#it has been SHOULD he do the thing he does and can he do it without actually doing more harm than good

[fairyofshampgyu]

Now Live ! Stream: 9

Genre: camboy au, college au, smut, crack, ongoing series

Paring: camboy! Beomgyu x gn reader (afab when smut)

Warnings: emotional distress and regret following a consensual sexual encounter, sub! beomgyu, dom! reader, top! gyu, crying, hand job, dry humping, tit sucking, nipple play, possessiveness, overstimulation, use of butt plug, spanking, dacryphilia, strap sucking, beomgyu wears lip gloss, praise, degrading, use of pet names, dollification, choking, slut shaming,

Synopsis: Every Thursday night at 8pm, you tune into your favourite camboy: Angel313. What you don’t know is he goes to the same uni as you, is even in the same class as you and is Choi Beomgyu, the campus fuckboy but will you keep his secret?

Word count: 8.4k

You feel sick.

you've been pacing around your dorm relentlessly for 20 minutes now, gnawing at your fingernails, because right now, at this exact moment, beomgyu was streaming. Without you.

And not just without you, but with one of the biggest camgirls in the community: Winter01.

You tried to remain unbothered, unfazed, unaffected, at least, that’s how you acted when, beomgyu, unsure and sheepish, had asked you whether he should go for it. It made sense, she had specifically reached out only to beomgyu and had asked to collab, and that was a great opportunity since she was so well known. If he appeared on her channel, then you’d both gain more popularity and traction on your channel too and make even more money. He should totally go for it. It made perfect, rational sense. It shouldn't feel this serious. it's just a stream. Just a collab.

Except, the thought of beomgyu doing a stream with someone else, being fucked by someone else, someone else making him feel good…it just made this nasty, terrible, inexplainable feeling occur within you. That’s what you do with him. That’s your thing. No one else has ever touched him on stream, not ever, not until now.

You collapse onto your desk chair in frustration, only to shoot up a second later. You stand back up. You open your laptop. You close it. You go back to the tab of the website. You close that too. The endless back and forth, making you go insane.

The notification still glows at the top of your laptop screen like a slap to the face.

@Angel313 is now live with @Winter01 !

You battled with yourself, conflicting thoughts on whether you should click on the stream, see what’s going on. Because, a part of you was dying to know. What was she doing with him? Did he like it? Did the viewers like it? Were there even more views than normal? What if it becomes super trending? Was she better than you at fucking beomgyu? What if beomgyu likes her way more than you? It was genuinely eating away at you from the inside.

But at the same time, you didn’t want to see. It’s best to not know at all. What you can’t see can’t hurt you, ignorance is bliss, you know, all that stuff. Because once you click on the stream, there’s no going back. Did you really want to see all that? You could remain peacefully unaware, let the imagination torment you with glimpses only in your mind, not in high definition, in real time.

But, maybe it’s best to know actually.

Maybe the not knowing is worse. What if she’s touching beomgyu the way he likes? What if he likes it better? At least you’ll know and then you can be prepared if he decides he wants to switch partners and toss you aside because winter was way better.

But can you blame him? Winter is beautiful. And she’s popular for a reason. Even you’re familiar with her, you’ve watched some of her streams before. She’s good at what she does. You like her too. What if it does go viral? What if they have insane chemistry and the chat explodes and people beg for more and they're all like ''holy shit, this is the best collab ever" and they make so much money and everyone likes them both together so much and they collab even more in the future and then he just starts streaming with her altogether instead because she’s so much better? She is a professional camgirl, you were just a viewer, a fan for a faceless pretty camboy named angel313. Do you even know what you’re doing?

You suck in a breath. Alas, the curiosity gets the better of you though, and hesitantly, you click on the stream. It loads slowly and you can hear the imaginary countdown in your head, body buzzing with dread at what you might see.

You get what you went searching for. You’d opened the pandora’s box.

You see it as soon as it loads—Winter’s pretty manicured hand wrapped around beomgyu’s flushed cock, pumping him up and down as he stiffly sat on her pink gamer chair, she’s whispering things you can’t decipher, giggling and she looks so pretty, glossed lips brushing over his reddened ears, you see beomgyu who looks like he’s freaking out over all of this, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, embarrassed, cheeks all pink, shaking slightly, biting his lip. Then you hear it. His voice. He lets out a small quiet, shy whimper and a "P-please...!" That does it.

You switch the stream off instantly, slamming your laptop screen down like it had burned you. You don’t want to see anymore. You wished you hadn’t seen at all, but it’s too late to unsee, the image now fully engrained in your head. You feel even more sick than you did before.

Curiosity really does the kill cat, you guess.

You hate how your chest aches. And it feels far too much like the feeling of heartbreak for your liking. Which is dumb. Why did you care so much anyway? In the past when you didn’t know who Angel was, you would have absolutely loved to watch him get fucked on camera by someone else. He only ever used to do solo streams. Hell, if you knew it was Winter, you probably would have been even more overjoyed and excited to watch your favourite pretty camboy get ruined by another pretty camgirl. You probably would have lost your mind. A small part of you almost misses back when you were just a viewer, when you didn't know Choi Beomgyu, the supposed campus fuckboy was Angel313. When you used to just watch him unknowingly through a screen.

Your nerves are tripled as you wait and brace yourself for beomgyu to return.

You don’t know exactly what you expected when Beomgyu finally walks through the door, but it wasn’t this.

He’s quiet. Too quiet. No grinning, smug from ear to ear, enthusiastic and blushing. No giddy, boastful oversharing of how amazing everything was, like you’d thought. Like what he usually does when he finds something exciting or funny about his day and rambles about it to you for so long with shiny eyes because he can never really contain his emotions when he feels happy and it's always endearing and he always kind of resembles a puppy when he’s like that. Beomgyu doesn’t even meet your eyes.

You get off your bed with wide eyes immediately at the sight of him, standing straight in anticipation way too quickly. Your heart is hammering in your chest, all the questions you wanted to ask blowing up in your mind, but getting jumbled and stuck in your throat.

What was it like?

How did it go?

Was she good?

Do you want to stream with her again?

“Beomgyu—” You start frantically, “How did it—?”

But before you can finish the question, he wraps his arms around you. Tightly. Practically collapsing against you. He presses his entire body into you, hugging you like he’s desperate to melt into your skin and he buries his head deep into your shoulder.

You gasp and freeze, deeply confused, and brows furrowed. Beomgyu is tense, his breath is warm but shaky against your bare neck. Still, your arms move slowly, hugging him back. You hold him, gently at first, then a little tighter. That seems to ease him slightly. His shoulders loosen a fraction. But his grip on you stays firm.

“...Gyu?” you ask, quieter, softer now.

He doesn't answer. You try to pull back slightly to look at him, but he just clings tighter, arms winding more secure around your waist and burying his face impossibly deeper into your shoulder and neck, shakily inhaling and exhaling.

“Hey…what’s wrong? Did something happen?” You run your hand gently up and down his back. Could it be winter? Maybe something happened?

“No.” Beomgyu mumbles finally as if he could read your mind, voice muffled against your hoodie. “She was…really nice, actually. Nothing happened.”

You blink at him, even more lost. “Then…?”

Beomgyu sighs. “I don’t know. It just- It didn’t…feel right.”

He pulls back from your shoulder, facing you now and you see how glossy his brown eyes had become. He looks at you like he’s trying to explain something he doesn’t quite understand himself, like he can’t figure why it’s having such an affect on him either. “Thought it would be like all the other streams—but it didn’t feel the same. At all. I don’t know, maybe I’m being dramatic. But it made me feel... weird. Not like, bad. Just…sort of, empty? Dissociated? I couldn’t stop thinking about—” Beomgyu pauses, eyes squeezing shut for a second before opening again, unsure. “It-it wasn’t…” Beomgyu sighs again. “It wasn’t you.”

Beomgyu frowns at you with a pout, bottom lip almost wobbling as his mouth becomes heavily downturned, and then he hides his face into your shoulder once more, gripping onto you harder.

That stuns you into silence.

It wasn’t you.

“Sorry. It’s weird, I know.”

“It’s not.” You say firmly. You cup the side of his face without thinking, brushing your thumb over the soft skin beneath his eye. He leans into it immediately, almost instinctively, eyes fluttering shut, relieved.

Beomgyu continues to hug you silently in that spot for a while. After a long, moment, he gently nudges you backwards guiding you to the bed and lowering both of you down onto it. He flops on top of you, his cheek pressed right against your chest as if you’re his pillow, arms wound tightly around your waist, cuddling you. A content sigh escapes him when you start slowly carding your fingers through his soft hair, stroking through the strands. His body is warm and so are is slow breaths against your skin, legs tangled with yours and he’s soo clingy.

You don’t know how long you just lie there. But you wouldn’t have been able to get up even if you wanted. You’d attempted to get up earlier to go to the bathroom, but beomgyu hadn’t let you, furrowing his brows in offence and whining annoyed at you loudly, refusing and clinging to you somehow even more.

Despite him restricting you from pissing—it was quite sweet, the way he was acting right now, wanting to be close to you the whole time and latching his limbs onto you like an octopus that won’t let go, making your heart flutter.

And then, after what felt like hours, he moves. Beomgyu slowly lifts his head from your chest, eyes fluttering open and he blinks at you. His gaze roams your face, slow and searching, and his hand comes up, delicately brushing some hair away from your face. There’s something quietly desperate in the way he looks at you. And then he leans down, soft lips grazing yours and he kisses you.

It starts slow at first, his lips moving against yours gently. He pulls away a little, gazing at you again, then he surges forward, kissing you deeper this time, hands moving to cup your face. His lips are plush and hot, moving with increasing fervour, breath hitching as he starts to get needier as time goes on. His tongue slips past your lips and he groans softly into your mouth, kissing you deeper, messier, more desperately like he’s been starved of it.

His hands trail down, grabbing at your waist, your hips, pushing himself even closer to you until there’s no kind of space left between you. His eyes are half lidded by now, lips so swollen and parted. One hand pushes your hoodie up, exposing your tits, lips kissing the space in between your breasts, then kissing all over your chest eagerly and brushing his mouth over the expanse. And then his pouty lips wrap around your nipple, hand groping and kneading the other, moaning at that.

You gasp as he continues to suck your tits blissfully, flicking and swirling his tongue harshly around your nipple that has you squirming, mouthing at you hungrily. He’s drooling and your chest and his lips are all shiny and slick with spit and drool. Then he switches to the other nipple. You feel him humping you by now, rocking his hips against yours, muffled desperate whines eliciting from his stuffed mouth, continuing to rut against you like a dumb, dirty dog.

He looks up at you innocently through his pretty lashes and doe brown eyes, plump lips still latched and wrapped around your tits, sound of him avidly sucking and slurping and moaning, evident around your dorm. He finally lets go with a wet pop, so drooly and messy and then he kisses you again, sloppily making out all wet, still humping you, breath ragged, eyes half lidded.

“I need you.” Beomgyu says when he pulls away from your lips, looking at you so intensely, so gravely. He sounds so wrecked. And he’s not just turned on, although that’s apparent too, but so wrecked and frenzied and needy already. “Pleaseee. I need to be closer to you. Wanna feel you. Please, I wanna fuck you so bad right now, I can’t” He sounds like he’s going to cry. “Let me, let me, baby, please…” He keeps kissing you between every plea, your mouth, your neck, your collarbone, any part of you he can kiss.

You let him because after everything that’s happened today, you want him just as badly, you’re just as desperate for beomgyu. His hands are already fumbling to rid you of your clothes and then his own, desperate and shaky and clumsy with urgency.

You stroke him a few times his cock twitching in your palm as he lets out a broken, pretty moan, “You want it that badly, hmm?”

Beomgyu nods frantically, his hips twitching forward like he can’t help himself, pupils dilating just from thinking about it.

You laugh, “You're so needy.” You bring his dick closer to you, dragging his tip through your slick folds, moving yourself against him, watching the way beomgyu’s face scrunches up, and then beomgyu does too, sliding his cock against your folds up and down until you say he can fuck you.

“Y/n…” He whines, “please, please. Can I be inside?” Beomgyu begs and implores, like not being inside of you right now is the most unbearable thing ever possible for him, like it physically hurts him, shaking and trembling just at the feeling of his wet dick sliding on your folds.

“Go on, baby.”

Beomgyu does not need to be told twice, he wastes no time, lining himself up and burying his swollen fat tip and the rest of his length t the hilt inside your warm, wet pussy. “O-oh, god…” Beomgyu squeezes his eyes shut, not even being able to open them, he throws his head back, pathetically moaning out long and loud, gasping for breath, trying to calm himself down, he could cum already.

Just as he starts to move, you stop him with a palm to his chest. You suddenly get an idea, “Wait, gyu.” He stops, whining in confusion, just blinking at you, too dazed.

You bring your phone out and start a stream, filming beomgyu. There wasn’t supposed to be a stream but you feel the urge. You want everyone to see, you want them to know at the end of the day, he’s yours, feeling possessive. You want them to see how he acts when he’s with you.

All the comments are flooded with talk of the stream beomgyu had done with winter previously, but the general consensus seemed to be that most were confused and asking of your relationship with beomgyu, some also debating on who they liked seeing beomgyu more with.

@angelsfav: Wait so you guys aren’t dating ????

@luuvsubs: I always thought they were dating. From their dynamic and everything they did and acted, it seemed like they were.

@31333_fan: seeing angel’s dynamic with two different partners was really interesting and stark haha. I like both so much ! 🩷

@ilovewiinter: I preferred angel and winter. She’s my favourite camgirl!

@freakyyes : winter >>> sorry not sorry 😋

@heartgel: Nahhh he has so much more chemistry with who he usually streams with. He’s wayy more into this 😭 look at him 🫠

“Are we dating?” you repeat to the screen. “No. We’re not.”

You place the phone on your table so they can properly see you both. Beomgyu really doesnt care about anything at all at the moment, he just wants to fuck you. You tell him he can start again and beomgyu begins to move.

Beomgyu fucks into you slowly at first, trying to control himself with desperate, restrained, shaky rolls of his hips like he wants to feel everything, every inch of you, eyes focused and obsessed, entranced with the lewd sight of your pussy slowly swallowing him in. He moans every time he bottoms out, eyes fluttering shut, mouth slack and cute, deep, breathy little cries. You can’t tell if he’s going so slow, moving like this and holding back because he’s waiting for permission, to tell him he can go faster, or he’s desperately trying to savour it, but you want more.

You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, pulling him closer and deeper into you and hands sliding up his back, clutching at the muscles there, moving and rolling your own hips to meet his as well, guiding him to fuck into you more. Beomgyu yelps, his eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head at that, a choked moan slipping past his lips, hands placed on the mattress on either side of you, faltering, “S-sshit...!” 

"Does it feel good, puppy?" You coo at him, one of your hands coming to tangle and caress his messy, long hair, loving how he's already falling apart because of you.

Beomgyu nods like a brainless baby, eyelids drooping with pleasure, slurring his words, his tiny lisp becoming slightly more evident, drool dribbling down the corner of his mouth, watching your tits deliciously jiggle with every thrust, "Ss-so goood-ughh. Pussy feels s’ good, so perfect...mmm-ah."

It’s not long until beomgyu completely loses himself in the feeling of you, his thrusts quickly building up in speed, slamming his hips harder and deeper, erratically. “Wanna be inside you forever…wanna be—ahh this close t’you all thetime...” Beomgyu is just blabbering random shit by now, deliriously slamming his cock into your now soaked pussy repeatedly. Beomgyu holds onto you tightly, face falling into the crook of your neck, utterly wrecked, his drool all on your neck now, his moans and groans spilling into your ear.

“Yeah? You’re all mine aren’t you?” You coax him, your own eyes glazed up at this point, your puppy fucking you so well, such a good boy.

Beomgyu’s hands scramble for yours blindly and desperately, interlacing your fingers together, squeezing hard, holding your hands and refusing to let go. He’s still clinging so close to you like a lifeline, like he can’t bear not to, like he wants to dissolve into you completely, all so sticky and hot, you hold onto him tightly too.

“Yeah. Yours. ‘m yours…” He lifts his head from your neck, bringing his forehead to yours, looking at you like you hung the stars.

“Only I can make you feel this good right?” So maybe you are trying to stroke your own ego a bit by now, but you need him to say it, need everyone else to hear it too.

Beomgyu nods and hums, giving you a dreamy look, pathetically whimpering and whining, face contorted in overwhelming bliss, “mmh. Only you.” He squeezes your hand tight at that, nuzzling his nose with yours, forehead still touching yours, peppering sweet kisses all over your face. Your heart feels like it might give out.

Your pussy clenches tightly around him and beomgyu looks genuinely so far gone, so dumbed out, so fucked out from your pussy, his face the most debauched you’ve seen him, groaning, “baby…ah ‘m so close” Beomgyu’s cock plows into you so sloppily, squelchy wet slaps of skin when he fucks your hole feverishly and uncoordinated, continuous strangled moans leaving his mouth by now.

Beomgyu is so incredibly sweaty, messy hair wet and falling into his half lidded eyes, sweat dripping down his sharp jaw, nose and forehead, you’re probably just the same too, if not worse. But beomgyu just looks so good and so hot, so sweaty and so sexy. The sweat makes his whole body glow and shine under the dim light, and god, does he truly look like an angel right now. It’s ironic, so on-the-nose. Angel313. His username. It’s unfair how unreal, how ethereal beomgyu looks.

And beomgyu is so loud, unable to contain his noises of pleasure, he should probably keep it down but you don’t want him to, you adore hearing the sounds he makes because of you. The moans loud and relentless, tumbling out of him uncontrollably, reverberating around the room as well as the slick sounds of his cock moving inside you.

He’s shaking with the effort not to cum too soon, not to fall apart so fast that it embarrasses him. But it’s useless. You know him way too well by now, you’d watched all his streams before, streamed with him too much by now to know exactly when he’s close even when he tries not to, you know what makes him twitch, what makes his eyes roll back, what makes that pretty, loud mouth of his go slack and dumb.

“Cum for me, pretty angel. Show them how good you are for me.”

One of his hands goes down to your pretty folds, thumbing over your clit fast, rubbing in frantic little circles, desperate to have you cumming on his cock too, the other still interlocked with yours needily. Beomgyu ruts into you helplessly like a wild, panting dog, slamming his stuttering hips relentlessly with yours.

“I-I’m gonna c-cum—“ He chokes and stutters out. You bring your hand to thumb at his sensitive nipples, playing with the buds harshly and that brings him to the edge, “F-fuck, baby I-I’m cummingg I’m cumming…!” Beomgyu wails, crying out, he feels his orgasm build in his stomach and so do you, both of you letting go and cumming together, so intense, it almost feels spiritual.

You grab his face, smacking your lips with his, kissing him and swallowing down his moans so hungrily, kissing so deep it steals the air from both your lungs but neither of you pull away, his forehead still rests softly against yours, his sweat sweat dripping onto you. You feel so much of beomgyu’s hot, sticky cum spilling into you continuously, completely milking him and his body jerks, shaking violently. Beomgyu cums so hard he genuinely sees stars, just feeling pure ecstasy and fully, utterly spent.

When you both genuinely need to breathe, you pull away, lips parting with a wet, thin pull, a sllippery, slivery string of saliva still connecting your swollen mouths. Your breaths are ragged, chests heaving against each other, your skin damp and flushed. You reach out blindly, fingers fumbling over the desk until you finally manage to end the stream with a click, not really bothering to look at the donations or comments.

“Holy fuck…” Beomgyu shuts his eyes, breathing out, holding onto both of your hands.

“Quite literally.” You pant, dazed.

You both giggle at that, lightheaded, beomgyu shaking his head with a breathless laugh, grinning tiredly at you, forehead dropping to yours once more.

Beomgyu starts to pull out but you stop him, “keep fucking me, beomie. Isn’t that what you wanted? Said you want to stay in my pussy forever hmm?” Your voice teasing, brushing his sweaty bangs out his face, grinning wickedly. But he doesn’t complain.

“Y-yeah.” Beomgyu just nods, moaning weakly, already fucking and stuffing his cum back into you again with gasped whimpers and whines and wincing of overstimulation, trembling. You really don’t know how long you guys go at it for, all blurry and dizzy, just remembering beomgyu’s loud cries of your name and cumming again and again and again, clutching and grasping onto you.

Beomgyu🪽: did you want to hang out? me, tae and kai are gonna play tekken !! 😋

Y/n🎷: nah can’t sorry. I’m REVISING in the library with a friend. 🤓📚Which YOU should be doing too btw…🤨🧐🫵

Beomgyu🪽: but can’t you just come? Can’t you do that later? I need to beat you in tekken again. 👉👈 And I don’t need to revise, I’m naturally talented in mewsik >_< 🎤🎸🎶

Y/n🎷: what kind of spelling is that. Tell Kai he should be revising rn too wtf it’s literally exam season

Beomgyu🪽: Kai said you’re a neek. Are you really not coming ??☹️☹️🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

Y/n 🎷: I’m literally at the library rn, no.

Beomgyu 🪽: who are you with anyway? Music practice room guy?

Y/n 🎷: yeah

Beomgyu🪽: cool, have fun revising.

Beomgyu’s stomach twists. He scowls at your message for a little longer, fingers lingering on the keyboard like he wants to type something else but then he doesn’t. With a little too much force, he places his phone on the table face-down, knitting his eyebrows in a frown, arms crossed, grumbling to himself.

He kinda hates that you’re not coming over. He kinda really hates that you’re hanging out with that other guy instead of him too. Do you not like his company anymore or something?

He really, really wanted to see you today. He’d even gotten extra snacks for you, the ones he knows are your favourite and cleared the space on the floor so you could sit next to him. He didn’t think you wouldn’t come. Is he being dramatic right now? You’re just studying in the library, it’s probably what he should be doing too. But, you’ve never said no to hanging out ever before…you’d still come, just for a bit even if you didn’t want to. Well, at least he still gets to see you today, because there is a stream later tonight.

“What? Y/n’s not coming?” Taehyun asks from where he sits, crosslegged on beomgyu’s bed, controller in hand, starting the game.

“No.” Beomgyu sulks, sounding very much like a kicked puppy. “They’re too busy studying with this guy they met in the music practice rooms. They’re always hanging out with him lately…” The last part is said with so much bitterness in his voice, muttering and complaining.

Taehyun raises an eyebrow. “Do you know who this guy is?”

“No.”

“Have you asked?” Huening Kai chimes in, sat on the floor, back slumped against the bed a controller also in his hand and munching on a packet of crisps.

“No.” Beomgyu huffs. “Anyway. As I was about to say before, I’ve had a really, really big revelation.”

Kai gasps, eyes wide. “You’re pregnant.”

“I’m not a fucking seahorse.” Beomgyu rolls his eyes, “I was going to say…” He closes his eyes, inhales and exhales dramatically and finally declares, “I think…I like y/n more than IU.”

They’re both silent for a second but neither of them seem particularly shocked to hear that. Then, kai resumes munching on the crisps loudly again, unfazed.

“That’s your big revelation?” Taehyun asks, incredulously.

Beomgyu takes offence. “I think it’s really shocking. Why are you not shocked? I’ve liked IU since I was nine! She’s my first love.”

Huening Kai gasps dramatically, mocking him. “Even more than Park Boyoung?!”

Beomgyu hesitates. He takes a moment to really think, deeply in thought, as if that was the hardest questions he’s ever had to answer. “Possibly… yes.”

“Okay wait, no.” Kai sits up, “This is serious.”

“I was saying this was serious before! So, like what should I do? Do you guys think I’m going insane? I’m going insane. I’ve lost it.” Beomgyu grabs a fistful of his own hair, pulling at it and groaning. “I feel like…i feel like the tragic second male lead in a kdrama right now who like, watches the main couple get together in the rain with an umbrella in his hand, smiling even though he’s dying inside.” He doesn’t know exactly when it happened but after he came back from doing that stream with winter, it all became so very clear to him, suddenly crashing down on him. He thinks it’s been happening for a while. And it’s very serious.

“No, I think it was just inevitable from the start.” Taehyun replies calmly, eyes focused on the menu screen, clicking a few buttons, “I think it’s hard not to catch feelings given your situation. It makes sense. I’m pretty sure y/n likes you too.”

“Just tell them bro.” Huening Kai adds, his mouth disgustingly full of crisps as he spoke.

Beomgyu’s head shot up. “Tell them? Ew. Gross. No. I’m not doing that.” He comes closer to where Kai sat, reaching for a crisp in the bag himself, eating it with a pout. “They don’t even like me. They like him. That annoying practice room guy, whoever he is. Ugh, whatever. Maybe I’m just getting really confused because of the nature of what we do. Maybe, I don’t even like y/n. Yeah…yeah.” Beomgyu nods conspicuously, agreeing with himself with narrowed eyes, stroking his chin slowly like an old, beared man, except, he doesn’t have a beard.

“You’re so full of shit.” Taehyun throws a pillow aggressively at beomgyu’s head.

“Oww!”

Taehyun and Kai exchange a pointed look, shaking their heads, maybe it wasn’t going to happen sooner than they both were beginning to think.

Beomgyu huff in defence, “Say if I did, even I did…tell them. It could jeopardise everything! We’re supposed to be professional partners. If I say something and it gets weird between us, what then?” His chest tightens a little at the thought. You could stop streaming with him, what was he supposed to do then? Continue solo again, find someone else? He already knows now he wouldn’t want to be streaming with anyone else if it wasn’t you. And if he went solo, it’d be boring again, he’d get less money. But it wasn’t even about the streaming anymore, he’d gotten so close to you in a matter of a few months. You’d become such an important person, a staple in his life so naturally, that he couldn’t remember what it was even like before you had entered it. He wants to be close to you all the time. Days without you are weird now. When you’re not around, he’s always missing you. He’d rather it stay how it is now than not have you in his life at all. So no, he’s not going to risk it.

“You should at least find out who this guy is.” Kai yawns, tossing the bag of crisps to the side, taking the controller in both his hands, ready to play now.

“Why?” Beomgyu asks suspiciously.

“To see if he’s way hotter than you.”

Beomgyu gasps, scandalised, beginning to spiral. “What if he is?”

You sat hunched in the computer lab of the library, all your notes and books and manuscript paper sprawled madly on the desk as you desperately tried to learn about advanced music theory and Schenkerian analysis, you have no idea how kai and beomgyu aren’t stressed out right now, your head beginning to hurt as you sat besides haechan who was also studying, a lot more calmly than you.

The library and computer lab was pretty packed and alive since it was exam season, being able to see other stressed out uni students fighting the same losing battle, and groups of friends who were gossiping about their latest traumatic situationship of the semester—very entertaining to eavesdrop on, though distracting as you were supposed to be revising, both you and haechan giggling at the outrageous things you hear.

Haechan glances at what you’re attempting to revise at the minute and pitifully shakes his head at your screen, “Man, I’m so glad I didn’t pick Music.”

You groan, head on the desk, “I can’t do it.”

“Wanna go for a walk around campus instead?” Haechan offers.

You laugh, “you know what, yeah.” Both of you leaving all your possessions on the desk with blind trust, wandering out the library into the late afternoon sun.

Before the walk properly began, you both made a detour to the campus cafe, purchasing a drink to cheer you up a bit more. You think you deserve a little sweet treat, having been at wits end to warrant one.

You laugh and walk around with haechan, drinks in hand and sipping on them, the campus golden and bathed in soft amber light, a pleasant breeze that wasn’t too hot or too cold. The cherry blossom trees lining the main path had all burst into full bloom by now, their pretty pink petals littering the ground you walked on, falling elegantly. Some students were already sitting on the grass, chatting away like it was summer already. It was so peaceful to see, and a great breath of fresh air from studying in the library.

You stop to stare at the cherry blossom trees, pointing excitedly, because no matter how many springs have come and how many cherry blossom trees bloomed when the time came every year, it never failed to always leave you in awe at just how beautiful they are. “Look at them. It’s so pretty!”

Haechan nods in agreement. The temptation of taking a picture overcomes you and you bring out your phone, taking a few shots of the cherry blossoms and the sunset behind, then holding your phone out to show him, proudly.

He leans closer, squinting at your screen, smiling. “Okayy, photographer. You should post those.”

PING !!

Suddenly, you get an extremely loud buzz on your phone.

@Angel313 going live soon !!

Shit.

The notification lights up your entire screen so obnoxiously.

You freeze for a second, trying not to visibly freak out or act suspiciously, yanking your phone away from him and fumbling to switch it off, putting it back in your pocket.

Obviously haechan saw it too, you saw how his eyebrows had creased in slight intrigue. But it’s not like it’s some promiscuous username, it wasn’t like it screamed ‘porn!’ it could be anything for all he knows. How would he know that was a camboy, that could literally be a youtuber, gamer or anything else? Yeah, It’s really not that deep, he wouldn’t think it was deep.

He doesn’t say anything about it, which means he probably didn’t think much of it, he just continues casually walking and talking again, changing the subject and you’re very thankful he never asks. Your heart still thudding in your ears for the rest of the stroll.

Beomgyu sat pliantly beside you on the bed, legs folded, hands resting in his lap, eyes following your movements with curiosity, your hand was on his chin, tilting it up, the other intimately applying coats of your lip gloss slowly onto his lips.

“Ow. It burns! What the fuck.” Beomgyu furrows his brows, hissing. He could feel the tingling sensation on his lips right now and it was uncomfortable.

You chuckle, amused. “Yeah, it’s a plumping lip gloss. And it doesn’t even burn that much. Why are you being so dramatic?” Dragging the applicator across his bottom lip in a deliberate motion.

Beomgyu wrinkles his nose. “Whatever that means.”

You roll your eyes, deadpan. “It’s in the name. It plumps your lips.”

“Well it feels really weird.”

“It’s alright, it’ll go away.” You, apply one more coat then pull back, looking satisfied. You take the phone in your hand, filming beomgyu’s lips up close, “Look at the pretty doll.” Needless to say, the chat is blowing up at the sight of angel in lip gloss, the comments lighting up with strings of hearts and emojis.

ANGEL IS TOO PRETTY WTF JDJDJ

LOOK AT THOSE LIPS ?!? 😩 he has the prettiest lips ever

RUIN HIM PLEASE 💕

You’d even done beomgyu’s hair, putting it into a half up poinytail and adding one of your clips in his hair.

Beomgyu looks so good with your lip gloss on, his lips tinted, glittery, sparkly and even plumper than they usually were. He looked so kissable. God, you wanted to kiss him immediately, ruin him, wreck him. But you stop yourself, you were going to ruin him in a different way.

“On your knees, pretty.” Your voice sweet but commanding. Beomgyu does what he’s told and moves immediately, dropping from the bed without hesitation. His knees hit the floor with a soft thud, looking up at you with his sparky brown, innocent, doe eyes, thick doll lashes fluttering like butterfly wings as he looks up at you.

You bring the strap you were wearing to his mouth, tapping his lips with it a few times, watching the strings of the thick sticky gloss connect to the top of the strap.

“Open your mouth, baby.”

Beomgyu slowly opens his mouth wider, still not breaking eye contact with you. You slowly push the silicone into beomgyu’s pretty mouth. He begins to suck soft and slow without even being told, rocking his head, wrapping his shiny lips around it.

“Yeah, that’s it,” you murmur at the sight, hand stroking over his cheek, “So pretty for me, babe.”

He moans at that, spurring him on, looking up at you desperately. Beomgyu’s hands move to eagerly hold onto your hips, but you swat them away, “No touching.” Beomgyu whines in protest but keeps his hands on his lap instead, balled into fists to stop himself from touching you. His poor dick, hard and leaking in his pants by now.

Beomgyu is so into it by now, focused, bobbing his head earnestly, trying to take more, wanting to please you like he’s really making you feel good as if it’s actually your real body, moaning loudly around the strap. When beomgyu moves further on the faux cock, the harness begins to bump against your clit and you try chasing the sensation by pushing more of your strap down beomgyu’s throat, grasping onto his hair and little ponytail to guide him more harshly. He softly gags, tears springing in his eyes as it hits the back of his throat but he doesn’t stop.

“God, you’re so hot like this pretty doll face, taking my cock so well.” You moan from the feeling of it hitting your clit but also at how pathetic beomgyu looks right now.

"Mmph—mmmghd.” Beomgyu garbles and moans around the silicone in response, drool slobbering all on his chin and wet mouth, spit mixed with the gloss, creating a slick shiny mess on his mouth and the toy, teary, pleading puppy eyes blinking up at you.

But you continue to ignore his gags, forcing him to deepthroat the strap, hands roughly pulling at his hair.

You then bring his face all the way down to the base of the dildo, his nose pressing into your lower abdomen and you hold him there. His body shakes, wide panicked eyes, muffled chokes and cries. But you still keep him there. There’s tears streaming down his face, helpless, cheeks hollowed.

After a while, you let go, he pulls himself completely off and splutters as thick strings of drool connect his lips and chin to the tip of the dildo. Beomgyu gasps for air, choking and coughing and crying, wiping at his chin.

You bring him up, seeing how you’d ruined the pretty doll, his cute hairstyle now all messy, clip half loose and slipping from his bangs, eyes glassy, lashes prettily clumped with tears, tears stream still evident on his rosy cheeks, his lips utterly wrecked, puffy, red, slick and wet and swollen, lip gloss and spit all around and smeared. It’s gorgeous.

You kiss him before he can even properly catch his breath, not giving him that much time for air but he melts into it, kissing you back desperately as if you were the air he needs to breathe, spit and gloss smearing onto your own mouth, all tongue and sloppy, whimpering in your mouth.

Pushing him onto the bed, you straddle him as he lays with breathless anticipation underneath you. You’d agreed to peg him today and he’d sucked your strap so well, with such dedication, being so good, you wanted to give it to him already, wanted to make him feel so good.

You throw his shirt off him, pierced belly comes into view. That iconic little hello kitty charm glinting at you from his navel, rising and falling with every shaky inhale as his tummy trembles underneath your touch. Placing your hand on his tiny waist, you marvel at how he is beneath you. You kiss him everywhere, down his neck, chest, tummy, marking him, sucking soft hickeys as he lets out soft little whines, tugging at the sheets.

You move further down, leaving him in his underwear, spreading his legs apart, kissing the soft unblemished skin of his pretty plush thighs, sucking his inner thighs as his breath hitches, so sensitive there, biting, licking, covering, littering and painting them in purpley and pink splotches. Beomgyu squirms and shivers, restless as your mouth gets so close, too close to his aching, hard cock but not enough. “Pleasee.” He’s breathless, legs spreading even wide for you, “just—touch me, already.” Beomgyu whines and pouts. “You’re teasing me. I’m dying over here.”

You roll your eyes but tug his underwear down and it’s like he suddenly remembers something, panicked, horrified. He shuts his legs, hands instantly flying to cover the area. Beomgyu is blushing furiously, face and ears flushed, his cheeks blooming a pretty shade of pink, pinker than the cherry blossoms you’d seen earlier today. He avoids your gaze, looking anywhere but you, so incredibly embarrassed, so shy.

That’s weird. Beomgyu was rarely ever this shy anymore. He hadn’t got this embarrassed since the first time he streamed in front of you.

You narrow your eyes suspiciously at him, opening his legs and pulling his hands away nonetheless.

That’s when you see it— a pretty little bedazzled heart shaped, pink gem, resting snugly in beomgyu’s hole, catching the light like treasure in a chest. What the hell.

You’d never seen it before and it was driving you crazy, in a good and bad way.

“Oh my god.” You gasp, dramatically, scandalised. “You whore! Have you been wearing this all day?”

“N-no! Just a few hours before you came!” Beomgyu squeaks and splutters, face buried in his hands, trying to explain himself as if he’d committed some atrocious, heinous crime. “Couldn’t help myself…and, and—I missed you.” Beomgyu mumbles, sulky, “You didn’t even come today! Too busy with that guy.” He suddenly furrows his brows at you, glaring, indignant, petulant, as if it was your fault.

You gape at him. “You couldn’t even wait? Didn’t ask me, didn’t even tell me, touching yourself without me there…you brat.” You spit out and tut, shaking your head at him. In hindsight, it wasn’t even that bad. You just wanted any kind of excuse to punish him now. In fact, you’re almost salivating at the sight of beomgyu wearing a pretty pink jewelled butt plug.

He lets out an offended noise, protesting. “I just warmed up a little. I was being…” He almost laughs, playing coy, then looks back up at you innocently, “…proactive.”

“You were being an impatient whore.”

Your eyes drag slowly over to the plug again, taking in how pink and sparkly it is, how snug it looks, how his cute tiny hole must’ve adjusted to it, gently stretched and waiting for you, squirming for hours. God. Beomgyu looked so good with it. It suited him so well.

Beomgyu studies your face, searching your eyes and his face slowly turns into a satisfied grin, regaining some of that usual bratty confidence. “You love it. I know you do.”

You ignore him, watching the screen on the phone, turning to the live chat, smiling cryptically. “What do guys think? Should we still fuck him? Or should we punish him?”

Beomgyu’s smug little smirk falters instantly replaced with a dreaded look. But the chat is already flooding in.

Punish him.

Spank him till he cries >_< 🌸

Slap him until he’s really sorry ! Make sure you don’t fuck him at all.

You grin. Almost everyone says to punish him, that he deserved a spanking instead.

Beomgyu’s eyes widen, shaking his head devastated, mortified. “No.” His voice breaks, “Don’t listen to them—please. Please fuck me.”

“They’re saying you should get spanked instead.” You shrug as if it’s all out of your control.

Beomgyu whines again, more pathetic this time, distressed, trying to bring your hand to his dick, grinding up against your hand. “Please—please, baby, I need it so bad, I-i’ve been good-”

You swat your hand away in disgust. Instead, You grip his face roughly, forcing him to look at you, “Do you want to get punished even more?”

Beomgyu recoils like a dejected helpless puppy, knowing he can’t do anything anymore. He slowly flips over onto his stomach and you bend him over your lap.

“You guys are evil.” Beomgyu comically mutters bitterly, casting a betrayed glare at the camera to the viewers before turning it on you. “And you—you’re so mean.” He pouts but accepts his fate.

SLAP !

Beomgyu opens his mouth to say more but his words dissolve into a loud, startled moan as your palm lands on the curve of his small ass with a sharp, echoing smack.

SLAP !

You strike again, spanking beomgyu continuously as he sucks in air loudly, biting his lip, gasping, back arching, trying to hold in the desperate pained whimpers, dick twitching uncontrollably with every smack, thighs quivering.

You spank him again, impossible harder this time, each hit ringing out obscenely, his cheeks painfully reddened and crimson and burning. Sight so pretty with his ass marked and red and the sparkly pink gem nuzzled in between. Your handprint is evident on his ass by now and beomgyu begins to let out muffled cries at your unrelenting slaps, his cock hurting so bad and leaking, rubbing against your thigh from your smacks, smearing his precum there.

“B-baby! Please! S-stop, please fuck me!” Beomgyu mewls and shudders as you still strike him violently, “I-it hurts!” You’re not sure whether he’s talking about his dick or his ass.

“You should’ve thought of that before you decided to be a needy little slut without permission.” You spank his angry scarlet skin again.

Slap !

Beomgyu full on sobs, tears spilling freely from his eyes, hiccuping, wailing loudly, legs thrashing and shaking his head, “S-sorry, ‘m sorry, ‘m s-sorry!”

You gently knead the sore flesh of his ass, then let your fingers toy and play with the plug, slowly, teasingly, you ease it out until the widest part stretches him, then pushing it back in his pretty hole with a wet pop, taking it out and thrusting it fully back in his hole, doing that over and over again, fucking him with the little toy, moving it around in circles.

“Ah-ahh—fuck- baby—” Beomgyu gasps, and jolts at the little pleasure, desperate for anything. He lets out the loudest whorish, slutty moans, mewling high pitched, eyes half lidded. He’s such a terrible, weepy mess.

"Baby...you're so pretty like this,” you coo, sweetly, still continuing with your ministrations of moving the jewelled butt plug around in his ass, grinding it in circles and spanking him raw, “you’re such a slutty whore.”

“O-only for- ah! you.” Beomgyu weeps.

You giggle. “Not for your viewers? You’re so ungrateful, angel.”

“Can I cum? Please, please, please. I’ve been good. Pleaseplease” Beomgyu moans.

“Should we let the poor puppy cum?” You glance at the screen, checking what they’re saying, “…sorry baby, they’re saying no.” You tell beomgyu pitifully, feeling slightly sorry for him.

Beomgyu shakes his head wildly, whole body wracked with sobs, shedding so many tears, heart broken. “No! no no no ! I can’t-”

But he doesn’t even listen, it becomes too much and he can’t hold it in, doesn’t even care, in fact, he’s annoyed at you and viewers for being so cruel to him, defiant. The slapping and playing with his hole and the small rubs against his poor cock makes him lose it, spurting and splattering helpless thick hot creamy copious amount of cum all on your thighs as he shudders, whole body convulsing, still crying and sniffling, his pretty legs trembling delicately like a baby deer.

You blink at him. “Did you just cum anyway?You’re so disobedient!”

Beomgyu whimpers, nervous. And there goes the endless punishments beomgyu receives.

You give beomgyu the best aftercare you can after that, praising him and promising to actually peg him next time.

He doesn’t let go of you, insisting on you both showering together, holding onto each other as the warm water sprays on you both, steam rising around, beomgyu groans at the sensation, head looking dramatically on your shoulder, his hair all damp and the bangs attractively in his eyes as he clings to you even when you try to massage his scalp with shampoo, head hiding in your neck, kissing your shoulders and neck soft and tender, making your heart flutter.

Both of you now lay in his bed and you cuddle him, skin still warm and clean from the shower, wrapping your arm around him, bringing him close your side as you play with his damp hair, whispering sweet things in his hair as he sleepily hums, snuggling closer.

Then beomgyu speaks up suddenly, “Hey,” his voice low and soft.

You tilt your head to look at him. “Hmm?”

Beomgyu shifts to face you, head propped up on his elbow, brows slightly furrowed. “Who is he?”

You blink, confused. “What? Who?”

“Music practice room guy.”

You raise your brow, then answer casually. “Oh, his name is Haechan.”

Beomgyu’s eyes suddenly widen, entire body tensed, getting up instantly, “Haechan?! As in cello playing Haechan?”

You sit up too, utterly confused by now and nod then remembering, “Oh yeah, he actually said he knew you.”

“Y/n.” Beomgyu’s voice is sharp, incredulous. “Do you even know—”

But a loud buzz cuts through the room. His phone screen lights up on the nightstand. Beomgyu frowns and picks it up.

Haechan: I know you’re a camboy, beomgyu. I always knew you were a fucking whore. Just wait until I tell everyone 🤣🤣.

Please actually reblog !!!!!! and leave comments !!!! guys 😭 if you like the fic. It’s really appreciated and so nice tysm !<3🙏💕🌷🌷! It’s incredibly discouraging and disappointing when fics have such little reblogs ☹️ At least send an anon in the inbox if you don’t want to rb, don’t just like. Feedback is always appreciated it makes writers want to actually write more :)

A/n: yipppiiieee !! It’s finally 😭😭 sorry if the smut is just really badly written and messy I was lowkey not there when writing it. Also there’s probably only one chapter left ! So tell me if there’s certain scenes or stuff you wanted reader and beomgyu to do in terms of sex 🤔 Also you maybe confused about the plot twist but there was kinda a poorly excused hint in one of the earlier chapters on who haechan could be and why 🤔 also someone tell me if I need to add more warnings idk what I missed 😭😭

Taglist: @pogigyu @denleave1088 @mashimarshmello @cha0thicpisces @soobsfairy444 @lcvetyvn @1ummcalhoody6 @imrllytootiredforthis @bjttersweets @aliceoracleollormusic @yongboksgf @daniarafid @nyanggk @aggiebackstage @qluvr @artypjmlbss @dickdeprived @lilactangerine @kissmeow @katsukeis @shutupheathersorryheatherr @mastergibbs93 @tae-ology @lynanist @guavagyu @soobhns @mikeeel @multistansimp4life @goquokka @scarfac3 @roses-for-my-love @maxismp1 @peachenle @i-loved-you42 @vampcharxter @th3-3d3n-g4rd3n @yuhjoeyuh @ren-junwrld @eggeutarteuu @staurdvst @vivioluh @itbtoblikethatsometimes @nct-dreamteam @ixayjun @beomgewwwwww (Ask to be added to the taglist !!)

[faeylayn-blog]

The pressure has been so constant that it doesn't even register most days. Most times it only is noticeable following an order to kill someone who truly does not deserve it. Right at the moment where it’s worth considering if this is someone who really should be killed. But even then it never gets quite that far, even if you might consider it, the pressure reminds me that it’s for the good of the Nation, that I’m the only one who can set things on the path of peace and prosperity again when someone has nudged things out of the rut. And it’s not like the orders have ever been wrong, for all my life I’ve seen enough evidence that everyone I’ve been sent after would have destroyed our entire way of life. I am the blade’s edge on which the Nation is balanced whether all those innocents below know it or not. And all of them either do not or choose not to know. Pretending as though you don’t know when the worst necessities are done makes it easier for them to sleep at night I suppose.

The pressure is heavy today, a constant reminder that it’s so important to just focus on the mission, to trust in the results, the decades of dominance and superiority that the Nation has jealously guarded, the citizens who would suffer if any of these radicals would get their way. Yes this is an official, an archmage of the colegia, but my handlers have not been wrong yet. If this archmage is a traitor to the Nation, then they will be destroyed.

Don’t think about it, I know my duty, just focus. I can glide across even a darkened room without the slightest hint of a sound, I’ve been doing so for years, and years, and years. And I’ll be doing so for years and years more. In the beginning it was about making the quickest cleanest kill. But even trying to use the fewest steps, or shortest time from entry, or whatever arbitrary goal I could create stopped holding my attention quickly. It was when I stumbled over a speech of one of the targets that I found the comedy so entertaining. The Nation should be responsible for providing for all it’s citizens…. The nobles are the true enemy of the Nation…. We all came from somewhere, blaming the poorest among us for all our problems is folly. What a riot. How hilarious to see nobles blaming themselves. Nevermind all the public works and goods the nobles had done for the Nation. Bah. It’s all just lies, still it's one way to keep occupied, and when I found something particularly incriminating to bring back I could have access to all sorts of things.

I knew the Archmage wouldn’t be back in the bedchambers for several minutes, so why not see what he was cooking up? I already saw 4 locations where I could wait in ambush, ranked them by likelihood of discovery, ease of attack, prevention of alarm. Nothing was even likely to get in my way.

His desk was littered with scrolls and tomes, many arcane symbols that swam like minnows through the pages in an arcane script I had no chance of deciphering. A letter was drying and the wax seal was already set out, it would be going somewhere juicy I’m sure. 

To whomever has been sent to kill me,

…. Well shit. Daggers out, check the corners, check the device to detect humans in the room, check for surveillance, check the escape route…. And nothing. No issues, nothing out of place. 

Well now I definitely need to see what he wrote. The pressure pushed harder for a moment, but finding evidence against these losers is what I’ve done and I’m not going to let some letter stop me. Besides, maybe it’s a confession or begging for mercy, these weak willed traitors are prone to make a whole lot of fuss and give up when they face any real hardship.

I’m not at all surprised you made it into my bedchambers, just as you have with so many of my compatriots. Perhaps you’d have thought all opposition would fold when pressed, but considering how you’ve read through so much of every victim's writings, I think you’ve wanted to learn more and there’s something stopping you. And I̶̴̗̗̦͍ͨͭ̉͢͟ m̶̷͔ͪ̽͡i̵͓͙̱͚̎͟g̴̶̛̮̣͙͠h̶̯̰̝̻̿̓͢t̴͕͖͓̀ h̶̯̰̝̻̿̓͢ă̶̸̝ͦ͊̿͋͞v̸̵̝͙͆̈ͤę̷̵̧̖̫̗̆̊ ă̶̸̝ͦ͊̿͋͞ s̩͙͖̋͛͟ȍ̸̢̢̮͚̐̚ḻ̸͈ͧ͑̓̓̀͡û̶͙̽̿͆̈t̴͕͖͓̀i̵͓͙̱͚̎͟ȍ̸̢̢̮͚̐̚n̷̶̯͉��̽̐ͦ͘

The text spirals into some glyph as I jump backwards but the pulse still worms its way out and slams into my forehead. Fuck, I’m fucking done for now, the fucking letter was a trap.

But as the light recedes, I can still see. I’m… alive? But… the pressure. It’s… it’s gone.

There’s a bluish flash as a teleportation triggers in the room. My weapons are already pointing back as I whip around to face this Archmage. “I… what did you do to me?”

There’s a tight smile on his lips. “I see. Do you still feel I need to die?”

I look down at my daggers, carved with the emblem of the Nation, and I try to will back the focus that the pressure would always bring. The mission. The necessity. Something…

But all that remains is confusion.

I look up. “Tell me more.”

Trained from birth as an assassin, your mind was bound by a powerful control spell. Sent to kill an archmage, they cast Dispel to weaken you—accidentally freeing your mind instead. For the first time, your dagger points wherever you choose.

[agoraphobialt]

John Price and the sweet pet that sits in his office all day

You've been watching him: the way his fingers wrap around his too-expensive pen, the way his suits seem to fit him stupidly well in a way where you (and every other person who is lucky enough to see him) can appreciate his muscles flexing when he moves around the office, or the way his voice always gets softer when it comes to you.

He's been watching you—not because he's subtle about it (at least when it's just the two of you), but because he just appreciates a little too much the way the valley of your breasts plays peek-a-boo from inside your perfectly ironed blouse. He loves the way your eyes sparkle when he praises how perfect your work is, and he's not shy about giving you small trinkets when you do a perfect job.

Has he ever told you he loves the way that skirt looks on you? Or that he loves when you wear those pants that make your ass jiggle in a way that has him staring, almost counting how many small bounces they make from his desk to yours?

Of course not! That's not what a boss–employee relationship should be like. But he makes sure to make you walk around, doing some stupid assignments just so he can appreciate you.

Today is no exception; he has been keeping you busy with so many small and simple things that anyone could do, but he wants you to because "you're the only one who does a great job around here, sweetheart."

And it was fine... at least for the first couple of hours. But now? Now you're pissed because you'll have to stay in the office until late to finish a presentation for tomorrow's meeting.

And when he calls you to his office to get him a coffee because he'll also be staying late, you get a bit too mouthy—but you're just stressed! You didn't mean to be a bit of a brat.

Poor, sweet thing. You should've controlled yourself better—all he wanted you to do was make him a fucking coffee. And then, you could have gone back to sit pretty at your desk, with that little frown sitting between your brows as you try to finish your actual work.

So when you come back with his coffee in the mug that says "Boss #1," he doesn't even look at it, and instead walks up to you, looking you up and down before his hand makes contact with your chin, his thumb carving into the soft meat of your cheeks as he makes you look at him.

What are you going to do, go to HR? After he's been the best boss you could've ever asked for?

So now you're sitting down on his desk with your legs spread open and head thrown back, the coffee sitting there long forgotten. He is kneeling between your legs with both of his hands gripping your thighs to stop you from squirming away because "it's too much", and you can't keep still. Poor little sensitive thing. Should've thought better before acting like a spoilt brat who can't follow a simple order.

He's basically slurping every single drop of your wetness as your eyes roll back every time his beard brushes against your clit, and as the greedy man he is, he's definitely fucking you too with his fingers after he found that spot that automatically made you feel high.

And you're crying because he doesn't let you come; he stops every time you start clenching around his fingers, moving his face away from your cunt just to laugh at you, and if you try to move your hips to grind around something, anything really, he would slap your pussy a few times.

"She's a better girl than you, sweet thing."

He lets you go an hour later, saying "that presentation won't finish itself alone, darling".

But now you're motivated! he promised to finally help you cum if you did a good job as always!

[catsoupki]

I’LL BE HERE (WAITING) (8.0K) AO3

pairing - katsuki bakugou x reader

synopsis - you first meet ground zero when he needs a place to be alone. now, coffee, for bakugou, becomes less a necessity and more of an excuse to see you, maybe.

cw - FLUFFY !!!!! WHOLESOME !!!!! pro!hero bakugou, coffee shop AU, hurt/comfort but the hurt is very brief, canon-typical violence, reader has no specified quirk, typos

a/n - inspired by “sunflowers don’t grow in the city” but i can no longer find that work on ao3 :( finally decided to cross-post this ancient relic from ao3 after editing a bit

taglist - @cashmoneyyysstuff @staraxiaa @hatsukeii

wednesday

You swear that when you catch feelings, which you will as much as you promise you won’t, you’ll keep quiet, you won’t tell your closest friends, you won’t even have the chance to deny the guess even if it were correct because your friends wouldn’t know that you have a crush to begin with. You’ll watch, you’ll listen, and you’ll do those in silence too; they won’t confess because people just don’t do that nowadays, and you sure as hell won’t either because everything eventually falls apart, and you’re already busy from picking up the pieces from before.

Maybe you’re still making yourself more likeable, paying too much attention to details nobody cares about, maybe you’re still making people fall for you intentionally, maybe you’re not, who knows? But what you do know is that you won’t fuss over having a crush anymore, because people grow aloof, they turn selfish, and things get messy, and more so, they get too tiring to be cared for.

thursday

You find that you often attach your emotions to songs; right now, before closing, you’re feeling the same exact feeling you felt all those years ago, back when you were 16 years old, after school, giggling with your friends, drawing little hearts next to your crushes’ names, all huddled up around your desk talking about boys, the homework that was originally the whole entire reason why you got together in the first place laid ignored on it too; back then, it felt like you were eternity.

And back then, never have you imagined that by the time you were at the age of twenty three, you’d be working at your own cafe, well, sort of, half cafe half library.

friday

It’s getting cold, again. Right after the A/C gets fixed when it hasn’t been working the entire summer. The sun is starting to reach the counter earlier again. You’ve missed this. You hope you’re not being basic, but you love autumn so much, and the amount of mochas you can get without being judged since you are the boss at a fucking cafe after all. You’re being basic. Fuck it. Cause you love being basic.

The moon really does offer solace, to the ones drowning in their own thoughts, to the ones that are bored out of their minds. Never moving, just, there. The crickets.. quacking? (You laughed at that, your own joke) Cricketing? They’re behind your ears, you feel like you are out of place somehow, wherein you should be in a movie instead. The city lights, the blurring ones, they’re so pretty: the red, white, and blueish ones? Flashing flashlights on faraway mountains, on the tips of airplanes, I guess you never really realise how fast they’re flying until you’re on the ground and looking up, standing still. You think you can close the cafe early today, you have to open at six tomorrow, God please let me get a good night of sleep. It’ll be fine though. It always is.

saturday

Today, the Number Two Hero visited your cafe. I know. Crazy right? You couldn’t really freak out over it though, since this is a place supposedly made for people to find the quietness that they need. You don’t know why you’re so surprised that Ground Zero (number two hero!) does in fact wear normal clothes. He is still human after all, you sometimes forget that, that they’re mortal. Anyway, he looks totally different compared to what he does on billboards, where he’d either be in his hero costume or some high end fashion suits that probably cost more than this cafe. He’s just wearing that. Sweatpants and a tank top. I mean, boring but definitely flattering. He isn’t a hero for nothing, his job is literally to stay in tip-top shape. To fight bad guys or whatever.

Okay that’s a bit mean, he does keep the streets safe, but he’s kinda rude, yeah you get it, you’re exhausted from the constant flashes surrounding you, but really no need to scream at everything and everyone you see. He hasn’t screamed here today, though.

Maybe you don’t get it, after all.

Other than him, nothing interesting has happened. All the same, teenagers that either bring other teenagers here to take aesthetic pictures and look at books or they bring their very reluctant significant others here. It’s always a victory to see said partners grow fonder of this place as they spend time here. Small wins. You know its charm, that was the whole reason why you bought it.

Blondie left after a few hours, right when the sun was setting, it’s a shame that he didn’t stay, the view there is always the best out of the entire harbour. It’s also a shame you didn’t ask for his autograph, you could have sold it for something, that’s a certain.

ᝰ

He scoffs as he reads that line, of course you only want his autograph to sell it for money.

ᝰ

sunday

On again, off again, love you like oxygen

You heard that on the radio today when you were driving to the grocery store, and fell into one of your melancholic episodes again. You wanna be in love, can someone love you? Please? You know it’s stupid and selfish and just ridiculously not right to wait and do nothing until someone finally makes the move, and expect them to be the perfect match to all your standards, but can’t a girl dream?

6:47 pm, Ground Zero comes in again. At the spot he sat last time too. Near the window, at the corner on your left. All depressed and quiet and stuff. So for the entire day, he was at the corner of your eye, grumbling under his breath for whatever worries he has, or had, you hope the cafe eases at least one away.

monday

The weekend is over, for five days you’ll be writing in this journal for ninety percent of your work day, which is actually very fine with you. In the morning, you had the biggest order of this month come in, five new york cheesecakes, five iced americanos, six iced bubble teas, and one matcha muffin. You hope their party is going well. You wonder whether they’re having a farewell party, but this early in the morning and on a Monday? They’re definitely living the good life.

He comes in, again. It’s the third time this week, the atmosphere was kinda nice before he came in, I mean, it couldn’t really be bad since you were the only person there. He sits in front of you this time. The table that is closest to you, which happens to be in front of you too. He also orders a black coffee besides the usual chocolate chip muffin. Of course Dynamight would drink coffee as dark as his soul, straight, bitter, like him.

tuesday

You’ll have to stay till late to clean up. A typhoon without prior notice hit the harbour so everybody came in here to hide from the rain, so the floor is wet as hell. Hopefully you don’t fall, you don’t want an ass print on your pants.

The cafe is crowded today, a lot of tired workers came in after they got released early to go home, only to get hit by the heavy rain on their way back; and also you had a lot, a lot, of students. Reminds you of the days where you’d make plans with your friends without checking the weather forecast first, but today there was only one hero, though.

And who would have guessed that he’d be the one for small talk?

ᝰ

“Why do you have so many romance novels in this shithole?” He mumbles as he looks around at the books as if they were gonna attack him.

“First, it isn’t a shithole. And second, I’m a sucker for love.” You smile. His heart skips a beat.

ᝰ

“You’re always writing in that journal, what could possibly be interesting enough here to fill that many pages?” He asks you, laying his forearm on the counter, while you’re tapping away at the screen at the drink he just ordered. With a frown on his face, of course.

Villains are humans too, and apparently they don’t like wreaking havoc in the rain either.

He’s grown to like you more. Or maybe just the cafe. Maybe. He doesn’t have to deal with the press or any obnoxious fans or anything here, really. You didn’t react, like at all, when he first came in. He skipped breakfast that day since he woke up late, he got home later than usual the previous night, and fell asleep on the couch immediately, so he didn’t get the chance to set an alarm either. Luckily he still made it to his patrol the next day on time though, he just gave up his precious food for it.

“It isn’t interesting, but wouldn’t you want to know, maybe a few years later, exactly what you were thinking on this particular day?” His answer is no, no he would not like to know what he was thinking back in his UA days.

Read: no he would not like to know what he was thinking back in his horny puberty days.

The rest of the customers have left already, since the downpour had calmed to a quiet drizzle by then, but Bakugou hasn’t gotten his order yet. He’ll tell you to hurry up, that he has somewhere to be, but he doesn’t, because he didn’t have anywhere to be at all. Even if he does, if he had the choice, he’d stay here, with you maybe.

ᝰ

wednesday

It’s becoming a routine at this point. Between six thirty pm to seven o’clock, he comes in and orders his coffee, then he leans against the wall and watches me clean up the tables and prepare for closing.

Sometimes he’ll help you open the rubbish bin when you’re walking there with the broom and tray already taking up space in your hands, but most of the time he just watches you, like a hawk. Though he still washes his own glass, the glass that holds his bad choice in drinks, (black coffee is disgusting, you stand by it) you don’t think he knows that you still have to wash it again after he leaves.

When he does, you flip the sign from open to close, you shut off the lights, then you take the glass along with your bag and walk upstairs to your apartment and wash it there.

You hope you’ll see him again tomorrow.

thursday

Sales have been going down. The rest of your income that usually goes to your savings is going down. The bills stay the same, the rent stays the same, but income is going down.

You sold three more vanilla cupcakes when you were waiting for him at 7:01 pm. You hope you’ll see him tomorrow, you didn’t today.

friday

ᝰ

(His heart is pumping: You hoped to see him again today.)

Friday is still empty, but he looks at it anyway. He knows he shouldn’t be here reading your private thoughts, now that his head is flooding with them, but the thing that you’ve been writing in since the day he first visited the cafe was right there in front of him, exposed and naked on the counter, inches away from his tapping pointer finger when you were in the back readying the batch of muffins needed for tomorrow’s early baking.

Now, he’s thinking that maybe he should treat the agency to a pastry or two, or thirty, or more, tomorrow, from his favourite half cafe half library, sort of, anyway.

ᝰ

“What?” His assistant asks him, eyes unblinking, what did her boss just request?

“It’s not that fucking difficult to understand, order a drink and a snack of everybody’s choice from the corner street cafe down the harbour. I’ll put the extra money in your November paycheck.”

“From Espresso Express?”

“..yes.”

The agency is in a better mood after that, chirpy, despite all the calls coming in to report villains causing trouble, people going in and out, in and out to stop the trouble, and some needing the many, many first-aid kits in the building, everyone is chirpy, and so are you.

ᝰ

friday

Today, the biggest fucking order came in, since the entirety of the cafe’s history, shit you not. Twenty iced bubble teas, eleven hot ones, two lattes, two caramel shakes, ten new york cheesecakes, ten matcha muffins, ten chocolate chip muffins, and five vanilla cupcakes. Bless whoever made that order. This month’s income just jumped ¥36000. That’s enough to pay two and a half months worth of bills, mind you.

ᝰ

The door swings open, making the tiny bell on the door ring a few times, zephyrs running through the strings of his hair, making him even more attractive than he already was in his matching tracksuit.

“How was today’s sales?” the first thing he asks after walking into the cafe. And when he looks up, he sees the tiniest smile decorating your face. Then what the fuck does it take for this shitty woman to laugh?

“Well, very, very well. Your patrol?”

The question definitely shocked him a bit, not really, so you do know that he’s a pro hero, how come you’ve never made a reaction before? He is the number two hero after all, it didn’t phase him that you knew who he was, right?

“More villains, nothing I couldn’t handle though, some stupid shitty pickpocketing gangs that didn’t even put any thought into the whole process, if you’re gonna wreak havoc at least do it well.”

And you laugh. So that’s what it takes?

He notices that you are placing two plates down on the table he is sitting at, hm you look cute in that apron.

“Don’t you dare waste my food, I’ll fucking kill you, pro hero or not.” He takes it back.

ᝰ

saturday

I saved her today.

ᝰ

The sound of glass shattering makes you jump, looking up immediately you are met with the sight of civilians running, almost over each other. You grab your bag at once and dash outside, the stupidest decision you could make.

Running while carrying a tote bag is more difficult than you imagined. It bumps into everything, flipped over cars and other running people mostly, but never mind because your tote bag is knocked out of your hands when a blast of water is shot at your back so hard that you fall to your knees. You immediately feel the skin tearing from the rough asphalt road and your muscles bruising from the impact, you get up immediately though, it doesn’t matter if you lose your phone, or your wallet, or your entire bag, just not your life.

Then your ear drums almost burst from the sound of explosions, but you couldn’t be happier, to see him.

Him— he looks oddly handsome. In his hero costume, he’s shooting explosions from his palms, simultaneously yelling at people to run, but you can’t, couldn’t, your legs are glued to the ground, you’ fucking stuck.

“Dumbass hide!” And you can only assume ‘dumbass’ to be you, as there is only you on the street.

So as much as you don’t want to, you run as quickly as your legs would allow you to hide behind an alleyway, you hear sirens coming from afar, the cops are here, he wouldn’t need to face the stupid fuck face lowly shit villain alone anymore.

Never mind, ducking your head to peek at the fight is the stupidest decision you’ve made so far, as your face becomes the big red target of both a water blast and an explosion, your head shoots backwards and it bashes into the concrete wall, you grow dizzy, your line of vision is slipping, or are you the one slipping? You couldn’t tell. At least you got to see him once. His eyes grow wide.

Fuck you and you villains, you stupid fuck face.

He quickly finishes the fight, letting the police handle the rest (mostly damage control) as he is hurrying to you, the paramedics couldn’t see you, so there is only him.

He knows where you live, from the times you head upstairs. He tells you that’s he’s leaving, but in reality, he flies to the rooftop next door, and for the first half an hour of his night patrols, he listens to your dragging footsteps up the staircase, to the tired door click, to your record player, to you singing along, to the sounds of you washing his glass, to the sounds of your muffled singing in the shower, while he finishes the muffin you gave him. And at around one o’clock, he’ll go home, when his limbs become laden with a satisfying exhaustion, when he knows you’re safely tucked in bed, dreaming, maybe of him, hopefully him.

Now, as you’re slung over his shoulder with his hand on your calves making sure you don’t fall off, he searches for the tote bag he knows you have, dirty on the side of the road, no doubt it got stepped on as people were evacuating. He picks it up with his other hand, trying to search for the key in it, and he walks to your apartment door.

ᝰ

Your head is pounding, that’s for sure. You also hear the sound of your record player playing, the lights from your living room almost blinding you. Woah, sensory overload.

“Good, you’re finally awake, dumbass.” That’s the first thing you hear, great. “I need to change the bandages around your head, they’re already fucking bleeding through, it’s barely been two hours, fucking Christ.” He cursed how many times? While you’re still trying to register everything around you.

Why is he in your apartment? Why do you have bandages around your— Oh. Right.

“Sit up, woman! I don’t have all day!”

That is a lie, he does have all day, in fact he could stay here all week if he wanted to, if you wanted him to.

So you do, you sit up, and immediately your center of gravity is somehow all down at your back and you’re falling again, not as bad as last time certainly, your house doesn’t have a concrete alleyway nor does it have a villain whose superpower is blasting water that is fighting with the number two hero—

But your head almost hits the armrest on your couch, though it doesn’t, because his hand is placed on your upper back to stop that.

“Be a bit more careful, will you? You already have a mild concussion.” He growled before rolling his eyes, without real malice behind it, but he doesn’t know if you know that.

Your hand grasps his shirt, then onto the back of the couch. Since you have your eyes closed — it’s still taking you a bit to get used to the strong lights, your head is already tight as shit — and thank God you have your eyes closed, because the tips of his ears are so fucking red. You basically just unintentionally face-planted into his chest (with your eyes closed), what the fuck.

He unwraps the tight bandages on your head and replaces them with new ones, trying to calm himself down. (“Can you make them looser please? I’ll have a severe concussion and not just a mild one if you don’t.” you ask, very politely too, which he responds to with: “Fuck’s sakes woman they’re supposed to be tight so it’ll stop the bleeding.”)

He orders you to sleep (“You need a lot of rest and drink a lot of water, eat more things that contain iron since you lost a lot of blood.” “Sure doc.” “Shut the fuck up or I’ll kill you.” “Sure doc.” And he hears you laugh the second time, so he lets you go) He screams at you to sleep once more, so you request him to support you and offer balance while you walk to the bed. And as he leaves, “Come back tomorrow.”

So he does.

ᝰ

You wake up to the sounds of knocking, you didn’t close the curtains last night, which is fine since right now it wakes you up more to greet the door. Right before you do that though, you do try and fix your bed hair a bit more, and splash some cold water on your face to wake your swollen face up, maybe you would do something else too but his knocks (bangs) are gonna break the door soon so you open it first.

“Go back to sleep.”

“You woke me up.”

“Jesus okay! Suit yourself, fuck’s sakes.”

You wobble to the bathroom, as you shut the door you hear the clicks of the gas stove being turned on. At least he’s cooking breakfast for you when he so rudely woke you up from your slumber.

“They’re doing damage control right now, since your cafe is included in the area, they’ll fix it, and pay for it as well so you don’t have to spend a penny, they’re gonna buy you all the books too; you have to close the shop anyway, even if it weren’t damaged,” he stops you when he sees your eye twinkle. “you’re fucking damaged so don’t even think about it until you’re completely healed.”

“Rude.”

After that, you guys don’t talk for the rest of breakfast. Basic eggs and bacon and some leftover days old muffins from the cafe that you took home: a western breakfast.

He does the dishes too, guess it makes up for the times you did his. (“IT’S ONE SINGLE GLASS HOW FUCKING HARD CAN IT BE! LOOK AT THIS! TWO PLATES, FOUR UTENSILS AND A FRYING PAN-“ “Yes okay, okay you’re giving me brain damage again.” “SHUT UP YOU-“)

He doesn’t leave, even after the dishes are done, he joins you on the couch, you’re reading, and he turns on the news next to you. You can feel his smirk as he listens to the report talk about him, saving your day.

ᝰ

As the days go on, things start to return to normal, you go back to taking care of the cafe, and as an apology his agency sent you a fair share of money to make up for the income you would have gotten in the week of repairing. However, there’s one thing that didn’t go back to its state prior to the attack: Bakugou.

Katsuki, you mean. He’s been making you call him by his first name since the day you got home from getting groceries, and you were looking for him, so you were shouting his name around the house, before you could finish the third shout though, he cut you off and told you to call him Katsuki. For whatever reason, not that you care.

When the day starts, hours before patrol, he goes to the cafe and helps you set up everything, he only stays in the back though, his reason being he doesn’t want stalkers seeing him there, nor the press, he doesn’t want to end up on the front page from rumours again.

Two hours before patrol, you cook him a meal, and not just muffins and cupcakes, you cook him something filled with all the nutrients he’ll need for the day of fighting bad guys (he whacked you over the head for that one) curry with rice, spaghetti with meatballs, depends on the day and also the leftover groceries from the dinner of previous nights; he sits at the place behind the counter that’s covered by the largest menu, so he could eat without people staring at him.

Correction: he could eat with nobody but you staring at him.

And during patrol, he tries his best to not let you infiltrate his mind: your smile, your laugh, your voice, your scent, (it’s actually just the scent of freshly baked chocolate chip muffins, when it’s still warm, its best state he often claims) the creases next to your eyes when you grin—

He’s getting carried away, again.

After patrol, he hurries the shower that he’s been taking since the first day he became a pro hero at the agency and hurries even more to Espresso Express. He helps you do the dishes, he helps you clean up; and when the cafe closes (which means when the curtains are down) he leaves the back room like some animal that just finished hibernating in the winter (he also whacked you over the head for that one) and he lifts the chairs, flips them onto the tables, so you can vacuum the floor.

Then the day is over. You invite him up for dinner, which he declines, then you insist, then he declines, then you insist, then he declines— Never mind he’s too tired to argue, is what he tells himself when he finally agrees.

He cooks you dinner. Romantic, right? Wrong. He shouts at you to turn down the volume of the music played by your record player so he can hear when the oven is done. He shouts at you to get the heatproof mat ready because he’s already carrying the burning pot to the table and it’s really burning his fingers but you were still laughing at the show you were watching.

He just looks at you, and sometimes when you do notice, you cock your head to the side and he’s cursing at you in his head to stop being this fucking cute because he’s already blonde and the pink blush will show up extra overtly and he does not want you to see that.

You ask him ‘What?’ even when the pause of silence is barely noticeable to the third person, but with that, he knows you’re listening, you don’t just block him out and ignore the name calling like the rest (most) of the world does, but—

Never mind, no buts. He’s thankful. That’s it. Just really fucking thankful.

For you, maybe.

ᝰ

“Good morning sir, what could I help you with today?” You smile knowingly— knowing that it’s him, despite the cap and sunglasses. “You know what.” He grunted out, hey at least he got you to smile.

“Coming right up!” As you whisk away to the back to make his au lait, (no longer black coffees because you claim that those are what makes him so grumpy all the time) and you swear you see the difference, he certainly doesn’t.

ᝰ

“Hey— oh what the fuck.” Kirishima stands at the door frozen, he had just rung up Bakugou, wanting to hang out since they’ve both been so busy cause of the increase in crime.

When Bakugou sent him a new address that he didn’t recognise, he just thought his best friend got another house that would be closer to his agency and his patrol route, but when he’s met by a girl that certainly doesn’t look like Bakugou after he rings the bell, he thinks he has gotten the wrong address, maybe this is his neighbour, his cute neighbour.

“I sent Katsuki down to get groceries, he’ll probably be back in a few, please come in and wait for him if you’d like.”

Damn they’re on first name basis? Bakugou and a cute girl are on first name basis—

“Yeah sure thing! Thank you—” Before he can even finish the sentence, he’s already pulling out his phone to text Kaminari.

SHITTY HAIR: BAKUSQUAD GUYS GUESS WHAT

DUNCEFACE: did bakubro blow up something again

RACCOON EYES: denki got bitches?

SHITTY HAIR: NO YOU WOULDN’T HAVE GUESSED BROS HE’S ON FIRST NAME BASIS WITH A CUTE GIRL

SHITTY HAIR: SHE EVEN SAID SHE SENT HIM DOWN TO GET GROCERIES SO MANLY

FLAT FACE: he’s whipped.

Yes. Yes he is.

ᝰ

Katsuki’s brow is twitching, actually his entire face is twitching, because why the fuck is Dunce Face standing outside your door along with Shitty hair asking you a bunch of questions that all involve his name!

He’s sitting so stiffly at the kitchen island that you’re afraid his back will snap. Red Riot, or Eijiro Kirishima as he insists, and Chargebolt, ’My name’s Denki but you can call me yours anytime— BAKUBRO!’ are talking about you like you’re not there. Which is kind of funny, seeing Katsuki’s reaction.

You prepare tea for the four of you, which manages to calm him down a bit, and after a trip to the bathroom, you come out to the three of them having a very enthusiastic chat. Denki pointing fingers at Bakugou, which he seems like he might just snap them off, and Kirishima trying to stop Bakugou from actually cutting them off.

The day rushes away when you’re happy. And soon, it was already night time, ten o’clock night time. As you two bid them goodbye, you can still see the faint dusting of a flush on his face. Is he embarrassed of you?

“Uh.. sorry about that.” You apologise, trying to see where to step and where to not on this field filled with anger landmines.

“What?” It’s almost like a magic trick to you, to see his face soften before you can even blink, compared to his usual frown, and the extra frown he had on before they left.

“I didn’t clean up the house properly since I didn’t know there’d be guests.. I only figured out they’re your friends since they are Red Riot and Chargebolt after all. So, uh, sorry about the messy place, you must be embarrassed—“ You’re in the middle of talking when he cuts you off.

“What?” He repeats, but you know he heard you fine both times.

“I, uh,” He looks cute scratching his neck like that.

“No, uh, the house is fine, I’m not embarrassed, why would I be? It’s fine, I should be apologising for not telling you earlier that somebody would be coming over. Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He tries his best to not look like an injured animal and to actually look like he’s smiling when he turns his back, fuck, his blush is back again (stronger too). He’ll blame the way your eyes widen, pink covers your cheeks as it does to his, because how can anyone not blush at that? He’ll blame how cute you look, his heart pumping, faster, and faster, and faster and faster—

Fucking traitor.

After he turns the corner at the staircase, you slam the door shut. Like slam slam. He can’t help but let out a small chuckle at the way you reacted. It’s good to know he has the same effect you have on him, do you know you have this effect on him? Probably not, you’re a dumbass.

(His dumbass.)

After the door is shut, you get up immediately and scramble to find your journal because you absolutely do not trust your voice right now.

ᝰ

Why is this so awkward?

He’s scratching the back of his neck again, he does that when he doesn’t know how to communicate in words, you’ve noticed.

“They’re expecting me to go MIA for ten months.”

“I’ll—“ You gulp. You don’t know. “—have food ready when you get back. Please shower first though, I don’t want this place to smell like sweat.”

He smiles. He doesn’t try to hide it, for the first time. “Yeah, don’t worry about it—“

“Don’t get hurt.” You’re not looking at him, too scared, too afraid. And he smiles again, you don’t think you’ll ever grow tired of that sight.

“Okay enough of that shitty stuff, let’s eat I’m hungry as fuck.” He whisks you away to the kitchen, and this time you’re the one who cooks, but not really, you’re too busy worrying.

Tonight, you two sleep on the same bed, for the first time, but when you wake up, you don’t see him. You know why, but you’re gonna get up, get out of bed, and go around the house calling for him anyway.

“Katsuki?” Not in the kitchen. “Katsuki?” Not the living room either. “Katsuki?” You finally give up after ten minutes, calling out to no one, and no one answered.

ᝰ

monday

He left today.

ᝰ

When you get back to your bed again, you notice a notebook.

So you read.

ᝰ

saturday

I saved you today.

monday

I like you. That hasn’t changed one bit. Or it has, this fucking thing in my heart is only growing and growing and sometimes I worry it’ll make me explode. Ironic.

wednesday

The au laits you make are the best. Better than black coffees, I don’t know how, but you make them just right, they always taste a bit fucked when I try them at other cafes, but never here, or maybe that’s just you. Probably, but I’m fine with that.

I think you know that your chocolate chip muffins are my favourite. I don’t believe you when you say there’s always one, literally only one, muffin left everyday, and that you’re full, (even when you always down two bowls of rice every time I cook) so that I should eat the remaining muffin. Do you always just save a muffin for me? Or am I lying to myself? The lie tastes too sweet to care anyway. I’ll never get tired of chocolate chip muffins.

Correction: I’ll never get tired of your chocolate chip muffins.

sunday

Let’s go on a date. I’ll buy you tickets to that singer you really like. Let’s go.

monday

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

tuesday

You look so pretty all the time. You’re fucking adorable. I don’t think you realise just how much power you hold over me. Eijirou said I looked like I was about to pop a blood vessel trying to save you from them the other day.

wednesday

How do you do this shit for so long? Everytime I put my pen down and write, I write about you.

saturday

I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t know.

sunday

I know what I didn’t know yesterday. I just don’t know how to tell you. You shine brighter than the stars. That’s what. You’re the brightest, most radiant thing in the universe. So when you’re out of my sight, it’s so fucking cold.

I hate winter, you know that, I’ve forced you to listen to me go on about how much I hate it a fucking ton, but this December, somehow winter is warmer than summer. And I don’t think it’s climate change. You’re so warm. You’re the warm one. You’re the warmest person I know, and you know what, love? I didn’t meet you last summer, but I should have phrased it nicely enough for you to know that winter is warm here because you’re beside me.

For the first time in my life, I don’t want to be a hero.

I hate the HPSC. They’re hypocrites who specialise in the marketing of their image. “Reformed”, they said, but my hero license will be revoked if I said no.

But darling, please know that even when I can’t reach you, I’ll be looking at the same moon for solace, alright?

monday

People only learn to cherish people when they’re gone, I only knew how much I needed to say I love you to my mom when she was gone. And I don’t want to lose you to finally know how to love you out loud.

Love me. Is that okay? I want you to love me half as much as I love you. I love you, so fucking much. If you still don’t know that, then I must’ve done something terribly wrong.

Hold your breath until I’m back, and there, and with you. Then, I’ll never let you go. Will you do that for me, my pretty girl?

ᝰ

ᝰ

katsuki:

you’re the leaves below brushed autumn wind, meek with kisses, fresh with love. you’re like the clouds that shift across the blue, blue sky, the beaver moon lighting my way. i’ll walk miles of mountains, cross bridges of rivers to see you again, my love. let me write letters full of my dreams, i’ll let doves deliver them your way. for however long it may take, can i be the person you’re missing at three, darling?

ᝰ

thursday. 26th january 2168

Maybe the stars will listen if you pray.

ᝰ

monday

You swore that if you caught feelings, you’d stay quiet. You said you’d rather keep it to yourself because everything eventually falls apart.

Now, you see the ghost of your past haunting you. When you pass by the harbour, you hear the blooming noises of explosions. You hear the insults he throws and you smell the stench of nitroglycerin. The last time you had seen Katsuki Bakugou was this morning, when you were making dough in the kitchen with the television turned on. The bleed of morning sun fluttering into your shop windows while the news channel broadcasted an accident from last night, in which pro hero Dynamight was able to catch and arrest two villains by himself during his night patrol, but still left destruction in his wake.

It’s the collapse of scaffolding, the uprooting of walkways, with soot and burn scars scalded into the walls of concrete. It’s the name of the void he left behind plastered over every single surface that exists.

The last time you had seen Katsuki Bakugou, he was saying goodbye.

He had looked at you with guilt in his eyes. Head held high with the kind of dignity that’s forced upon the pillars of society, the dignity that comes with no other choice.

Since the day that god awful notebook was left on your bed, you see the ghost of your past everywhere. When you walk past the convenience store on the way to work, only to be greeted by the face of Dynamight on the package of onigiris. When you go shopping with friends, you'll be reminded of his face on the commercial district billboard for Calvin Klein.

The last time he saw you, you were breathing peacefully next to him, hair messy from slumber, his heart beating, and beating, before it shattered.

ᝰ

The winds that are whistling outside suddenly become all too clear as the door is pushed open, the heavy thumping of shoes against the freezing floor.

“Sorry, but we’re no longer open—“

“Hey,” Before you can even say anything, he’s right in front of you already. His face inches away from yours, and then it’s like the ever-growing distance between the two of you before never existed.

You’re positive that you’re dreaming. You’re so scared, too, because you’ve had way too many hallucinations to not believe that this isn’t one of them. What if your broken voice chases away this delusion?

“Katsuki?” He lifts your head with his two calloused fingers, slowly caressing your strawberry-tinted cheeks, the same ones he’s been dreaming of since the day he’s left. “I’m here, darling, I’m here. I’m here with you.”

ᝰ

With Katsuki Bakugou, there are first glances. When he catches you staring.

Then, there are second dates. Less fidgeting taps beneath the table, less of a blush that could literally settle on any cheeks in that cafe yet they always decide to take home on yours, and what could you do about it except to cover your face for a few moments with your already cold mocha?

Third kisses are the best. Awkwardness put aside, tentativeness chased away, they’re familiar in their own comfort.

Your forehead that once upon a time used to foster creases whenever the memory of him leaving pops up, would be littered with kisses all over by him, his words ringing in your ears instead of your own crying as you begged for him to just come back, memories of that heart-felt abandonment long forgotten.

Your nose that used to stifle for hours on end during the nights where the over-analysing of his actions finally got to you, because just why couldn’t he stay? It would be dusted with the tingly feeling for the rest of the day because he presses his lips against it in the bright and early morning after he wakes up.

You like being kissed on your lips the most. When the plushness of his lips envelops yours, his breath slowly mixing with the aftertaste of chocolate chip cookies, and you can no longer tell the difference between his body and yours. You’re drowning and drowning and drowning but it just feels so good, so it’s okay.

You decide that it is indeed worth it to go through all the late nights of staying up late, worrying that because you weren’t good enough, he left, and what if you’ll never be enough to hold onto him? Because now you are, and you know that, after the countless times he’s made it clear, (“HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I FUCKING TOLD YOU? YOU’RE MORE THAN ENOUGH FOR ME DUMBASS!”) you know that you are enough, you always will be.

After all, he’ll always be here, waiting.

[cakypa120]

About Billy keeps dying au

Is it crazy to think that if an interdimensional portal were opened, Marvel who was reborn after being killed could meet up with fellow Leaguers from his past lives?

Like, is he reborn directly when he died, or does he kind of break through space and time and always be born in the same year he was supposed to be born? So does he generally have a standard age in relation to the infinite possibilities of Leagues?

Billy sighed. This wasn't how he'd pictured his long-awaited mission with the Flash of the new world. They were currently standing in the middle of another dimension's goddamn Gotham. And their home dimension was three dimensions away.

Flash: Where are we?

Marvel: Gotham. And also in another dimension.

Flash: Dude, when you said that mage could send you to other dimensions, I thought you were kidding.

Marvel: Well, now you're going to listen to everything about magic. That's the lesson.

Flash: Right. Shit, are we stuck here forever?

Marvel: No, we're just a long way from our home world. But I guarantee if we hurry, we'll make it in time for the free food giveaway at the Watchtower.

Flash: Then what are we waiting for? We gotta hurry!

Billy laughs. The Flash of the new world was young. And he had only recently been accepted into the Justice League. Barry was even different from his versions. Black-haired, blue-eyed, and curious to the point of insanity. The Bruce of the new world denies that he mentally adopted the guy, but Billy knows otherwise, Clark knows, and Diana knows too. No matter how much Bruce denies it, it is obvious that he has become attached to Barry. Billy is now eagerly awaiting Dick's arrival.

Flash: Do you have any ideas on how to get back to our home world, Gandalf?

Marvel: Did you just call me Gandalf?

Flash: Dumbledore?

Marvel: *pinches the speedster's cheek* Yes, I do, now calm down. We need to get to Fawcett. There should definitely be a portal there.

Flash: Why is there a portal in your town?

Marvel: Precautionary measure. Let's go quickly.

Flash: Race?

A shot rings out next to them. They turn around and see Red Hood. Billy quickly raises his hands up. Jason standing in front of them was the one who personally slit Marvel's throat when Billy was poisoned by magic and seriously damaged. Everyone wanted to save him then, to cure him, but it was impossible. Then Jason ended his suffering.

Jason froze when he saw Marvel. Just as bright, and just as big. He knew that Marvel would be reborn again. He knew, but doubts penetrated his heart. But now Marvel stood before him. A lump in his throat prevents him from breathing normally. Jason takes off his helmet and puts away his gun.

Jason: Holy shit, old man, you're really alive, huh?

Marvel: Alive as can be. Thanks for last time.

Jason: No thanks.

Flash: Guys? Anyone got something to tell me?

Marvel: Flash, meet Red Hood, he might show up, but we're not sure. Hood, this is Flash. Go easy on him, he's new to the hero business.

Flash: Hey!

Jason: Trying to mentor the new guys, huh, Cap?

Marvel: Sort of. Sorry, but we need to get to Fawcett fast so we can teleport back to our home dimension.

Jason: Try to stay out of sight of the other heroes. They didn't take your death very well.

Marvel: Got it, thanks for the warning.

Flash: Wait, you're dead?!

Marvel: Yeah, that happens sometimes. Now let's go, we need to get to the city quickly.

Superman: I don't think there's any need to hurry.

The three of them freeze and look up. Superman is hovering in the air, watching them like a hawk. Jason lets out a guttural growl and points his gun at the Kryptonian.

Superman: No need for violence, Red.

Jason: I wanted to tell you the same thing, asshole. I told you not to come to Gotham.

Superman: Sorry, but I couldn't ignore such a familiar voice.

Marvel steps in front of Barry. Clark has changed. A lot. This universe was especially violent. Rarely, but it happens. But Billy remembered a different hero. What else happened after he died? Now, the most important thing is not to lose control.

Marvel: Supes, how old are you? How is Lois?

Superman: She's okay. How are you? Still playing superhero?

Marvel: Of course, I'm not going to be thrown out of this job that easily. Well, Flash and I need to get back to our world, so we need to hurry.

Superman: Your world is here, Captain. You're staying here.

Billy didn't like the man's tone. Superman suddenly lunges at him, but Billy ducks just in time.

Superman: Marvel, don't make this difficult.

Marvel: What's wrong with you? Flash, run to Fawcett. I'll hold him off.

Flash: I don't want to leave you here!

Marvel: Flash. Run. That's an order.

Barry flinches at the hero's voice. Marvel rarely gave orders. He glances at the strange Superman, who was looking at Marvel like a dog looks at a bone. But an order is an order. Barry turns and runs.

Marvel: Clark, what happened.

Superman: A lot has changed since you died. Oliver's disability, Barry's coma. This world is losing its light. I just want to keep the light in the world. Will you help me?

Marvel: I don't belong in this world anymore.

Superman: You've already been killed here. Not there. You're safer here. Marvel, stay.

Marvel: Again, the answer is no.

Clark sighs, Jason tenses.

Superman: Then I have no choice.

Jason: Don't even think about it, son of a bitch!!

Clark attacks and pins Marvel to the ground. Billy watches in horror as the hero's eyes begin to light up. Jason points his gun, ready to fire. A sudden flash of light knocks Superman down. The Kryptonian flies away. And Billy looks at Barry.

Flash: Your hobbit saves the day!

Billy looks at Clark. Then he grabs Barry and teleports away, ignoring how loudly Clark screamed. His insides are burning from teleporting to Fawcett. He didn't like teleporting to other universes.

Flash: Dude, I don't like it here. Let's go home.

Billy nods and runs toward the old subway. Barry runs after him. There were many questions in his head, but he decided that he would ask them later. Now they needed to get home.

[luveline]

Hi lovely!!

Could I request a KBD fic centred around Beth and her being a little different? 🩷 I can’t remember but I think you’ve said before that you’ve written her autistic coded so I was wondering if you could do a fic that touches on that please! Being a girl who was also different and ‘weird’ and struggled to make friends it wasn’t just hard for me but my parents too so I feel like the dynamic between the reader and Steve has been portrayed so well and the way you write Beth is so so good

No worries if not! But if you get around to this then thank you in advance 🩷🩷

thank you for requesting ♥︎ —you and steve struggle to help beth, but you lean on him and he leans on you and beth eats her dinner in the end. mom!reader, 4.5k

You weren’t the most normal kid. Beth has some of your strange behaviours, but she has a whole new gallery of her own, too, and it’s just… You had Avery, and you had Beth, and you didn’t assume that Beth was somehow abnormal because she was different to her sister —who would that be fair too? But then you have Dove, and you realise that the things that Beth can’t handle are things that most kids can. It’s not so cut and clean as to suggest that kids can even be normal, they all have their quirks, but Beth needs far, far more support for things that should… well, they should be easy. Or that’s what everyone says. 

“Come on, my sweet girl,” you murmur, in that same place as last night and the night before, Beth in your lap, wriggling unhappily every time the spoon so much as leaves her plate, “just a couple more bites.” 

“I don’t want it,” Beth says quietly. She’s already crying, her cheeks wet and hot to the touch, t-shirt rumpled by a squeezing hand. 

“Baby, you eat this every night,” you say. 

You aren’t necessarily an expert, but you’re good at getting Beth to eat, even on her worst days. But for the last week she’s been declining, taking smaller mouthfuls, or trying to skip meals altogether. “I’m too tired,” she says, sniffling as you scoop a little mound of cheesy broccoli onto her favourite spoon. “I want to go to bed.” 

“Beth, honey, what am I supposed to do?” you ask. Steve clears his throat, and you wince. “Sorry, baby. I’m sorry. But you didn’t eat your breakfast, or your lunch. It’s really important that you feed your body, isn’t it? What if you get sick?” 

Steve’s hovering nearby, his arms crossed against his chest. You try to give Beth as much privacy as possible when you do this, because you know she’s ashamed of herself when Avery asks her why she can’t eat her dinner, ’cos it’s so yum, Bethie, daddy makes it the best, but you know Steve can’t leave. 

“I’ll eat breakfast tomorrow,” Beth says, a fat tear rolling down her cheek.

Fuck, it’s such a big tear that you push her dinner plate away and let your sleeve fall over your thumb, wiping it as gently as you’re able to. “Shh,” you say quietly, rubbing at her little cheeks until they’re dry. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. Did mom make you cry so much?” 

“I don’t want to eat it,” she sniffles. 

“Aw, baby, it’s okay. I won’t make you eat the broccoli and cheese.” 

Steve pulls the chair next to yours out slowly. He sits quietly. His hand is careful when he puts it on Beth’s small arm. “Hey, Bethie.” 

“Hi.” 

He smiles, but he's already super sorry. “You know what I’m gonna ask you, but you can say no, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

She sounds even sadder than he does. 

“Will you drink one of the milkshakes?” he asks, wiping at a new tear before it can reach her chin.  

Beth automatically hides against you. You tut under your breath, pity and love for her like a hand squeezing your heart as you wrap her into a proper hug. “It’s okay if you can’t, baby,” you say, though it isn’t, not really. You just can’t see her like this much longer. She’s boiling away in your lap, so overwhelmed that you’re lucky she hasn’t started scratching her neck —Steve hates it so much it brought tears to his eyes the last time she did it. 

“It’s alright, honey. Should we leave the kitchen?” You hold her face. “How about we go to mommy’s room? Would that make you feel better?” 

She sobs out a yes. 

“She’s not gonna be able to go to school tomorrow,” Steve murmurs as you gather her up. 

“I know,” you murmur back, pressing Beth’s shaking body to you. She’s getting tall like Avery, skinnier than you’d pictured, but she’s still super soft, plush cheeked, a weight in your arms as you push in your chair with your knee. “I’ll stay home too. I’ll…” 

“Call the doctor?” Steve mouths. 

“Yeah. Maybe.” You sigh, pressing your nose into Beth’s forehead tiredly. “Let’s go to bed, sweet girl.” 

“Thank you,” she says. 

“C’mon, Beth, it’s alright,” you say, half a lie. “Don’t worry about it. You tried your best tonight, didn’t you? You ate so much of your dinner even though you didn’t want to, ‘cos you’re my good girl.” 

Beth clings to your neck all the way to your bed. She refuses to be detached from you, even when Steve offers her a cuddle to give you a breather. It’s been hours of this, of her upset, and of you failing to convince her. She falls asleep between sobs, sniffling and shaky in your arms, and you don’t realise you’re crying until Steve’s wiping your cheeks with the same care he’d wiped at Beth’s. “It’s fine,” he murmurs.

“Sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” he says again. “She’s fine.” 

He climbs up onto a knee to kiss your forehead. 

—

The doctor doesn’t actually want to deal with it. “She won’t eat?” he asks you over the phone. 

“Nope.” 

“Nothing at all?” 

“Uh, she’ll eat fruit slices if we beg her too.” Your voice is scratchy with the admission. “A little of dinner, but only what she likes.” 

“So she can eat?” 

“It’s not–” You clear your throat. Steve rests an encouraging hand on your arm. “Not really that simple. She can eat, like, she can chew and swallow, but I can’t get her to finish anything. She just cries.” 

“Does she have a fever?” 

“No, she’s not sick. She gets like this sometimes, but I’ve always… we’ve always been able to wait it out.” 

“Right… is she lethargic at all?” 

“A little? She’s not eating enough.” 

“But she can get up? She can walk around?” 

“Yeah.” 

The doctor or assistant sighs long, slow, and it drives you up a wall. “Is she a picky eater?” 

“Extremely.” 

“The best thing to do is to tell her she eats what’s on her plate or she doesn’t get dinner.”

For a second, you’re so shocked at his answer that you can’t summon your own. 

“She’ll get hungry enough eventually,” he continues.

“I’m not going to let her starve.” Steve stiffens next to you. 

“It sounds like she is already. Kids do this, they test the boundaries because they’ve only now realised they have them. I guarantee you she’ll be eating normally by the end of the week, so long as you don’t bend to her every whim.” 

“That’s– that is not really helpful.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Beth won’t eat. We make her her favourites every night and she won’t eat it. Why would she eat something she doesn’t like later on? She doesn’t care that she’s hungry, she can’t eat.” 

“Let me talk to him,” Steve says.

“I got it.” 

“Let me talk to him,” he says again, taking the phone from your hand. 

Steve doesn’t shout like you’re expecting, but it’s a good thing, really. “Sir, hi, it’s Bethie’s dad… Yeah, it doesn't matter what she’s offered, or how little she’s eating, she won’t eat more than a handful at a time, and not for hours.” He rests his other hand on your shoulder. “No, no, it’s– I’m not asking you to admit her, we don’t want her back on the kids ward again this year– We want an answer. No. No, because this isn’t normal.” 

Steve’s brow screws up. 

“What’s he saying?” you whisper.

He holds up a finger

“No. No, she’s never…” He stares at your cheek. “We’ve never looked at that. No. And that doesn’t really answer us for what we should do today. She won’t eat today. She’s gonna collapse and then…” 

He rolls his eyes and offers you the phone. “Hopeless.” 

The doctor sighs across the line as you press the phone back against your ear. “Normal kids don’t need to be coddled into eating dinner, is all I’m saying.” 

“And it’s not helping.” 

“Clearly, Mrs. Harrington, you don’t really want my help. I’ve given you the solutions.” 

“We want her to see a doctor.” 

“Take her by Eskenazi general.”

You slam the phone down on the receiver. “Fucking asshole,” you scathe under your breath. 

“What did he say?” 

“He said to do what he said or to take her to Eskenazi. What did he say to you?” 

“He said she…” 

You duck your head. “Steve?” 

“He said she could be disabled, like– like she’s ‘touched’, he said, and a bunch of other jargon. But what the fuck ever, right? Dude’s an asshole.” 

“What kind of disabled?” you ask. 

“I don’t know, I didn’t know the word. He said we can get her tested.” 

You shake your head vehemently. You’ve seen how people treat one another when they’re different; you have no inclination to expose Beth to the world's judgment. “She doesn’t need to get tested, she’s just Beth. And– and if they won’t help me look after her then I’ll do it myself.” 

“…Maybe it could help.” 

“With what, Steve? So we have a word for her? She’s my Beth.” 

“Maybe knowing she’s different might help her to understand. Maybe it’ll… I don’t know.” He scratches at his scalp. “I don’t know.” 

You get where he’s coming from, because you’ve known Bethie was different for a while now, for years. You just can’t see how this will help her through dinner tonight. She’s gonna starve herself if you aren’t careful.

“I’m gonna go out and get more stuff,” you say, closing a hand around his fingers to hold. 

“Like what?” 

“She has these phases, right? So– so maybe she hates broccoli and cheese now, but she hated it before when– when she liked those little quesadillas you make. So I’m gonna go and get some tortillas and cheese and stuff and you’re gonna make that for lunch.” 

Steve holds your eyes. His are brown, and gentle, and pinched at you hopefully. “Yeah, okay. What else can we do?” 

Beth did not want to eat or even smell a quesadilla the last time Steve made them, but you’re running out of choices. 

“I don’t know.” 

He holds your eyes, unspeaking. 

“She’s different,” you concede quietly, “I just never wanted her to know that.” 

“I think she knows, baby.” 

You think about letting yourself burst into tears. Steve would let you. He’d hold you and kiss you and tell you that it’s okay —everything will be okay, you know that already. But if you break down Steve will make sure it’s hammered home. He’ll stop all the worry and heartache for a bit, just like he always does. 

“I’ll go now, while she’s still asleep.” 

Steve gives you a sad smile, as though he knows what you almost did. “Sure, honey. Take my car, okay?”

—

You bring back cheese and candies and enough chocolate to have each of your girls kissing up all night to a house that’s only just begun to stir despite the hour. Nearly noon, Beth lays wrinkled with her head in Avery’s lap. Avery plays with her hair, their own bubble of love you’re not privy too whispered into Beth’s small ear, while Dove plays with Beth’s socks. Even Wren seems to have come to understand that Beth isn’t feeling like herself, your littlest baby standing unsurely at the base of the couch, holding on to the edge for dear life as she babbles hellos. 

Steve sits on the playmat, ready to catch Wren when she stumbles back. “Hey,” he says. 

“Hey.”

“Busy?” 

“Weirdly busy for a Thursday morning.” You smile at your girls gently. “Hey, sweethearts. Good morning, did everyone sleep okay?” 

“Mom, come hug,” Dove says immediately, her voice still scratched by sleep. 

“I gotta put this away!” you coo. “But you can help lighten the bag a bit.” 

You give Dove a white chocolate bunny. Avery gets a milky truffle the size of her palm. Wren gets a chocolate yoghurt, and Beth gets a pack of kisses. “No pressure, Bethie.” You give Avery the kisses, rather than make Beth hold them, vindicated when the quick flash of dread on her face is replaced with relief. “You can throw them all away if you want to, but I didn’t want to leave you out.” 

“Thanks, mom,” she says. 

“Yeah, of course. I don’t even want the thank you, Beth, I just like seeing you smiling.” 

“I got the day off school too,” Avery says. “To look after Beth.” 

“How do you feel, Beth? Well looked after?” 

Beth manages a real smile. “Yes.” 

You put the groceries away and appear with one of Beth’s old favourites: raspberry yoghurt drinks. You don’t offer her one, only sit on the floor by Steve with one in your hand. You give it a shake and peel off the foil. Steve glances at you from the corner of his eye. 

“What you got?” 

“Raspberry.” 

“Yum. Sharing?” 

You take a sip and pass it to your husband. He drinks a little. “Wait, they’re nicer than I remember.” 

“You think?” 

Wren slams onto her butt, but luckily her diaper saves her bones and she giggles as Steve goes, “Oopsy daisy, what a clutz you are.” 

She leans back and stares at Steve with wide, baby-pretty eyes. ”Wen?” she asks. 

“Wren wants some?” 

Wren babbles. “Yeah!” she says eventually. 

Steve helps her into his lap, four babies later and still the most gentle guy in the world. “Ready?” he asks, pressing the lip of the yogurt to her mouth. “Here you go, Wren. That’s it, honey, good job. How is that, is that yummy?” 

“Can I have some?” Dove asks. 

“I’ll get you your own one,” you say, scrabbling up. “Don’t want all Wren’s spit.” 

Dove drinks hers in a long pull. Avery nibbles her milky truffle. Beth, surrounded by food, looks a bit sickly, and she’s quiet for the next hour. You take them all upstairs for baths they should’ve had last night and outfit them in blue loungewear to match one another. Beth doesn’t look any better for it. She’s sweaty as you sit her back on the couch, but she manages to smile when you tickle the arch of her foot between socks. 

With Avery playing on her tummy in the toy corner (or, the toy half), and Dove following Steve around in the kitchen, you stick Wren next to you on the couch and try to relax. Beth will eat if she needs to. And if she doesn’t, you’ll take her to the ER and sob yourself sick when they tube her. 

“Oh, Beth,” you murmur. 

“Oh, mom,” she says. 

You side-eye her. She’d said it with a smile, and she’s still smiling as she lays her face against your shoulder. 

“What’s funny?” 

“You sounded funny.” 

You let Wren crawl on your knees. She curls up with her face to your stomach, gurgling until you pet her back. “You sound funnier.” 

“Are you angry at me?” 

You frown at her. “No, never.” 

“Even though I wasted dinner again?” 

“You didn’t waste dinner yesterday, you just didn’t like it. Not your fault.” You follow the slope of her nose with your eyes. “Do you understand what that means, that it isn’t your fault? Me and daddy know you can’t help it. So it’s okay. And everybody stops liking stuff sometimes. I used to like apple juice, but when I was pregnant with you I had a glass of it that made me feel so sick that I haven’t had it since. Sometimes, we just change our minds.” 

“But I thought I liked it,” she confesses. 

“That’s okay. Daddy thinks he likes lettuce, but he has to pull it out of every sandwich.” 

Beth giggles, rubbing her face in your arm. “That’s funny.” 

Your face never looked so lovely as it does on Beth. Even though her eyes are swollen from all her crying the day before and her lips are crusty with toothpaste, she’s sweet. You scratch the toothpaste away carefully and wrap her up for a one armed hug, Wren underneath it, Beth’s arms snaking around her to return your cuddle. 

“I know it’s not easy, Beth. I don’t expect you to feel good right now. But if you want to talk to mommy and tell me what you’re thinking about, I can listen. Even if the feeling feels silly.” 

“I don’t want to…” She fades off. 

“Don’t want to eat dinner?” you guess. 

She doesn’t answer. 

“Beth, you don’t have to eat dinner if you can’t. The important thing is that you eat something. For now, it can be anything. If there’s one single thing you think you can eat, then I can get it for you, and I won’t… Beth, I just want you to know that it doesn’t matter what you need me or daddy or even Avery or anyone to do so you can eat something. I’ll drive you to New York if you think you want a slice of pizza.” 

“Why to New York?” she asks, her nose wrinkling. 

“That’s where they make it the best.” 

“I… don’t want you to be sad with me,” she whispers. 

“I don’t mind. You don’t make me sad, you know. I just want you to eat.” 

“Even if…” She looks down at your tummy, where Wren wriggles and snuffs. 

“Anything.” 

“Can I have honey ham?” 

You feel your eyebrows rise of their own accord. “Honey ham? Like daddy makes at Christmas?” 

She nibbles her lip. “Yeah.” 

“Okay.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes.” You take a deep breath, pressing your nose into her hair. “It doesn’t have to be for Christmas. I like daddy’s honey ham. Thing is, he’ll have to go to the store and get the ham and the honey so it might take a while. Is that okay?” 

“Can I have bread too?” 

“With butter?” you ask, too casual. Luckily she doesn’t notice. 

“Yeah.” 

“Like, a ham sandwich?” 

“I don’t want the ham in the bread.” 

“Okay,” you say, failing to hide your relief. It comes out in a sigh. “Honey ham and bread and butter. How about we pretend it’s Christmas and daddy can make the whole feast?” 

“Like, the potato’s and the sweet mash?” she asks. 

“Sure, if you want that. Even if you don’t want to eat any of it, it won’t go to waste. I love dad’s Christmas cooking.” 

She lifts her head to stare at you. “Really?” she asks again. 

“Beth, I just want you to eat, bubby,” —you sound as tired as you feel— “I don’t mind what you’re craving. I know it’s hard to eat food you don’t want to eat. It’s hard for you, you’re just a kid. You don’t get to choose. But I promise I’ll try my best when you’re feeling like this, okay? So– so no more crying at dinner,” you say, though you’re really pleading with her in a way, “‘cos I can’t stand seeing my lovely girl crying.” 

She shrugs off your loving but changes her mind at the last second, curling under your arm. 

“Can the ham be cold?” she asks quietly. 

“Yes. That’s no problem.” 

“Okay.” 

“Beth?” 

Beth tips her head upwards. 

“I know you’re different,” you say, holding her gaze, those baby wide eyes, “and you know you’re different, too. But it doesn’t matter to me or your dad, okay? I won’t get angry with you for the things that you can’t change. And… maybe, if you feel different in a way that confuses you or…” I don’t know, you think, grasping for the right words. “If it sounds like a good idea, maybe we can go talk to somebody. A doctor.” 

Her lips part. “Like Dr. Scandi?” she asks under her breath. 

Dr. Scandi is the paediatrician that treated her when she had her horrible flu, who she liked, because he was very tall and very quiet. “I don’t know. I just want you to know that you’re not alone. That I’ll try to fix things if they need fixing.” 

Beth is perhaps a little too young to understand what you’re trying to say, but, like she has ever since she was a baby, she softens at your tone. “I like talking to you,” she whispers. 

“I like talking to you.” 

Beth nods. You offer her a kiss. 

—

Steve makes his summer Christmas banquet and Beth, beautiful girl, eats three slices of bread with salted butter, and she eats every bit of honeyed ham that touches her plate. She even has a raspberry yoghurt after. 

Her empty stomach pangs at the sudden influx. Steve gathers her up and gives her one of his trademark post-dinner tummy rubs, her back to his front, the two of them in the bean bag. He rubs her stomach until she burbs, and laughs, and goes sleepy as a fieldmouse in a flower. 

Dove falls asleep before eight. Wren goes down at nine. And Avery, after a couple of minutes sitting with her legs swinging off of your thigh, asks to be put to bed as the sun’s going down behind the house. You turn off all the lights, lock the doors, and follow her to a still upstairs, Steve behind you with dozing Beth in his arms. 

“You okay, big girl?” you ask, pulling the sheets over Avery’s legs as she settles down. 

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” she says. 

“Thank you, baby. I was just stressed out about Beth, that’s it. I’m happy long as you’re all happy.” You raise an eyebrow at her. “Are you happy?” 

“I had a good day,” she says decidedly. 

You cuddle her, her shoulders shifting under your hands. She’s gonna get big soon. She’s almost at that age where they shoot straight up into teenagedom the second you look away, so you refuse to look away. “I’m glad you did, Ave. Thanks for looking after Beth today. You did a great job.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Want me to put a movie in?”

She beams. You shove FernGully in and sit with her for a little while things are quiet, smiling indulgently against her forehead as her eyelids start to flutter. 

“Love you,” you whisper.

“Love you, mommy,” she whispers back, her ‘you’ nearly lost, a stutter of a sound as she falls asleep against your side. 

You wait five minutes before easing out from beneath her. Her hair brushes her pillow, nose sinking into her buttery pillow case, breath rustling out of her as you pull the sheets over her shoulders and crouch by her bedside. You smile at her. Give her cheek a quick stroke.

“You alright?” Steve asks. 

His uttering is so soft you don’t startle, though you hadn’t known he was waiting in the doorway. Your answer is a hum as you stand, and his is a hand on your arm as he pulls Avery’s door closed and leads you to bed. 

With Wren moved to the nursery with Dove, you and Steve find yourself alone for the first time since the early morning. Things are quiet while you undress, though he does his usual routine and helps you with the tie on your pajama bottoms before going back to his own clothes. You pull the end of his shirt from his pants and slide a hand underneath it, feeling at the small of his back for stretch marks. Your finger bumps along them and up, until you're massaging at the space between his shoulders and he’s laughing under his breath. “Stop, stop.” 

“You okay?” you ask. 

He relaxes under your ministrations. “I’m fine. You know, I heard you talking to Beth, earlier. Not all of it, but most of it. When you told her she’s not alone, that stuff, I don’t know. I was so proud of you, even though you didn’t need that from me.” He turns his face to see you over his shoulder. You rub at a notch with your thumb. “I mean, you got her to eat. You always do.” 

“She would’ve had to eventually. You’re the one that made dinner.” 

“I don’t think she could’ve told us what she wanted if you didn’t give her all that patience.” 

You don’t ignore him, but you have nothing to say. You could tell him you love him, but he knows. Could say thank you, but you’re not confident you won’t cry, and you don’t want the headache. So you draw a pattern over his back with your fingernails, resting your mouth on his shoulder. 

“I love you,” he says. 

“I love you, too.” 

“I get if you’re, like, tired, and this is too much for now, but… this has been a lot. I just want you to know that you’re there for them and I’m here for you, remember?” 

“I know.” 

You don’t wanna talk, but you know. 

Steve forces your hand down as he turns to you, rings of  purple under his eyes doing little to hide how handsome he is when he smiles at you like you’re hanging the moon up right in front of him. He’s all gentled almond eyes and his deeply kissable nose. You let yourself trace the wrinkles in the corners of his mouth. Smiling, you press a kiss to one of them. 

“I’m proud of you, too.” 

He kicks your shin. “Get to bed.” 

“I’m busy.” 

He kicks you again and pushes you into bed. 

“I’m sorry about all of this. I know it isn’t my fault, but I,” —Steve kisses your nose— “hate seeing you like that. Like this. Want you to smile.” 

“I’ll feel better tomorrow.” 

He climbs on top of you, putting his chin on top of your head and his leg hooked on top of your hips, pulling at your back until you curl into him nicely; he’ll have to move the sheets before he sleeps, just it’s comfy puzzled in like this. 

“We gotta find out what’s really happening with her,” he says. 

That’s more tentative. He’s hugging you to distract you, and it’s doing the job. You don’t feel as scared as you did this morning when he suggested the same thing. “I know. What was that word he said, the doctor?” 

“Autist.” 

You’ve read about it before. “I heard it was just a boy thing,” you mumble. 

Steve lets his hand slip beneath your ribs. “Maybe there’s a girl version…”

You lift your head away to see him better. “You know, no matter how different she is, we’re all gonna be fine.” 

“I know that, I told you that.” 

“Just wanted to make sure.” 

He noses along your jaw. “Guess what.” 

“What?” 

“We didn’t brush our teeth.” 

You let out a string of long-suffering sighs, agonised. Steve laughs and presses a kiss to your open mouth, promising you taste as good as you look, though he won’t claim the same in the morning. 

[wendichester]

hey olivia darling!! absolutely love ur works, was just wondering what you think sam and dean's dynamic would be like with a shy and chubby reader? like what would they be like if they have a crush/have feelings (for the same girl or separately mueheueh)? i just feel like they would appreciate the (literal) softness and the shyness would be something interesting bc theyre very much not shy people lol

hope this isnt weird, its just as a chubby and shy girl myself it was a little sad to only see skinny and bold/outspoken love interests in the show, not that there's anything wrong with those women ofc, i just feel hella unrepresented lolz. would love to hear your thoughts or if you had the time or inspiration, a little drabble perhaps? no worries if not ofc, love lots 🫂❤️

hi baby! first of all, absolutely not weird at all—this is so valid and honestly? something that a lot of us think about but don’t always say out loud. you're not alone, babe. chubby & shy girls deserve epic, bone-melting, emotionally devastating supernatural romance too. period. am i shy? no. sadly i was cursed with a leo sun and moon, thus i'm loud and unsufferable BUT i am chubbs so, i gotcha. let's dive in!!

ᯓ★ sam winchester & shy, chubby reader

sam would be so down bad and it would sneak up on him. like, you walk into a room quietly, kinda head down, sweater sleeves past your wrists, and he’s instantly looking up from his laptop. not even in a “she’s hot” way (yet), but in a gentle intrigue kind of way. he’d notice how your voice gets quieter when you’re nervous. how you tug at your shirt when you think no one’s looking. he’s hyper-observant, always has been, and his brain goes “oh. she’s careful with her space. she’s not used to being looked at.” and suddenly he’s looking at you all the time. and girl, if you’re chubby? sam canonically does not care about conventionally skinny ideals. in fact, i think he’d love the way softness feels—like, deep comfort vibes. he’s been through so much loss and hard edges and trauma, so the way you feel warm and real and huggable would be like some kind of miracle to him. like he can finally breathe. also? he’d be so nervous to make you uncomfortable. he’d get really self-aware about his height and voice, like “am i too loud? did i scare her? should i back off?” total respectful green flag behavior. he’d wait for you to make the first move—except you won’t, because you’re shy, and he’ll spiral about that too 😭 expect lingering glances, asking if you’ve eaten, doing little things like fixing your laptop cord so you don’t trip. oh—and books. he’d 100% lend you books and leave little notes inside the pages like “this part reminded me of you.” he’s a slow burn, but the second you trust him enough to take his hand first? he’s yours. entirely.

ᯓ★ dean winchester & shy, chubby reader

now dean?? oh girl. he would be unwell. he’s not used to quiet girls throwing him off his game. normally he flirts, gets flirted with, rinse and repeat. but you? you look away when he smirks at you. you blush when he compliments your outfit. you can’t even look at him when he walks in shirtless (which he 100% starts doing more often just to see you turn pink). and it kills him in the best way. the chubbiness? he’s obsessed. like in a carnal, old-school, wants-to-worship-you kind of way. stretch marks? tummy squish? full thighs? he’s literally on his knees. not just because it’s hot (which it is), but because it’s yours. and because you’re shy about it, he goes extra soft with the compliments—low voice, barely-there touches, telling you, “you know you drive me crazy, right?” in a way that doesn’t feel like a joke. that makes your breath catch. dean’s the type to find what you hate about yourself and kiss it with reverence, like he’s mad that you don’t see what he sees. he’d call you “sweetheart” so often it becomes dangerous. he’d tease you, but it’d never be mocking. more like... coaxing. “what’s got you so quiet, sweetheart? me?” smirk. cheeky wink. a little too close. he’s a tease through and through, but he checks himself fast if he sees you retreat. he’d never push too far—he knows what fear looks like. but he’s also a touch-starved little mess, so the first time you lean on him, even for a second? done. he’d go all in. call you “his girl” to cas and sam. get jealous when you talk to other hunters. become your personal bodyguard. the minute he knows you're his safe place, he becomes yours, fully.

final thought, from my whole heart: you don’t need to be loud or skinny or “main character energy” to be worthy of romance. you are already worthy. your softness isn’t a flaw—it’s exactly the thing someone like sam or dean would crave after years of war and grief and sharp edges. don’t ever think you’re too quiet or too much. you’re not invisible. you’re the whole damn story, babe ♡

[clairewritesfanfics]

do you like those fics where the premise is "all the variants are here for y/n but main mark hasnt even dated her"

i like them the most when its a right person wrong time situation on main marks part because im mean

like since highschool theyve never managed to be single at the same time and then he finds out the evil versions of him destroying shit have had her when hes never even got to try asking her out

nobody has written this specific type of thing i want to read yet, but like, the variants getting stuck in main marks dimension and he and y/n keep finding out things about the variants loves with their version of y/n thats excruciating to hear for two people whove been in love their whole lives but have never been in a place to act on it

the only variant who hasnt done anything with her is maskless who was in a very similar situation with his william. like three of the older marks were actually married to her, at least one out of those 3 had been about to have a kid with her before losing her. literally none of them have ever broken up with her of their own free will. at least one of the younger marks had only just managed to start a relationship with her before he lost her.

main mark watching these versions of himself practically swarming someone he also loves and has probably loved before he even understood it but with no right to do anything about it because hes with eve. who he does like. but he asked out after a version of her from the future told him she loved him apparently her entire life and he was her biggest regret.

main mark experiencing never before seen types of emotional pain wondering if he should have read into the eve thing as the universe telling him you were about to break up with your at the time partner just as he was getting into things with eve, or if waiting to see if youd leave them would have prolonged your relationship with them because the universe fucking hates him for reasons beyond his understanding

i would write this myself but im already stuck trying to write like 3 other long projects already. but if i did write it id probably end it as happy as possible because even though i like angst i can only stand so much.

It is truly the writer's blurse to be struck with so many fascinating concepts while juggling already existing WIPs.

( ꩜ ᯅ ꩜;) 

It's an amazing idea with a lot of angst potential. I have encountered a similar but not exact premise a few times, maybe not as fully realized fics but as propositional posts.

I've always loved the idea of the Marks being so obsessed and devoted that they will stop the violence in order to reminisce about their respective Readers aka Y/Ns. (Oh, and this is more of my personal preference as an Invincible fanfic writer: the Reader-sexual crew includes Maskless because, as I have once discussed in gruesome detail, when it comes to Mark it is all or nothing for me. I can't tolerate him being in love with Eve or Amber in my verses, so I can't handle him being in love with William either. I am an equal opportunity "homewrecker." VCS readers, please don't ask me more about this because I might end up spoiling some things about my future plans.)

Honestly, if you have the energy to spare, you should give it a go, it doesn't have to be multi-chaptered. It can just be a short story or a bunch of "reactions" strung together. Heck, just write dialogue for it. Pure dialogue. Maybe you can use this idea as a writing exercise, like trying a different style or POV. Something to come back to and appreciate when you want to take a breather from your long fics.

Tbh, you've given me an excuse to stop delaying and start practicing first person POV again, and I was reminded why it's so hard penning reader insert stories:

I was surrounded. I could take on one or two of them, but twelve of these murderous assholes? My best bet would be to retreat while they were distracted, but there’s one problem: you.

You were the ball in this screwed up game of catch. All eyes were on you and I doubt there was anything that would take everyone's attention off of you at the same time. Even if I did manage to steal you away in a split second of distraction, I wouldn’t be able to go very far, not with that girl version of me here.

I watched as she pulled the pink scrunchie from her hair, black Rapunzel braid falling apart as she placed the hair tie gingerly on your hands. 

You gave her a shaky smile but she didn’t seem to care.

I clenched my fists.

She was fast, faster than the rest, and faster than me. 

“Cute, aren’t they?” The me dressed in my father’s colors watched you with arms crossed. “Don’t even think about trying to take her away, Marcy will rip you apart before you get the chance to take off.”

“Marcy?”

“Long story.”

It was hilarious. Not too long ago, this guy sent my girlfriend to the ER and here we were, talking like old pals. I wanted to punch him in the face but–

“You want to kill me,” he said, not bothering to look at me. “But we both know you won’t do that in front of her.”

“You don’t know anything about me or her.”

“I know that every version of you that came here is because of her.” He finally turned to me. “We all wanted a reunion.”

“I won’t let you take her.”

He scoffed. “We’re not interested in ‘taking’ her anywhere, we just wanted a chance to see her. To talk to her again.”

My fingers twitched. I already had my suspicions but I needed to know. 

“What exactly is she to you?” I asked.

The faintest smile melted all the coldness from his face as he answered, “She was my dove.”

Time slowed to a snail’s pace as my voice betrayed me, “What?”

He met my gaze. “She was my wife.”

“Was?”

The ice returned as he turned away. “She died.” That was all. He continued staring at you, his longing obvious under that veil of composure.

I watched as more versions of me crowded you. Each one had something to show or say to you, each one looking like they have waited a thousand years for this.

The fear seemed to have dissipated from you somewhat, because you were now laughing at the words of my maskless self. He was smiling softly at you, but I could see the cracks in his expression. He looked at you like you were the world, but it was clear to me that he was searching for something.

I didn’t know what it was but I couldn’t help but release my fists, wondering if Eve ever caught me wearing the same expression.

#

I kept accidentally bouncing from third person to first to second. 😭

But it was a fun exercise!

I hope you do write about this someday because it is a great concept. Thank you for sharing it with me and our fellow fans.

PS

I must ask for clarification what you mean by "the Eve thing." Is this a reference to a specific plot point? Or just his relationship with Eve in general?

[casscainmainly]

How much sympathy do you think Cass extends to her younger self?

INTERESTING QUESTION KOL!!! This is actually a question where canon slightly differs from my own preference, but I'll tackle canon first. In modern day, solidified by Batgirl (2024) #5, Cass feels a great deal of sympathy for her younger self:

The hugging + the line before this panel ("maybe I can save") + the "no control of her life" indicates to me that she sympathises with and pities her younger self, understanding that she was forced to kill and it wasn't really her fault. She still sees her younger self as guilty (she frames it as 'saving' her younger self, not accepting her younger self), but she does show such compassion here to young Cass. This follows on from Batgirl (2008) #6, where she lays the blame squarely on David Cain:

In both this and Batgirl #5, Cass highlights her younger self's lack of agency. I think modern Cass does truly feel sorry for her younger self, in a way she didn't before.

I think this is a sweet and natural progression of her character arc, but gosh if I don't love early Cass and the way she looked at her younger self. Because the Shiva fight solved her death wish, but I personally don't think it resolved the resentment she felt towards her younger self. I think it's very interesting that even in Batgirl #5, her younger self isn't really 'her', but someone external - someone she can 'save' like another criminal. To an extent, Cass has never been able to fully reconcile that younger self with who she is now.

In Batgirl (2000) #25, Shiva kills Cass and fulfils her death wish, so current Cass has 'atoned' (or suffered appropriately) for her murder. She realises that death isn't the solution for any murderer, including herself. But young Cass didn't go through that punishment or redemption. When Babs shows Cass her young self in the holo room, Babs says "that's you, isn't it." Cass doesn't reply until young Cass moves, and then she screams "STOP!". Obviously the 'stop' refers to young Cass killing Faizul, but in light of Babs' question, in a way Cass is begging for that young girl not to be her. She wants to stop her younger self, and she wants to stop being her younger self.

Batgirl Secret Files and Origins

I wonder if part of her also resents her younger self's happiness pre-kill. Just personally, while I like her having evolved past these early days and being able to embrace her younger self like in BG '24 #5, I really do prefer the messier feelings. In Cass' mind her younger self is associated with David Cain, with the "perfect killer", with a happiness built on lies - she definitely feels sympathetic, but that sympathy should be (in my opinion) strained by discomfort and a bit of blame.

My ideal amount of Cass sympathy for her younger self is Batgirl Secret Files and Origins. She tells a boy "you did... one bad thing. But you're... not," and when he asks whether she really believes that, she answers, "I try to." She hasn't fully forgiven her younger self, she might never fully forgive her younger self, but she's trying her best to sympathise with her anyway. It's imperfect, painful, effortful sympathy, and that's what makes it so beautiful!

[larluce]

Arthur and Merlin travel back in time without knowing the other is from the future too AU (SERIES 2)

FIRST PART (SERIES 1) >> PREVIOUS PART >> NEXT PART

(Sorry for the delay. College is killing me😔)

In Arthur's chambers.

Arthur: (putting the white lily in more spacious pot with prepared soil like a profesional gardener) There you go.

A knock on the door.

Arthur: Come in.

Morgana: (enters)

Arthur: (grinning, gesturing to the lily) Oh, Morgana. What do you think?

Morgana: (doesn't smile back) Is lovely.

Arthur: I thought about adding a ribbon, but that might be too corny. Don’t you... (notices Morgana is still looking at him with a serious expression) Is everything alright?

Morgana: (cold, direct) Is Merlin here?

Arthur: (thrown at the sudden question) No, he is with Gaius.

Morgana: So we are alone.

Arthur: (more confused) Yes.

Morgana: Good. (slaps Arthur hard in the face)

Meanwhile. In Gaius' Tower.

Merlin: (In his new uniform, humming, while stringing beads onto a thin cord)

Gaius: (while grinding herbs with a mortar and pestle, squints at Merlin’s craft) What is that?

Merlin: I'm doing a necklace for Arthur. 😊

Gaius: (his grip on the pestle tightens) Oh... (resumes pounding the herbs, his movements growing increasingly aggressive)

Merlin: Well, technically it’s a protection amulet. It will ward him of curses, enchantments, that sort of thing. But, truly, I just want to gift him something. He gave me so many court gifts already, I have a lot to catch up.

Gaius: (pounds the herbs harder)

Merlin: (thoughtful) And maybe that's why he's been so insecure lately. I thought I should-

Gaius: (A herb stem flies out of the mortar)

Merlin: Uh… I think you’re overgrinding it. Those leaves won’t have any potency left-

Gaius: (Slams the pestle down) Merlin, we need to talk.

Back with Arthur and Morgana.

Arthur: (with a hand on his cheek) What's wrong with you?!

Morgana: (furious) I should be asking you that! What on earth possessed you to make such a spectacle?

Arthur: (defensive, hand dropping from his face) If this is about what happened in the main square-

Morgana: Oh, it's about far more than your little performance. First, you ruined Merlin's plan to restore some of his reputation in the most shameful way. Then you picked up a fight with Gwaine publicly-

Arthur: (heated) He flirted with him!

Morgana:-making the entire court believe Merlin's been unfaithful! And then! (mocking flourish) The crowning glory! You kneel in the dirt like a lovesick squire before him!

Arthur: (stiffens)

Morgana: (steps closer, lowering voice) Did you consider what this does to him? Merlin isn't nobility. His standing depends entirely on being "the prince's lover." A position you keep undermining!

Arthur: (clenching his fists) I was claiming responsibility—

Morgana: You were marking territory like a dog! (leans in) Every time you lose your temper, Merlin pays the price! Don't you see that? (voice breaks slightly) And gods help him if Uther decides Merlin's at fault for this too. He nearly banished him last time.

Arthur: (fervent) I wont let him!

Morgana: Then start acting like a prince instead of a spoiled boy! (turns to leave, then pauses) I know what it's like. To be judged worthless until a man's favor grants you value. (over shoulder, icy) The difference? When my reputation suffers, I still have my name. My birthright... Merlin only has you.

Arthur: (struck down by her words)

Morgana: Think about that. (leaves)

In the silence, Arthur suddenly remembers Merlin's words "I know our relationship can't be formal or official in any way, but I want it to be at least taken seriously!"

And with what he's done. They'll never take Merlin seriously again.

Arthur sighs, he can't change the past, but he can do better. He will do better.

"Then Gwaine asked lady Merelyn if she was engaged" he remembers Lancelot told him reluctantly when he asked him for details of their conversation. "And he-well she said 'technically i'm not'"

He'll make everyone take Merlin seriously... starting with Merlin himself.

Back with Gaius and Merlin.

Gaius: (sitting infront of Merlin) Remember when I told you Arthur has been obsessed with you since you came to Camelot?

Merlin: (chuckles) Yeah, and I thought you were joking.

Gaius: Well, believe me now. Arthur is obsessed with you. And I'm not saying this as exaggeration. No, he's literally obsessed. And I'm worried.

Merlin: (confused)... What?

Gaius: (choosing his words carefully) When a man strikes in anger, that's one thing. But when he hurts others while calling it love… that's something far more dangerous.

Merlin:(defensive) If this is about Gwaine, Arthur lost his temper, he didn't mean-

Gaius: To almost choke him to death? Because he nearly crushed that man's windpipe. I'm not overstating it. Had you been there a second later, Gwaine wouldn't be telling the tale. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?

Silence...

Merlin: (concedes) Arthur has... anger issues. We are working on that.

Gaius: (leaning forward, gentle but firm) This isn't some bad habit to be cured. You can't change what's been there from the start.

Merlin:(stubborn) He's never acted like this before!

Gaius: (raising an eyebrow) Really? Was he thinking clearly when he threw Lancelot in the dungeons? Or when he nearly started a civil war over you?

Merlin:(flushing) That was different! The rebellion was about justice and-

Gaius:(raises his voice) It was about you! Just like the dungeons were about you! Just like tomorrow's disaster will be about you!

Merlin: ...

Gaius: (softer, reaching for Merlin's hands) My boy… I know you love him. I'm not asking you to leave him. Just… (squeezes his hands) be careful. Come to me if Arthur ever…

Merlin:(eyes widening in realisation) You think Arthur will hurt me?

Gaius: Merlin—

Merlin:(pulling away violently) No! That's ridiculous! Arthur wouldn't dare. (begins pacing)

Gaius: I'm not talking specifically about physical—

Merlin:(whirling around) He loves me! He wouldn't harm me in any way!

Gaius: (patient but firm) I don't doubt his love. But what about today's display in the square?

Merlin: (defensive but blushing) It was… excessive, I know. But he was apologizing! He knelt before me! (voice softens) He's never done that before… He was afraid of losing me. (blushes more) And it was kind of romantic if you think about it-

Gaius: Why?

Merlin: Why what?

Gaius: (leaning forward) Why was he so afraid of losing you?

Merlin: (shifting uncomfortably) Uhm... I... told him I wanted space. Two days. Because I was angry about the Gwaine incident and everything it caused.

Gaius: (face darkens with understanding) So you didn't threaten to leave or gave him any ultimatums. Didn't say you hated him or something of that sort. You just asked for two days... and Camelot saw its prince unravel like a madman.

Merlin: ...

Merlin: Well, if you say it like that-

Gaius: (stands up) What happens when it's not two days, Merlin? When it's forever? (grabs Merlin's wrist) You think that boy would let you go? (laughs bitterly) He'll chain you to his throne before he sees you walk away. And if he can't have you. I'm afraid-

Merlin: (wrenching free) STOP!

Gaius: -he'll kill you and then kill himself!

Merlin: Arthur is not like that! You're twisting everything!

Gaius: (quietly) I wish I was wrong. I held Arthur as a baby and watch him grow. Is not easy for me to accept this either. I always hoped he took after his mother. And in more than one aspect he does. But in matters of love? (sad smile) He's Uther's son through and through.

Merlin: (yells) ARTHUR IS NOTHING LIKE UTHER!

Gaius: ...

Merlin: What if I'm the mad one, Gaius? I've killed for him. Would kill again. Sometimes… (smiles strangely) Sometimes I dream of shrinking him down, keeping him safe in a little box where no one can ever hurt him.

Gaius: (pales)

Merlin: You don't have to worry about what Arthur might do if I leave him. I won't. I can't. (pauses) If he is really as insane as you are portraying him to be... (chuckles softly) then we are perfect for one another. (grabs his incomplete necklace) I'll finish this in my room. (leaves)

Time skip. The next day. In the throne room. Gwaine, Percival, and Lancelot stand before the raised dais where Uther, Arthur, and Morgana sit in solemn authority. Merlin and Gwen hover at their masters’ sides, silent but watchful.

Uther: Have you decided on your reward?

Percival: (bowing) Yes, Sire.

Arthur: (through gritted teeth, looking at Gwaine) Why is he still eligible for rewards?

Uther: (dismissive wave) He isn't. But his companion is. (eyes Percival) And it seems you wish to petition for both.

Percival: (diplomatic) We seek permanent positions in your household, my lord.

Merlin: (open his eyes wide in surprise)

Arthur: (his jaw tightens)

Gwaine: (smirks)

Uther: Is that so?

Percival: Any capacity you deem fit.

Uther: (turns to Lancelot) And you?

Lancelot: (glancing at Gwen) I hope to start a family soon. A steadier position would be… appreciated.

Gwen: (her cheeks flush crimson)

Merlin: (bites his lip to hide a grin)

Morgana: (smiles bittersweetly)

Arthur: (mock-thoughtful) Well, now that Lancelot is moving on, the stables could use another pair of hands. Gwaine did quite… impressively yesterday.

Gwaine: (his smirk falters)

Uther: (leaning back, fingers steepled, a glint in his eye) Actually, I had something more useful in mind. (gestures grandly) You'll be the personal guards of Prince Arthur's manservant!

Silence.

Arthur: (explodes) WHAT?! 😡

Merlin: (squeaking) Wait—MY guards?! 😨

Uther: (raising an eyebrow at Arthur) Didn’t you insist your manservant needed protection?

Merlin: (whisper yelling at Arthur) You did what?! 😠

Arthur: (to Uther) Yes, but-

Uther: Then is done. (To Percival, Lancelot and Gwaine) What are you waiting for? Bow to your new master.

Percival, Lancelot, Gwaine: (get out of their stupor and, in slightly delayed unison, bow deeply) My lord.

Merlin chokes on air. Arthur looks like he’s about to combust. Morgana’s composure cracks, a snort escaping.

Arthur: (through gritted teeth, to Uther) Father. A word.

Uther: (ignores him) That will be all. You start tomorrow.

Percival, Lancelot, Gwaine: (bow again and leave)

Gwaine turns, smirking like he’s won the lottery, only for Percival to smack the back of his head. Lancelot walks like a man to the gallows. Morgana finally loses it, laughter ringing off the vaulted ceilings. Gwen buries her face in her hands. Merlin is still too stunned in place to have a proper reaction.

And Arthur? Arthur looks moments away from declaring war on the entire room. Why is his father doing this?! He isn't naive enough to believe Uther Pendragon suddenly decided to grant his wish. Was this his way of punish him? Or just wanted to annoy him? No, something tells him there's more to it, but he can't tell what.

For now, he'll have to settle for the fact that at least Merlin's new guards genuinely care about him. One of them a bit more than he should.

Time skip. In Arthur's chambers. Merlin strips off his "monk uniform", tossing it over a chair with more force than necessary. Arthur watches, jaw tight, as Merlin rounds on him.

Merlin: (frustrated, arms wide) What made you think giving me guards was a good idea?

Arthur: You attract as many assassination attempts as I do!

Merlin: Which I handle, because I'm perfectly capable of defending myself!

Arthur: With magic, which you can't always use openly.

Merlin: (throws up his hands) Oh, brilliant! So now how am I supposed to defend myself at all with three men watching me constantly?

Arthur: ...

Merlin: You didn't think of that, did you? 😒

Arthur: (sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face) … I’m sorry.

Merlin: (softens his expression and steps forward, one hand settling on Arthur's shoulder) I know you worry (cups Arthur's cheek, which makes Arthur lean into the touch, eyes closing briefly) But I'm not defenseless. I'm a very powerful sorcerer, remember?

Arthur: (eyes flickering open, pained) Being powerful didn’t stop you from- (cuts himself off)

Merlin: (frowns) From what?

Arthur: From getting into trouble more than once. (catches Merlin’s hand against his cheek, threading their fingers together) But you’re right. No more decisions about you… (Brushes his lips over Merlin’s knuckles) without you.

Merlin: (blushes) Alright, I forgive you. (Grins) Only because I actually LIKE my new guards.

Arthur: (scoffs, but his thumb still traces circles on Merlin’s wrist) I wish I could say the same. (Smirks) I can still try to reduce them to two.

Merlin: (poking Arthur’s chest) Nope. I want all three. (Sweetly vicious) Suck it up.

Arthur: (sighs, defeated. But then lifts Merlin's hand again, turning it over in his own like something precious) You know I love the shape of your hands?

Merlin: (chuckles) What a weird thing to say.

Arthur: You have calluses.

Merlin: From scrubbing your socks. 😒

Arthur: (thumb skating over his wrist) And they are always cold.

Merlin: (rolls his eyes, fond) I’ve always been cold.

Arthur: (pulls him closer, pressing Merlin’s palm flat over his heart) And yet, when you touch me… (leans in, forehead resting against Merlin’s) They always feel warm an soft.

They stay like that. Feeling each other's breath and heartbeats. Merlin closes his eyes and thinks that, sometimes, moments like this are even more intimate than any kiss would be. Just holding each other close, feeling.

Then Merlin feels the cool slide of metal against his finger and his eyes fly open.

Merlin: (startled, pulling back slightly) What-What is this?

Arthur: (not releasing his hand, soft but firm) My mother's ring.

Merlin: (staring at the royal heirloom now circling his finger) Why are you putting it on me?

Arthur: (smiling faintly) Isn't it obvious?

Merlin: (realises, voice rising in panic) No! You aren't actually giving it to me. You can't! (Tries to pull away but Arthur holds fast) This is supposed to belong to…(thinking) To your future queen. I know because Gwen had it in my other life. (says) Your mother's sigil is one thing. This is too much.

Arthur: (steadfast, stepping closer) I want you to have it. You are the only person I want by my side. Always.

A tear splashes onto their joined hands. Then another. Merlin's breath hitches before he crumples forward, his free hand fisting in Arthur's tunic as sobs wrack his frame.

Merlin: (laughter tangled with tears) You're so… infuriating! (Beats weakly at Arthur's chest) So sweet and cruel at the same time!

Arthur:(startled, catching Merlin's wrists) What do you mean?

Merlin: (looks up, eyes red-rimmed and voice breaking) We can't marry, Arthur. You know it's imposible, and you still- (His words dissolve into another sob, forehead dropping against Arthur's shoulder.) You still give me this like we could…

Arthur: (arms come around Merlin, one hand cradling the back of Merlin's neck. His lips brush Merlin's temple as he speaks) Then let this be my vow instead. (Pulls back to meet Merlin's gaze, thumb wiping his tears.) No ceremony. No kingdom's approval needed. (Brings Merlin's ringed hand to his lips.) To me… we are married.

Merlin stares at their joined hands. At the ring that shouldn't be his, but Arthur decided to give him to prove him, once more, he only loves him. That they only belong to each other. All the doubts he had left, his fear of not being enough, of Arthur's love being temporary, and, more recently, Gaius' warnings… they die in this very moment.

Arthur watches the realization dawn on Merlin's face with quiet satisfaction.

Arthur: So, the next time someone asks you if you are engaged (Serious look) you say yes.

Merlin: (gasps, shoving at Arthur's chest) Oh! So this is about what Gwaine told Lady Merelyn in the woods! (Hits his shoulder halfheartedly, grinning despite himself) I should have known!

Arthur: (catches Merlin's wrist, chuckling) Can't it be both? (Softens, brushing their noses together) A vow… and a reminder that you are not single.

Merlin: (rolls his eyes) I never said I was single. (looks at the ring) Uther will kill me if he sees me with this. I'll wear it as necklace. That big robe will hide it well- (suddenly his smile falters and looks down at their joined hands, hesitant)

Arthur: (tilts Merlin's chin up) What is it?

Merlin: (chewing his lip) Nothing. It's just… (gestures vaguely to the ring) I had a gift for you too. But it can't compare to-

Arthur: (lighting up like a child on Christmas morning) Give it to me!

Merlin: (flushing crimson, pulling away) I don't think I should now.

Arthur: (cornering him against the bedpost with predatory glee) Merlin. (Fingers find his ribs) Give. (Tickles mercilessly) Me! (Nips his jaw) My! (Lifts him onto the bed) Present!

Merlin: (squirming with laughter) Alright! Alright! (Catches his breath and gets off the bed, suddenly shy) Just… don't expect anything grand. (goes to his chambers)

Arthur: (perches on the edge of the bed, knees bouncing with barely-contained energy)

Merlin: (comes back, hands on his back) Close your eyes. (warns) Don't pick!

Arthur: (eyes snap shut)

Merlin: (puts the handmade necklace in his hands) There. Don't... don't laugh.

Arthur: (opens his eyes and looks the necklace in awe)

The necklace is made of cords and beads woven into an intricate pendant. The Pendragon dragon rendered in tiny, painstaking stitches of cobalt-blue thread. A faint golden glow pulses at its core.

Merlin: It's a protection amulet. So you don't get... cursed and all.

Arthur: (breathless, tracing the embroidery with trembling fingers) You… made this? When did you even-

Merlin: When helping Gaius, though I wasn't exactly helping him. (Points to faint needle marks on his fingertips.) Hence the… extra calluses.

Arthur turns the amulet over. On the reverse, hidden from casual view, stitched in Merlin's messy hand: "Dollophead."

Arthur: (chokes on a laugh that sounds suspiciously wet)

Merlin: (watching Arthur's face anxiously) You… like it?

Arthur: Like it? (Crushing Merlin against him, the amulet pressed between their hearts.) I LOVE IT, you absolute— (kisses his temple) —dollophead of a sorcerer!

Arthur: (holding the pendant as proof) It seems that now it's mine.

Merlin: (muffled into Arthur's shoulder, indignant) That’s my word! (but he smiles into Arthur's clothes, so happy Arthur liked it)

Merlin: (huffs but then says softly) It'll glow if there's magic meaning to harm you. (Swallows hard.) And it should stop at least one killing curse. (Looks up, eyes vulnerable.) But mostly I just... wanted you to have a bit of my magic... always with you.

Arthur:(his expression does something complicated and then says, hoarse) Put it on me.

Merlin's fingers shake as he puts the necklace over Arthur's head.

Arthur: (touching it reverently) Now we both have something to hide under our clothes. (Grins, wicked) Though I do wonder (traces Merlin's collarbone where the ring will rest) How will you look wearing your necklace... and nothing else.

Merlin: (suddenly very hot and smirks) I think I have an extra cord in my room.

Meanwhile. In Uther's chambers.

Percival, Gwaine and Lancelot: (enter an bow)

Lancelot: (formal, guarded) Did you call for us, sire?

Gwaine: (frowning, arms crossed) I thought our job started tomorrow.

Uther: (leaning back in his throne-like chair, eyes sharp) Officially, yes. (Steeples his fingers.) But your true purpose requires… discretion.

Silence. The newly hired guards exchange glances. Percival shifts uncomfortably.

Percival: (careful) Is there something… specific about Merlin's protection we should know?

Uther: (lips curls into a thin smile) Oh, you won’t be protecting the boy. (Pauses) Not really.

Another silence. Lancelot goes very, very still.

Uther: (leaning forward, voice dropping to a whisper) Your true task… is to spy on him.

FIRST PART (SERIES 1) >> PREVIOUS PART >> NEXT PART

....

This was a bit of a filler part, but not totally. Will Lancelot, Percival and Gwaine betray Merlin? What will they do? We know Arthur later gives his mother's ring to Morgana, but, if Arthur gave Merlin the ring here, what do you think happened in between for Morgana to have it?

Tagging @aceauthorcatqueen , @fallenxjas , @smileytrinity , @lucifertookmyshoe @an-entity-i-think , @thecornerofbelu , @griffonskies , @odinjm , @cinnabon-sweetroll-tiramisu , @thelady-mary , @bennedict , @nightninjaboy , @st8-of-grace , @starrieisdelusional , @error-username-not-available , @dogberryrowan , @jamieweasley13 , @tansyuduri , @tercais , @robynnemrys , @evadne01 , @serasvictoria02 , @hairdryerducks , @curiously-lazy , @harriettesthings , @andrealux16 , @wacko-weirdo , @greatdonutenemy , @yougottobekittenme , @anxiousosaurus , @kinkforwings , @someweirdassnamee , @impracticalantlers , @miyriu , @hobipabo , @whitemaskcd , @bogslob , @braziiis , @rubinaitoart , @thebigoblin , @toomanyfanficsbruh , @farmboyprince , @nonsensefunsense , @slightly-psycho-multifan , @jxmimac , @anarchelsworld , @beepbeep-yeah , @faithiikins , @the-moons-undying-light , @atlasflower , @chaosofbelievers , (tagging the rest in the comments cause apparently you can't tag that many people)

[ineffablecabbage]

"Maddie says Buck hasn't left his apartment in a week."

Well, Bobby. He doesnt' fucking work there anymore, because he quit, so it's none of your business, actually.

Secondly, does anyone on this show understand how trauma works? For first responders they are pretty shit at it! The man was crushed by a truck, had a major surgery, got dumped, puked up blood, had three major blood clots, and just got told that he couldn't have his dream job.

Sitting in your apartment ... is not the worst way to handle that trauma.

LIke, yes, it is a sign of depression. BUT GUESS WHAT. HE PROBABLY FUCKING HAS IT. Forcing him to get out of his apartment or mocking him for it is not going to magically make it go away. Goddamn.

And first y'all were bitching because was pushing him self too hard. Now he's not pushing himself hard enough?

Y'all need slapped.

Okay, so the rest of my reactions are behind here. Because... It was long, and also because uh. I got a little furious.

I am furious. At everyone not named Evan Buckley or Athena or Christopher or Hen. Everyone else can go fuck themselves for real and I"m not even to the goddamn lawsuit.

Buck should have quit for real and fucked off and changed the locks.

And Eddie needed punched no less than five times.

I WONDER WHY.

WHEN SOMEONE WANTED TO FORCE YOU TO STAY ON LIGHT DUTY YOU MOVED THOUSANDS OF MILES AWAY. DO YOU REMEMBER THAT ?

Or you know what? Fuck you too, Eddie.

Maybe it's trauma. "He'll get over it." What a weird thing for a vet to say about someone who has had their job forcibly taken from them by a life altering injury. lmao.

You need smacked, too.

GODDAMN I hate everyone already and we aren't even to the fucking lawsuit properly.

I hope Hen doesn't piss me off.

"I like to give Buck crap as much as any of you. But this was a body blow, you guys. Guy's allowed some time to mourn."

THANK YOU FOR BEING THE ONLY SANE PERSON LEFT.

oh, GET FUCKED, Chimney. Maybe he should have thrown a tantrum and endangered other people's lives on the freeway until a piece of rebar got buried in his skull.

And a week is not that fucking long, you dumb ass.

I feel pretty confident that Buck would literally never say that to you.

And you need punched, not slapped.

Hope someone says that to you when your kid fucks off to Texas to live with your shitty parents, asshole.

God.

"Whenever stuff didn't work out for me, my dad always told me to brush it off."

Eddie, this isn't just stuff not working out. This is literally his livelihood, you fucking dumbass.

Also what works for one person doesn't work for everyone.

And make go look up toxic masculinity.

HE WAS WRONG.

GOD.

Welp. I enjoyed liking you for one fucking season I guess.

Goddamn, I hate you. There are bad sisters, and then there's you.

You were, again, a fucking nurse. WHAT IS TRAUMA? Do we know?

I mean. I understand that you seem to think that a dick is the answer to all of life's problems, but Buck's not going to discover he likes those for a few more seasons, so he can't take a page out of your book, sweetie.

God, I hate you.

THAT'S NOT HOW DEPRESSION WORKS, YOU STUPID WOMAN.

WHY DON'T YOU KNOW THAT.

Also!!!! you were just bitching about how he was pushing himself too hard.

IT'S ONLY BEEN A FUCKING WEEK.

GOD.

Welp! Good news. You're a shitty sister, so nobody cares.

But you're bested by Eddie telling his supposed best friend to "stop feeling sorry for yourself."

Goddamn. I hate everyone in this episode except Hen and Athena and Buck. Everyone else I would like to stab..

Nah.

Fuck off.

Bringing your kid and making someone who is depressed deal with that without warning is a shitty thing to do. It's not cute. It's not being a good friend.

Fuck, it's not even being a good parent.

This was unfair to Buck and it was unfair to Christopher, and it was fucking shitty of Eddie to do.

Well.

Fuck you.

Yeah.

I'm no longer neutral.

I am never, ever going to ship this. I don't care how much he cries later. He's a dick.

And Eddie can go fuck himself.

Gosh Sure would be too bad if Eddie's son fucking died. Hope he wouldn't feel sorry for himself about it.

Asshole.

[doctorpotatomd]

the thing with the "friendzone" is that the type of relationship it typically describes is not the same as the types that you are describing here. When a lonely young guy talks about being friendzoned, from his POV he's basically been courting a specific girl, spending lots of one-on-one time with her and building up some level of emotional intimacy. There's no difference between this and the beginning stages of dating someone, except that the "friendzoned" guy either never makes his romantic/sexual intentions clear because of his fear of rejection/being creepy. He basically treats her like a girlfriend, or like he thinks a girlfriend should be treated, and she treats him as a close friend, and so they end up in this kinda unreciprocated half-relationship where he's kinda hoping that one day their sorta-relationship-shaped-from-his-POV friendship will naturally collapse into an actual romantic relationship without him having to do the scary bit. Or maybe he worked up the courage to ask her out and got "let's just be friends"-ed, and said okay, and then they ended up in the exact same situation because he doesn't know how to treat women his age apart from as "a girlfriend".

This guy is not the same guy as the guy who has a lot of female friends and sometimes sleeps with them or ends up in long-term relationships. The friendzone guy doesn't have the social skills to navigate a mixed-gender friend group, he's not well-adjusted enough to be able to be close friends with a woman without treating her as a sorta-quasi-girlfriend and pining after her. The thing you say about it being noticeable when guys are only interested in women as girlfriends and not friends, and about "having a girlfriend spot to fill", is salient; it's gross-feeling for sure, but these guys just haven't built the social/emotional capacity for anything else.

I don't have any better advice for these lonely young men, sadly, not that they'd be able to take. "Be normal and fun to be around and be genuinely happy to be friends with a woman instead of dating her" is great advice, but they just don't have the framework to be able to even understand any of that. When I was that first guy, the one who gets "friendzoned", I can't tell you how many times I rolled my eyes at the classic "Just be yourself!", but it turns out that it's literally the best thing you can do when trying to attract a romantic partner, and also it's literally the most difficult thing to do in life.

4chan and the PUA/TRP scene gave these young men a space to discuss this phenomenon and a (flawed) framework to try and understand it, but the phenomenon still would have been an issue even if nobody was giving it a name. Sadly, the asymmetrical nature and the fact that it only really happens to guys who don't yet have the capacity to understand it or themselves makes it difficult to discuss, as does the association with incels and the manosphere. I dunno what we can really do about it apart from just generally try and build a better society where people are better socialised and more normal, but... 🤷

I've been watching a lot of videos about right-wing pundits and, man, so much of the Red Pill stuff and all the stuff that budded off it is based on confused straight men asking,

"Hey, how come women never seem to ask me out?"

[doctormohansamira]

Samira and Robby have just such a ridiculously compelling dynamic. She’s his younger self, she’s the AU version of him, she’s the outlet for all his self loathing, he’s her idol, he’s her mentor, he’s her pseudo-parental figure that she latches onto because she doesn’t know how her own father would feel about her.

He holds her to higher standards than he does anyone else and wants her to be better than him because he knows better than anyone else where she’ll end up in twenty years the way she’s going and resents her for being better than him. She desperately wants his approval while constantly on edge when he’s looking over her shoulder and she has so little idea of what she’d do with his approval, she stares after him in shock when he gives her a direct compliment. He behaves as if she's supposed to be able to singlehandedly solve their staffing problem by moving faster. She's trying to solve different institutional problems by herself by setting an example for how they should be treating sickle cell, by not allowing Whitaker to get away with treating their patient poorly, by refusing to dismiss patients with symptoms that aren't easy to diagnose. He tells her that she's shortchanging her education. She's constantly working and learning not just from her own cases – she's doing research on the side and reading multiple case reports that she winds up applying in practical contexts.

He’s harsher with her for the same sort of things he lets slide in other people and doesn’t praise her when her methodical approach is vindicated. She’s tiptoeing around his feelings at multiple different points in the day.

He's fighting to keep from private management being brought in, and told that the only thing he can do to stop it is bring up the patient satisfaction scores. Samira's approach leads to her having the best satisfaction scores out of everyone. He recognizes immediately that these combination of things means that what he needs more than anything is ten more Samiras, but he tells that to Dana and doesn't say a word to Samira herself to concede she has a point or tell the other residents that they should in any way follow Samira's example when everything he's telling them to do is fundamentally about mimicking her results.

She wastes time and money on unnecessary tests, except we never see her do that – the time she's "wasting" is almost always her just talking to patients to help them feel safe and seen, and the one time we see her run additional tests, it turns out to have been valuable. He spends hours running unnecessary tests on a braindead teenager after Samira was the one to point out the blown pupils and immediately move on to patients she could help.

There's no one doing it like them. Most interesting relationship in the show, it's beautiful and I adore it.

[notnights]

I didn't dive into my TADC ep4 thoughts too much because the interpretations and discussions and theories I built from it came from such a personal place and my own experiences so I didn't share them outwardly.

But with ep5 approaching and knowing it'll be Ragatha (and Jax) centric, I do want to tell one interpretation that I got out of ep4 that maybe might be relevant for the next episode. I immediately got it right at the beginning scene, but Gangle's talk with Pomni later solidified my thoughts on it.

In the beginning of the episode Jax, Ragatha and Gangle are playing baseball, and are seemingly getting along well enough, until the inevitability of Gangle's mask breaking, breaks, by the fault of (but even surprisingly to) Jax. He doesn't apologize he just defends he didn't mean it. Either or it doesn't matter, this sets off Ragatha. Jax is often the source of a lot of pain, why should she think this time is any different.

Gangle is left, crying on the ground, as Jax and Ragatha fight. Zooble approaches Gangle and leads her off, Gangle takes one hesitant look back. This small action on it's own spoke to me. She's wondering, thinking about them, should she let them know she's leaving? Should she decline Zooble's offer because Gangle was already playing with Jax and Ragatha? No. Play time is over. Ragatha, and Jax have already checked out. Fighting each other is preferable than hanging out with a crying Gangle.

Gangle does not directly reference this later when saying it's hard to tell how genuine Ragatha is being, but we can assume it's behavior under the same umbrella.

Ragatha screams at Jax first, then gives one check up on Gangle, "are you okay?" Gangle doesn't even say she's okay, Ragatha does not help her up, Ragatha immediately goes to attack what she thinks is the source of this issue instead. Even if Ragatha did believe this time was an accident, she says "why do you always gotta do this?" this isn't about just now this is about every time Jax does this sort of thing. But why NOW, why do this fight NOW? Well because they do it all the time. Fighting is easy for them. Easier than dealing with Gangle.

Who knows how often they do this with the others but right now just looking at it from Gangle's perspective you were seemingly having a decent time with the people you live with, but they check out AS SOON as something inconvenient happens. Which unfortunately often coincides with Gangle's mask breaking. Party's over, someone's crying now! And guess who's fault it is!

Gangle doesn't even get the chance to maybe try and keep playing with them even while crying because Ragatha already checks out. The fun time is over. Not directly because of Gangle's crying but it's a factor. And you have to imagine this from Gangle's perspective. "If I got hit with the baseball but my mask didn't break, the fight wouldn't have happened, maybe we would still have been playing together..."

From Gangles' perspective, Ragatha and Jax fighting each other is more preferable them than dealing with a crying Gangle.

And this is also confirmed with both Jax and Ragatha saying they prefer her when she's a meek crybaby. Jax was extra frustrated over everything this adventure, and Ragatha was high out of her mind, but both these statements came from real places for both of them.

Manager Gangle is happy, unbreakable, this is what you want right? This is what I want, right? There would be less fights if my mask didn't break as often, right? You wouldn't have to pretend as much if I just stayed like this more often, right? This will make things easier, better for all of us, right?

"I liked you better when you're sad."

"You're kind of annoying with your happy mask on."

Jax and Ragatha fighting each other is more preferable than Gangle.

If Zooble didn't step in how long would Gangle have sat on the floor, crying, until she finally picked herself up and left, with Jax and Ragatha not even noticing? How many times has that happened you think?

This is the part where I admit, in it's simplest terms, in writing it is just a good way to motivate the scene to change, and might not mean anything outside of funny fight gag. But what are we if not funny little fans who read into things.

[moonshynecybin]

bez trying not to smile about marc 🥴 it's all I want to think about

god i know !!!!!! sorry okay i wrote some fic about them in the spirit of motogp summer camp bc i want my new pairing badge lmao. and can i say thank you so much for organizing that bc it’s been such a fun and galvanizing force for the community like trulyyyy so fresh and lovely. yayyy okay here’s 2k marcbez omegaverse that still kinda ends up being about vale but i tried okay !!!

Marquez smells good.

And Marquez usually smells okay. Bez doesn’t get too close to him often, but when he does it creeps in on the edges of things: bright, a little bitter, a little chemical. Gas, rubber, tarmac. Like when you uncap a permanent marker and the smell punches you in the gut, goes to your head and makes you dizzy. Makes you blink hard.

He doesn’t smell it often— and when he does, it’s faint. Just a whiff like its coming from the next room. He always thought Marquez just might not have a scent that travels. Some people don’t really project like that. He also thought— yeah, he thought Marc might be a beta like his brother, the burning scent complimenting the peppery citrus wash of Alex that Bez can smell when his leathers are down.

He was probably wrong about that, though, because today it’s everywhere. Strong, heavy, crawling over the paddock like a dense, drugging fog, and Bez doesn’t know exactly why—but he has a few guesses.

Someone props open a door and it floats in with the breeze. Pecco wrinkles his nose. Bez takes in a big lungful—feels it drip, trickle down through his spine and buzz at the edge of his nerve endings like a shot of coffee. If before it was a gut-punch, now it’s a bullet— sharper and definitely more dangerous. Not something he can just go and walk off.

“Jesus— who is that?” Pecco asks.

Bez counts down the unmated alphas in the paddock— Him. Some mechanics. Franky. Vale. None of them really people Marc would go to, probably. Franky and Vale— definitely not, and a mechanic would be too weird.

“Marquez.” He answers Pecco after a thick second, slower than he should, his tongue heavy and clumsy in his mouth. He tries to breathe through his nose and escape the pressure of the smell pushing down on him. Instead— he can taste it.

He reaches down and adjusts his dick in his shorts. Marc in leathers. Marc pushing him on track. Bez’s last podium, a win, when Marc pushed at his shoulder, eyes sparking at the kid he trains with crossing over the finish line on the shitty conference room TV. Gas, diesel, rubber. No one in front of him but tarmac. Bez likes riding alone, does Marc? He’s alone right now, and he smells like that, and Bez doesn’t think anyone is doing anything about it.

When he was 16, Bez visited the paddock— he met Marc for the first time on the heels of that insane 2014 season. Bez had looked at the way he threw the bike into corners and around other riders, the sheer aggressive force of it, and thought, that’s the kind of competitor I want to be.

Now— he needs to figure out the time attack. Maybe Marc knows how to fix the Aprilia that Bez has been saddled with, all alone. Maybe he should go ask him. He exhales. Blinks hard.

But Bez doesn’t want to be friends with Marquez, so he makes a point not to think about stuff like that. And he wouldn’t be thinking about it, except—

“Alex?” Pecco wonders, back to the topic of the owner of the smell.

“What? No, it’s Marc. You’ve never smelt Marc before? You spend half your life in the box with him.”

Pecco’s also an omega— Marc’s an omega. Two of them on one team, that’s never happened before, as far as he knows. Omega noses— they’re usually not so good with each other, so Pecco wouldn’t have noticed the dulled version of his smell if Marc was on scent blockers. Which means that Marc must be off his scent blockers for some reason— an emergency heat, maybe? Bez can’t think of why.

He scrapes blunt nails over the side of his neck. Focuses on where all ten of his toes meet the floor, staples himself hard to the Earth so he doesn’t bolt. Jesus.

“He’s gotta be in heat.” He continues. He has to be alone, fucking himself on some toy and wishing it had a knot.

“The Marquezes smell the same to me.” Pecco rejoins, which is an insane thing to say that Bez ignores. Pecco raises one eyebrow and leans back, a little prim. He looks over Bez and then says, slowly, like he’s really thinking it over, “If his blockers failed— He should take care of that soon, that’s dangerous.”

“With who, though?” Bez asks. Him. Some mechanics. Franky. Vale.

Did Vale ever laugh at Marc’s jokes, after all that mess? Should Bez, now? Bez should ask him, he’s in the paddock today. He should ask him about Marc, or about what it means when an omega goes into heat like this, when they don’t mean to be. Because there’s a race tomorrow, and there’s no way Marc means to be. Vale would know, if something needed to be done.

Franky would just smile at him, slow, and tell him that he should be able to figure it out.

Bez isn’t going to ask any mechanics.

Big breath in. Gasoline. Rubber. Two race weekends ago— a smile he couldn’t stop from coming to his own face. Marc tapping his leg, eyes black like polished stones. That dumb sunscreen ad that came up on his instagram explore page— Marquez in shorts, dick big and folded soft in the fabric of his swim trunks. Scars shiny in the sun like lighting over skin.

Bez decides not to ask Vale anything.

He stands up, thrumming. Balls his hoodie up in front of the crotch of his pants, embarrassed. Some mechanics. Franky. Vale.

Him.

“Do you know where Mig is?”

Pecco looks up from his data sheet. Scans Bez with his steady eyes and says, “I haven’t seen him, why?”

“I have to ask him something,” Bez mumbles, an excuse neither of them believe, and pushes himself over the doorframe, led by his hard cock and his nose and the memory of meeting Marc when he was 16 and he doesn’t know what. A smile, maybe. His or Marc’s, he doesn’t know.

He staggers over to where the riders are staying. He always liked the smell of rubber.

XXXXX

The line of motorhomes doesn’t smell like rubber— it smells like it’s on fire.

Bez throbs, sweaty and achey. Feels filthy as he makes his way over to knock on the navy and red door. He doesn’t know if this is even going to work.

“Marc— do you need help?” He calls, and no one answers. He curses out loud when he remembers he said it in Italian. He tries, searching— clumsy Spanish.

There’s silence, then shuffling. A bang.

After a moment, Marc opens the door, shirtless and steaming, wisps of water evaporating off of him with the heat of his skin. He must have just gotten out of the shower. Dark hair curls just behind his ears. He’s holding his towel out awkwardly around his waist, like he’s hard and sensitive. Bez can see it poking against the fabric anyway. Another gut punch, another bullet.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to see— do you need help?” Marc blinks and Bez shuffles. “Just, you know. There aren’t many alphas in the paddock. And you—”

He gestures at him with one hand. Regrets it kind of immediately.

Marc’s eyes, black with how wide his pupils have been blown to, drop to the bundle of his hoodie held over his cock. It twitches and Bez hunches forwards. “I mean, of course. Only if you want—“

Marc licks his lips. Sniffs at the air and probably tries to catch some of Bez on the wind.

“Is this a joke? Did anyone send you?”

“What?” Bez blinks. He cannot think right now, with this much skin in front of him, and he decides to talk instead. “No, the whole paddock can smell you. I mean fuck, Pecco noticed. I thought, I guess. You know.”

He trails off, then swallows. Comes down to the heart of it. “If you want to use me. I’m here.”

Marc looks around, weighing his options. He looks like he’s expecting something to to pop out behind Bez, eyes all flighty and all over the place. A reporter, maybe.

“Pecco noticed?”

Bez nods and Marc curses. He chews on his lip, then considers Bez. Looks him up and down like he’s a horse to be sold. “And what, you would—?”

“Yes, yes— really. No, no problem.” He throws him a weak smile, then tilts his head to the side so Marc can see some of his neck.

Marc snorts, then stares around another second. He pinches his brow. Bez notices— his hands are shaking a little. He must be pretty deep in.

He makes a decision.

“Fuck— alright, fine.”

He hauls Bez in and shuts the door.

There’s a second’s hesitation, and then Marc just drops the hand holding up his towel, and he’s naked and so fucking hot in front of him. He fits their mouths together, desperate just like Bez is, and Bez’s hips move like they’re on a string, pushing forwards and grinding against him before he can think.

Bez gasps, and Marc presses his advantage.

It’s quick, a blur, and then his clothes are tangling down around his ankles and he’s spread out on the couch. The feeling hits him hard, dizzying, like he can’t breathe and doesn’t want to, and then Marc is holding his dick in his big hand and sitting down on him, ass hot and soft and wet enough to drip, getting Bez’s balls slick. He swallows hard, thumbing hard at the bony hollow of Marc’s hip.

Marc’s bright eyes watch him.

“Okay,” He says, trying to keep it together— and his throat betrays him, makes a dry sort of aborted whine. It’s fine though, because Marc flashes him the hint of a smile, throat a deep warm gold, and Bez feels fucking stupid and doesn’t care, lets his head loll back against the ridge of the couch, mindless with the places Marc is touching him.

There’s a second— an adjustment, and then it’s slick and easy with his heat, and Marc starts to ride him fast and hard. He braces himself against Bez’s shoulders, pushes him down and keeps him there— and Bez had offered, but Marc has clearly listened, and he puts him where he wants him, his cock hard enough that it hurts, knot about ready to fucking pop just from the way this looks, Marc’s dick bobbing up and down as he works himself, his hands scorching hot as they dig into Bez’s collarbones. Silent concentration on the sharp planes of his face.

The world degrades into Marc, and into sensation: his tight ass dragging on Bez’s cock, his knees on the outside of Bez’s thighs, two devastating points of contact. The sound of them coming together. The punched out noises Marc is making. He closes his eyes, twitching, then opens them again, dazed, chasing the image.

The smell is everywhere. He feels like he’s been struck over the head. Bez is gonna come.

“Wait,” Marc pants a command, voice hard and cracking even as he bears down, a hot squeeze on Bez’s dick. Bez didn’t realize he spoke out loud, or maybe Marc can just tell from the way his breath has gone harsh and fast, bellowing like a horse. “Wait, not yet,”

Fuck, alright. He palms Marc’s waist, feels the way his hips flex as he rocks up and down. Bites down hard on his lip and tastes salty iron blood. His hips rabbit up once, twice. His knot pops.

“Shit,” He comes sticky hot up in him, panting like a kid who ran too hard and too long, damp against Marc’s neck. It burns through him, gas on wood, hot and fast. Face blotchy and breath wet.

“Goddamn it,” Marc says, broken and horrible.

“Sorry, sorry,” Bez cries, and tries to keep fucking him, but his knot has caught— he can’t.

“Stay fucking still,” Marc pants, and grabs himself, hand working over his stupid big dick, hips fucking back in tiny jerks on Bez’s knot. “Fuck, just don’t move,”

So Bez lays there, head digging into the edge of Marc’s couch, and stares at the shine on Marc’s forehead, his top lip, his abs. Tries to be still for him, shaking with the effort. Sun hits his skin through the gap in the curtains and lights him up— another scar for Bez to stare at, or think about touching. He groans, humiliated. The back of his neck burns. Marc needs more, and Bez can— he can try.

There’s another knock at the door— more sounds. A voice Bez recognizes. Italian. He freezes, ice shot through his veins. Marc’s hand speeds up, his mouth open and pretty and shocked.

“Marc!” Vale pounds on the door. “Open up! Fuck! Let me in, everyone can smell you from here to Jerez. Are you off your blockers?”

At the sound— Marc wails, and he locks up. Comes messily up on his chest in wet, dragging pulses.

The voice outside falls silent. He heard them.

Bez trembles.

He remembers his list.

Him. Some mechanics. Franky.

Vale.

When his knot goes down— Marc climbs off of him with shaky knees, and doesn’t say a word.

[buckets-and-trees]

I'm... I'm maybe NEVER RECOVERING from all of the commentary you put in here! Sonia, you gifted me with a beyond-in-depth analysis that almost had me in tears because you pointed out SO MUCH NUANCE! So much of the motivation and intent, and even some of the things that I didn't realize consciously that I was doing but just felt like that's how it should be, and explicated the why for why it felt like what the narrative needed!

So the "hold your throat" line. When this whole thing started off, yes, it was just really rough and dirty hook up sex. But even in the rough and dirty, there are things that aren't really a first outing kind of exercise. To get to the point where you feel trust enough to let someone have full command of holding your throat however they want to? That's an intimate and trusting connection. And even if they cut emotions from each other for quite some time, that still means something.

I can't wait to explore this in the upcoming parts, but GOD SONIA! YOU HIT SO MUCH OF IT RIGHT ON THE NOSE THAT I CAN'T HELP BUT FLAIL RIGHT BACK AT YOU! These two were both really closed off when this started. Emotionally unavailable, but in different ways. The reader was so sick of trying to invest emotionally in finding a partner. Bucky felt like he was in a rock bottom don't-give-a-fuck-about-anything-because-I-fucked-it-up post-divorce state. But by continuing to have this connection - someone they built consistency with, that they found release with? It does alter them and get them to both start very slowly shifting.

When we met Bucky, he was working an overnight parking lot security job.

For why?

But - and I so casually mention this - in the second part I establish that they've been hooking up for around 8 months at that point, and it's very on-and-off, and so when they hook up that time, Bucky mentions in the texts that he got a new security job - building security, still overnight, but he goes from sitting around doing next to nothing to something more.

And the reader has gone from a place of hook ups only to being willing to let her sister play matchmaker with the "practically perfect" widower father Aiden.

So Bucky and the reader are not the same people we started with.

And then you dive into the analysis of being able to turn your brain off with Bucky, for there being no inhibitions with either of you when you're together, no demands, no "supposed to", no expectations. And when you continue to establish that there are no obligations, that's a unique gift to have found with someone.

But how do you translate that over into relationship territory?

Only seeing someone for sex makes it easy to keep it sex.

But seeing them in the light of day zapped something for both of them.

Bucky coming over that night, two more nights, and this night? Showering together? It's just weaving a tapestry of more and wanting more and how do we even approach more. Like circling a bonfire, getting closer and closer, but it feels like going to the next level would be like jumping into the fire. We can just be close and get warmth.

And - you picked up what I was putting down - Bucky doesn't feel like he fits the mold of what a reader like you is supposed to want. And how can he even ask you to consider him outside of that? To trust that he'd have any genuine intentions when it's been so long of no intentions, and that he's not just saying it now because there's someone else in the picture?

Like it or not, that's what happened.

Bucky didn't have a shift because Aiden got into the mix.

Bucky had a shift because he saw you irl.

But the two DID happen to coincide, and that's unfortunate.

And the reader has to grapple with her own doubts of does she just want more from Bucky because they've invested so much time together and/or is she afraid of what Aiden could represent if she decides to give him a real shot, and maybe she should only stick with the hook up sex?

That's the territory we started to see under the surface here, and that's what we're headed into next/soon.

(I feel like I'm addressing some of my own fucked up emotional constipation here. I've certainly emotionally removed myself from ... seeking partnership. And I've got to deal with some of that. Because can't get hurt if you don't put yourself out there. And yet... Can be alone forever, but do't want to be alone forever. But I do feel like I also had to detox from dating AND hook ups and figure out if I could be happy on my own. And I did do that. But now that I've figured that out, I need to stop completely sidelining myself from any potential romantic connections. Easier said than done, but... the more I start to convince myself I could be ready, the closer I'll get.)

Thermostat's Set at Six-Nine [Bed Chem collection]

Characters/Pairings: Bucky Barnes x curvy!Millennial female!reader Word Count: 3k Summary: Bucky invaded your bed the night after you bumped into each other at the bake sale, and it trips a streak...

Content Warnings: modern AU; hook up culture/bootycall; established no-strings sexual relationship;

Logistical Notes: We met Bed Chem Bucky last summer during HBS, so what better time to bump into him again than for the FIRST WEEK of @buckybarnesevents Hot Bucky Summer 2025?! Using the dialogue prompt "Mind your own damn business" and the themes of secret sex and loosly embarrassment and denial as well.

Previous: Even Better Than In My Head | Collection List ↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You meant for it to be a one-time relapse, but Bucky’s been in your bed three nights in a row.

The first night, he left before sunrise. The next, he lingered in your bed, snoring with his arm casually possessive across your waist, until you wriggled free and locked yourself in the bathroom, equal parts annoyed and turned on by the hickeys blooming over your breasts and neck. But last night, he stayed so late into the morning that you had to tell him directly to get out, that you needed to get ready for work, that your boss had already noticed you showing up late twice this week. You thought it would embarrass him, or at least make him reconsider, but he only smirked, pressed you up against the wall in your entryway, and left you with an orgasm and a rude little text before you’d even made it to your car.

Tonight, you promised yourself, you’re going to turn him away. 

You never imagined—when you started sleeping with the man who once got you off in the back of a security truck, who barely bothered to learn your last name and only ever texted after midnight—that he would become… clingy.

And yet, night four, 2:07 am, your front door clicks open with the softest of sounds. You should have changed the code on the lock. You shouldn’t have given him the code in the first place. But the truth is, you wanted this. You wanted to be wanted, even by the worst possible man for you.

You lie very still in bed, feigning sleep, as Bucky pads through your tiny apartment in stocking feet, nearly quiet as an assassin. 

You know you should have locked him out—especially tonight, when your phone is full of sweet, anticipatory texts from Aiden about your brunch plans in the morning, about whether you like lemon curd or if you have any allergies. You even set an early alarm, put out the dress you planned to wear, and prepped the coffeepot. But Bucky’s shadow falling across the threshold, the shiver of anticipation snaking up your spine, undoes all logic.

He doesn’t say your name. Instead, he sits on the edge of your bed as if summoned. He runs a palm up your calf, kneading an absent bruise on your thigh he probably put there the night before.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. 

You pretend to still be asleep. You strive for even breathing, for a slack jaw and closed eyes, but you know the way your body betrays you—how your back arches with the tiniest invitation, how your breath catches in the silence of the room.

Bucky leans in, his stubble dragging along the inside of your knee. He doesn’t hesitate. Two fingers sweep up to your hip, his thumb hooks into the elastic of your shorts and panties, and then he’s tugging, impatient, taking your bare ass in the palm of his hand.

He pushes your shirt up. His lips blaze a hot trail up your spine that you can’t ignore, and you have to let out a soft, desperately contented moan. 

You feel the grin on his lips against your skin. “Knew you’d be ready to play,” he says, pressing a hot kiss to the crook of your neck. His breath is faintly minty and cool, as if he knew you’d be auditioning him again tonight. 

“I have to get up early,” you say, and you finally open your eyes, staring up at the ceiling. “I have plans.”

Bucky’s hand finds its way back to the inside of your thigh, two thick fingers gently circling as if the entire world is only the small of your body beneath his touch. “You gonna let some other guy taste you?” His lips curve against your shoulder, half-mocking, half-possessive. The two of you know you’re not exclusive. That’s been the understanding since the beginning. 

You snort, turning your head to glare at him. “Maybe I will. Maybe he’ll let me sleep.” 

He smirks, unperturbed. “You don’t want sleep, you want this.” His fingers slide inside you, slow and devastating, his thumb finding your clit like it was programmed to ruin you. “You don’t need to get up early if you never go back to sleep.” His words melt into the curve of your ear, a criminal’s confession offered in the hush before dawn.

You want to protest, to tell him no, that you need to banish him from your apartment, your bed, and, most importantly, your mind. 

If only he wanted you in the daytime the way he wants you now.

Wait. 

Do you even want that with him? 

And Aiden might be satisfying in bed in the future. 

Bucky’s mouth is on your hip, then your waist, then the lowest curve of your back. “You want me to be gentle, or do you want it how you like it?” he asks, and it’s not a question at all because he already knows.

He fucks you with his fingers until you whimper, until your thighs tremble and your pajamas are halfway down your calves and you don't even remember ever owning resistance.

"I have to…" you whisper, but he cuts you off with a sharp slap—equal parts attention and punctuation—on your left cheek.

"You have to nothing," he says, and then he flips you, one-armed, so you're faceup, and he slides his cock in so slow, an intrusion, invasive and inevitable. He's watching your face, the way the corners of your mouth go slack, the way your eyes glass over. He jerks your thigh up, knee to his ribcage, and leans in to bite your jaw, not enough to break the skin but enough that you know he could. You whimper and he pulses inside you, his breath ragged and animal. 

"Fuck, you're tight," he grits, voice thick with the edge of darkness that always follows him through the door. His hand tightens on your hip until you're sure you’ll bruise, until he’s moving your body to his rhythm like you’re just another tool, a favorite toy finally brought out and admired. You are too tired to protest, too sated by the animal logic his body impresses upon yours.

He fucks you slowly at first, which is almost a taunt. You know how Bucky likes his rhythm—hard enough it feels like a fight, paced at some devil’s tempo—and when he goes slow, it means he’s in it not for the chase but the capture.

You hate that the way he holds your throat now feels like the safest place in the world, or that no one else even comes close to this, to you clinging to the back of his neck as if the entire earth would drop away if you ever let go.

You realize, in the few lucid spaces of pleasure between losing yourself, that you’re not even angry at him for breaking into your apartment or for making himself at home in your bed. You’re angry at yourself, for loving the way he doesn’t ask for permission, for loving that you never have to be good or gentle or careful. Here, with Bucky, you get to be feral. You get to let it all go.

He’s not saying anything, not even the little dirty nothings he usually mutters, just breathing against your skin, breathing with you, in you, all around you. The silence of your room is disturbed only by the slap of flesh and the needy little whimpers slipping past your lips despite all intentions otherwise. He watches you nearly the entire time, eyes open and hungry, as if he’s trying to memorize the exact shape of the moment when you finally break for him, the muscle memory of your shudder and sigh. Every time you try to look away, his hand turns your face back to his, and when you clench around him, he lets out a sharp, desperate sound that tells you more than words ever could—tells you he’s come unravelled, too.

You come. Of course you do. You always do with him. It wrecks you, the kind of orgasm that wracks a sob from you, trembling so hard your teeth chatter. He holds you down, fucking straight through your climax. He doesn’t slow; he chases his own finish with ruthless single-mindedness, the only sign of tenderness the gentle way his thumb wipes beneath your eye as you cry.

When he finishes—when he comes inside you, without a word, only a primal groan—he collapses on top of you. He’s big and warm and so heavy on you. You breathe around the urge to bite his ear, to bury your nose in the salt of his neck, to drag him deeper somehow. You wait for the weight to become unbearable, and then you wait some more. 

You simply lie there, but nothing is insignificant in this simplicity-Bucky heaving, face pressed to your collarbone, his hair damp and loose from its tie. You slide your hands up from his back to his scalp, gentle, selfish, not willing to let him go yet, and you feel the rare tremble in his body, the aftershock of release. He doesn’t move except to adjust his grip, his hand splaying wide over your chest as if to imprint you, mark you out as his. You’re not sure if he’s prepared to fall asleep right there, or if he’s waiting for you to break first and send him away.

He’s so much body, sometimes you think he could just smother you and you wouldn’t even mind.

When you finally speak, it’s not to dismiss him. 

“I’m getting up at seven-thirty,” you say, like an ultimatum. 

He lifts his head, squinting at you, at your hair plastered across your forehead and the haunted redness of your cheeks. His hand drags up from your chest to curl around your jaw, thumb fitting against your lower lip. You want him to say something cruel or lewd, something to dilute the intimacy, but instead he kisses your chin with a slowness that’s almost hesitant. "I’ll wake you up," he says.

The way he says it makes you ache and angry. 

He pulls out carefully, and you feel the mess he’s made of you, the slick that leaks between your thighs. Bucky tugs the covers over you, then lies down on his back, one arm cradled beneath his head, the other crooked so his palm rests on your belly, thumb drawing absent circles near your navel. It's almost sweet—almost—and so unlike what you'd expect from him that it flusters you. From the cast of his profile in the faint city light, you can tell he's still awake, maybe even as wired with adrenaline as you are.

After a minute, he says, "You think he’s boyfriend material, don’t you?" 

You let out a huff that could be laughter or contempt. 

“Mind your own damn business.”

He shifts a little closer, drags his knuckles up your ribs in a way that says I know every inch of this body, and you’re not keeping secrets from me. 

You’re wary of the tenor of the moment. 

“He’s what you’re supposed to want, right?” 

You don't answer right away. You want to laugh, to roll away from his touch and blurt something bitchy and final, but the honest answer is you don’t know. You wanted someone to take you to brunch, maybe even to dinner. You don’t need that, but you want that. 

"I haven't even decided if I like him yet," you say, your voice hollow with honesty.

Bucky grunts. "Yeah. Liar." The hand on your belly tightens, his thumb pressing into the soft curve above your hip. "You wouldn’t agree to go out with him if you didn’t."

"You don’t know that." You want to sound sharp, but it comes out softer, almost plaintive.

He shrugs, then moves his hand. “Sure, I do. Neither of us has slept with someone else for months now, right?”

You’re not surprised—he’s not wrong—but you’d never said that out loud, not even to yourself. You open your mouth to lie, to say “You can’t possibly know that,” but the words never surface. He knows. He’s always known. When you’re together, it’s like the whole world is distilled down to just this; sweat and friction and the comfort of never saying too much. 

The silence stretches, stretching out into a palpable thing. He traces lazy shapes against your skin, his breath evening out, a counterpoint to your hammering heart. 

“Go to sleep,” you mutter, but you don’t mean it as an order. You say it because you want the moment to end before you lose your nerve and ask him to stay. Because you don’t want to tell him to go either. 

He’s already drifting off, you can feel the slack gravity of him giving in. Bucky’s never been clingy, but here he is, falling asleep in your bed on consecutive nights. 

You lie there in the dark for a long moment, feeling his cum start to trickle down your thigh, and wonder what it would be like to have him in your bed every night, to know that’s what you both want. 

In the morning, he wakes you up and tugs you to the shower that’s already running. You step under the spray, goosebumps rising on your skin, both from the chill and from the awareness of Bucky’s heavy presence behind you.

You expect him to crowd you, to push you up against the cold tile and pin your wrists, but instead he lathers up his hands and runs them down your back, scraping gently with his blunt nails. No groping, no sly grabs; he’s just methodically cleaning you, as if that’s what you do when you fuck someone four nights running—you wash them, you take their old skin and strip it off. 

He makes a show of rinsing you off, turning you under the water, palming his hand across your brow to keep the suds out of your eyes. He doesn’t so much as steal a squeeze of your ass, doesn’t press his dick into the small of your back; he just does the job, brisk and pragmatic, like he’s washing a pet or a very dirty child.

You don’t know what to do with your hands, so you settle for lathering up his shoulders, scrubbing down his back, the broad expanse of him. There’s a long, pale scar just above his right hip, and you outline it with your fingertip. He flinches, ever so slightly, but lets you do it. Neither of you talks. You swap places, you share the soap. You know the choreography now, and you almost wish he would revert—grab the nape of your neck, make you look at him, demand you finish things the way only you can. But he doesn’t. 

When you step out, he grabs a towel and wraps it around your shoulders, tugging you into him. He’s still naked, still dripping, but somehow this moment is less erotic than domestic, less slick with want and more layered with something you can’t bother to name. At least not until caffeine.

You look up at him, clutching the towel to your front, and say, “You’re a menace.”

He grins, a wolfish can’t-help-himself grin. “You’re welcome.”

You notice the raw pink marks left by your fingernails across his shoulders, the lingering evidence of your own hunger. He pretends not to see you seeing him, but you catch the smirk on his face, feeling more settled to have that more familiar expression back in its place.

You towel off in the bedroom, Bucky sitting at the edge of your bed, already half-dressed, scrolling through his phone. You think he’ll have a text from one of his buddies, or maybe his ex-wife, but when you catch a glimpse of the screen, it’s a weather app and then, jarringly, a photo of the cupcakes from the PTA bake sale. There’s a text chain open—he’s sent the picture to someone, captionless.

You want to ask, but you think it would be too much, too close to real. You and Bucky are filthy, nasty, relentless sex without strings, no schedule, on a whim when someone sends up a flare. 

Maybe you’re both just fucking lonely.

You don’t ask.

Instead, you get dressed for brunch with Aiden, pulling on the dress you picked out last night and staring at your reflection. The map of bruises and bite marks that Bucky left on your shoulders and chest are somehow miraculously hidden, but you meticulously check to make sure.

Bucky hangs around until you start on your hair and make up, then plants a kiss on your shoulder blades and tells you, “Knock ‘em dead,” and leaves with his hands in his pockets. You tell yourself you should change the code, but you know you never will.

You spend the rest of the morning in a kind of liminal jet lag, floating through the motions of getting ready. You make it to the café five minutes late—a miracle for someone who has slept very little the past four nights.

Aiden is already seated at an outdoor table, sunlight sifting through the awning and lighting up his hair in a soft gold halo. He stands when he spots you, an old-fashioned but endearing gesture, and you feel immediately self-conscious, like you’re an imposter in a skin that doesn’t quite belong to you, meeting up with the prince from a Disney movie. 

He pulls out your chair with a quiet, “You look amazing,” and the words are so gentle your chest aches. 

You’re not sure what to do with this new vector of attention.

There’s nothing to do except order the French toast. 

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!