit by me was the most euphoric you’ve felt in years. You crave me. I’ve corrupted you. Spread my rot to you.” He nodded over to Corwin while keeping his eyes locked onto hers. “He looks at you with such devotion and he doesn’t truly see what’s lurking beneath the surface.”

She stood strong, as if his words weren’t affecting her at all. He needed to hit lower, risk a cheap shot for any semblance of a reaction.

Astarion’s lip curled, he bent down, agonizingly slowly, his breath hitting her ear as he spoke such… vile words: “Do you think he’d still look at you like that if he knew how you sound with your legs around my waist when you’re pulling me in for more?” He stepped even closer, voice dropping like a blade. “If he saw all of the marks, you begged me to leave?”

Her pulse thundered, racing so fast she was sure he could hear it. But she didn’t flinch. And he wasn’t satisfied with that.

He tilted his head, eyes raking over her. “Do you think he could stomach the way you claw at me? The scratch marks you leave on my back? The way you bite when it’s good – when you forget yourself. When you forget your name? I’ve ruined you, love.” He smiled, fangs on full display. “You haven’t seen me. And you don’t fuck like someone who wants to be cherished.”

Her breath caught the words stinging with a burn in her chest she had never felt before. Tears threatened to leave her eyes, but she swallowed thickly, keeping them at bay – now the new first hardest battle she’s fought. Her heart had been flayed to oblivion at the hands of someone she cared about more than anything else, but she remained composed to the best of her ability, keeping her gaze locked on his.

Her voice cracked, barely audible but fierce. “I’ve seen you—every broken, dark piece—and you don’t fuck like someone begging to be forgotten.”

That wiped the grin right off his face.

She stepped in, chest brushing his, heat blooming in the space between them. “Say what you want, keep playing whatever game this is. Tell yourself that you don’t care. That whatever this is doesn’t matter to you. That saying those horrible things to me will make your feelings go away.” Her breath hitched, and for a fleeting second, her eyes glistened, tears gathering on the edge but not falling, her voice dipped, low and lethal, barely more than a growl. “But let’s not forget: you’re the one slipping into my tent every night—and the one who lingers just before dawn, long after the act should be over.”

She let the silence stretch, sharp and suffocating.

“Don’t insult us both by pretending this is just about pleasure. I know how it feels when someone’s only chasing heat.” She tilted her head slightly, gaze steady. “That’s not what this is. Not for me, and certainly not for you.”

Her voice dropped, almost kind. Almost.

“You touch me like you’re asking for something you don’t have the words for. Like you’re trying to feel real.” She laughed. “When you think I’m asleep and you wrap your arms around me and pull me closer.”

A breath.

“You make love to me like it’s the only honest thing you’ve ever done. And it’s killing you.”

She leaned in closer. “But go on then.” She murmured. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t want me. I need to hear it from your mouth, right now. Then I’ll stop pining after you like a lovesick puppy.”

His silence was thunderous.

Because they both knew he couldn’t. So, he just stayed silent. There was no lie slick enough to escape his mouth this time.

He swallowed thickly, trying his best to keep the mask on, but each word had been a blow, wearing him down further and further. He ran a hand through his silver locks, gazing all around the room, looking like he needed an escape.

After an uncertain moment, he miraculously composed himself.

He laughed. Quiet and sharp and bitter, so bitter, like a blade unsheathed. Then he leaned back, speaking just loud enough for her to hear him over the swell of the tavern. “My! The pup has grown its own little fangs!” There was something in his eyes that wavered.

She opened her mouth to reply but he quickly interjected.

“You know,” he murmured, almost too soft to catch, “for someone who claims not to care, you’re awfully desperate to be wanted by a monster.”

He pulled back further, smiling like it didn’t cost him anything to say that. Like it didn’t cost him everything.

“If you keep looking at me like that, I might start to believe you.”

Then—he turned.

And walked away before he could say something foolish.

Not that it mattered—he’d already said too much. Not enough. Something in between. Whatever it was, it left a sour taste in his mouth and a tightness in his chest that he refused to name.

He didn’t storm off. Gods forbid it. He walked. Smooth. Measured. Elegant, even. Just another night in a tavern. Another game played.

The tavern noise swallowed him. Laughter, the low buzz of conversation, the clink of mugs and cutlery. He’d performed in rooms like this for centuries. Played a part. Played a dozen. Tonight, was no different—except for the part of him that refused to be tamed, the part that still burned with the heat of her gaze, her words, her presence.

He reached for a bottle that sat open on the bar, uncaring for whether it was claimed. The bartender was startled. He didn’t apologize; he never did. He just tipped it back, letting the sharp burn drag down his throat like punishment. Wyvern Whisky.

He kept pressing on, eventually making it to a side door, pushing through and out into the damp cold outside. The door shut with a slam behind him, leaving him with the quiet of the outside. There was no sound other than the occasional breeze whisking through the streets and alleys, the occasional drop of water splashing to the cobblestones below, and the muffled chatter and music from the inside of the tavern.

Though the cobbles were still wet, the sky was clear now, revealing an ocean of stars that broke through the darkness above. The moon shone full and bright.

He moved around to the side of the building and propped himself up against the wall, letting his head loll back against the stone. The angle tugged at his throat, exposing it to the stars above.

He tightened his grip around the neck of the bottle he was still clutching. He drank again, not for the burn but for the quiet it offered, the edge it dulled enough to stop the words from echoing so loudly in his skull.

Bits and pieces of their disastrous encounter replayed in his mind. He rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm, trying to relieve himself of the memories, but his mind was relentless, grasping on to whatever it could. He dwelled on it.

He dwelled on her.

She looked at him like she meant it, like she saw him. And that was the worst part. Not her words, though gods, those were bad enough. Not her accusations, or even her ultimatum.

It was her eyes.

Steady even when he was trying to tear her apart. Even when he hurled that filth at her, dragged the sacred into the gutter. He’d half expected her to slap him clean across the face, to strike him, to leave. Hells, he would have welcomed that. But she hadn’t flinched. She stood there and looked at him like she still wanted him, even after everything. Like she knew the words only came out because he was hurting.

And he… he’d wanted to kiss her. He’d nearly done it. Right there in the middle of the tavern. With her glaring up at him like that, lip trembling from fury, love, heartbreak…

He wanted to take her mouth with his and pour all of his desperation into the kiss. He imagined the softness of her lips, how the taste of her would drown out the bitterness clawing at his heart. How one desperate kiss might speak the words he was too afraid to say aloud.

But he didn’t. Because this was safer: Making her hate him, walking away.

He ran a hand through is silver curls, tugged at the roots until it hurt.

She deserved better. Gods, it burned in him like the fire of the hells, that truth. She deserved better. Someone who could hold her at night without needed to escape before the sun broke over the horizon, ushering in the dawn. Someone who’s love didn’t come sharpened like a dagger, who’s ever vulnerability wasn’t a trap waiting to snap shut.

He thought of the knight, Corwin. Face twisting with disgust at the thought. He thought of the way he looked at her. Not like a prize, or a conquest, or even a mystery to solve. Like she could say anything, be anything, and he’d stay. She’d never have to watch her words with him. Never have to wonder if tonight would be the last time she was let in.

That man could offer her something whole.

But Astarion? He was just a ruin with an attractive face and a silver tongue.

A bitter laugh slipped from his lips. He tipped the bottle back again, letting the whisky bite. He welcomed the sting.

“Are you truly this daft? Gods, I had much more faith in you.”

The voice was familiar- melodic and cool. Shadowheart didn’t raise it, didn’t bark or accuse. Just spoke, simple and clear, the way one might to a disobeying child.

Astarion didn’t move. Not at first. He stood like a statue. He moved his eyes towards her voice, not moving his head. One arm hung loosely at his side, the half empty bottle threatening to slip from his pale fingers.

Shadowheart stepped closer. Her footsteps light, but he heard them like thunder.

He brought the bottle to his lips again as she approached.

“And here I was, honestly hoping you two might kiss and make up tonight. You hadn’t said a word to each other since before the battle.” She looked less than pleased, crossing her arms as she analyzed him with her piercing gaze.

“Yes. Well… she was busy all day. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Hm yes, and you made things better by toying with her feelings for months and then making a show of yourself in there tonight.”

He brought the bottle back down, turning to look at her, face unchanging as he swallowed the bitter liquid.

His mouth twisted into a smile, his voice honey and glass. “A momentary lapse in decorum. How dreadful of me.”

She laughed bitterly. “It wasn’t a lapse.”

Another sip. He smiled without teeth. “Well, I do have a flair for the dramatic.” He bowed sarcastically.

“Astarion-“

“Really, darling,” he cut in, his voice smooth but tight. “Is this going to turn into a tender intervention? Will you… take my hand and tell me I’m better than this? That love will fix me if I just let it?” He stared at her through a half-lidded sideways glance, all mockery and venom. “Do spare me.”

Shadowheart held her ground. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t roll her eyes. She just watched him with that infuriating steadiness of hers. “I’m trying to understand.”

He barked a laugh. “A doomed venture.”

“You two are a study in contrasts, aren’t you? Everyone sees it: the banter, the way you gravitate toward each other. They see a bond, deeper than your usual amusements. Dare I say, a couple, even. You usually manage to keep up appearances. But tonight, in the tavern—”

“What about it?” He snapped, voice sharp now. His mask was slipping yet again. “I said a few things that were unpleasant. Heaven forbid. We all need to be told the truth sometimes.”

“I’ve seen you chase people off with half as much venom,” she said, voice quiet. “But I’ve also seen how long you stare after her when you think no one’s looking.”

That stopped him cold. Just for a moment. His grip tightened around the neck of the bottle. Shadowheart saw it—the little crack in the polished marble.

But then he moved again. Smoothed his collar. Tipped the bottle lazily in her direction.

“You’re imagining things,” he said, but it was softer now. Less bite, more ache.

Shadowheart took a tentative step closer. “You care about her.”

He let out a breath—sharp, almost a laugh, but there was no real amusement in it. His head tipped back to rest against the cool stone wall again, eyes skimming the stars he could no longer feel.

“She’s already got a knight trailing after her like a devout little pup,” he said, almost idly. “Polished armor, pristine intentions. All very noble.”

He twirled the neck of the bottle between his fingers, watching the last inch of amber liquid catch the moonlight.

“I mean, honestly. Did you see him? At camp earlier, and tonight. That boy practically shines. The type to write sonnets. Save orphans. Die with his heart unbruised.” A pause, then a scoff, quieter now. “What could I possibly offer? A crypt full of corpses and a half-decent smile?”

The mask was slipping fast now. Something raw shimmered beneath the sharp edges—longing, maybe. Or fear. Or both. He could feel it bleeding out of him, and he hated it. Hated that Shadowheart saw it. Hated that she had stirred it loose in him in the first place.

He straightened, suddenly needing motion, something to chase the stillness away. He took another drink and winced.

“Do you know what it’s like?” he asked, voice harder now, defensive. “To want something so badly your entire being bends toward it, claws at it, but you’ve spent so long being a monster that you don’t know how to be anything else? So instead of trying, you cut deep enough to make sure no one ever looks too close?”

No response.

He tilted his head toward Shadowheart, eyes narrowed but glinting.

“She deserves someone who doesn’t flinch when she says kind things. Who doesn’t—” he stopped, jaw clenching, looking away. “Someone who doesn’t wake up beside her and wonder when she’ll realize she made a mistake.”

The silence thickened, pressing in around them.

“And the worst part?” he said, voice quiet now, almost confessional. “I thought maybe… maybe if I held her long enough, if I touched her just right, I could simply… trick her into staying.” His laugh cracked around the edges. “How pathetic is that?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“I can’t offer her anything real,” he said, cold again now. Detached, as if he could will the words into armor. “Just nights full of pretty lies, sweet words, and half-truths she wants to believe. Eventually, that stops being enough.”

Still, Shadowheart said nothing.

He glanced at her, irritated now by her restraint. “You can say it, you know. Call me cruel. Call me selfish.”

But she didn’t. Just held his gaze.

And that hurt more than anything else.

So he forced a grin, all sharp teeth and forced nonchalance.

“I’m fine, truly. This brooding little spiral? Just a bit of melodrama. I’ll be back to myself in no time. Back to playing the scoundrel. Breaking hearts. It’s what I do best.”

He turned his back to her, running a hand through his silver curls once again.

“I don’t even know why I’m saying any of this,” he muttered. “Maybe I’m drunk. Or maybe it’s just easier when I know she’s not here to hear it.”

He hesitated.

Then, barely a whisper: “She makes me feel… something. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

He realized it the second it left his mouth.

He froze.

It hung there, damning, far too close to truth.

A second passed. Then two.

And just like that, with a snap… the mask slid back into place. He laughed again, hollow and sharp, eyes glittering with self-loathing.

“But not to worry. I’ll ruin it soon enough. I always do.” He paused, eyes narrowing at a certain realization. He looked up at Shadowheart again, smiling an utterly joyless smile. “Actually… I think I already have.”

He tossed the empty bottle into the alley wall with a clatter of broken glass.

Shadowheart didn’t flinch at the sound. She only watched him as he turned to walk away.

The silence pressed in as his footsteps echoed through the quiet street. Maybe that was the worst part—that she still didn’t say it. Didn’t condemn him.

And gods, wasn’t that terrifying?

Because if she wouldn’t damn him… then maybe he’d have to stop doing it himself.

જ⁀➴

𖤝 a/n - PHEW i've read this thing probably about 50 times now and need to post it because I'll never stop adding things ! Thank you for making it all the way to the end, it really means a lot to me!

good news! I am working through part 2 :D please keep your eye out for that! I really hope you enjoyed it, I poured my heart and soul into this one again

oh also, I try to write astarion in a way that aligns most with how vampires/vampire spawn are in the D&D universe... but sometimes I kinda justtttt..... go off script for the sake of emotion, tension, and raw visceral imagery ;)

next chapter

masterlist | ao3 | requests

#bg3 x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 astarion #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fandom critical #bg3 fanfic writers #astarion fanfic

248 notes · View notes

katescorner · 10 months ago

Text

thinking about olympic athlete!oikawa tooru today who made it to the paris olympics, representing argentina (proudly, he might add), and his whole story leading up to the games is full of drama and expectations because of course fate would line things up perfectly for the two nations he held in his heart to rival each other on the world's court.

he hears the cheers of fans and friends along with the jeering boos from the locker room, and he thinks, has he really betrayed his birth country when "home" no longer feels like home? with rising pressure, competition tastes like a bitter word when the opposition is all familiar faces. but he didn't make it this far by being sentimental. he trained for this. he sacrificed for this. he—

"the world is watching, tooru."

your voice is soft, but it cuts through the static of his thoughts. it parts his negativity with gentle movement until all he sees is you, and suddenly, he can breathe again. so he does. he draws in a long, deep breath, and you wait for him to speak to you.

"i'm scared," he whispers. "i don't want to disappoint anyone."

his admission is proof alone of how far he's come already, willing to admit insecurity and allowing vulnerability in difficult moments. oikawa tooru is not the same man he was when he left the land he'd known all his life (leaving claw marks into the grass and ground of his hometown; they forget he was only eighteen when he uprooted himself in the name of his passion) and when he let his mother tongue fall flat so he might have a chance at becoming the best (people forget that learning languages isn't some indirect relationship, when one rises, the other does not always fall; he remembers the words he came from, the intonation and the vocabulary, the slang and the meaning of it all; he remembers, still).

oikawa tooru is not the same man he was when his childhood friends saw him last. he's grown in his time apart from them; they all have. he's miles tallers and his horizons have expanded. he's changed, but that doesn't mean he's a stranger to himself.

(i'm scared they won't recognize me.)

"you are still the person they all befriended and the man i fell in love with, and i am so so proud of you," you answer his underlying question with a kiss to his cheek, a reminder of your love. "you aren't disappointing anyone with your decisions."

"but the people of—"

"the people will cope. they'll have to." you shrug. "what else can they do? what you do isn't up to them. it isn't up to the public because the roster that made it all this way and achieved this much lists oikawa tooru, starting setter, not the guy in the eighth row calling you names, not the displeased broadcaster with a combover, and certainly not anyone else."

you take his hands into yours. you're careful because these are the instruments of his success. his fingernails are always cut short and his skin is soft except for the pads of his fingers which are rough but not calloused. he doesn't let anyone else handle him the way you do, drawing circles and hearts into his palms and pressing kisses into his joints.

"as long as you are happy with the decisions you've made to get here, no one can take that away from you." you look into your fiancé's eyes. "are you happy, tooru?"

and he thinks about the uneasiness he felt landing in argentina, the finality in not buying a return ticket, and the eagerness for volleyball that earned him an easy spot under the guidance of jose blanco. he thinks about the sleep that he lost from being hungry in an unfamiliar country, missing his mother's cooking and the smell of yakitori and takoyaki when he walked down crowded streets filled with vendors.

but he also thinks about the first word that he learned in argentina, hermanito, tossed around during practice when he didn't even know how to ask for a pass because he didn't lose a brotherhood when he left japan, he just gained one in argentina. he thinks about the grueling process of overturning his birth citizenship, the uproar he caused in a country across the globe and the apology he almost let slip for it because everyone thinks it was just for volleyball. oikawa tooru, the athlete who doesn't know loyalty, but what do they know of the open arms he received in argentina when japan turned him away?

he thinks of how stress melted from him that first night after receiving his new passport, walking to your shared apartment with his stomach grumbling at the smell of choripán and alfajor as he hummed along to lamento boliviano. he thinks of how joy spilled into him, realizing he was finally home.

so he nods at your question and he draws stuttered hearts into your palms and he presses a kiss to your temple.

(thank you for seeing who i am.)

"i'm happy."

#the olympics make me emotional sorry #oikawa x reader #oikawa toru x reader #oikawa x you #oikawa toru x you #haikyuu blurbs #haikyuu drabbles #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #hq x you #oikawa drabble #oikawa headcanons #oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa tooru x you #oikawa fanfiction #haikyuu fanfiction #hq fanfic #the olympics

1K notes · View notes

kiwi-on-ice · 11 months ago

Note

Saw your most recent tiktok🤭

Could you do something for Lucio when you get the chance? Please and thank you

First date headcannons with Lucio, Cole Cassidy, Mauga, Lifeweaver, and Genji with gn!reader

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: Fluff, a little suggestive but not too much.

Notes: The ask probably meant NSFW but wanted to write something light while i work on an anon request for Cole Cassidy. Prefer girls? check here

Lucio:

I always think of his valentines day voiceline bless him, he'd be quite nervous to ask you out. If you don't do it for him, he'll most likely want to be traditional and get you flowers before stuttering out an invitation.

Once you've actually said yes, he'll relax a little bit.

Most likely your first date is going to be music related. He won't take you to his own concert, but if there's a concert playing music he knows you'll like he'll take you there.

Alternatively, might take you dancing to show off a little. When he's around music, he feels much more confident so he'll be able to be himself and even be a little flirty.

You might have to put up with people coming up to him for his autograph though. But it'll give him a rush when everyone realises he's on a date with you.

After dancing the night away, he'll probably take you to try some street food. He'll insist on paying, he's a celebrity after all! But he ends up not needing to when the vendors recognise him as the hero who stood up to Vishkar and insist on giving you both what you want free of charge.

Given that the weather is nice, he'll do his best to be respectful and not look at your body too much. However if you're wearing shorts...lord have mercy, they're his weakness.

When you guys part ways, he might cheekily ask for a goodnight kiss but he's happy with anything. Considering how much fun you both had, he's confident you two will go out again sometime.

Feeling the beat of the music, Lucio moves like it's second nature to him. You both laughing and joking as he starts to dance with you, his hands respectful in their placement before he spins you around, making you both laugh again.

"Not bad babe, maybe you should be a backing dancer at my shows." he teases playfully, trying not to let his eyes look down at how your legs look in your shorts. Although with the way you start to move, he isn't sure he can resist the temptation.

Cole Cassidy:

Will ask you out pretty smoothly in conversation, hardly giving you time to process that you've been asked on a date before the cowboy starts to think about his ideas.

Invites you on a hiking trail, giving you both plenty of time to talk and get to know each-other.

He'll do the stereotypical action of taking his hat off when he sees you and gives you a small bow, flustering you a little.

As you walk, he won't initiate physical contact for a while, waiting until you guys cross some sort of stream or rough terrain; he use the opportunity to hold out his hand to help you over, before interlocking his fingers with yours.

Quite easy to talk to, and flirtatious comments seem to roll off his tongue without him meaning to. He'll compliment your outfit and hairstyle, before making comments about how the sun reflects so lovely off your eyes.

Prefers asking you questions and listening to you, he's working on being more emotionally vulnerable and open especially about his past, but it's still difficult for him.

Afterwards, you both will have worked up an appetite, so he'll take you to a diner for a bite to eat. Sitting in a booth, he might teasingly play footsie with you under the table to watch you laugh.

He'll have to get coffee, since he hasn't had his cigar for hours. He didn't want to smoke while on the date, a little concerned you'll find it rude. But towards the end he'll get a little twitchy.

Will offer to pay, southern values and all that.

Will also offer to walk you home, and will definitely come in if you invite him.

Approaching a stream, the running water providing a soothing ambiance as Cole steps forward. He hops over the stream before holding out his hand for you, causing you to giggle.

"What? A cowboy can't be a gentleman?" he teases, as you take his hand and he helps you across, "There you go pumpkin."

Smoothly, he interlocks your fingers, holding your hand tight and gently rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand as you both resume the walk. Looking to his left, he makes some remark about the surroundings to distract himself from the warm feeling in his chest as he feels the heat of your palm against his.

Mauga:

This man is CONFIDENT, he asks you out with his cocky grin almost like he knows you'll say yes.

Wants a relaxing date, so will ask you for drinks at one of his favourite bars.

Once you meet him there, he's nothing if not charming. He lays the compliments on pretty thick, with a cheeky smile that gets wider the more you feel flustered.

He's also hilarious, finding it so rewarding to make you laugh and giggle at his jokes. Isn't afraid to play the part of the fool if it means you'll be entertained.

Is hyper aware of his large size, and while he loves feeling bigger and stronger in the bedroom, in this context don't be surprised if he hunches himself over a bit to make you feel more at ease.

Also don't be surprised if he grips his glass too tight to make it smash, pretending to be hurt worse so you'll dote on him, he likes the attention more than he should.

He has to really restrain himself from getting too handsy with you, he doesn't want to scare you off. But he'll brush his hand against your hair or arm as he speaks.

Most likely will just get up and leave without paying lmao.

And will most certainly invite you to go home with him.

"And someone as pretty as you with a guy like me? People will think i'm payin' ya." he says with a laugh, causing your cheeks to burn as you giggle alongside him. Taking a sip of his drink, his eyes won't leave yours. "Someone as small as you as well, though it ain't hard for someone to be smaller than me."

You can't help but agree with his statement as he hunches over the bar with you, his thigh brushing against yours. He notices, and subtly presses his thigh more into yours, almost manspreading on the bar-stool.

Lifeweaver:

oh my god, the ROMANCE.

Listen I've said before he's the type of nerd to read romance novels and take notes, best believe he's planning the most romantic date he can, especially if he's caught feelings for you.

He'll show up, dressed to the nines with a bouquet of red roses with gold string attaching a little love note and hand them to you. He'll kiss your hand and open the car door for you and drive you to a lovely restaurant.

Most likely booked ahead to score the best table, and told the waiters to make it as romantic as they could.

But despite everything, he's secretly nervous. He planned it all so meticulously in his head, what if it goes wrong?

Not that you'd know his internal panicked monologue with how he treats you, he'd be so complimentary without overdoing it. Charming you with speech about your clothes, hair, everything. Will also start to drop in petnames like 'darling' and 'petal' to see how you react.

Is a little scared to hold your hand cause his hand is a little sweaty from the nerves, so he'll gently trace your fingers with his metal hand instead.

He's paying for the meal, you''ll have probably have guessed that already.

Will take you home and kiss your cheek, but will most likely leave it there. He doesn't want you to think he only wants you physically, so he'll be as respectful as possible.

"Well i assure you, you're the most radiant person in here." Niran says with a soft smile, his eyes tracing up and down your body and face as you sit down. His hair half up, he places his metal hand on the table, gently nudging your hand as if to ask permission.

"But please, order anything you'd like. My treat." he says, almost stuttering when you hold his hand, the cool metal refreshing against your touch. When you thank him and look down at the menu, he releases a breath he didn't realise he was holding. It's going well so far, he thinks, even if he's blown away by how you look all dressed up.

Genji:

bless him, he's also kinda nervous. He used to be a playboy, he never once used to be bothered with asking people out. But after his accident, now that his body is mostly metal, a lot of his confidence has been knocked.

But he'll try to hide it as he suggests an aquarium date. He finds the colours and the marine life quite therapeutic and calming, and hopes you'll feel that way too.

Prefers to stay away from the crowds, standing by the less popular exhibits to talk to you.

Will love to ask about your job, especially if it's more 'mundane' than his. He'll want almost a taste of the normality, something he's never really had in his life.

Will offer to take your picture against the backdrop of the fish tanks, his chest feeling fuzzy as he sees how gorgeous you look.

As you two explore, he'll gently go to hold your hand. When you reciprocate, he won't let go, clinging to your hand like a lifeline.

When you go into the gift shop, he'll surprise you by buying a soft plush toy of a fish or shark behind your back.

Most likely will ask if you want to go back to his, not realising how it sounds until after he's said it, to which he'll quickly reassure you he doesn't expect anything to happen.

"Oh look at those." you say excitedly, tugging him over to the jellyfish exhibit. He of course follows wherever you lead him, his hand firmly gripping yours.

"Here, let me take a picture." he offers, taking your phone and stepping back to get a good angle. You pose, and he swears he stops breathing when he sees your through the phone camera. He has to look at you above the device, mesmerised by how the blue hues reflect on your face.

"Genji? Have you taken the picture?"

464 notes · View notes

imaginespazzi · 1 year ago

Text

This Little Love of Ours

Three times Paige and Azzi didn't go on a date and the one time they did

(In which an alternate universe writer finally returns to writing things in the real universe)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: Fluff and Angst

Words: 5.4K (sighs in *this was meant to be 2K* words)

TW: Light swearing, alludes to sexual content

A/N: Hi lovelies, I'm backkkk!! Gonna keep this short and sweet but this is basically me combining a bunch of prompts/requests into one. There's some creative liberty taken with logistics and as per usual, the editing exists but so do my typos. As always, let me know what you liked and what you didn't, as well as anything you'd like to see going foreward. Happy Juneteenth and I hope y'all have a lovely rest of your week <3

we were just kids (when we fell in love)

The streets of Minsk, Belarus are bursting with light and colour, the summer breeze enveloping the two girls walking riverside as they giggle over everything and nothing. They’re breaking curfew plus a hundred other rules right now and if one of their coaches ever found out, they’d be as good as dead. But there’s something about being out in the open with Azzi, being able to delicately brush palms and not worry about her jolting away in fear of being seen, that has Paige ready to be reckless.

It’s been a year of learning Azzi, a year of discovering the little things that make her smile, a year of memorising the intricate stories that make her who she is. And Paige hides all these little details in a little treasure chest in the corner of her heart, bringing them out like little drops of lights when Azzi’s not by her side, and the darkness feels all-consuming. The thing is, Paige has never been attached to someone like this before, never felt like there was another half she needed to feel whole. She’d been an independent child, walls of steel barricading anyone from getting a glimpse into her vulnerability. For a long time, she’d been fine just living in the façade of being fine. But then she’d met Azzi. And all the walls had gone crashing down and it was okay not to be okay, because now while she held the weight of world, there was somebody there to hold her too.

“Paigeeee,” Azzi squeals with delight, eyes fixated on a van across the road, “there’s an ice cream truck.”

Paige doesn’t get time to react before she’s being pulled along, the wind tornadoing around her body. And yet she feels warm and fuzzy inside, like there’s a blanket with Azzi’s name knitted into it, wrapped around her heart.

“I’ll have the strawberry please,” Azzi smiles politely at the ice cream vendor, eyes sparkling with excitement, “P what are you getting?”

Paige grins, knowing her order is about to earn her a patented eye roll, “I’ll have the mint choc chip please.”

“You’re so weird,” the younger girl scrunches up her face and Paige suddenly has the urge to kiss her nose.

They both know that they’re living inbetween blurred lines, on a trapeze balanced between friends and something more. It had been a whispered conversation of have you ever kissed a girl? do you wanna kiss a girl? do you wanna kiss me? that had led to a kiss Paige swears can never be topped, but they hadn’t spoken about it again. With them living in separate states, it had been easy to ignore that, that had ever even happened, both of them skilled players at the game of pretend. But it’s different now they’re back in each other’s orbit and every touch seems to linger on Paige’s skin long after Azzi’s hands have left her own.

“You have no taste. It’s sooooo good,” Paige chides, making a show of licking her ice cream. When she looks at Azzi, she’s not expecting the way the shooting guard’s eyes have glazed over, fixated on Paige’s lips as she swallows nervously. An unfamiliar shiver tickles down Paige’s skin as they stand in silence, the air thick with a new tension.

“It’s green,” Azzi says finally, voice coming out breathless, “that’s enough for me to know it tastes bad.”

“Don’t knock it til you taste it,” the blond holds out her cone as an invitation.

When Azzi steps into Paige space, much closer than needed, she’s expecting Azzi to take the cone. She’s expecting that familiar jolt of electricity when their hands accidentally brush. Instead she feels herself being mesmerised by Azzi’s face getting closer and closer til she can feel the younger girl’s breath fanning her face. She gulps, as Azzi presses her lips to the corner of Paige’s mouth, tongue darting out for the briefest of seconds before she’s pulling away. And despite the cool of the ice cream, every part of Paige feels like it’s burning.

“I was wrong. Guess it tastes pretty good,” Azzi whispers, biting her lip.

“You-I-what-” Paige splutters, struggling to form a coherent thought.

Azzi giggles, clearly proud of herself “Paige Bueckers speechless? Who thought I’d ever see the day?”

“You’re a fucking menace.”

“And proud of it.”

There’s the clichéd spring in Paige’s step as they continue to walk by the river. She shifts her ice cream cone to her left hand, letting the other one entangle with Azzi’s fingers. It’s nothing, the most mundane of things to hold her best friend’s hand, but it feels exhilarating, like it’s the start of something special. Determined, she tugs on Azzi’s hand to pull them to a stop. The Minsk waterfront dazzles behind them but Paige swears nothing’s glowing brighter than two of them in this moment.

“Why are we stopping?” Azzi asks, eyebrows raised quizzically.

Paige smirks, a new surge of confidence taking birth in her stomach, “I wanted to try your ice cream too. You got a taste of mine, it’s only fair I get a taste of yours.”

“Is that so?” Azzi hums, pressing herself against Paige, “too bad it seems like I’ve finished my cone then.”

“Yeah too fucking bad,” Paige agrees before crashing her lips against Azzi’s.

***

Paige is exhausted at breakfast the next morning, barely registering the conversations that are buzzing around her. Her eyes are drooping from the lack of sleep and there’s a dull pounding in her head but she has no regrets. Last night had been everything. She can still feel every moment pulsating through her veins, her heart beating to the rhythm of Azzi Azzi Azzi. The younger girl hasn’t appeared for breakfast yet and Paige is itching to see her. They’ve been separated for barely a couple of hours, reluctantly heading to their own rooms after they’d gotten back, and Paige swears she’d missed the girl even in her sleep.

“You got back late last night,” Cameron teases, sticking out a fork of fruit in Paige’s direction, “you two must have had a good time.”

“Yeah,” there’s a rare shyness in Paige’s tone, “yeah we had a great time.”

“Oooh are we talking about Paige and Azzi’s date last night?” Aliyah cuts in, a smirk playing on her lips.

“It wasn’t a date,” Paige counters, suddenly feeling oddly defensive “it- it was nothing.”

Cam raises an eyebrow, “it seemed like a date.”

“Well it wasn’t. It definitely was not a date.”

“You guys heard her,” Azzi's voice makes Paige freeze, something akin to guilt pooling in her stomach, “it definitely was not a date.”

Cam and Aaliyah raise their hands in surrender, turning back to whatever conversation they were engaged in before. Paige gulps as Azzi sits down in the empty spot next to her, body rigid.

“I didn’t- I didn’t mean it like that-”

“Paige it’s fine. I get it.”

“You- you do?” Paige doesn't entirely know how Azzi can get it, not when Paige doesn’t even really get it herself.

Azzi shrugs with fake nonchalance, “yeah, yeah I do and it’s okay. You’re right. It wasn’t a date.”

And it wasn’t. At least not by name. Paige knows that. Apparently Azzi knows it too. But everything about that feels wrong. Underneath the table, their hands intertwine subconsciously. Neither of them react. Neither of them pull away. It’s the start of something unspoken, something complicated, something beautiful and fragile and so, so volatile, something that’ll take them years to understand.

2. this all or nothing way of loving (got me sleeping without you)

paige bueckers has posted a new story to her close friends

Azzi fights the twitch in her hand that wants to reach out and grab her phone when that notification flashes on her screen. She musters up another fake smile at her date, hoping the girl in front of her hasn’t noticed the change in her demeanour. It’s ridiculous the way her body reacts to the most simple things when it comes to Paige. She hates it, hates the way it seems like she has no control over herself when it comes to the blonde.

“Do you need to get that?” Anika asks, voice sweet as honey as she smiles at Azzi

“No, no it’s just an insta notification. Nothing important. You were saying,” Azzi brushes it off, trying to keep her voice nonchalant. Anika seems satisfied with that as she returns back to telling Azzi about something her sister had done. Fidgeting in her seat, Azzi tries her hardest to keep her focus on the brunette, but her mind is whirring with curiosity about what Paige might have posted.

The opportunity presents itself a couple of minutes laters, when Anika slides out of her seat to go to the bathroom. It’s a little embarrassing how quickly Azzi beelines for her phone, clicking on Paige’s story and immediately wishing she hadn’t. Anger and jealousy tighten their grip on her as she’s met with a picture of a caramel skinned, curly haired girl smiling at the camera, staring at Paige behind it, with that oh so familiar look of adoration. The text on the image reads in good company and Azzi feels bile rising up her throat. And she’s not allowed to feel this way, not when she and Paige had both agreed to turn their something into nothing but every day since that decision has felt a little bit like someone twisting a dagger into her heart, piercing further and further until she has no more blood left to bleed.

She doesn’t notice Anika’s made her way back until she feels a warm hand on her shoulder, looking up to find concerned green eyes staring down at her, “you okay?”

“Yeah,” Azzi nods with a sense of calm she doesn’t feel, “you okay with me showing you off a bit?”

It’s a dangerous game she’s about to play, one of jealous retaliation that she knows will only make her feel better for a brief second before all the pain will flood back. But she reaches for her phone anyways, fighting the voices of logic and reason (that sound oddly similar to Colleen) in her head and instead giving into impulse. Anika beams at the camera, throwing up a peace sign, and Azzi’s heart stutters with guilt at how sincere her smile is. She snaps the picture, captioning it with date night <3 and clicks post to close friends. Her heart beats erratically as she places her phone back on the table, trying to tune back into Anika’s conversation. It takes approximately three minutes for her phone to flash again.

paige bueckers has posted a new story to her close friends

This time Azzi doesn’t bother fighting the urge to look, a new adrenaline pumping through her veins. It’s a mirror selfie this time. The girl has her back pressed against Paige’s front as they pose in front of the bathroom mirror. Paige has one hand holding her phone while the other is sprawled against the other girl’s waist, where a silver belly button piercing shimmers against tan skin. There’s no text this time, just a red heart and that Paige-shaped hole in Azzi’s heart is starting to get larger and larger.

“You wanna take a walk?” Azzi asks Anika, tearing her eyes away from the phone, “it’s nice outside.”

Anika smiles, rising from her seat and holding out a hand that Azzi gladly takes. It would be easier, Azzi thinks, if she could just fall in love with this girl. Someone less complicated, someone who had less power over her, someone who was here. But it’s a futile dream, her heart is spoken for and Azzi doesn’t think she’ll ever get it back.

It's a beautiful winter night outside and there’s a pretty girl holding her hand. That’s all Azzi should be thinking about. Instead, her mind is stuck on the image from before and it’s that vision, welded behind her eyelids, that has her taking a picture of her and Anika’s intertwined hands. As she types out the caption, one that feels way too deep for a first date, Azzi can’t help but roll her eyes at herself. She can’t remember the last time she’d posted a story, let alone two in a row and now here she is, posting inauthentic story after story to win a losing game.

paige bueckers has posted a new story to her close friends

This time there’s at least 10 minutes before Azzi’s phone flashes with that notification again. Next to Azzi, Anika lets out a sigh, starting to become less amiable to the idea of her date constantly checking her phone. Azzi shoots her an apologetic look before her expression quickly turns stone cold at seeing the new picture. It’s a haphazardly taken, slightly pixelated, photo of Paige smiling and the girl kissing her cheek. And if Azzi was in any mood to analyse just a little further she’d notice that Paige’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, isn’t quite as wide as her real one. But there’s green fog clouding her judgement as she seethes internally, Anika’s soft touch doing nothing to calm her down. Tapping on Paige’s profile, Azzi fingers hover over the three dots on the upper left, as her petty side begins to take over.

And then she hits block.

***

“How was your date?” Paige’s mocking voice rings throughout Azzi’s childhood bedroom at almost 2 in the morning. She shouldn’t have answered the facetime call, should’ve held out for longer than just three missed calls and twelve angry texts. But Azzi has long realised that she’s putty when it comes to Paige.

“How’s your girlfriend,” Azzi bites back.

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Right,” Azzi draws out the word with an eyeroll, “how’s your fuck buddy then?”

Paige closes her eyes, rubbing her temples. When she opens them, the angry hard-to-read Paige that she’s been dealing with for the last month is replaced by Azzi’s soft, sweet and vulnerable Paige. Being apart after having been together all through lockdown has been harder than either of them could have imagined. They’d just assumed it would be easy when Paige finally left for UConn, after all most of their relationship had been built while living in different states. But somewhere in between workouts at 6 am and movie nights with Azzi’s family, they’d gotten used to living in each other’s skin, forgetting just how difficult it was to be apart from each other.

“I miss you,” Paige whispers, “all the time. I can’t wait til you’re here.”

I miss you too, so much that sometimes it’s the only thing I feel, Azzi thinks and really it’s what she should say, instead the bitterness wins out, “why? So I can see you and that girl being all coupley in person instead of just on instagram?”

“That’s not fair, Azzi. You said you wanted to be just friends for now. You said I should try with other people and now you wanna throw that back in my face?”

“It was mutual-”

“Bullshit,” Paige sneers, “don’t try and put that shit on me. You made the decision and I just went along with it.”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t have then,” Azzi says exasperatedly, blinking her eyes rapidly to keep tears threatening to fall at bay. They fall into silence, staring at each other through the screen with identical expressions of only you can hurt me, only you can heal me. Azzi wishes she could reach through her phone, pull Paige into her world and melt into the older girl.

“What do you want from me Az?” Paige asks softly.

I just want you, Azzi thinks miserably. She wants to be beg Paige to end things with that other girl, wants Paige to tell her not go on anymore dates, want to go back to being something, but she can’t, not when she’s convinced herself that they need do this, go through a phase of being nothing, so that they can be everything someday. This whole idea had taken birth in her head out of the fear that this- the two of them not knowing anything but each other- would eventually lead to resentment, that they- that Paige- would wake up one day and realise there was so much more the world had to offer. So now Azzi’s playing the long game, trying to believe in the clichéd year old adage that you have to let the people you love go, and if they come back, they’re yours. And she hopes against hope that Paige will come back, because Azzi doesn't think she’ll survive anything else.

“I’m sorry,” Azzi whispers, instead of voice the other thoughts dancing on the tip of her tongue, “I’m sorry I’m being unfair.”

Paige’s eyes soften, “can we just- can we just talk about something else?”

And they do. They talk all night about everything and nothing, falling asleep to the sound of each other’s breathing. It’s that same nightly routine neither of them can fall asleep without. Because even if they’re both drowning in a sea of unspoken words, at least they’re sinking together, perhaps there’s some comfort in that.

3. you make me smile (please stay for a while now)

Azzi stares at her reflection in the mirror for what feels like the thousandth time. She’s a bundle of nervous energy as she pats down her neatly ironed mini-skirt, adjusting her already perfectly-set crop top. It’s a little bit like how she feels before stepping on the court, dizzy with both nerves and excitement in anticipation. By all technicalities, this isn’t their first date. There’s probably friends and family who would argue this is closer to be their millionth or so date but nothing has ever been official. It just means more.

She jumps a little when the doorbell rings at exactly 7 p.m. sharp, taking in a deep breath, before she opens the door. Paige stands outside in black pants with a black crop top and a multicolor cardigan, and a bouquet of pink roses in her hands. It takes Azzi about two seconds to realise that something’s wrong. Paige’s eyes are a feverish red and her smile is tired; it’s her all too familiar Paige is sick demeanour that Azzi’s quick to recognize after years of having seen it. The blonde opens her mouth to say something and instead all that comes out is a series of loud sneezes.

“Oh baby,” Azzi gives her a sympathetic smile, reaching out to feel Paige’s forehead and then narrowing her head when she feels the heat, “P-”

“I’m fine,” Paige cuts her off, her voice gravelly, “just allergies.”

Azzi crosses her arms, knowing she’s about to deal with a petulant child, “I don’t think so. You’re clearly sick.”

“I don’t-,” Paige tries to disguise the cough in between her sentences, “-get sick.”

“Sure you don’t,” Azzi nods, as she tugs Paige inside, grabbing the flowers and setting them aside. Paige lets out grunts of protest, but her body is clearly too tired to fight back as Azzi guides them into her room. She goes into her closet first, finding an oversized shirt for Paige to change into.

“You know the getting undressed part comes after the date right?” Paige raises an eyebrow, practically glaring at the t-shirt

“We’re not going on a date.”

“WHAT? Dude I’m fine. I have a reservation and everything,” Paige whines in between coughs as she watches Azzi rummage through her drawers for medication, “it’s our first date. I had plans.”

“I’m not going on a date with you looking all snotty and congested like that.”

Azzi suppresses a laugh at Paige’s offended sequel, “what happened to sickness and health?”

“Pretty sure that’s a marriage thing,” she hands Paige the pills and a glass of water, that the older girl obediently takes.

“Well we’re eventually gonna get married so you need to get used to that,” it’s said so casually, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, but it steals Azzi’s breath away, the words carving themselves into the walls of her heart. Sometimes she wonders if Paige understands the gravity of the things she says, understands how they make every part of Azzi come alive with hope for their future. She shies away from a smirking Paige, trying to hide the blush that’s creeping up her neck.

“Just- just get changed,” she manages to stutter out.

“I,” sneeze, “don’t,” cough, “want” sneeze, “to.”

“Paige.”

“Azzi.”

“You have to get better P or coach will kill us both if you end up missing practice.”

“Going on a date with you would make me feel better.”

“Okay,” Azzi sighs, realising she needs to change tactics, “we’ll make a compromise. You’re gonna change-” she raises a hand when Paige tries to interrupt, “you’re gonna change and lie down, and if you don’t fall asleep in the next 10 minutes, we’ll go on the date.”

Paige’s eyebrows furrow in concentration as she mulls it over, before a scheming glint appears in her eyes, “okay but on one condition,” her grabby hands reach for Azzi’s waist, a soft smile playing on her chapped lips, “you have to lie down with me.”

Azzi rolls her eyes fondly, letting the blonde pull her into her arms, her own hands encircling Paige’s back as the older girl snuggles into her neck with a content sigh. This is her happy place. In any room, anywhere, as long as she’s cocooned in Paige’s embrace, there’s a sense of serenity that seems to flood into Azzi’s veins.

“I could fall asleep here,” Paige murmurs, hot breath fanning against Azzi’s collarbone, “you’re so comfortable.”

Azzi shakes her head, trying to physically manoeuvre Paige onto the bed which only elicits a smirk against her skin.

“If you wanted me in your bed Az, you could have just asked,” the older girl wiggles her eyebrows, earning her a small push from Azzi as Paige drags them both down into a mess of limbs and pillows. Cerulean blue eyes stare up at Azzi, a little bloodshot from the impending fever, but still blisteringly brilliant with love. It scares Azzi sometimes, to see all that emotion swimming in Paige’s eyes, all for her and it scares her even more to know that same pool of you’re it for me is reflected in her own too. Sometimes she worries they’re too young for this, too young to feel so much but then Paige smiles, and all of Azzi’s doubt flies away as she lets herself believe in forever.

***

Paige doesn’t even really make it past five minutes, her sick body giving into the tiredness as she cuddles into Azzi, arms splayed over the younger girl's torso, as she keeps her head buried in her shoulder. There’s a content smile on her face as Azzi continues to run her hands through silky blond hair, brushing out tiny knots and waiting a couple of minutes, before she detaches herself from her girlfriend and heads to the kitchen. She’s not the greatest of chefs, but she’d like to think she’s skilled enough to try and make something that at least resembles chicken noodle soup.

Azzi’s almost done when she feels a blanket being wrapped around her, two arms coming to wrap around her waist as she feels the weight of Paige’s chest pressed against her back, the older girl's head coming to rest in the crook of Azzi’s neck.

“You’re already awake,” Azzi whispers, leaning her head back so she can brush her lips against Paige’s temple.

Paige grunts, her voice nasally when she speaks, “you left and I was cold.”

“I have like three blankets on my bed you could’ve used.”

“Don’t wanna use blankets. Wanna use you,” Paige whispers, pressing a kiss to Azzi’s neck, making the younger girl shiver, “you’re much warmer.”

“Go pick out a movie to watch, I’m almost done with this.”

She can’t see it but Azzi can practically feel Paige’s raised eyebrows, as she dramatically sniffs the air, “you cooked? Babe I’m already sick, are you trying to get me sicker?”

“Wow. I slave over the kitchen for you for hours-”

“Maybe half-”

“HOURS! And you have the audacity to question my cooking when all you can make is buffalo chicken dip?”

“Hey, you love my buffalo chicken dip.”

“You keep telling yourself that baby.”

“It’s not nice to be mean to your sick girlfriend,” Paige snickers as she makes her way to the couch in Azzi’s room.

“So you admit you’re sick then?”

“Only sick to my stomach at whatever you’re gonna feed me.”

Azzi rolls her eyes, pouring the soup into a bowl. She secretly loves when they get like this. It’s a reminder that no matter what other label they eventually put on their relationship, Paige will always be her best friend first. As soon as Azzi sits down on the couch, Paige is all over her, knowing exactly how to shrink her body so that all 6’0 of her fits perfectly on her girlfriend’s lap. This is Azzi’s favourite version of Paige really, the soft vulnerable babygirl that’s only for Azzi’s eyes, a far cry from the ultimate rizzler the rest of the world sees.

“Feed me,” Paige pouts and Azzi shakes her head fondly but does as she’s asked, holding a spoonful of chicken noodle soup in front of Paige’s mouth.

“Thought you were scared of my cooking?”

“Oh I am but the things we do for love,” the blonde says dramatically before letting Azzi feed her, “huh, that’s not half bad baby.”

“High compliments,” Azzi says mock-seriously, as she tries her own spoonful, “oh I kinda ate that.”

They both dissolve into giggles at that, falling into a comfortable conversation as Azzi takes turns feeding both herself and Paige, the dull rumbling of some random movie behind them.

“You’re always taking care of me,” Paige says softly after a while, hand caressing Azzi’s left arm as she lies against her chest, feeling her heartbeat underneath her fingertips.

“Someone has to,” Azzi presses her lips to Paige’s hair, “you take care of everyone else and I take care of you.”

“Sorry I ruined our date but trust, I’mma make it up to you,” Paige mumbles sleepily, digging herself further into Azzi’s arms if that’s even possible.

“I’m sure you will baby.”

“I love you.”

“Love you more P.”

And if in two days, Azzi’s the one that’s sick and Paige’s attempt at making chicken noodle soup goes even worse, well, let’s just say it’s a good thing they have NIL deals and can afford a chef in the future.

4. me i fall in love with you every single day (and i just wanna tell you i am)

“Where are you taking me?” Azzi giggles, hands outstretched as she tries to navigate the path in front of her, despite being blindfolded. The salty sea air brushes through her hair, as she places one foot in front of another, letting Paige’s hands on her waist guide her across the cruise ship.

“Be patient, we’re almost there,” Paige whispers against her ear, nervous anticipation building in her stomach. She’s been planning this night from the moment they’d booked the cruise tickets, wanting everything to be as near to perfect as possible. The thing is, they’ve been on plenty of dates, some even before they’d officially started calling them dates. But most of those dates have had to be carefully constructed away from prying eyes, their hands itching to hold the others but forced to dangle by their sides so they could keep up a façade in public, that this was just friends hanging out. The cruise is the perfect spot for a private date, one where Paige wouldn’t have to keep her hands to herself, not that she’s done a good job of that the whole trip anyway. But she’s found the perfect secret spot and spent just a little bit of money, to make sure the other cruise goers wouldn’t bother them tonight.

“Are we there yet?” Azzi whines and Paige can’t help but laugh, finally pulling them to a stop.

“So impatient,” she tuts as she finally pulls away Azzi’s satin pink blindfold.

“Yes well I’m star-oh…” Azzi blinks, eyes adjusting to the light as they flitter over her surroundings, the words being stolen from her lips as an awed look takes over her features, “Paige.”

“You like?” Paige bites her lips nervously.

“Do I like? Baby, this is beautiful,” tears sparkle in Azzi’s eyes as she loops her arms around Paige’s neck, “it’s perfect.”

They’re standing on the bow of the cruise ship. In the distance, the island they’re docked at, is illuminated by lights, making it shimmer against the dark night sky. A table for two sits at the helm of the ship, adorned in a purple velvet table cloth. There are candles and pink and white rose petals scattered all across the floor, with a small path carved out in between so they can walk to the table. On the table, there’s a customised crystal centrepiece with their names carved into it and inside it is a bouquet made of pictures of them. It’s a little cliché really, especially for two people whose path to each other had been anything but traditional but all Paige has ever wished for is a moment of normalcy with Azzi, a moment where they’re not star players, just two girls in love, enjoying a typical date night, a moment where they’re just PaigeAndAzzi.

“When did you even have time to plan all of this?” Azzi marvels out loud, as Paige pulls out a chair for her.

“I have my ways,” the blonde says with a smirk, taking a seat opposite her girlfriend and reaching to entwine their hands together.

“You didn’t have to do this P.”

Paige shrugs, “I wanted to. We deserve this.”

Azzi nods, squeezing Paige’s hand because god knows they do deserve this. It’s been a hellish year if they’re honest. The highs had been wonderful but the lows, god the lows had felt like the ground being pulled from beneath their feet as they gripped each other, holding onto the only thing in their lives that felt like a reprieve from the darkness that swirled around them. And really that’s it Paige thinks, life can throw whatever it wants at her, but as long as she has Azzi, she’ll learn to survive it.

“You wanna dance?” Paige asks, when they’ve finally finished eating, somehow managing to find a way to hold hands throughout the whole three course meal. As if on cue, a violin quartet appears onto the deck, and Azzi laughs at the coincidence. It’s Paige’s favourite sound in the whole wide world.

“You’re such a sap,” Azzi teases fondly as she lets Paige lead them onto the floor, “how many romcoms did you watch to come up with this whole thing?”

“Dude, are you doubting my abilities to come up with a perfect date?”

“I would never,” Azzi swears, leaning her cheek against Paige’s, “but seriously Bueckers, you’ve outdone yourself.”

The melody of “thinking out loud” on the violin with the light thrum of the sounds of the wind and the ocean, creates the perfect orchestra for them to sway to, as they press every inch of themselves into each other, trying to lose themselves in the other’s arm. That feeling of home, a resounding peace, echoes throughout Paige’s skull and she thinks if there was ever a memory she’d want to replay over and over again, it would be this one.

“I’m gonna miss this,” Paige whispers, “being with you like this?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“No I know- I just- I like being able to be us in public like we have this last week. I like not pretending.”

“What if-,” Azzi pulls back a little, eyes locking with Paige’s, “what if we didn’t pretend?”

Paige searches for a shred of hesitance in Azzi’s face, but finds nothing but complete resoluteness and a grin breaks out on her own face, “what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that even if we don’t say anything, maybe we don’t have to try and hide everything all the time either. I’m saying,” Azzi bites her lips, shyly smiling, “if you wanna hold my hand when we’re in public sometimes, you- you can if- if you want to.”

“I really, really, really want to,” Paige breathes against the brunette’s lips, hands rubbing circles against her waist.

“Good,” Azzi whispers back, “because I really, really, really want you to.”

#pazzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #wcbb

479 notes · View notes

totallyxtaurus · 4 months ago

Text

I just want you to know who I am 🏮

Summary: What if Sylus had kept going to all those lantern festivals in hopes you'd be there and what would he do if you actually were. Pairing: Sylus x gn reader A/N: Um hi! I haven't written a "fanfic" since middle school so this has me super uncomfortable and feeling especially vulnerable since I am VERY out of practice. I've only been writing academic papers for the past four+ years and while I've taken a couple creative writing courses I just felt subpar compared to my peers and I stopped writing fiction completely. However, I maladaptive daydream constantly and Sylus + music is a really good source of creativity for me. I have a part two in mind but we'll see! So, my awkward ramblings aside, I hope you enjoy! ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

“Boss, we found them. Apparently, they’re residing in Linkon,” the twins reported as they placed the manila folder on his desk. Sylus, not sparing them a glance, grunts softly in recognition keeping focused on his task at hand. However, a fire fueled by hope kindles in his heart at the news, radiating warmth through his chest, as if gently urging him to surrender to its pull. He opened the folder and began to read the information in front of him. Still, nothing matched the description he had given. Heaving a sigh, the flame of hope dampened, Sylus notices a note on the document about the upcoming lantern festival. He pauses, wondering if, regardless of the accuracy of the information he has, you might be there.

The sky had already grown dark, and fireworks echoed in the distance. The smell of delicious food permeated the air and the bright lights of millions of lanterns strung up and decorated every inch of the ground burned into Sylus’s retinas. Yet, he continued to press on. He’s been walking around for hours, taking in every sight and smell, but also searching for anyone who might be you. Anyone with the same color hair or stature as you once had. His trained eye sought out anyone who laughed in a similar octave you had, scrutinizing each face, hoping he finally found you. But every time, it led to that same emptiness cradled deep in the core of his being—the part of you still trapped there, lying dormant.

That was… how many years ago now? Sylus had lost count of how long he’d returned to Linkon’s lantern festival. Each time a failure, each time dimming the flame of hope that once burned at the mention of Linkon City. Yet, it was that time of year again when the festival would commence, just as it always did. This would be the last time Sylus participated, finally deciding to give up the search for you—for good. The same sights, sounds, and smells that once sparked curiosity in Sylus, now suffocate him. What had once been a world of wonder distorts into a stifling prison, each sensation now nauseating, a reminder of the weight that has settled on him.

Up and down the same aisles, back and forth through familiar stalls, Sylus drifts through the festival on autopilot, visiting the vendors he’s known for years. Each one greets him with a warmth that feels strangely foreign, their smiles are tinged with an apprehension he can’t ignore. That same apprehension had followed him ever since he first started coming to the festival—whether it was the stolen glances of passersby or the blatant gawking of children. Sylus knows he sticks out like a sore thumb, but he ignores it, continuing his monotonous stroll.

He stops in his tracks, taking in the scene before him—a child wailing over what sounds like a lost hand puppet. Sylus glances down at the lion head puppet resting in his hand and kneels to offer it to the child. The crying halts instantly, and wary yet sparkling eyes look up at him. The parents, overwhelmed with gratitude, profusely thank him before ushering their child along. As he straightens up, a familiar floral fragrance hits him. His heart races. His head snaps left and right, his body swiveling desperately as he searches for the source. He knows that scent—it sparks the fire within him, a fire that ignites and pulses through his entire body. Without thinking, his legs begin moving, drawn by a golden trail of light that weaves through the reddish-black mist around him. It’s guiding him. It’s guiding him to you. You’re actually here.

Also, in case anyone is like me and is interested in knowing the inspiration behind pieces of writing. This is the song I was listening to while writing and titling this! 💗

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #sylus x reader #lads fanfic #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus love and deepspace #sylus x mc #i tried to be culturally sensitive and did a lot of research on what an actual lantern festival would look like so i hope it's okay #🥲#Spotify #gn reader #x gn reader

125 notes · View notes

fanged-fanfics · 7 months ago

Note

Hello! I hope you’re doing good! I’m not sure if this has been done yet, but I got an idea for a fluff (possibly a pinch of angst?) scenario!:

Any, all or two of the traffic light trio sillies (Mei, Red Son, MK), with an s/o GN!reader that’s an experienced healer who takes care of them after a tough battle against a monster of your choosing. Maybe they have a heartfelt conversation afterwards, or during the process of patching them up, about getting themselves in danger for the sake of saving the world? 👀

Been thinking a lot about this since s5 lmao. Haven’t fully recovered yet 💀

🍜💛 Healing a Trio —🐉💚 Traffic Light Trio x GN Healer!Reader HCs 🔥❤️

Genres: Fluff || they/them pronouns for reader || No warnings needed

₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆˚｡⋆୨🍜🐉🔥୧⋆˚｡⋆✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ . ݁˖

- It had been a fight with a huge hawk demon, one that MK was pretty confident he could take, especially cause Mei could use her bike to move closer to the threat. Red Son was roped in by circumstance, begrudgingly working with the heroes to defeat the threat. The attack was a surprise, so there wasn't much the Trio was prepared to do. Once it finally ended, they were sufficiently scratched, scuffed, battered, and bruised

- The three had come to you a little hesitantly. They didn't like feeling like they were bothering you, especially because these always ended in some deep conversations about the nature of self-sacrafice and priorities. When you'd opened your door to the three and allowed them in without many questions, they filed in, MK and Mei attempting lighthearted jokes right off the bat to diffuse tension

- MK, for as much as he gets hurt, sucks at getting patched up. He hisses and writhes if the topical medicine stings, yelping and whining at the unpleasant sensations. He's a very dramatic patient, but a very talkative one as well

- He tells you about the fight, reassuring you that he already remembers the conversations you'd both had before about these things. He's not exactly happy having to sit still while getting bandaids and bandages applied, but he's obviously still proud of his victory

- He's more quiet when you're closer, focusing on the feeling of your hands on his skin, the gentle and reliable touch providing a sense of safety and warmth. He feels his heart swell seeing the determined expression you have while working, and little flutters when you occasionally banter back. This routine between you was familiar, it was comforting. He felt safe under your care

- Mei, meanwhile, is also a pretty passionate speaker, but much less of a whiner than MK. Her problems are mostly just squirming from being hyperactive and wound up on adrenaline, frequently trying to hop off of your workbench to demonstrate a move

- Your gentle chastising with Mei is unique, specifically taking time to address how she feels being on the sideline of missions these days, and having to hold things together for MK most of the time. She feels like she can have that full honesty with you, your complete confidentiality and understanding helping to hold her together

- She flirts with you more openly than the other two. Any time you're close enough, she points out something about your face to compliment. She offers to help you do small things, asking questions about your job and what kinda stuff you see outside of the Monkey Crew

- Red Son, like the others, is a talker. His ramblings are closer to ranting and raving, and outside of waving his arms or doing grand dramatic gestures, he's more still than the other two

- Conversations about his family are what come up most often, when he isn't bragging about his villainy or latest attacks on the town. More recently he's been talking a lot about working as a food vendor. It's nice to see him happy about something that doesn't come from malicious intent

- He allows himself to show past his anger and be more vulnerable with you. He's a hint softer, a little more willing to be honest and open with you. He loves your willingness to do this for them, and he tells you frequently how much he admires you and your work

- The three usually stick around for a few hours after each appointment, talking with you and telling you about everything you my have missed in their lives. They treasure their individual time with you, and Mei and MK especially try to hype you up all the time to show their thanks

- They invite you out every once in a while to have some hangouts without medicine or injury in the picture. They introduce you as a vital member of the team to others and get protective of you during battles

225 notes · View notes

squidsquidsquidsquidsquidgame · 4 months ago

Text

Do you...think I'm cute?

character: Thanos X fem!reader

Summary: Someone calls him cute in public. He looks horrified. Later, when you’re alone, he nudges you and quietly asks, “Do you… think I’m cute?”

Warnings: none🦑🦑

You had been out running errands together, the city bustling around you as you and Thanos weaved through the crowd. He was typically calm and collected, but today he seemed especially distant. You didn’t mind; you enjoyed his company regardless of his mood. As you passed a street vendor, a young woman smiled and gave him a once-over, her eyes twinkling. “You’re so cute!” she exclaimed, much to your surprise. The words hit Thanos like a punch, and his entire demeanor shifted. His jaw clenched, and his usual scowl deepened. He didn’t respond to the compliment, instead glancing at the ground, clearly uncomfortable.

You tried not to laugh, but it was hard to miss the way his cheeks flushed slightly, the little crinkle at the corner of his eyes betraying how horrified he felt. The woman walked away, oblivious to his reaction, and you could feel the tension in him. It was a side of Thanos you didn’t often see.

Once you two had gotten far enough down the street, he finally spoke, his voice a low murmur. “I don’t do cute.” He sounded almost defensive, as if trying to reassure himself more than you.

You looked up at him, an amused smile tugging at your lips. “You know,” you said lightly, “there are worse things to be called than cute.”

Thanos just gave you a stiff nod, clearly not convinced. The rest of the day passed uneventfully, but you could tell the comment still weighed on his mind. Later that evening, after dinner, the two of you settled on the couch, the hum of the city outside barely audible through the thick walls of your apartment. You leaned against him, your head resting on his shoulder as you flicked through a show on the TV. He seemed to relax now that the day had ended, his earlier discomfort forgotten in the quiet of your shared space.

Then, almost out of nowhere, he nudged you gently. His voice was quieter than usual, hesitant even. “Do you… think I’m cute?”

You blinked, taken aback by the question. The sheer vulnerability in his tone caught you off guard, and for a moment, you couldn’t help but smile. You’d seen this side of him before—the deep, almost reluctant vulnerability that he only ever showed around you. “Thanos,” you said softly, lifting your head to look at him. “You’re way more than cute. But if it helps, yeah, I think you're pretty cute.”

He glanced at you, his eyes softening just a fraction, though his trademark scowl still remained in place. "Don’t let anyone else hear you say that,” he muttered, though there was the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips. You chuckled and snuggled into his side again, knowing that, despite his protests, Thanos was secretly pleased by your answer. "Your secret’s safe with me," you whispered.

#squid game season 2 #squid game #squid game imagines #squid game 2 #squid game headcanons #squid game x y/n #squid game netflix #thanos headcanons #thanos squid game #thanos x you #thanos x reader #thanos x y/n #choi subong #thanos

106 notes · View notes

passengerprincessblog · 7 months ago

Text

“Intern” - Pt 2 Max Verstappen x reader

Summary: On race day, Y/N finds herself exhausted from a chaotic morning, only to be pulled back into Max’s orbit after his frustrating third-place finish. While delivering a post-race message to him, Y/N notices a crack in his usual arrogant demeanor, revealing a vulnerability she’s never seen before.

Race day is chaos—unrelenting, loud, and full of an energy I haven’t quite learned to navigate yet. From the moment I stepped into the garage that morning, Adam had me running papers, fetching forms, double-checking interviews, and troubleshooting issues I wasn’t even sure I understood. My head feels heavy, my feet ache, and the race hasn’t even started yet.

I manage to steal a moment to myself, slipping away from the suffocating frenzy of the garage to the hospitality area meant for the general public. The crowd is massive today, buzzing with excitement, and the energy radiates into the air like static. I weave through the sea of fans, my head down, my nerves steadying slightly as I finally grab a coffee.

It’s not great, a little too bitter, but it’s hot, and I savor the moment. Walking past the rows of motorhomes, I can’t help but admire the setups—the flags, the sleek exteriors, and the buzz of people that surround each team. It’s the kind of thing I used to dream about when watching F1 on TV, but living it is something else entirely.

“Where’d you get that?” a familiar voice calls out, pulling me from my thoughts.

I glance up to see Lando Norris striding toward me, a teasing smirk plastered across his face.

I smile back. “Out there,” I reply, motioning toward the exit where the fans and food vendors are.

He raises his eyebrows, looking mock-impressed. “Wow. You actually ventured all the way out there?” His voice is full of playful disbelief, and I can’t help but laugh softly.

“Shut up,” I say, my face heating up as I remember how much I’ve mentioned avoiding crowds before. It’s not that I hate them—I just don’t love being in the thick of things.

Lando chuckles, nudging my shoulder lightly. “No, seriously. I’m proud of you. Growth.”

“Thanks, I guess,” I reply, rolling my eyes at him.

For a moment, he watches me with an amused smile, but his expression softens slightly. “You seem busier than usual. Saw you running around the media pen yesterday—looked intense.”

I shrug, suddenly aware of how tired I must look. “Yeah, my boss has me helping out more this weekend,” I explain, glancing around at the bustling space. My eyes catch on a familiar figure a few meters away, and my stomach twists uncomfortably.

Max is standing with his arms crossed, looking my way. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something sharp in his gaze that makes my heart skip. Quickly, I look away, focusing back on Lando, who seems oblivious to the tension building in me.

“Well, don’t let them run you into the ground,” Lando says, his tone light but sincere. “You’ve got to survive the weekend, too, you know.”

“Yeah…” I mumble, glancing back toward Max, who’s still watching. His posture is stiff, his jaw tight. The sight alone sends my anxiety into overdrive. “I should probably get back,” I say abruptly, waving at Lando as I step away.

Back at the Red Bull motorhome, I barely make it down the hall before Adam steps out of his office, looking stressed.

“Where did you go? I tried to call you,” he asks, his tone sharp but not unkind.

“Oh, sorry. I just… I grabbed a coffee,” I stammer, holding up the now-empty cup as evidence.

Adam sighs, rubbing his temples. “Y/N, I need you to give this to Max,” he says, thrusting a paper into my hands before disappearing back into his office without further explanation.

I glance down at the paper and immediately feel my stomach twist. It’s a fine. For cursing during the media conference. Great. Of course, it had to be Max. And of course, I had to be the one to deliver it.

Bracing myself, I make my way toward Max’s driver’s room, the nerves growing with each step. I hate how easily he gets under my skin, how even the thought of facing him leaves my palms sweaty and my heart racing. I knock softly on the door, hoping he won’t hear it. Maybe I can just leave the paper and run.

“Come in,” his voice calls, smooth but laced with that familiar edge.

Pushing the door open, I peek inside to see him lounging on the couch, his phone in hand. He glances up when he sees me, and a smirk spreads across his face.

“Intern,” he says, his tone condescending, like he’s genuinely happy to see me—but only because he gets to torment me.

“Max,” I reply hesitantly, stepping inside. “Adam wanted me to give this to you.” I move toward the table near the door, intending to set the paper down and leave as quickly as possible.

“No, no,” he says, holding out his hand. “Give it to me.”

I hesitate for a moment, wanting to say no, but the look on his face tells me it would be pointless. Reluctantly, I walk over and hand him the paper. His eyes scan it, and he lets out an exaggerated scoff, tossing the paper onto the couch beside him.

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not allowed to say ‘fuck’? I’m a fucking adult. I don’t need to be told what to do.”

I stand there awkwardly, unsure whether to respond or remain silent. His gaze flicks to me, and his expression hardens slightly.

“And you…” he says, his voice low and almost accusing. “You just love to piss me off, don’t you?”

I blink, taking an instinctive step back as he stands and starts walking toward me. “What?” I ask, confused and a little nervous.

“You heard me,” he says, his tone growing sharper. “You like to piss me off. Unless, of course, you’re just naturally this irritating.”

“I… I don’t mean to do anything but my job,” I manage, trying to keep my voice steady.

He scoffs, his eyes narrowing. “Yeah? Is flirting with Lando part of your job, intern?”

My face flushes immediately, a mix of anger and embarrassment bubbling up inside me. “What?” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

“You heard me,” he repeats, his tone darker now. “Don’t play dumb. I know you’re stupid, but you’re not that stupid.”

“I wasn’t flirting with anyone,” I snap back, my voice firm despite the anxiety building in my chest.

He looks taken aback for a moment, but his expression hardens again, his smirk twisting into something more dangerous. “Be careful, intern,” he says, stepping closer, his presence suffocating. “Do you want to lose your job?”

“What?” I stammer, my heart racing.

“I said,” he repeats slowly, each word deliberate, “do. you. want. to. lose. your. job?”

“No,” I whisper, my voice barely audible as I look up at him. My stomach churns with anxiety, the weight of his gaze almost unbearable.

“Then don’t talk to Lando again,” he spits, his tone cold and final. “Now go do your job, intern.”

I don’t respond. My legs carry me out of the room before I can process what’s just happened, his words echoing in my ears. The door shuts behind me, but the tension doesn’t leave. My hands tremble as I clutch the empty coffee cup, my mind racing with a thousand questions—and not a single answer.

The garage feels heavy with a collective sense of disappointment as Max crosses the line in third place. The usual cheers and celebration feel muted, replaced by subdued claps and nods of acknowledgment. A podium is still a podium, but the energy here is clear: Max should be winning, not settling.

I lean against the wall, clutching my tablet, as I watch the screen replay the final laps. The tension in the air is palpable, and I can’t help but feel the unease trickle down to me. After all, when Max is in a bad mood, everyone in his orbit feels it. And guess who’s always closest to him lately? Me.

My phone buzzes in my hand, a text from Adam lighting up the screen.

Adam: Media after podium, please.

I let out a small groan and roll my eyes. Do I seriously have to deal with a pissed-off Max again?

Dragging myself to Adam’s office, I hesitate outside the door for a moment before poking my head in. “Adam?” I say quietly, not wanting to interrupt whatever he’s working on.

He’s standing by his desk, his phone in hand, furiously typing something. It takes him a second to realize I’m there, but when he looks up, his expression softens. “What’s up?” he asks, his tone gentle despite the stress hanging in the air.

I shift on my feet, feeling nervous as I try to phrase my thoughts carefully. “I just… I wanted to ask if maybe you needed help with other things, you know, besides media?” My voice is hesitant, unsure if I sound as desperate as I feel. “I just… I’m not sure it’s the best position for me,” I add, fidgeting with the tablet in my hands.

Adam furrows his brow, clearly confused. “Well, it’s only for this weekend, Y/N. Is something wrong?”

“Oh, no,” I lie quickly, shaking my head. “It’s fine. I just thought I’d offer to help with other stuff, that’s all.”

His expression softens again, and he gives me a small smile. “No, it’s okay. We’ll get through this weekend, but thank you for stepping up. I’ll be sure to remember how much you’ve helped.” He winks, and I can’t help but smile at the praise, a warm feeling bubbling in my chest despite my earlier frustration.

“Now,” he adds, gesturing toward the door, “you better go get Max for post-race.”

“Yes, sir,” I reply, my smile lingering as I walk out of his office. At least Adam appreciates me. That alone feels like a small victory.

But as I head down the hallway toward Max’s driver room, the warmth fades, replaced by the familiar knot of anxiety twisting in my stomach. Dealing with Max again—especially when he’s in a bad mood—feels like walking into a storm without an umbrella. I stop outside his door, hesitating for just a moment before knocking lightly.

The door swings open almost immediately, and Max stands there, his expression dark and stormy. He looks pissed off, his blue eyes sharp and his jaw clenched tightly. The sight of him makes me take a small step back, caught off guard by the intensity of his glare.

“Sorry… I just wanted to know if you’re ready for post-race?” I ask softly, holding the papers and phone close to my chest like a shield.

Max sighs heavily, his shoulders dropping slightly. “Just… give me a minute,” he mumbles, his voice lacking its usual sharpness. He turns and walks back into the room, leaving the door open behind him.

I step inside hesitantly, placing the papers on a small table near the door. Something feels off. His usual arrogance, the cocky smirk he always wears like a badge, is gone. Instead, he seems… tired. Defeated, even. I glance at him as he sits down on the couch, his head tilted back, his hands rubbing his temples.

“Can you close the door?” he asks softly, his voice quieter than I’ve ever heard it.

I hesitate for a moment but eventually reach back to push the door closed, the click of the latch echoing in the quiet room. My chest feels tight as I watch him, unsure of what to do or say. The tension in the room feels suffocating, and for some reason, I feel compelled to ask him what’s wrong.

“Are… you okay?” I ask quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.

Max’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. Then, slowly, he looks at me, his blue eyes clouded with something I can’t quite read. “I’m fine,” he says, but his tone is far from convincing.

I swallow hard, my heart pounding as I watch him. There’s something so uncharacteristic about him right now that it throws me off balance. Before I can say anything else, he shifts slightly, his eyes locking onto mine.

“Come here,” he says, his voice low but steady as he pats the empty spot on the couch beside him.

My body moves before my brain can catch up, and I find myself walking toward him. I sit down next to him, the air between us thick with unspoken words. For a moment, neither of us says anything, the silence stretching out like a taut wire.

Then, without warning, his hand reaches up to cup my face, pulling me closer. His lips crash onto mine, firm and demanding, and my mind goes blank. I freeze, caught off guard by the intensity of his kiss, his passion seeping into every inch of me.

For a moment, I lose myself in him, my body reacting instinctively as I kiss him back. His hand slides to the back of my neck, holding me in place as he deepens the kiss, his movements aggressive and desperate. It’s overwhelming, consuming, and I can feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace.

But then reality snaps back into place, and I pull away abruptly, my breath coming in short gasps as I stare at him in shock. “Max—” I start to say, but he cuts me off.

“Don’t,” he says firmly, his voice low and raw. His eyes are darker now, filled with something I can’t quite name. “Don’t say anything.”

Before I can process his words, his lips are back on mine, more insistent this time, his hands tangling in my hair as he pulls me closer. My thoughts are a blur, my heart pounding in my chest as I try to make sense of what’s happening. But all I can feel is him—his frustration, his passion, his overwhelming presence.

And I can’t seem to pull away.

——————————-

As always, thank you for reading and appreciating my works.😇

l hope my writings help you unwind and escape your life in a way that is exciting to you.

Please like and follow for more!

Xoxo

Princess

#f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 x you #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen

139 notes · View notes

marichild · 5 months ago

Text

bsd fanfic recs

some of my absolute favorite fics I’ve read in the few months I’ve been insane about bsd. what are you guys doing if you haven’t read these.

tell me we do not live in vain by @valleykey・fyozai・57.1k, T, completed・relationship study・character study・travel fic

Fyodor’s weak heart thuds violently within its cage of flesh and bone, ba-thump. Dazai’s knife kisses cold on the skin of their throat. They swallow, and the bob of their Adam’s apple against it draws blood. “Alright,” Fyodor decides, “let’s find a way to die.”

// In the Decay’s aftermath, Fyodor and Dazai quietly slip through the cracks, and set on a journey.

through the pages by @valleykey・oda & dazai・5.3k, gen, completed・alternate universes

Near-infinity is finite. It’s not even close to real infinity. An infinity of coin flips will yield endless heads and endless tails, but it’s possible to flip a coin ten million times and land tails each one. “There’s a lot of bad that could be written in a book.” Oda doesn’t falter. “There’s a lot of good, too.”

///OR: snapshots of Dazai and Oda, across universes.

apocynum by @minusboy・skk・27.8k・M・completed・hanahaki au (with a twist!)

“Don’t bleed on the carpet,” Dazai says, as if it’s even his carpet he’d be bleeding on. “I’ll make you bleed,” he says, although it comes out half-hearted as well as weird and distorted with the tissue blocking his nose. Dazai just smiles at him beatifically. “Promise?”

on fresh wounds and picking on scabs

eternal game of tug & war by @blackwaves・2.9k, explicit, completed・sex dreams・character study

There’s something open, vulnerable, and overwhelmed on her face, and she gasps out the same high, breathy sound she lets out when she’s been running after a suspect, chokes out a string of please, please, please. Ayatsuji watches her do it and says: “This isn’t even maintaining plausibility anymore.” She straightens up. More familiar, there’s indignance on her face— “You can’t be criticizing me for your own sex dream. For one thing.” “It’s a valid critique.”

Or: the sex dream montage fic wherein Ayatsuji is psychosexually weird about all involved.

that fucked up girl by @strawberry-skies-xx・dazai & yosano・3.1k, gen, completed・gender study

The first time Dazai meets Yosano, he’s struck with such a strong wave of want that it catches in his throat, clogs it until he can’t speak. It doesn’t happen often. Dazai’s masks are carefully crafted, but Yosano is all sharp femininity, sleek and elegant, graceful in her beauty, and it hits Dazai like a brick. He stares.

i had a dream about you by @neurosasuke・gin & kyouka・5.5k, gen, completed・character study・relationship study

Her fingers clenched around the cone carton in her hand, crushing her precious breakfast into mush. “Senpai,” Kyouka said, her tone flattened by an iron. This couldn’t be happening. Akutagawa Gin met her eyes with an implacable stare. In one hand she held three fabric bags full of fresh produce from the vendors around them, and in the other was a cup of unsweetened milk tea. The pearls rattled as Gin took a long sip from her drink. The duo held eye contact until Gin concluded her task with a noisy smack of her lips. “Izumi,” Gin greeted sweetly, her voice barely able to be heard over the sounds of the early crowd. “Since when did you start shopping here?”

love that doesn’t have a place to rest by @blackwaves・gin-centric・1.9k, gen, completed・beast au gin

There are no good ways to say, I love my brother, and I think he is evil, and no good rooms to say it in.

Or: Gin, after it’s done.

oh, the echoes in my mind— by @nyrlthtp・sigma-centric・2k, gen, completed・sigma character study

It’s a name they’ve taken for themself, but it’s true to who they are now. They don’t remember ever having another name, and they doubt they ever will remember. They dance around questions about their past with an elegant skill that would be impressive to anyone who knew what to look for. Their words don’t falter, and neither do their hands as they deal out cards at tables themself, glossing over their own deep sorrow that’s salved by the casino and the casino alone. One would think they’d been at this casino for their entire life.

bleeding heart dove by @minusboy・skk・4.2k, M, completed・character study・telepathy

He thinks about Chuuya, or rather, he thinks about the god residing under his skin, the manic glint in his eye, head thrown back in laughter, exposing the delicate line of his throat, thinks about gravity twisting his bones into inhuman angles, the blood pouring out of every orifice on his body. He thinks about Chuuya, beautiful, frightening, human.

learning how to let go and how to drive, not necessarily in that order

hold the hand of the god-child, as he falls from the sky by @strawberry-skies-xx・dazai & mori・7k, gen, completed・relationship study

Mori stands up, walking over to see the empty cup of matcha resting on the armrest, curled loosely in one hand, and Dazai sound asleep. He’s so small like this, lost in the big clothing, the couch he’s on. Not for the first time, Mori wonders what he’d do if he wasn’t head of the mafia. If he’d still find Dazai. If he could help him with more than stitches and hot tea.

till death, I’ll give you my breath by @booksandpaperss・skk・24.6k, M, ongoing・time/death loop・relationship study

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Chuuya starts, conviction (and probably some desperation) firm in his voice. “Neither of us are gonna leave this damn room. Call in sick, or whatever the fuck I don’t care, but you’re not going into work, or anywhere today. I’ll fucking hold you down just like this if I have to. Got it?” Dazai cocks his head, and Chuuya can tell he’s really trying hard to maintain the bored look on his face. Chuuya’s known Dazai long enough to recognize when he’s curious. “Am I being held hostage by the mafia right now? Is that what’s happening?”

In which Dazai succeeds in the death he’s always longed for, and Chuuya and Atsushi will do whatever it takes to save the man who saved them before they even realized they were being saved. However many times it takes.

A study in loving someone who refuses to be loved.

Last Train Home by @valleykey・sigma-centric・27.1k, gen, completed・character study・post canon

In the Decay’s aftermath, the Port Mafia’s Nakahara Chuuya finds Sigma among the sunlit silvers of Suribachi city. He grins viciously. “In that case, let’s get you your Casino back.”

/// Sigma picks up their pieces.

in the mirror, i bloom by ephemeralis・skk・12k, T, completed・hanahaki au

It twists him, turns him, curls in his chest like something alive, something he knows but can’t dare to name. Chuuya curses the red-black petals that fall from his lips, these nearly rotten things that tear him apart from the inside out. Part of him wants to rip his own traitorous heart out, through a ribcage shattered by feelings he can’t contain. Anger is easy, a thing he’s learned to control. This— whatever the hell this is— is not. Or at least it’s easier to feel as though this is beyond his own control, because Chuuya is not in love. (It feels like a lie even to himself.)

After he’s hit by a strange ability, Chuuya is forced to consider truths he’d much rather keep hidden- but not everything is as simple it seems.

brutal out here! by @valleykey・fyozailai・4.8k, T, completed・suicide practice fic minus actual suicide

“Oh my God,” Nikolai gasps into the phone, because he can’t let there be a pause, because—”you’re killing yourselves and you didn’t even invite me!?” “Not really,” Fyodor says, almost diplomatic, “it’s more like practice.” “Roleplay, if you will,” Dazai adds enthusiastically, from what must be the bathtub, “but like, irl. And with the potential to get rushed to the hospital.”

5D Chess With Multiverse Time Travel by @valleykey・fyozai・7.2k, T, completed・teen fyozai meet for the first time

Chuuya’s self restraint breaks. “What are you even doing?” Dazai doesn’t even spare him a glance. “Playing 5D chess with multiverse time travel against the enemy.” Chuuya squints. He has to be fucking with him. “What?” “And I’m losing, Chuuya,” and now he finally looks at him, manic grin snaking across his cheeks, voice plunging from blank to downright giddy. Giddy. What the fuck. “He’s a demon.”

/// OR: Chuuya finds himself in the unfortunate position of witnessing Dazai meet Fyodor.

abominable by @valleykey・fyodor-centric・5.3k, M, completed・character study

You’re seven when your ability awakens. You calculate how long it’ll be until anyone finds the bodies. You take a shower before the blood dries, change clothes, and don’t sleep the entire night. When the sun rises, you go to church.

///OR: Fyodor, through the years.

some say we’re born into the grave by @obsidianstrawberrymilk・kouyou & kyouka・5.2k, T, completed・idol au・relationship study

“Now, Kyouka? Really? You’re about to be on stage in one of the biggest festivals in the nation and you’re crying about something?” Kyouka debates telling her it had been unintentional, and barely ‘crying’ at all, but decides against it; if anything, talking back makes it worse. Kouyou’s nails dig further into her skin; not enough to bleed and unlikely to bruise, Kyouka knows. Not her face - too valuable. Kyouka can’t say there’s any bitterness there; it’s a fact. Music is what she’s good at, and Kouyou directs where she goes with it. Failure is not an option. Not in this world she’s found herself in.

Or: Kouyou Ozaki is idol Kyouka Izumi’s manager. How Kyouka feels about it isn’t anyone’s concern.

scream into the empty (can anybody hear me?) by @obsidianstrawberrymilk・gin & ryuunosuke・4k, T, completed・selective mutism・character study

Gin never realizes that there’s something wrong with them until age twelve, when their brother joins the Port Mafia, and them alongside him. Suddenly, their silence is not just offhand on the side of useful; it’s noticeable. It’s abnormal. It’s something that makes them a target.

Or: Gin Akutagawa, growing up, and selective mutism.

110 notes · View notes